Gideon's Spear by Darby Karchut Page B

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.
    â€œHey, 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.”
    â€œAnd do you remember the words?”
    â€œWell, sort of.”
    â€œThen stand and sing it with me.”
    â€œOh, 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.
    â€œOthers 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;
    â€œLand of Song!” said the warrior bard ,
    â€œTho’ 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.
    The Minstrel fell! But the foeman’s chain
    Could not bring his proud soul under;
    The harp he lov’d ne’er spoke again ,
    For he tore its chords asunder;
    And said “No chains shall sully thee ,
    Thou soul of love and bravery!
    Thy songs were made for the pure and free
    They shall never sound in slavery!”
    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?”
    â€œYour torc.” Lochlan pointed to it. “I thought you had put it in the grave with…you know…Asher.”
    â€œYeah, 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.
    â€œNice 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.”
    â€œTry 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.
    â€œNot until ye