Free The Hound at the Gate by Darby Karchut Page A

back.”
    â€œAs am I.”
    Finn blew out a long breath as they walked away.
Sheesh. And Gideon says
I
have a hair-trigger temper
?
    Shaking his head in disbelief, he started to say something when he noticed Gideon still watching O’Shea until she disappeared behind a stand of trees. His master continued to stare at the spot, as if remembering something. A faint smile curled one corner of his mouth.
    Finn blinked.
He likes her
. The realization made him suddenly aware of something he knew-but-didn’t-know. Or didn’t
want
to know, for some reason.
    That his master was more than just his master. That Gideon was a person. With likes and dislikes. With faults and strengths.
    That Gideon was a man. And just like his master, one day Finn would be a man, too.
    An uncomfortable awkwardness made him turn away. His cheeks, already warm, grew warmer when Gideon headed for his tent, singing softly under his breath about a maid with the nut-brown hair. “What do I need to bring?” he said loudly, trying to drown out his master’s voice.
    â€œA knife or two. The ones you use for target practice.”
    â€œGideon, I suck at throwing,” Finn protested. “Can’t I try another event? She said they might have boxing. And I saw my gloves in the crate.” He frowned at a sudden thought. “Is that why you’ve been teaching me?”
    â€œAye. It is a useful skill for a boy to know, even in this century. But also to help control your temper.”
    That’s for sure
. Finn thought back to all the times he had hammered on the punching bag in their back yard to rid himself of the uncontrollable warp spasms. “So. Boxing?”
    â€œAnd knife throwing,” Gideon said, refusing to relent. “You need all the practice you can manage. Bring your gloves,
both
your knives, and your jacket for later. I’ll leave a note for Mac Roth and Lochlan.” He ducked inside his tent.
    Finn scurried to fetch his blades and jacket from his tent. It took him a few minutes to find it shoved under his cot. When he returned, Gideon was down on one knee, rummaging through the crate. Camping supplies were scattered about. He pulled out a hurley buried at the bottom and a small plastic tube of ointment.
    â€œHere. Hold this.” He passed the stick to Finn, then slipped the container into his pocket.
    While Gideon repacked the supplies, Finn ran his hand along the hurley, the wood smooth under his fingers and its surface darkened over the years with use and sweat.
And probably some blood
, he thought. A wry smile tugged at his lips at the memory of a few games with his cousins.
    â€œI didn’t know you played.” Finn held it closer to examine the Celtic rope pattern banding the handle; the design was worn off in places.
    â€œIt has been many a year. Do you?”
    â€œA little. Just messing around with my cousins.”
When they’d actually
let
me play
.
    â€œGood. We always need more men.”
    â€œI don’t have a stick.” He handed it back to Gideon.
    â€œThere will be extras about. But I best warn you—the rules of hurling
we
follow here at the Festival are not like the more genteel ones of mortals.”
    â€œWhat are the rules?”
    â€œFirst rule.” Gideon held up a finger. “Use your hurley to pass the ball, or the
sliotar
, from player to player to move it down the field. Unlike the mortals, we do not stay in our positions—it’s more of a free-for all. And there is no limit to the number of times you can bounce the ball on the end of your stick. Only a throw between the posts scores a point.”
    â€œSounds a lot simpler than the way humans play it. What are the other rules?”
    The Knight held up another finger. “No using the power of the Song. We compete heart to heart, muscle to muscle, wind to wind.”
    â€œOh.” Finn made a face.
Too bad—I’d have used the help
. “Next