Gideon's Spear (9 page)

Gideon glanced in the rearview mirror as they drove down the street, lips pressed into a thin line. Unsure what to say, Finn stared out the window. He jiggled his leg with a rhythmic tapping of a heel against the floorboard.

Leaving their neighborhood, they rattled east across the bridge spanning the too-small-for-a-river-and-too-large-for-a-creek that split High Springs into west and east. Finn peered down at the water, its flow high-summer sluggish.
It seems like forever since we hunted that night with Mac Roth and Asher down there
, Finn thought. He winced as he recalled tripping over a log trying to protect his master from an attack by an Amandán. Then getting yelled at in front of everyone for doing so.
Well, I don't care. Mac Roth said to watch his back, and I'm going to, even if he hollers at me all the time
. He looked over when Gideon cleared his throat.

“Finnegan MacCullen, I want you to hold your tongue and your temper this evening. Martin O'Neill is under the impression his wealth gives him the right to speak his mind. About everything.”

“Lochlan's dad?”

“Aye.”

“Great. I bet Lochlan is just like him, then.”

“Perhaps.”

“How come they have more money than us if we all get the same monthly what-do-you-call-it?”

“
Stipend
. And although all Tuatha De Danaan have an equal claim to the gold reserves our people have accumulated over the centuries, some choose to supplement their income in other ways. Martin O'Neill dabbles a bit in the stock market.”

Entering downtown High Springs, they slowed and inched their way through the rush-hour traffic. Gideon searched for an empty spot along the sidewalk. After ten minutes, he gave up and pulled into a city parking lot a few blocks from the pub.

They walked through a crowd full of people in business attire; most held cell phones to their ears. The sun glared off the western windows of the tall office buildings and heated the streets below. A few bicycle riders braved the streets, the
tick-tick-tick
of chains and gears surprisingly clear over the rumble of traffic.

“Here we go.” Gideon stopped in front of a dark green door flanked on both sides by tall windows. The name,
Jack Quinn's
, was spelled out in golden letters above the transom. Stepping into the foyer, they paused. A packed bar took up one entire wall of the narrow restaurant.

A hostess hurried up, several menus in one hand. “
Céad mile fáilte
,” she said, mangling its pronunciation so badly even Finn winced. “Two for dinner?”

“Actually, we're meeting others.” Gideon peered past the hostess' shoulder. A bellow of laughter from the far end of the room caught their attention. Mac Roth. “They would be them.”

They edged through the mob clustered at the bar and headed toward a large table tucked in the back corner. Several people sat around it. As they neared, a booming voice called out.

“‘Tis time ye two graced us with yer company.” Mac Roth beamed at them from the far side. A boy about Finn's age sat at his elbow. Next to the boy at the head of the table, a man rose to his feet.

“A fine evening to you, Gideon Lir.”

“And to you, Martin O'Neill.”

Martin O'Neill's sandy hair was streaked with gray. About the same height as Gideon, his expensive leather jacket couldn't hide an expanding waist. “My wife, Etta Riley O'Neill,” he said, gesturing to the woman seated on his left.

Gideon inclined his head. “Madam.”

“
Fáilte
, Knight Lir,” she said, her smile as warm as her strawberry hair. “And this must be Finnegan MacCullen.”

“Hi.” He smiled back. “And, um, I go by Finn, not Finnegan.”

“Finn, then. Our son, Lochlan.” She gestured toward the boy.

Fair-haired like all the O'Neills, Lochlan raised a hand in greeting. “Hello, Knight Lir. Finn.” His eyes widened when he caught the flash of gold around Finn's throat as they sat down across from him. A waiter hustled over and took their requests. Everyone ordered Jack Quinn's famous fish and chips.

“And to drink?” the waiter asked.

Mac Roth and the O'Neills ordered beer. Lochlan asked for a soft drink. Gideon ordered iced tea for himself and for Finn.

“Are you not celebrating with us, then, Gideon?”

“Aye, I am,” he replied to Martin O'Neill's question. “But I can toast your son's apprenticeship with tea as easily as with a Guinness.”

As Martin O'Neill pulled the waiter to one side to give him instruction concerning the bill, Mac Roth leaned across the table and spoke in a low voice.

“Why the teetotaler routine?”

“I do not drink alcohol if I have Finn in the truck with me,” Gideon said simply.

Mac Roth's face fell. “Bleedin' saint,” he muttered under his breath, then changed his request to tea as well.

After the waiter delivered the drinks, Martin O'Neill leaned forward, resting elbows on the table. “So, young Finn.” As he pointed at the boy's neck, Finn noticed that his friendly smile didn't seem real. “How does it feel to wear the torc at such a young age?”

“Pretty good.” An odd nervousness dried his throat. He took a sip of his drink.

“I'm sure it does. A bit of a surprise to your master, no doubt.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Quite a tribute to his training, wouldn't you say,” he pressed, ignoring his wife's hand on his arm. “Considering you're a halfer.”

Twelve

T
ea sloshed over Finn's hand.

Across the table, Lochlan snorted. “Wow. Way to be subtle, Dad.”

“I disagree with you, Martin O'Neill.” Gideon smiled thinly. “Finn's success is due to both hard work and natural skill. Proud I am of him and what he has accomplished in these first two months of his apprenticeship. Why, at this rate, he'll be a Knight by the winter solstice.”

Mac Roth guffawed. “I best step up
yer
training, then, me lad. Before these two hunt down all the Amandáns and leave us nothing to do,” he joked, easing the tension. He clapped a hand on the shoulder of his new apprentice, who sagged under the Knight's enormous paw.

“I hope you do, Mac Roth,” Martin O'Neill said. “I've already told Lochlan I expect him to earn his torc before summer's end. The gods know I've spent enough time and money having him tutored in the use of knife and dagger.” He stared at his son with a hard eye. Lochlan stared back, face blank. “And you should know, Lir,” Martin O'Neill continued. “I meant no disrespect to Finn or to his parents. Why, we all know of Fergus MacCullen's reputation as a hunter. It appears he was lucky enough to have inherited his da's skill, in spite of his mother's blood. Like father, like son, right?”

Finn nodded, remembering his master's order to hold his tongue. He curled his hands into fists under the table and sat fuming until Gideon's knee nudged his.

Pretending to look around the restaurant, the Knight leaned over and muttered. “‘Like father, like son,' eh? Then the gods help Mac Roth.”

At that moment, several waiters arrived bearing plates of piping-hot battered fish fillets and a heaping basket of French fries.
Chips
, Finn reminded himself,
not French fries
. The aroma of deep-fried food made his mouth water. Digging into his dinner, he answered around a mouthful of steaming cod. “He's going to need all the help they can offer.”

As supper progressed, conversation bounced around the table, punctuated by the
clink
of silverware on china. Mac Roth told a story about his early days as an apprentice, which was followed by much laughter and a choking fit from Lochlan. Finn winced in sympathy when Mac Roth pounded the apprentice's back, almost knocking the boy out of his chair.

Toward the end of the meal, both Lochlan and Finn grabbed for the basket of chips, resulting in a tug-of-war. Before either could claim victory, Mac Roth reached in with his massive paw and scooped out the remaining potatoes. Everyone laughed, and Etta Riley O'Neill signaled the waiter.

“Please bring us
several
more baskets.” She smiled at the boys. “After all, we've young warriors to feed.”

Finn grinned back. “Thank you, ma'am.”

“Ahhh, the influence of an old-fashioned Knight.” She nodded in approval at his manners. “Like master, like apprentice,” she said with a trace of a wink.

Like father, like son. Like master, like apprentice
. The words stuck with Finn for a long time.

At that moment, music began to play from the far side of the pub. Exchanging looks of delight, the Tuatha De Danaan quieted and turned to watch. Several musicians, three men and a woman, sat in a circle on a small raised stage. A tin whistle, a fiddle, a
bodhran
, and a guitar made up the band. After a moment of warming up, they launched into a familiar tune. The crowd shouted its approval.

“Hey, I know this song,” Finn said to his master over the sound of tapping feet. “That's the one you're always singing. The one you taught me last month.”

“And do you remember the words?”

“Well, sort of.”

“Then stand and sing it with me.”

“Oh, I don't know…” Finn looked down, face already turning hot. The desire to please his master and not wanting to look the fool wrestled for dominance in him.

“Others will join us after a few lines, so no need to be embarrassed. After all, music and song are among the great gifts of our heritage.” Gideon caught the eye of the guitar player before standing up next to the table. The guitarist nodded in acknowledgement and spoke to his group.

Finn took a sip of water to clear his throat, then rose. Applause greeted him when he joined his master. His knees wobbled like Jell-O while he waited for the music to come back around to the beginning of the tune. Hoping his voice wouldn't crack, he took a deep breath. At Gideon's signal, he began singing, blending his tenor with his master's baritone.

The minstrel boy to the war is gone
,

In the ranks of death ye will find him;

His father's sword he hath girded on
,

And his wild harp slung behind him;

“Land of Song!” said the warrior bard
,

“Tho' all the world betrays thee
,

One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard
,

One faithful harp shall praise thee!”

The other patrons cheered when they finished. As Gideon had predicted, the rest of the room joined in when master and apprentice launched into the second part.

Concentrating on keeping his voice in tune with Gideon's, Finn closed his eyes. The tremor of feet pounding the wooden floor vibrated through him. A sharp, fierce pride in his people, not just Fey or mortal, but all Celts, made his scalp tingle as dozens of voices sang along.

Another round of applause filled the pub when they resumed their seats. Shouts for an encore were greeted with a shake of the Knight's head. Finn was secretly relieved.

As the adults at the table began their good nights, Finn noticed Lochlan staring at him.
What's his problem? Besides the fact that he's an O'Neill
. “What are
you
looking at?”

“Your torc.” Lochlan pointed to it. “I thought you had put it in the grave with…you know…Asher.”

“Yeah, I did. But Mac Roth got me this to replace it.” Tensing in his seat, he waited for accusations or anger or resentment. To his surprise, the other apprentice simply nodded.

“Nice of him.” Lochlan peered more closely. “Is it heavy?”

Finn hesitated, then reached up and tugged the torc off his neck. “Not really. This one's a little thicker than my first one,” he said as he passed it across the table.

Lochlan hefted it in his hands, then studied the designs worked into the twin orbs at each end of the crescent shape. He sighed and started to hand it back. “I can't wait to get one.”

“Try it on. I don't mind.”

With a grin, Lochlan started to place it around his throat. Before he could slide it into place, Mac Roth leaned over and plucked it from his fingers.

“Not until ye earned it, boyo,” he said gently, but firmly, as he returned it to Finn. “And the best way to do so is with a good night's rest behind ye. Yer first full day of apprenticeship begins bright and early.”

Lochlan's face fell. “How early?”

“Too early,” Finn informed him darkly as he slipped his torc back on. “Don't even bother to take your shoes off tonight.”

Mac Roth rose. “We'll leave ye to say farewell in private to yer son,” he said to the O'Neills. “Lochlan, I'll wait out front.”

“We'll join you.” Gideon motioned to Finn.

After a few final words, they squeezed through the now-packed pub. Mac Roth's size created a handy wake of open space. Hands patted Finn on the back as he followed the Knights.

“Great job, kid.”

“Keep singing, young man. It makes me proud to be Irish.”

“Nice voice, dude. Say, do you do bar mitzvahs?”

Finn was still laughing as he stepped outside and joined the Knights on the sidewalk. Evening had fallen. Cool air flowed down from the foothills and swept through the city, refreshing it. Overhead, the first stars appeared, peeking out between the tall buildings. Diners strolled along, either walking off their supper or hurrying along toward it.

As Gideon and Mac Roth spoke in undertones to each other, Finn leaned against the building, waiting to one side. He barely caught himself from turning his head when his name was mentioned. Pretending to be interested in the foot traffic passing by, he strained to hear.