Morgan Llywelyn's New York Times bestselling historical classic of the greatest Irish king King. Warrior. Lover. Brian Boru was stronger, braver, and wiser than all other men―the greatest king Ireland has ever known. Out of the mists of the country's most violent age, he merged to lead his people to the peak of their golden era. Set against the barbaric splendor of the tenth century, this is a story rich in truth and legend, in which friends become deadly enemies, bedrooms turn into battlefields, and dreams of glory transform into reality. “A royal read...withouta misstep and with touching beauty.”―The Washington Post “Llywelyn has woven thehistorical tales of her country and its greatest High King into a singlemagnificent book. . . . This is an extraordinary biography of a very human man. . . with convincing characterizations and vivid, detailed descriptions . . .”― The Dallas Morning News “A spellbinding tale thatevokes Ireland’s misty hills and tumultuous history with style and passion.” – Library Journal “A rousing story . . .Something to enjoy on a cold night by the fireplace with your goblet of mead orstrong ale.” – Boston Sunday Globe “Rich, panoramic . . . One ofthe most exciting periods of Irish history.” – Cleveland Plain Dealer “Extraordinary . . . Vivid .. . Magnificent . . . Makes one realize that human nature has really changedvery little in the past thousand years.” –TheDallas Morning News “A major talent forhistorical fiction.” – Parade of Books “Rich, masterfully told.” – Hartford Courant MORGAN LLYWELYN is the author of such highly praised historical novels as the New York Times bestselling Lion of Ireland , Bard, Brian Boru, Finn Mac Cool, Pride of Lions, and 1916 . She is celebrated as the high priestess of Celtic historical fiction and has won numerous awards for her historical fiction. She lives near Dublin, Ireland. Lion of Ireland By Llywelyn, Morgan Tor Books Copyright © 2002 Llywelyn, Morgan All right reserved. ISBN: 9780765302571 CHAPTER ONE     The little boy sat on the crown of a rocky hill, his thin arms hugging his scabby knees. He tilted his head back and gazed up into the immense vault of the sky, feeling wonderfully alone. To the youngest child of a large and brawling family, privacy is a rare thing. Brian always seemed to be walking in someone else’s shadow. He had sought this hill because, at the moment, no one else claimed it, and he held his occupancy uncontested. In a tentative voice he addressed the darkening gray sky. “I am the king,” he said, tasting the words. He heard no argument, so he repeated it. Louder. Standing up. “I am the king of all the kings!” he cried, throwing wide his arms to embrace as much as possible of his domain. * * * The tireless wind swept across the green land. It came driving inland from the sea, herding a flock of rain clouds before it and releasing them at last above the wooded hills and granite mountains. Even before the rain fell the air was saturated, heavy and rich with a wetness like the moist breath of babies. Ferns in their dark hollows burned with an emerald flame; the curving flanks of the mountains glistened, polished; the air smelled of life and death and growing things. Under the cairns and dolmens, within the ruined ring forts and passage graves, deep in the mossy, haunted earth, ghosts stirred. Giants and heroes and cowards slept their thousand year death in the ancient soil and were aware in their powdered bones of the coming of another spring. * * * Brigid came to find him, of course. Even the littlest boy had tasks to perform, and Brian was assigned to guard the flock of tame geese that nibbled grass along the banks of the Shannon. Cennedi had no small daughters to be goose-girls. “Aha, here you are!” Brigid crowed as he came up over the breast of the hill. “Never where you’re supposed to be, are you? Your mother’s geese could be in a wolf’s belly by now for all the good you’ve been to them.” She reached out to pinch his shoulder and give him a shaking, but Brian backed away. He was not about to accept punishment from a girl who was merely the daughter of his father’s herdsman. “The geese are all right,” he told her confidently, trying to shade his boyish treble so that she would recognize it as a kingly voice. “I can protect them; I can protect all this!” He gestured expansively to indicate his kingdom. But Brigid was a hard-working girl with chores of her own, resentful at being summoned from them to fetch an errant child, and she had no interest in a little boy’s pretend world. She stood before him with her hands on her hips, her tangled chestnut hair whipped about her face by the rising wind. “And how would you be knowing they’re all right, when you probably haven’t laid eyes on them all afternoon? You come with me right now, and we’ll try to get them back to Boruma before this storm blows them away.” She extended a red-knuckled hand to him and, after a brief hesitati