Gideon shifted his seat on the sofa in his friend’s living room. The springs sagged beneath him, having surrendered years ago in their battle with the redheaded Knight’s bulk. Refusing to sit with knees to chin any longer, he pulled himself to his feet, then took a stance by the window and stared out. Like his own yard, a hedge of sláinte nettle bordered one side.
“And just why would I do that?” he said to the glass. Behind him, he could hear Mac Roth stumping about, each thump of his feet sending vibrations through the floorboards. “He’s carrying enough of a burden on his shoulders, what with being the Spear and all. Which, by the way, he’s none too keen about.” He turned around at the rumble of frustration.
“By keeping what happened those many years ago a secret, ye’re withholding knowledge about Iona that may save his life.” Mac Roth glared down at the other Knight, his beard bristling. “A fine example of Knighthood ye’re setting for him.”
Crossing his arms over his chest, Gideon jutted his chin. “I came around for advice, not a lecture on how to raise my apprentice.”
“Now don’t ye be getting yer Irish up with me, Lir. We’ve known each other too long. It’s time ye tell Finn about what happened.” Before Gideon could argue, Mac Roth added. “And time and enough for ye to let go of yer grief and yer guilt.” He gave his friend a push toward the door. “The past is past. Yer future is waiting for ye at home.”
* * *
With a grunt, Finn jabbed the punching bag again. Sweat darkened his T-shirt. Each smack of fist against canvas sent a shockwave up his arms and into his shoulders. Ignoring the pain, he bounced lightly on his toes, then hit it again in a one-two combo. A white-hot bubble of frustration welled up inside of him. Lot of good it does me, being the Spear, when he doesn’t tell me anything. He just expects me to follow his orders like some trained monkey. The image of Gideon driving away without so much as a fare-thee-well looped through his head. Resentment turned to anger. He hit the bag harder. And harder. Wanting to hurt it. Or hurt someone. Fueling the fury inside him.
Not a good idea.
Without warning, the rage swelled up and broke loose with a silent roar. A reddish-black wave filled his vision as the warp spasm exploded inside his chest and flooded his entire body. He could feel the prickling along his scalp as his hair stood on end, sticking out from his head like miniature spears.
Setting his feet in a boxer’s stance, he hammered the bag as hard as he could, sucking in air between the blows. Each strike against the rough canvas scraped the skin on his bare knuckles. The pain felt good. With a cry, he pulled back his right arm, determined to knock the bag clean off its rope.
A hand caught his wrist.
Trapped in the claws of the warp spasm, Finn spun around. With a scream, he swung his left fist. It smacked into Gideon’s open palm. The Knight closed his fingers around Finn’s fist.
“Easy now, boyo.”
His feet slipping on the grass, Finn tried to wrench free. He snarled through gritted teeth as he pulled against the master’s iron grip on his hand. The world turned crimson as the warp spasm squeezed him.
Then it abruptly let go.
It was like all his bones had melted. When Gideon released him, he folded to the ground and slumped forward, forehead to knees. All the events of the last few weeks crashed over him like an avalanche. Asher’s death. The Spear. Iona. To his mortification, his eyelids prickled. He bit down on his lip to punish himself for being a such a wimp.
“Now, what’s all this about?” Gideon asked in a low voice, squatting next to him. “I come home and find you attacking this poor innocent bag that had clearly waved the white flag.”
Finn choked on a laughing sob at his master’s words. “It tried to sneak up behind me, so I taught it a lesson.” He sniffed and wiped his face before sitting up.
“Brave lad to have stood up to such a fearsome adversary.” Gideon cocked his head to one side. “A right dreadful warp spasm, eh?”
He nodded wearily. “I hate them. I wish I could control them better.”
“Aye, I know what you mean.”
“Are yours as bad as mine?”
“They are. I’ve fought that black beast all my life. As I told you before—we Celts are famous for our tempers. Some, like you and I, struggle more with it more than most. Why, I spent many a day as an apprentice fixing busted doors and smashed windows. And once, helping my master heal a broken nose.”
“You—you punched your master in the face?” Finn’s voice cracked in astonishment.
“When I was seventeen. Not one of my more stellar moments.”
“What did he do after you hit him?”
“Why, he struck me back so hard I flew out of my shoes and landed on my arse in the middle of the previous week.”
They grinned at each other, the tension easing. Then Gideon rose, pulling Finn up with him. With a glance at the sky, he said, “Time for lunch. And then we’ll talk.”
“About Iona?”
“About a great many things.”
Ten
Gideon looked up from his sandwich. “You’re going to make yourself ill eating that fast.”
“Sorry,” Finn said around a mouthful of ham and cheese. He licked a dollop of mustard off his thumb. “Bad habit. If I wanted seconds at my aunt and uncle’s, I had to clean my plate first.”
“Bit of a race with nine cousins, eh?”
“Yes, sir. I usually lost, too.” He swallowed and took another bite, eyeing the last pickle on the plate between them. He ignored the carrot sticks.
Gideon promptly snagged the pickle. Speaking around a mouthful of dill, he pointed at the carrots. “Two.”
“One.”
“One and a half.”
“You first.”
“Knights are absolved from eating other vegetables.”
“Says you.” Finn made a face as he selected the smallest one. Crunching it stoically, he rose, gathering the plates and glasses.
While he stacked the dishes in the sink, Gideon stepped out of the room, then returned with his journal. He took a seat at the empty table. “Leave that for now.”
Drying his hands on his jeans, Finn plopped down across from his master. He glanced at the Knight’s journal; guilt poked at him for trying to read it earlier.
“Tempted to look at it, were you?” Gideon asked, one finger tapping its worn cover.
Finn nodded.
“Did you?”
“No, sir.” He looked at Gideon, certain his master wouldn’t believe him.
Tilting his head to one side, the Knight studied him. “No falsehood in your eyes.” Leaning back in his chair, he opened the book, pulled out the postcard-sized painting Finn had noticed earlier, and slid it across the table.
Finn hesitated, then picked it up at Gideon’s nod. The plastic sleeve crinkled as he peered at the watercolor, its edges curling with age. Two figures sat stiffly posed for the long-dead artist. Both were dressed in workmen’s clothes from an earlier century: suspenders over simple, white shirts, rough trousers, and heavy boots. One was familiar; even with a trim beard outlining the lean face, he recognized his master. The other person sitting next to the Knight was a young teen. Something about the handsome features and the fall of black hair over blue eyes seemed familiar.
“His name was Kean.”
“Your other apprentice?”
“Aye. And also my son.”
Complete and utter silence fell with a thud. Finn wondered why the air seemed to have been sucked out of the kitchen. He forced himself to look at his master. Questions jostled for room in his mouth. He opened it and let the first tumble out. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Gideon reached over and retrieved the painting. Without looking at it, he slipped it back into his journal. “I do not know. Perhaps I should have done so earlier, but it never seemed the right time.”
How about the time when I asked you whose moonstone was collecting dust on your dresser upstairs? Finn thought. Or when I asked you i
f you’d ever had an apprentice before? A sense of betrayal soured his gut. Before he could ask the next question, Gideon leaned back in the chair. Keeping his eyes fixed on the wall over Finn’s head, he began.
“Years upon years ago, I met and married the loveliest of maidens.” His brogue deepened as he spoke. “But fate dinna grant me the happiness of many years. Just three. She died giving birth to our son. For eighteen years, ‘twas just the two of us. Until the day he was killed on a hunt. Using the wrong weapon because he listened to the wrong person.”
Something clicked in Finn’s head. “Was it Iona?”
Gideon pulled himself out of his memories at the quiet voice. “It was. At least, I have my suspicions she was involved. Although she has sworn many a time that she had nothing to do with…with Kean’s death.”
“Do you miss him?” Finn whispered.
“Aye, I do. I always will.” He locked gazes with Finn. “But recently, I’ve come to realize I miss him a wee bit less.”
“Why?”
Gideon let the smile reach his eyes. “Why do you think?”
Finn ducked his head. Warmth filled his entire body. As well as an odd sense of responsibility—he wasn’t sure why. He looked up in surprise at his master’s next words.
“I’m truly sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”
“So, what changed your mind?”
“Oh, a certain Knight with a sharp tongue and a singular lack of ability to mind his own business. Or show me any respect.” Gideon let out a long-suffering sigh. “Ye gods, what is it with the redheadeded ones?”
Finn grinned weakly, brain still twirling in his skull from his master’s revelation. He started to speak when a knock sounded from the front door. “I’ll get it.” Jumping up, he hurried through the house and opened the door.
“Hey, Finn.” Rafe stood on the porch. “My mom just called from the hospital. She has to work late tonight, so we’re not going to do mielie pap. Maybe tomorrow night?”
“Would Saturday be okay instead? I have to do this celebration thing with Gideon. Mac Roth is getting a new apprentice.” He grimaced. “Asher’s cousin, can you believe that?”
Rafe made a similar face. “Wow. Lucky you.” He glanced back at his house, then licked his lips as if coming to a decision. “Can I talk with Mr. Lir and you about something?”
“Uh—sure.” He started to yell over his shoulder when Rafe shushed him.
“Not out here.”
Finn waved him in and closed the door behind him. “Hey, Gideon? Rafe wants to talk with you.”
The Knight stepped into the living room. “Hello, Rafe. Is something amiss?”
Shifting from one foot to the other, the boy shook his head. “Not really. But I got an email from my grandfather just now.”
“The one in South Africa?”
“Yeah. I finally worked up the nerve to ask him about his friend, Padraic O’Brien.”
Gideon waved the boys over to the sofa. He took a stance in front of the fireplace. “And what did he say?”
“Well, not only is O’Brien a Tuatha De Danaan, too, but once I told him about you guys and what happened last week, he totally insisted that me and Savannah train with you and that he would deal with our folks. Here.” He pulled a folded sheet of paper out of his jean pocket and handed it to the Knight.
“Why did you print it out?” Finn asked.
Rafe shrugged. “I figured Mr. Lir would want some kind of formal permission.”
“You did the right thing, lad.” Gideon finished reading it, then walked over and put it away in the top drawer of his desk. Leaning against it, he studied both boys as they sat shoulder to shoulder. His gaze dipped down to the lion-hair bracelet looped around Rafe’s wrist, then back up to the torc around Finn’s neck.
“Young warriors of ancient races,” Gideon murmured, almost to himself. “And Savannah, too. From what Finn has told me, Rafe, your sister has as much courage as you.”
“So, are you going to train them?” Finn asked.
Gideon nodded, much to the boys’ delight. “It appears we have an ally in your grandfather, Rafe. With his permission, I will teach you and your sister as much as I am able.” He waited while they high-fived each other, then held up a finger. “Mind you, I’m not showing you how to hunt, just how to defend yourselves. We’ll begin Monday morning after your parents leave. Until then, avoid the woods at all cost.”
Rafe jumped up with a grin. “No problem. We’ll tell Dad we’re bored of running the trails with him in the morning or something like that. We’ll stick to the neighborhood streets for a while. I better get back.” He headed for the door. “Thanks, Mr. Lir. See ya Saturday, Finn.” The door shut behind him.
With a sigh, Finn slumped down on the sofa, the leather creaking beneath him. He let his head fall back. “What a totally insane day. My brain feels like it’s going to explode.” He chewed on the inside of his cheek, then took a deep breath. “Um, Gideon? How exactly did your son—”
“Please.” The Knight held up a hand. “I know you’ve many a question, especially how and why Iona is involved in all this, but I’d rather skirt that bog for now. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“I think so.”
Giving a nod of appreciation, Gideon continued. “Now, on your feet.” Turning to the weapons rack over the fireplace, he gathered up a selection of knives. “A brisk training session is just the cure for an exploding brain.”
Finn followed his master out to the far corner of the back yard, grateful to be in the shade of the tree. There, he helped Gideon arranged the half-dozen knives along the top of the wall.
Stepping to one side, Gideon gestured toward the target hanging on the side of the house. “Impress me.”
Finn picked up the first knife. Clasping it loosely by the handle, he squinted at the target. Holes pitted the red and blue circles, the red bullseye sporting the fewest gouges. Ringing the target, more holes marred the house’s siding.
“‘I am a spear on the attack,’” he chanted. The familiar tingle ran up his legs and into his arm. Sucking in a deep breath, he cocked back an arm and threw. The knife spun gracefully end over end. With a thunk, it impaled the bullseye. Dead center.
Finn’s jaw dropped.
As did Gideon’s.
“Gle mhaith, lad.” His master handed him another knife. “Again.”
The second blade buried itself a few inches from the first. A third one stuck into one of the outer rings, but close enough for a grunt of approval from the Knight. He clapped a hand on Finn’s shoulder. “All that practice is paying off. Perhaps I should take a turn as well.”
Smiling broadly, Finn jogged over and retrieved the weapons. When he returned, he handed them to the Knight. “Maybe you should,” he said with a cocky grin. “See if you can do any better.”
“I’ll admit it—you’ve set a high hurdle.” Gideon weighed the three knives. “I would only shame myself if I tried to match your skill. Perhaps I shouldn’t even attempt it.” He shook his head and turned away, seemingly fixated on a cloud in the sky. “I believe it may rain later.”
A blur of movement.
The first knife flew from the Knight’s hand. Before it struck the target, two more flashed through the air right behind it.
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
“Whoa,” Finn breathed. The three blades bristled from the target like tail feathers, their tips kissing as they hung quivering in the dead center.
Still gazing into the distance, Gideon added over his shoulder. “But then again, maybe I should.”
The Journal of Finnegan MacCullen: July 15th
It’s hard to imagine Gideon having a son. Or being married. I always thought he was just…well, Gideon.
And this whole thing with Iona just keeps getting weirder and weirder. She’s got some kind of deal with the Amandán. And she’s connected to Kean’s death.
Wish Gideon would tell me more, but he said he didn’t want to talk about it yet. I think I know why.
Sometimes, I don’t want to talk about Da and Mum, either. Sometimes, I don’t even want to think about them.
But at least he agreed to train Rafe and Savannah.
What I Learned Today:
1. Gas pedal is on the right, brake in the middle, clutch on the left. Do NOT get them mixed up.
2. Gideon thinks there is some connection between gold and Iona’s powers. He believes she uses it to strengthen her magic just like we use the Song to help us.
The Journal of Gideon Lir: July 15th
A witch stole my son from me. The Amandán stole Finn’s parents from him. But Fate (or the Goddess) brought us together. Restitution, perhaps?
Finn’s warp spasms continue to plague him. His rages are as intense as I’ve ever seen in any of our people.
Excluding my own.
Eleven
Adjusting the collar of the dark-plaid shirt to show off his torc, Finn eyed himself in the bathroom mirror. He leaned forward and checked for any fuzz on his upper lip. Dang—nothing. The image of Gideon with a beard flashed through his mind. Wonder why he shaved it off?
“Make sure you have on a clean pair of jeans,” Gideon called from across the hall. “We’re leaving in two minutes.” The sound of a drawer slamming shut followed.
Finn stepped out of his room and over to Gideon’s, slipping through the partially opened door. “I’m ready now.” He flopped down on the bed to wait.
Dressed in a crisp white shirt and newer jeans, and with wet hair slicked back from a recent shower, the Knight grunted in acknowledgement as he tucked in the tail of his shirt. Grabbing a slim hunting knife from the top of the dresser, he pulled up his pant leg and slid it into an ankle sheath similar to Finn’s. “Armed?”
“Yes, sir.” He patted his leg, then gestured toward Gideon’s throat. “Hey, where’s your torc?”
“Ye gods, I almost forgot it.” He stepped into the bathroom, then emerged, drying the freshly polished torc with a towel. “Gave it a bit of a cleaning.” He slipped it around his neck.
“Showing off?”
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