The Hound at the Gate (5 page)

“Declare yourself,” ordered the guardian.

Praying to the Goddess Danu his voice wouldn't crack, Finn spoke. “I am Finnegan MacCullen of Clan MacCullen. Apprentice to the Knight, Gideon Lir.”

“And do you, apprentice, submit to the will and laws of the
Rath
?”

“I do submit.”

“And how do you pledge your word?”

“By my blood and the blood of my master.” Finn knelt. The wet grass soaked his knees Tipping his head back, he kept his eyes
locked on the top section of a nearby spruce. The prong touched his throat. Then, with the lightest of strokes, the Hound drew a circle.
He's making a bull's eye
, Finn thought wildly.
So he doesn't miss when he stabs me
. The moisture from Gideon's blood on his skin cooled in the morning breeze. Steeling himself against the pain to come, he gritted his teeth, ordering himself not to flinch.

“And what is
that
on your jacket?” the Hound suddenly growled. He removed the antler and pointed at Finn's chest with his free hand. Without thinking, Finn looked down.

“Ha!” The guardian flicked the tip of Finn's nose with his finger. “Made you look.”

Finn froze. Then his jaw dropped when the Hound barked a laugh.

“You should see the expression on your face, kid.” The guardian held up the antler. “You really thought I was going to stick you with this thing, didn't you?”

“N-no,” Finn said feebly.
Well, yes
. He glowered at his master, who had joined them, the Knight trying not to laugh. He noticed Gideon wasn't trying very hard.

The Hound chuckled, the blue eyes of their people dancing. “Man, this is so much fun.” He jerked his head toward the gate. “You guys get out of here before the next apprentice comes along. I wouldn't want to ruin the surprise.”

“You seem to have embraced your role as the Hound this year with an
abundance
of enthusiasm, Dennis O'Donnell,” Gideon said dryly.

O'Donnell nodded happily. “By the way, Gideon, the first hunt is tomorrow morning—we'll meet in the field by the barn. Kel said she's never seen so many Amandán around here before. Should be a lot of apprentices wearing the torc by the end of the Festival.” He waved them away.

Still flummoxed, Finn followed Gideon through the archway. Questions swirled around inside his skull like autumn leaves in a
windstorm. Trying to keep up with the Knight's ground-munching stride, he glared up. “What the heck?”

Gideon shrugged. “Hazing apprentices is a favorite sport at the Festival, especially by some of the older apprentices and even a few of the younger Knights. You best keep your wits about you and take the teasing in stride. Apprentices who complain or act fearful are ridiculed something fierce and branded as cowards.”

“Yes, sir.” Finn thought for a moment. “So, was that whole ceremony really just a joke? Because he did cut you, after all.” Reminded of the smear of blood on his own throat, he started to wipe it off when Gideon caught his wrist.

“No, boyo. That part of the ceremony was real. As were our oaths.” He pulled Finn to a stop and locked eyes. “And you know how I feel about giving one's word?”

“‘A man's word is his honor,'” Finn repeated.

“Aye. You cannot have one without the other. So, leave the blood be for now.” He continued walking.

Trotting beside, Finn glanced back over his shoulder. “Why? And what about all our camping stuff?”

“First, we go to stand before the
Rath
with the evidence of our blood oath still fresh. Once they formally acknowledge and welcome us to the Festival, then we'll go back to the truck for our gear.”

Trepidation tapped Finn on the shoulder. “Have they ever, you know, turned someone away?”

“No. This is simply a ceremonial holdover from the days when the
Rath
was not a group of men and women, but rather a fortified stronghold to protect our people. Centuries ago, one had to be invited inside the
Rath
, swearing to abide by the laws of the
Rí
, or ruler, of the stronghold. Although our people are scattered all over Colorado, we still have a leader, or chieftain, so to speak, amongst us—Toryn Mull.”

As they walked along the footpath treading through the campsite, Finn eyed the tents scattered here and there. Some were old-fashioned affairs made from dirty white canvas, while others were more modern
accommodations—domes of Gore-Tex. He even spotted a tipi to one side. Smoke drifted from the fires of early risers.

A few De Danaan called greetings to Gideon as they walked past. Others stared at Finn. Something in their expressions made him feel like checking for what Gideon called a “nostril goblin.” He dragged his sleeve across his face just in case.
Trust, but verify
, as his master often said.

After passing through the camping area, they came out into a grassy area. An enormous barn, its wooden planks stained and weathered to a warm brown, sat in the middle of it. The building's double doors faced southward. A meadow about the size of a football field stretched from the barn's doors to the bank of the river chasm. A footbridge, crafted from massive logs, spanned the gap. Finn could hear the faint roar of the current as it churned along through the narrow gorge.

“Who built the barn?” Finn asked.

“It is a leftover from the days when cattle were raised in the area to feed the gold miners. The current owner of this property allows us the use of the land and structure as long as we do maintenance on it once a year.”

Continuing along on his master's heels, Finn noticed a low, raised platform, fashioned from split aspen logs and covered in planks, sitting off to one side near the doors. Three heavy chairs, almost like thrones, were positioned on it. He followed his master over to a spot in front of the platform. At that moment, the barn doors swung inward.

Martin O'Neill stepped out, followed by a woman and another man. Dressed in jeans and sweaters or light jackets of various shades of reds and browns, each wore the torc as well as a long cloak made from heavy wool and dyed a dark gold. The woman carried a hiking staff. As they walked toward the platform, the cloaks fluttered behind them in the morning breeze, like the last aspen leaves of autumn just before they made their final journey earthward. They stared at Finn while they climbed the single step to the platform.
They must be the
Rath,
the Council members
, Finn thought. Uncertain what to do, he shuffled from foot to foot.

“At my knife arm and behind,” Gideon muttered without moving his lips.

Finn scrambled to take a position at the Knight's right elbow. He watched as the three Council members sat down. For a long minute, they gazed in silence at the master and apprentice, giving Finn a chance to study them. He saw the woman examining him back. Younger than the others, her glossy nut-brown braids, intermingled with strands of dark gold the same hue as her cloak, reached to her lap.

Then the other man stood. His tanned skin was leathered by the centuries, and his dark hair was graced with silver at the temples. He took a step forward to the very edge of the dais. A sheathed sword hung at one hip. He flung his cloak back off his shoulders.

“
Céad mile fáilte
, Gideon Lir.” Finn noticed the man pronounced his master's name in the old way—
Gwydion
. “The Council accepts yer blood oath and welcomes ye to the Festival of the Hunt.”

Gideon inclined his head. “I thank you, Toryn Mull, and would ask that the
Rath
formally recognize my apprentice, Finnegan MacCullen, as well.” He motioned Finn to stand beside him.

Mull hesitated. Before he could speak, O'Neill rose and took a position beside him. Dread clamped a cold hand on the back of Finn's neck. Even before Lochlan's father spoke the words, he knew what was coming.

“I'm afraid that won't be possible, Gideon Lir.” O'Neill curled a lip. “At least, not yet. Some of us are still undecided.”

“Undecided about what?” Gideon said in a flat voice that usually meant trouble. For the other person.

“Why, whether or not we allow that
halfer
,” he spat out the word as if it were a foul taste, “to attend the Festival.”

“B
leedin' ‘ell.” Gideon snarled. “You cannot be serious.”

O'Neill snorted. “Did you actually think
he
would be welcome to such a sacred place and time of our people?”

“Speak for yourself, Martin.” The woman stood up and joined them. The cloak swirled back, revealing a quiver of arrows clutched in one hand. What Finn had thought was a hiking staff was actually an unstrung bow. “Like I said earlier,
I
don't have a problem with him being here.”

“He's a halfer, Kel O'Shea,” O'Neill said. “He's not a true Tuatha De Danaan.”

“He wears the torc,” Kel O'Shea pointed out. “I'd say that makes him a De Danaan.”

O'Neill made a noise of derision. “How do we know he truly earned it? How do we know Lir didn't simply just—”

“Mind how you finish that sentence,” Gideon said softly. Finn watched a flush of color darken his master's face. “I just might take offense.”

“The only thing you'll take is whatever decisions the
Rath
hands down.” O'Neill stepped toward the edge of the dais. He pointed at
Gideon's throat with a triumphant gleam in his eyes. “Blood oath, after all.”

“Leave off the yammering,” Mull ordered, voice carrying in the morning air. He waved both O'Neill and O'Shea back to their chairs. “Quiet, now. And ye as well, Gideon Lir.” He threw the Knight a warning glance, then crooked a finger at Finn.

Finn glanced at Gideon. After a curt nod from his master, he walked forward on unsteady legs until he stood in front of the chieftain. Head back to keep eye contact, he squared his shoulders, pulse roaring in his ears so loud he almost couldn't hear the older Knight's voice.
This is where they tell me to go home. That I don't belong here. Which means Gideon would have to leave, too
. The thought of his master's disappointment left a sour taste in his mouth. He braced himself.

“So, Finnegan MacCullen. Halfer may be a heavy burden for a boy to drag behind him,” Mull began. “But, in truth, ye cannot deny yer blood is both Fey and mortal.”

“No, sir.”

“Then, tell us why we ought to allow ye to attend the Festival. And why we shouldn't just send ye away because of
who ye are
.” His blue eyes bore into Finn's at the emphasized words. He gazed down with a look of expectation.

Who ye are?
Finn repeated the phrase to himself.
Is he trying to tell me something?
He opened his mouth, not even sure what he was going to say when the words he had spoken earlier to the Hound flashed through his mind. “Who I am?” he said, throwing every bit of Irish cockiness he could into his voice, hoping it would be enough to cover up the fear. “Why, I am the son of Fergus MacCullen of Clan MacCullen. Apprentice to the Knight, Gideon Lir. And, yeah, I may be half-mortal.” He pointed at his torc. “But I'm Tuatha De Danaan, too.” He thrust out his chin, praying the chieftain didn't catch the shaking in his knees. Then, a sudden impudence saddled his tongue and took it for a ride. “Also, I like bacon, driving our truck, and singing. My favorite color is orange, my favorite bands
are Emerald Rose and Enter the Haggis, and I know where Gideon keeps a bottle of—”

Laughter exploded from the Council, except O'Neill, who scowled. Mouth quirked in amusement, Mull nodded at Finn. “Bravely said, if a wee cheeky—in the true Tuatha De Danaan spirit.” He looked over Finn's head at Gideon. “The boyo is yer apprentice, Lir, no doubt about
that
.”

“'Tis certain.” Gideon joined Finn. “So, is he welcomed here?”

“Aye. I vote to accept him.”

“As do I.” O'Shea stood again, her braids swinging with her movement.

She walked over and joined the chieftain. O'Neill refused to rise. He sat, upper lip curled in derision as he stared at Finn.

Mull smiled. “
Céad mile fáilte
, Finnegan MacCullen. The Council accepts yer blood oath and welcomes ye.”

Legs wobbly with relief, Finn couldn't help grinning back. “I go by Finn, not Finnegan,” he blurted out. “Sir,” he added hastily.

“Finn, not Finnegan, then.” Mull squatted down, all formality gone. Eye to eye with Finn, he added in a quiet voice. “And
gle mhaith
, lad. Continue to stand yer ground.” He gave a nod, then motioned him away and rose. “Go help yer master set up camp.”

“Come, boyo,” Gideon ordered.

Yeah, before they change their minds
, Finn thought. Falling in beside the Knight, he blew out a sigh of relief.

Walking back through the campsite, he unzipped his jacket, sweating as the mounting sun burned off the residual chill from last night. Halfway to the parking area, a familiar voice called their names. They slowed and looked around.