Prologue

September 24, 1993
Briarcliff Street
North Seacouver, USA

Even now, several hours after she'd assumed the shape, the human body felt strange to wear. The pulse of blood through veins, the circulating fluids, the heat and containedness and continual replacement - all odd sensations that echoed of a former life she barely remembered. She'd been inside the house, dry and warm, and now the chill of the night air outside made goosebumps rise across her skin.

The young human boy - Pielle's boy, she'd noted with some irony - fetched her a silk jacket from the automobile parked at the curb. The night sounded very quiet, very still. She wished the Highlander had come outside with them, but he'd remained inside to find out more about the man who'd kidnapped her. Who'd kidnapped *Tessa,* she reminded herself. Appearances, memories and behavior aside, she was merely the echo of Tessa Noel, a handy diversion while the Horin spirited away their would- be Queen.

She wanted to tell the Highlander that his love was safe, but thought the best way to earn his confidence and trust would be to continue to act as Tessa would act, and then explain things to him at home. Still, she couldn't stop looking back at the house, almost overwhelmed by the sweeping love the Tessa shell felt for the man.

"Tessa, come on," the young one urged. She turned to him. Seconds later a stranger accosted them in the street and shot her in the chest, sending the echo of Tessa's body spiraling into death and freeing the Faeron into the cool and dark air.

She saw the Highlander run from the house and cradle the broken body below, then watched as Pielle's boy gasped awake to his new Immortal life.

She drifted away, unable to tell them the true Tessa Noel lived on.

Seacouver, USA
July 14, 1998

Duncan MacLeod smiled at the postcard of Edinburgh he'd just pulled from the box in the downstairs hallway. Above him, the methodical thump of feet on the dojo floor shook dust from the rafters as his new instructor Kevin put the novice class through its paces. The summer sun shining through the propped-open door behind Duncan had turned golden in the dusk, and the air began to cool a little from the scorch of July. He juggled the sack of groceries in one arm and stopped to read Richie's small, messy handwriting.

"Hi Mac! Got here Thursday - had to walk in the rain for five miles. Connor said it was good for us. Tourist sites tacky. Lots of churches. Pretty city. I talk like you do now. How come you never said Scotland was so nice? Call you later - Richie."

Duncan reread the postcard twice as the freight elevator lifted him past the dojo, the third and fourth floors of warehouse space, and into his loft. The warning sense of another Immortal sent a ripple of goosebumps down his back and legs, but Methos' voice called out lazily from the sofa before Duncan could lunge for the sword on the wall.

"I let myself in!" The ancient Immortal said cheerfully. He lay propped on the cushions, long khaki-clad legs crossed at the ankles, blue crew-neck shirt bunched around the hard muscles of his perfectly flat stomach. He had a beer perched precariously on his chest. "You're late."

"Late for what?" Duncan asked, setting the groceries on the kitchen counter. He hated going out unarmed, but summer attire rarely left any room for hidden swords. It had occurred to him more than once to move back to a colder climate. Tessa had been the one who'd loved the weather in Seacouver, rain and all.

"You were going to cook me dinner, don't you remember?"

"I must have forgotten," Duncan said fondly. He dropped the postcard onto the ancient Immortal's chest and retreated back to the kitchen area.

Methos read the postcard and flipped it to the front. "Hmmm. I never did like Edinburgh Castle. Too drafty."

"All castles are drafty."

"Some more than others. What's this about walking? Doesn't Connor believe in modern conveyance?"

Duncan put aside the fresh lettuce and tomatoes he'd just bought at the market and pulled a glass salad bowl down from a shelf. He washed his hands thoroughly, then rummaged in the refrigerator and produced some bright orange carrots and thick bell peppers. "I think Connor's still tormenting Richie," he laughed. "When he was training him, he'd make him walk the length and width of Manhattan, usually in his bare feet."

"When was that?"

"Umm, '94. Just after Richie died in France. He came back to the States and stayed with Connor for awhile." Duncan rinsed the carrots and began dicing them on a large wooden board. "It's good to have more than one teacher."

Methos put the postcard down on the coffee table. "No jealousy? No kinsman rivalry?"

Duncan sounded surprised. "Why would I be jealous? Connor taught me, I taught Richie, Connor taught Richie. Everything goes around in circles."

"And so Connor takes him to Scotland for the summer, and you don't go?"

Duncan's knife came down harder on the carrot. "Connor decided to pay a visit, Richie had never been there, and I wanted to stay here for the summer."

"Mmmm."

"What?" Duncan asked, with a little exasperation. "If I wanted to be there, I would be."

"Were you invited?"

"Yes!" Duncan stopped his chopping and wagged a sharp knife at Methos. "You are an instigator, do you know that? Don't you have anything useful to do?"

"No."

"Adam Pierson would."

"Don't remind me," Methos said, swinging his feet down to the Oriental rug and sitting up with a sigh. "Best identity I ever had. I can't believe I gave it up."

"For a good cause. Otherwise Richie and I . . . well, you know."

"I know. I didn't say it wasn't for a good cause." Methos pitched his beer bottle into the recycling bin and groped in the refrigerator for another. "Still, it takes some getting used to. I don't know who Joe's assigned to me, but I catch little glimpses of him every now and then. It's embarrassing. It's like being followed by one of the Hardy Boys, he's so inept."

Duncan scraped the chopped carrots into the salad bowl and started in earnest on the peppers. "Don't worry. Another fifty or sixty years, maybe you can sneak your way back in."

"Five or six *hundred,* maybe," Methos said, sliding onto a stool. "Anyway, I think it's marvelous Connor and Richie are touring Scotland."

"Me too."

"Except they're not in Scotland anymore. They're in St. John's, Newfoundland. Connor called while you were out and left that number there, by the phone. He wants to talk to you, sounded somewhat excited. Although with Connor, it's sometimes hard to tell."

Duncan wiped his hands clean on a dish towel and retrieved the phone number. He glanced at the clock - it would be after midnight in St John's - but dialed anyway. Connor snatched up the receiver on the third ring.

"It's me, Duncan. How are the Maritimes?"

"Wet," Connor said. "Duncan, I need you to fly out here right away."

Duncan's stomach recoiled, as if it had been punched. "What is it? Is something wrong? Richie?"

"Richie's fine. He's right here. It's something else. . . "

"Tell me," Duncan said. Methos leaned forward on the stool, his face creased with concern. Duncan's grip on the phone tightened.

"It's too hard. Just promise me you'll fly out here tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" Duncan asked. "Put Richie on, I want to talk to him."

"Duncan, he's sleeping. Trust me, he's fine. Just come out here. There's something very funny going on."

Duncan waited for more, but Connor stayed silent. Duncan sighed. "All right. I'll come out tomorrow. But this better be worth it."

"What's the mystery?" Methos asked when Duncan hung up.

"I don't know," Duncan said grimly, "but I guess I'll find out tomorrow."

"That makes two of us, then."

Duncan lifted an eyebrow.

Methos merely shrugged. "What else do I have to do?"

***

They flew first class across the continent. Methos busied himself with the earphones, in-flight movie, complimentary magazines, ever-polite flight attendants, handfuls of peanuts, and five martinis in ninety minutes.

"Nobody in his right mind flies sober," Methos explained, as Duncan watched from his window seat and latest Martin Amis novel.

"I fly sober."

"Proof positive," Methos burped.

By the time they disembarked in New York City, Duncan had to practically drape Methos on a luggage truck to get him to the next gate. One of the advantages of being Immortal was that the alcohol metabolized faster than average, and Methos recovered enough balance to sneak away to the nearest lounge and suck down two rum and tonics the minute Duncan turned his back. At least he was a sociable drunk, willing to do whatever Duncan hissed at him, although he kept talking very loudly about Cleopatra and her many charms. Duncan got him fastened into his seat on the jet bound for Halifax and then decided to go with the flow instead of against it. He ordered him two more stiff drinks and watched the oldest living Immortal pass out somewhere over Maine.

"At least now I'll get some peace and quiet," Duncan muttered, opening his book.

They transferred to a commuter plane in Halifax. Shortly after takeoff the plane began buffeting to and fro in strong headwinds, and Methos fumbled for the barf bag. Duncan almost used a bag himself. They came into St. John's around sunset, with the lights of the small city already reflecting in the harbor. The moment they lurched off the plane into the small terminal they felt the buzz of another Immortal.

Connor looked whole and healthy, with a bit of color in his cheeks from spending all summer in the Highlands. He shook both Duncan and Methos' hands with his strong, solid grip. Despite Connor's outward calm and relaxation, Duncan could see a tiny, telltale tension in his kinsman's shoulders.

"Welcome to Newfoundland," Connor smirked. "Glad you could come."

A nagging doubt all day had told Duncan that Connor truly was luring him up here to break the news of Richie's beheading or something equally shattering. "Where's Richie?"

"With the car," Connor said, steering them towards the luggage carousel. He clasped his arm around Duncan's shoulder. "Honestly, Duncan, didn't you think I'd take care of him?"

"Parents do worry," Methos yawned. "Is there anything to eat around here? I'm famished."

Connor checked his watch. "We'll have time to eat later. If we hurry, we have time to make it to Front Street before the gallery closes."

"Gallery?" Duncan caught his kinsman's arm. "You made me fly to Newfoundland for an art show?"

"Wait and see," Connor promised.

Methos and Duncan's luggage came out, along with two well- packaged swords. They collected the bags and weapons and went outside into the golden evening. The clear, fresh air of the Avalon Peninsula smelled good despite being tinged with the lingering stench of jet fuel and exhaust. Richie stood, as promised, with Connor's rented 1995 Mazda Protege parked in the loading zone. His face lit up when he saw Duncan and Methos.

"Hey, guys, long time no see!" More demonstrative then Connor, Richie shook Methos' hand and then pulled Duncan into an embrace.

Relieved from his worries of the day, Duncan released Richie and then examined his former student closely. It had been four months since Richie had gone off to Scotland. He looked as if he'd finally gained some weight - Tessa had always claimed he needed to - and maybe even a little maturing in his face, although he was chronologically stuck at nineteen. He was almost twenty four now.

"How was the flight?" Richie asked, opening the trunk for the luggage Connor tossed in.

"Boring," Methos said.

"Aside from the company," Duncan agreed pleasantly. "Now, what's this about an art show?"

Richie kept his face carefully blank. "Art show?"

"The gallery," Connor supplied. "Pile in, the sooner we get there, the sooner you'll see."

The airport had been built in the hills north of the city, and it took only a short half-hour of navigating the evening traffic before Connor turned down the narrow streets of the capital city's downtown area. Front Street was one of a half-dozen streets running roughly parallel to the harbor, crowded in a four-hundred year old historic district chock full of shops, restaurants and pubs. Connor wedged the Mazda into a parking place behind a bank. The gallery, located on a corner across from a bustling souvenir shop, had a posted closing time of eight p.m. The owner had already started to turn her key in the lock when the four Immortals arrived.

"Mr. Nash!" she smiled, opening the door. "I didn't think you'd make it today. I can't stay for long, I'm afraid."

Connor took the woman's hands and smiled at her. "We'll only be a few minutes, Mrs. Carsons. I do appreciate your helpfulness. Has anyone been by to look at it today?"

"Just the usual browsers," she reported. "No one offered to buy it."

"Buy what?" Duncan asked, a trifle impatiently. For some reason the gallery made him itch. He'd tried to stay away from art displays since Tessa's death, with a high degree of success.

"Over here," Richie said.

They moved through the large, open shop to the near corner, where several works hung against the building's exposed brick wall. One large oil painting dominated the wall, and a recessed light highlighted it from above. Duncan moved to stand on the hardwood floor directly in front of it, admiring the burnished gold frame. The scene in the picture took a little longer to assimilate in his vision, and as it did he stilled himself so completely that he nearly forgot to breathe.

Golds and reds, a great deal of darkness, the gray of steel lattice, looming skyscrapers, pinprick rivers of white light. Arcs of lightning from two clashing swords. A man in white and a man in black, battling like medieval warriors on a twentieth-century bridge. Two observers, a boy in the open and a man barely discernible in shadows, watched the battle. Another man had just entered the scene with his own weapon drawn.

Duncan stared at the painting, feeling poised on the brink of some enormous chasm. A single gust of breeze or muscle twitch might send him pitching forward into the painting. He heard Connor say to Methos, in a muffled voice far away, "It's not entirely accurate, but close enough."

"Soldier's Bridge," Richie agreed. He sounded as shaken as Duncan felt. "The night Slan Quince died."

"But how can it be?" Methos asked. "I doubt the Watchers have taken up selling paintings."

"Look at the signature," Connor said softly.

Duncan's own gaze turned almost involuntarily to the corner. He knew what he would find even before he looked. Impossible, of course, but he knew this particular artist's style as well as he knew the muscles of his own body. As he'd once known the contours and satiny flesh of her body as well.

TN. Tessa Noel. The year had been inscribed below - 1996, just two years previous.

1996.

She'd died in 1993.

Duncan said, "I want it. I don't care how much."

"Not yet," Connor said.

Duncan couldn't tear his eyes from the painting. His skin, from toes to scalp, had gone icy cold. Inside, his blood burned. "I want it," he persisted.

"No," Connor replied, just as stubbornly. "Come on, we have to go. We'll be back in the morning."

Both Connor and Richie had to take hold of his arms and steer him out of the shop. Duncan went unwillingly, but had no inclination to actually physically fight them. He kept his eyes on the painting as long as he could, barely aware of Connor bidding Mrs. Carsons a good night, and then the closing door blocked his sight. They stood out in the doorway, letting pedestrians pass on the sidewalk, and Duncan swayed a little from faintness.

"Let's go sit down," Methos suggested.

Around the corner from the gallery they found a tiny restaurant tucked discreetly between a bookstore and a jewelry store. Dark and quiet, it boasted of only a few customers. Duncan felt himself propelled into a booth, and Connor slid in beside him. Richie and Methos took up the red vinyl seat across from them. Methos buried himself in the menu. When the waitress came Connor told her to bring a very large Scotch for Duncan, a smaller one for himself. Everyone ordered dinner except for Duncan, and Connor ordered for him. Duncan didn't say anything until the first swallow of alcohol seared its way down his throat and loosened his tongue.

"How?" he demanded.

"I don't know," Connor admitted.

Duncan looked at Richie, whose face was an equal study in puzzlement. "I don't know either, Mac. We just found it Monday."

"Tell me everything," Duncan ordered, wrapping both hands around his glass of Scotch.

"After we left Scotland we went to London and happened across Amanda. She was in the company of Hans Dietrich, have you ever met him?"

Duncan shook his head. Methos' eyes narrowed. "I have," he said quietly.

Connor glanced his way compassionately. "I remember. But I don't think he still hates you for what you did . . . regardless, he's good company now, despite what he was - "

"What was he?" Richie asked curiously. "You didn't tell me anything about his past."

Methos toyed with the straw poking out of his soda. "A Nazi," he said, distaste dripping from the word. He looked at Connor squarely. "Or have you forgotten?"

Connor took on a look of impatience. "Regardless of who he is or what he was, he mentioned that a friend of his had been through St. John's and seen a very interesting painting of what appeared to be two Immortals fighting on a bridge. Apparently Amanda had heard gossip of it too, from a different friend."

"I didn't think Newfoundland was such a hot spot for world travelers," Methos said. "I've never been here before, and I've been everywhere."

"Actually, I know of three of our kind who live around here." Even in the nearly empty restaurant, Connor preferred not to mention the word Immortal. His companionable rivalry with Methos sidetracked him for a moment. "Jessica Purvis, I met her first in Naples back in - "

Duncan's voice cut him off. "Can we get back to the painting?" he asked sternly.

Connor had the grace to look appropriately abashed. "Sorry. Anyway, we thought it might be interesting to see, and it was no trouble to change our routing back to New York through here . . . "

Richie leaned forward. "It took us three days of going through every gallery and museum for ten miles around, and I thought Connor was nuts, but then we found it and - bam! The first time, I looked like you look now, Mac."

Duncan gulped more Scotch. He couldn't still the churning in his stomach, the painful beat of his heart. "And the . . . artist?"

"Mrs. Carsons said it was brought in by the artist's agent about eight months ago. He comes in every Tuesday afternoon to inquire about offers. But here's the thing, Duncan - he won't sell it. He insists on meeting the buyers, and then always declines the sale. He says he wants the right buyer, someone who will appreciate it. He drives her nuts, but pays her a monthly retainer to keep the painting on the wall."

Today was Wednesday. Duncan lifted his gaze to study Connor and Richie. "Did you talk to him yesterday?"

"No," Connor said. "We staked out the place, to see who he was first. He's an Immortal, Duncan. One of us. Richie took photographs."

Richie reached obligingly into his leather jacket to pull out a package of prints that bore a one-hour photo lab motif. "You think the story's freaky now, Mac, then brace yourself. You're about to plunge completely into the Twilight Zone."

Duncan took the photos impatiently. He pulled out twenty color prints, his fingers shaking, and flipped through them rapidly. The street, the gallery, a man in silhouette - the man coming closer - the man up-close. The man going into the gallery. Coming out, speaking with Mrs. Carsons in the doorway. The man was much older than Duncan remembered, with gray hair and small glasses, but the Highlander would never forget that immense build and sinister features.

The photographs fell from his fingers. Methos scooped some up, and took a hard look. "I don't get it. Who is it?"

"Slan Quince," Connor said.

***

Duncan ate his dinner without tasting it. Later he couldn't even remember what he'd eaten. Food had become the lowest of his priorities. His open eyes could only stare at the photographs of Slan Quince in the streets of St. John, taken just twenty four hours previously. His mind kept dredging up the painting of Soldier's Bridge that hung just around the corner.

Methos, Connor and Richie kept up a conversation without him, agreeing with tacit looks that Duncan needed some time to take things in. Richie regaled Methos with various tales about Scotland, and although it was clear he wished Duncan was paying just a little attention, he had obviously enjoyed his stay.

"We have to get you into the Highlands one day," Connor told Methos, with a twinkle in his eye. "Or have you been there?"

"I was there when the Highlands were known as the lowlands," Methos said dryly. He pushed away his apple pie and sipped at a strong cup of coffee.

"You going to eat that?" Richie asked.

Methos slid the pie over. "Be my guest."

Duncan abruptly broke his own silence. "Did you follow him?"

Connor and Richie looked at him. "This Immortal who looks like Quince," Duncan elaborated. "Did you follow him?"

"I lost him," Connor said, somewhat sheepishly, "but Richie trailed him for awhile, up toward the military base."

Richie said, "Then he gave me the slip. I lost him."

"You lost him?" Duncan asked sharply. "The only man who has a link to whoever that artist is, and you lost him?"

Richie pulled up straighter in his seat. "Mac, chill. We can reach him through Mrs. Carsons."

"And what if she can't find him? What if we never find him? We'll never know who painted that picture! You should never have let him out of your sight. You screwed up."

Richie didn't answer for a minute, shocked into speechlessness by Duncan's vehemence. Connor and Methos stared at Duncan. "Excuse me," Richie finally said, then slid out of the booth and left the restaurant.

"Well," Connor said, "I'm sure that made you feel a lot better, didn't it, Duncan?"

Duncan wouldn't meet Methos or Connor's eyes. He knew he'd lost his temper for reasons that had nothing to do with Richie, and the accusation in their expression made him feel even more sheepish than he already did. "I'm sorry," he said.

Methos nodded towards the door. "We're not the ones you should apologize to."

Connor moved to let Duncan out of the booth. The sidewalk in front of the cafe was clear, but Duncan found Richie right around the corner, pressed to the enormous plate glass window of the art gallery. The younger Immortal's shoulders were hunched, his hands in his pockets, his eyes fixed on the painting they could both see.

"I'm sorry," Duncan said sincerely. "I didn't mean it."

Richie shrugged. It was a habit left over from his early days with Duncan and Tessa, when nearly every question elicited a shrug. Foster homes had taught him the futility of enthusiasm, and the somewhat successful strategy of ambivalence.

Duncan put his hand on Richie's shoulder. "I shouldn't take it out on you. This is just so strange, so disturbing . . . I am sorry."

"It's okay," Richie said, although he didn't turn to Duncan. "I know how it goes sometimes. Don't worry, Mac, we'll find the guy with Quince's face and find out what's going on."

Duncan pressed against the glass, every part of him aching to break into the window, rip down the painting, and carry it away. "I hope so," he murmured, and they stood there, side by side, looking through the window that kept them in the warm summer darkness outside.

Soldier's Bridge. Duncan couldn't quite believe it had only been five years previous. The life he'd led then seemed like someone else's, watched through a movie camera or the pages of a favorite old book. He and Tessa, in love with each other and the art and antique worlds; Richie, a scrappy orphan with a big mouth and cocky attitude who'd plundered the store one ill-timed night; the family they'd formed, however briefly, three people bound by fate and fortune. There had been women since, battles both won and lost, and he was no longer the man the artist had painted arriving on the scene to save the day, but he missed those times so fiercely it made his throat tighten.

"I want to steal it," Duncan confessed. "I want it so badly it hurts."

"You want me to get it?" Richie asked, without hesitation.

Such calm willingness to break the law for Duncan's sake touched the Highlander. And made him smile, although the humor didn't go quite deep enough. "No," he said, "I don't want you to get it. We'll wait until tomorrow and find the agent. Someone, somewhere around here, knows what's going on."

They spent the night at a bed & breakfast on the slopes of Signal Hill. The hill had played a historically strategic role in defending the harbor below, and brochures in their rooms told of how the last battle of the Seven Years War between the English and French had been waged atop it in 1762. A small stone tower, almost like a castle, had been built at the top in celebration of Queen Victoria's Diamond Jubilee and dedicated to the memory of explorer John Cabot. Methos and Richie ate early and went to inspect the tower in the morning, leaving the two Highlanders to their breakfast downstairs.

Duncan had slept very little during the night, tossing and turning until Methos threatened him with bodily harm. A full moon had shone down through the open windows, filling the room with silver light as he tortured himself for hours thinking about Tessa. She'd died in his arms, she was definitely not Immortal, he'd seen her cut open in the hospital, touched her lifeless skin in the funeral home, watched her coffin be loaded on the plane to France. He hadn't opened the coffin in France - maybe her body hadn't even been inside - but who would have stolen her corpse, and why? Even if by some strange supernatural reason she were alive, why hadn't she contacted him directly, instead of hanging a painting in a Canadian province?

He remembered Horton's hijinks in Paris with Lisa Milon. The villainess had been transformed into the spitting image of Tessa as part of a grand design to devastate and destroy Duncan. The first time he'd seen her, in the cemetery where Tessa lay buried, he'd felt the stroke of an icy hand down his spine. The same feeling came to him whenever he recalled the incredible detail and style of the Soldier's Bridge painting.

By breakfast, Duncan felt more tired than he had the night before. He sipped from a cup of too-sweet hot tea and ignored the bustling of the lodging's owner, a fastidious little man with too much eagerness to please. Connor sat with him in the small dining room, browsing through the morning newspaper. "How do we find him?" Duncan asked. "The man who looks like Slan Quince?"

Connor folded the paper down. "Well, we have two options as far as I can see. Have Mrs. Carsons call and make an appointment to meet him, or wait until next Tuesday and see if he makes his regular appearance."

"Why not just find him on our own?"

"Because the name Mrs. Carsons has for him - Ethan Winokur - belongs to a man who doesn't exist. He's not listed in the phone books, driver's registry, or courthouse, and I can't find any computer trace of him in the tax records. The phone number she has leads to a message service, and they claim to have no address for him." Connor gave Duncan a small smile. "You see, Richie and I haven't just been visiting the tourist sites."

Duncan didn't like the sound of it. "Then we make an appointment. See if he shows." He pushed his half-eaten breakfast back and forth across the china plate. "What do you remember about Slan Quince?"

"Sadistic, merciless, psychotic," Connor supplied. "I think he was about sixty years old. Grew up overseas. Would prey on anyone he could find, ripping husbands and wives apart, slaughtering even children. He hunted down a friend of mine, and that's how I learned of him. I vowed revenge, and followed his trail through Dallas, Flagstaff, Los Angeles and then Seacouver."

Duncan said, "I took his head myself. How can he be here?"

"Twin brother?" Connor suggested. "I have no idea. I've never heard of Immortal twins. Even if they were twins, this one looks as old as he should if he were mortal. I don't know how to explain it."

Duncan flipped through the photographs. "Neither do I."

When Methos and Richie came back from their tour of Cabot Tower - Methos reported the tiny fortification as "mostly drafty" - Connor asked him if he'd ever heard of Immortal twins.

The dining room had cleared of the other guests, and they spoke freely but with lowered voices. "No," Methos said, pulling up a chair. "And I've never seen any cases documented in the Watcher Chronicles. What about Tessa?"

"What about her?" Duncan asked, baffled.

"Are you sure she wasn't Immortal? That she wasn't adopted, a foundling like the rest of us - "

"Positive," Duncan said coldly. "Don't you think I would have known? Do you really think I'd have let them bury her if I thought she was Immortal?"

Methos colored slightly. "I'm sorry. I was just thinking of different possibilities."

Richie, who'd been silently watching the interplay between the older Immortals, turned his gaze to his coffee cup. "I'll call Joe," he offered. "See what he can dig up on Slan Quince. How much time do we have before we meet Mrs. Carsons? Half hour? Plenty of time."

"You'll wake him up," Methos warned. "On the other hand, considering the hour . . . he might not even have gone to bed yet."

A few minutes later, sitting on the bed in his room, Duncan reached for the telephone and then hesitated. He hadn't talked to Tessa's mother since the day of the funeral. Two weeks after Tessa's funeral her father Louis fell victim to a massive stroke and had been moved to a nursing home. Six months later, her sister Elise divorced. Elise's daughter Tessa-Marie had born a child out of wedlock. Duncan took a deep breath and dialed Elise's number in France, cursing himself for a fool as he did.

She seemed happy to hear from him, and they chatted in French for a few minutes before Duncan took a deep breath and said, "Elise, there's something I have to ask you. I know it may sound ridiculous, but I have a good reason for asking. Is there any way . . . is it possible . . . was Tessa adopted?"

Silence on Elise's end of the line. "What?" she asked.

"I know it sounds insane, but I need to know. Was Tessa adopted?"

More silence. Duncan imagined the dumbfounded look on her face, and wondered how quickly that astonishment would turn into rage at his insensitivity.

"Tessa was a foundling. How did you know?" she asked instead.

***

Richie looked at Duncan as if he were insane. "She said what?"

"Get into the car," Connor instructed them all. "We're going to be late."

On the short drive into town Duncan, still numb himself, related that Tessa had been adopted by her parents when she was just days old. They'd never told her. Elise, the older sister, had been too young to remember, but on the day of Tessa's funeral she'd come across the yellow, brittle adoption papers and asked Marie Noel about them. Her mother snatched the papers and burned them in the house's wood stove.

"She never wanted Tessa to know she had another mother somewhere," Elise confided.

Elise didn't remember anything from the papers, such as Tessa's birth mother's name or the agency that had handled the transaction. Duncan wasn't sure it mattered, although if he had to, he'd fly to France and spend a lifetime searching through archives if it brought him a single step closer to solving this mystery.

Joe had called up the Watchers' file on Slan Quince, and reported to Richie that the Immortal had been born in 1930, adopted by an American military couple later transferred to China, and taken prisoner by the Japanese in World War II. He'd suffered horribly in camps, was repatriated to the States in the late forties, and began a felony career in 1955 that included murder and rape. The prison psychiatrists reported he saw no distinction between right and wrong. In 1970 he died in a bank robbery, achieved his Immortality, found and later killed his first teacher, and started headhunting.

"And you killed him in 1992," Richie finished. "End of story."

"Apparently not," Methos pointed out.

Mrs. Carsons had the door open for them when they arrived promptly at nine a.m. The day promised to be clear and warm, but this early the streets were still quiet. "You'd like to make an offer?" she asked.

"Yes," Duncan said firmly. "Five hundred thousand dollars. Tell him Duncan MacLeod wants to buy the picture for five hundred thousand dollars."

Mrs. Carsons blinked. "Oh."

Connor smiled. "He really wants the painting."

"For five hundred thousand dollars, I'll paint you one myself," Methos muttered.

Duncan shot him a look. Mrs. Carsons patted the bun of auburn hair at her nape and recovered with, "Well, yes, that's a lovely figure, sure to get his attention. Let me just call the service, and we'll see what can be arranged."

Duncan went to the painting, listening only half-heartedly as Mrs. Carsons dialed the number. He hadn't noticed it the previous evening, but the small card to the left of the frame displayed the work's title. "The Clash of Worlds," it said, in small, unfamiliar handwriting. "T.N., 1996."

He saw himself, Richie, Connor, Slan, Joe. The artist had to be Tessa. Could not be. Unless the woman who'd died in his arms that shattering night on Briarwood Street had not been Tessa. She looked like Tessa, sounded like her, knew his name, wore her clothes, kissed with her fervor-

"The message service has to wait for him to pick up," Mrs. Carsons called out when she hung up. "He calls maybe once a day, never at the same time. It could be all day."

Duncan vowed not to leave the shop until the man called. Connor decided to stay with him. Methos and Richie had shorter attention spans, and drifted off a short time later to explore the neighborhood. Methos found a delightfully musty bookstore by the waterfront, while Richie amused himself watching the pretty young secretaries come to work in the district's banks. By noon no message had come from Mr. Winokur, and Richie bought Connor and Duncan some sandwiches to tide them over. At two o'clock Mrs. Carsons suggested they take a walk and get some fresh air. Duncan did so, however reluctantly, and when they returned at three-thirty, she had a message for them.

"Mr. Winokur said he'd be here by six o'clock," she said triumphantly. "He's very eager to meet you."

Duncan began counting minutes. Connor dragged him to the tiny restaurant around the corner and they sat rehashing the possibilities, arguing over hypotheses. Methos appeared with an armload of books he'd purchased, borrowed the car keys to put them in Connor's trunk, and came back with Richie in tow.

"So the mystery guy's coming at six, huh?" Richie asked. "With all the answers, I hope."

"I hope so too," Duncan muttered.

At five thirty they went back to the gallery. Mrs. Carsons offered them tea and biscuits, which they politely declined. Duncan paced back and forth before the bridge painting like an expectant father, while Connor sat quietly in the corner. Richie and Methos took up positions across the street, in case the man didn't come alone.

"If all our Watchers were here," Methos pointed out, "we'd really have a party going on."

At precisely six o'clock the bell above the door jingled. Duncan whirled, his heart thudding, but the newcomers were a young couple, expensively dressed, obviously on their way to dinner. While Duncan fidgeted, Mrs. Carsons greeted them warmly, showed them a few pieces, and talked amiably on the subject of modern sculpture. By the time they left, two purchases in hand, it was nearly six-thirty, and Connor had his hand on Duncan's chest.

"Calm down," he warned. "He'll come."

"You don't know - " Duncan started, but an Immortal buzz and the opening of the door cut him off. He turned and blinked at the size and shape of the newcomer. Recognition washed through his veins like icewater. Every instinct in his body told him to go for the katana he'd wedged beneath his light summer coat, and only through a mammoth effort of will did he keep his hands from moving to grasp the hilt.

"Mr. Winokur," Mrs. Carsons said brightly. "These are the gentlemen who wish to make the offer."

The man stepped forward, and Duncan's initial impression disappeared. This man was Slan Quince - but only if he'd aged thirty years and been mellowed by time and manner both. Seventy years old at least, he wore dark green trousers, a white shirt, a dark tie, and a jacket custom made for a man his size. He smelled of cologne, and his leather shoes creaked with newness. His glasses reflected the gallery's recessed lights.

"I'm so pleased to meet you," he said softly, in a deep, rumbling voice that Duncan remembered only too well. The man offered his hand. "Ethan Winokur."

Duncan didn't move. Connor, who'd hated Slan Quince with a passion and had died in an attempt to slay him, stepped forward and offered his carefully.

"Mr. Winokur," he said. "I'm Russell Nash."

The massive grip nearly crushed Connor's hand, although he sensed that Winokur was trying to be gentle. Connor turned to his younger clansman. Duncan's face was utterly impassive.

"I'm Duncan MacLeod," he said.

Winokur's face broke open with warmth. "I know. How could I not know you, Mr. MacLeod? Or your kinsman Connor - sorry, Russell Nash. She's talked so much about you."

Duncan's knees went weak. "She who?"

"The artist," Winokur said. Nothing in his voice sounded malicious or mocking. "She painted it for you."

"Tessa?" Duncan asked, putting all of his heart and hope into that single word, but before Winokur could answer the air cracked open with bullets and exploding glass.

Connor launched himself at Mrs. Carsons as the gallery windows disintegrated beneath a hail of gunfire. Duncan instinctively dropped, his hands over his ears. Only after the gunfire stopped did he dare lift his head. His eardrums felt as if they'd been seared by fire, and his vision swam as he staggered upright on a floor coated with a fine sheen of broken glass. Connor lay sprawled across Mrs. Carsons, felled by a row of wounds across his right hip and buttocks. Mrs. Carsons sobbed beneath the weight, nearly hysterical. Winokur had disappeared, perhaps in chase of their mysterious attacker, and Duncan saw no sign or Methos or Richie.

Fighting the pounding in his head that accompanied every heartbeat, Duncan pulled Connor off the gallery owner. The older Highlander was semi-conscious, gasping in pain, face pale and white and covered with sweat. Shock. Duncan helped Mrs. Carsons sit up and checked her for injuries. Scratches and a bump on the head. Duncan asked her if she was all right. She tried to answer, but no words came between her sobs. Duncan turned back to Connor, and found him struggling to his knees.

"We have to get out of here," Connor gasped.

Duncan couldn't hear past the pain in his ears. "What?"

Connor grabbed Duncan's shirt and pulled himself upright. "We have to leave!" he practically shouted in Duncan's face. Duncan debated the wisdom of facing police and reporters and decided Mrs. Carsons would have to do it on her own. He wrapped an arm around Connor's waist and half-dragged him to the back door, into the alley, and to the Mazda parked at the curb. Connor's blood spilled across the front seat as he fought to stay conscious with a string of curses and groans. Duncan's hands and legs shook as he twisted the steering wheel and gunned the gas pedal. He circled St. John's twice before he decided they weren't being followed, and returned to the bed and breakfast only when darkness had taken the city.

He parked under the windows of their rented rooms and waited until Immortal recognition brought Richie's profile to the window. Richie and Methos both came down a few minutes later. Duncan sent Richie back for clean clothes that both Duncan and Connor could change into before they tried to cross the lobby. Only after all four of them were safely upstairs in Duncan and Methos' room did Duncan learn the man who'd shot at the gallery had escaped.

"He wasn't one of us," Richie said, before Duncan could reprimand them. "And he had buddies waiting in a white van at the end of the street. There's no way we could have caught him."

"Tell us what happened inside," Methos said, propping himself up against the headboard of his bed. "Is he Slan Quince?"

"No," Duncan said, dropping into a chair. He pulled off his jacket and ran his hand across his eyes. "But he knows Tessa."

Connor frowned. "He didn't say that."

"He didn't deny it," Duncan retorted.

"Not the same thing," Methos said, his gaze shifting speculatively between the two MacLeods. Richie stayed perfectly silent on the other bed, gazing out the slitted blue curtains to the lights of the city beneath Signal Hill.

"He said the artist had painted it for me," Duncan said. "And that she'd spoken of us. Who else but Tessa could it be?" He hated the desperation in his voice and changed the subject. "What happened to him, anyway?"

"He ran out and disappeared in the confusion," Methos said. "Not one to stick around in an emergency, I guess."

The bedside phone rang. Connor picked it up. "Hello? Yes." Silence as the older Highlander listened. "But why - " He hung up and reported, "Winokur. He sounded in a hurry. He asked us to meet him at the North Cemetery in the village of St. Mary's, just up the coast, in an hour."

"How did he know where we were?" Methos asked.

"Maybe he followed you," Connor said, peeking out the window.

Methos scowled. "I only get followed when I want to be followed."

"Let's go," Duncan said, shrugging into his jacket.

Methos folded his arms. "Has it occurred to you that this might be a trap? You don't know this man and you certainly can't trust him. He's already set you up as target practice once, and now he wants to meet in the middle of a cemetery? I say we forget this wild goose chase and go back to the States."

"No," Duncan said adamantly. "There are too many strange things going on to just ignore this. A painting of us fighting on Soldier's Bridge. An Immortal who looks like Slan Quince. Tessa's initials. People trying to kill us. I don't know what to believe, Methos, but I'm not turning my back."

"You don't know what you're getting into," Methos insisted.

"I'll take my chances," Duncan said tensely. "You don't like it, you stay here."

Duncan left. Richie followed with a shrug. Methos looked at Connor, who only said, "If it is Tessa, and she's alive, he'll give up his head to find her."

"That's what I'm afraid of," Methos grumbled.

***

St. Mary's lay up the peninsula's coast, only thirty minutes away. The village, a sleepy fishing town that boasted it was the first city in North America to see daylight each morning, had one main road that wound around the jagged shoreline. Most of the lights were out, and the landscape lay barely illuminated in the glow from the moon half hidden by low clouds. Connor parked the rental car at the North cemetery, then killed the engine.

The four Immortals climbed out of the van and stood in the darkness amid the weathered stones. They could see the ocean down below, a thick band of black beneath the sky. The salty breeze pushed through their hair and clothes, and Richie suddenly shivered.

"Tell me again why we're here," he said to no one in particular.

"Wild goose chase," was Methos' somewhat sour response, deliberately not loud enough for Duncan to overhear.

Ten minutes later a dark sedan pulled up the hill, weaving erratically on the dirt road. They felt the buzz of an Immortal two seconds before Winokur fell out the driver's side, his chest riddled with a half dozen fresh bullet wounds.

"They're right behind me," he ground out, and Duncan saw a pair of menacing yellow headlights swerve off the coastal road below and kick out gravel beneath its tires. "Quickly! To that marker!"

"Who painted the picture?" Duncan demanded as he and Connor half carried, half dragged Quince's lookalike to a four-sided, eight- foot granite marker that stood at the cemetery's peak. "Is it Tessa? Is she okay?"

"All the answers are in Jemhar!" Winokur gasped. He wrapped his trembling arms around the monument and pressed his bloody wounds against the stone. He was healing, but not quickly. "Touch the stone!" he ordered.

"Why?" Connor asked, even as he obeyed. "Who are these people after you?"

"Touch it!" Winokur ordered harshly as he began to sag. Duncan, Richie and Methos reluctantly put their hands to the suprisingly cold stone. Winokur mumbled something to himself. Methos, who stood closest, tried to discern the words, but they sounded unlike any language he'd ever known. The moon overhead slipped behind a bank of clouds, and the wind kicked up from the sea.

A white van slammed to a stop behind Winokur's car, and shouts drifted across the uncut grass. "They're here!" Richie said, unnecessarily, but his words were almost drowned out as the trees bordering the graves broke into a sweeping brush of leaves and branches tumbling against each other. The clouds boiled away, revealing a moon much brighter than the one to which they were accustomed. Wind slashed at their clothing and hair like knives.

"No!" Methos yelled. "Stop it!"

Duncan had never heard panic before in the oldest Immortal's voice. "What is it?" he demanded.

"Stop!" Methos repeated, but none of them could break their hold against the monument. "We can't go - "

Whatever more he said vanished as the moon exploded, driving the group of men into shining white oblivion.

***

Connor MacLeod remembered this much: a light so bright it stripped away his flesh and seared him to the insides of every bone in his body, a silence so vast it eliminated the beat of his own heart, a drop through space that felt like a plunge from Mount Everest. When he hit the ground it was with a thud that should have smashed his body into a pancake. But even as he struggled to open his eyes he realized he hadn't physically fallen very far at all. Maybe five feet. Maybe from his normal upright stance to lying prone in a bank of cold mud, beneath gray clouds and ashen smoke, on a plain that looked like nothing he'd seen in Newfoundland.

He groaned as he pulled himself upright. He wasn't sure his hearing had come back, and hit his head with the palm of his right hand. Everything was so . . . quiet. The only things he heard were the wind and his own ragged breathing. He could only see for a few feet due to the smoke and fog, but those few feet were enough to show him the unmoving bodies of his friends.

Duncan struggled to sit up on his own. Connor helped him, an affectionate hand on Duncan's dark mane, and the younger Highlander nodded he was all right. Methos lay limp and unconscious, his face extremely pale, his hands like ice. Richie pulled himself up without help, least affected by their strange journey.

Winokur was dead, his face lax and peaceful.

"What is this place?" Richie asked. "Twilight Zone Central?"

No one answered him. Duncan set about briskly rubbing Methos' hands and pinching his cheeks. Richie moved a little bit away, trying to figure out where they were, and his short cry of alarm brought both Duncan and Connor running.

"Mac - " Richie gasped, but he didn't have to say more. They could see for themselves. Hundreds of bodies lay scattered on the bloody battlefield, dead of horrific wounds inflicted by the battle- axes, spears, swords and knives still clutched in stiffening hands. Duncan and Connor had both lived through hand-to-hand combat in the Highlands and later battles, but one sight in particular at Richie's feet made even them flinch.

A soldier lay twisted in the mud, his entire chest dark with dried blood, a gaping hole punched through his splintered ribs. A gray lump lay a few feet away, also coated with blood.

The soldier's heart.

Duncan put a hand on Richie's shoulder and squeezed it lightly. "Why don't you go and see if you can wake Methos up?"

Duncan and Connor moved among the dead, trying to sort out the puzzle. The combatants wore heavy cotton uniforms neither of them recognized - a preponderance of gold and blue for one side, silver and green for the other. They had no muskets, rifles or pistols, but instead an astonishing array of swords, knives and daggers. They had died recently, and some were already bloated with intestinal gas and decomposition. Mostly men, with short beards and lifeless eyes, but here and there women lay among them. Their grimaces spoke of painful deaths, violently inflicted.

They found another corpse with its heart cut out.

"Ritual killing?" Duncan asked.

"In the middle of a battlefield?" Connor retorted.

They returned and found Richie hovering uselessly over Methos and Winokur. "They're not coming around," he said helplessly. He shivered in the cold air, and Duncan realized the temperature registered probably only fifty degrees Fahrenheit, with a hint of iciness to come.

"They will," Duncan said reassuringly, but after several minutes no change occurred in either Winokur or Methos. Duncan tried shaking Methos lightly, but ended up just covering him with his jacket. Connor paced restlessly and finally suggested, "Why don't Richie and I take a look around and see what's in the area? We'll be back in thirty minutes."

The idea didn't sit well with Duncan, but he knew Connor was perfectly capable of taking care of himself and Richie, if the need arose. "All right," he agreed reluctantly. "Be careful."

Connor and Richie headed west, over the hillside, picking their way slowly through the dead armies. The smoke of several large bonfires started to dissipate as the last embers collapsed on themselves, but the air stank of ash and blood. Richie said nothing, his eyes wide and unblinking at one mangled corpse after another. Connor decided that trying to comfort the young Immortal against the carnage would only insult his pride, and kept quiet. He couldn't help but inspect the bodies, searching for clues. One man's pockets yielded a dozen small brass coins, a locket containing the sketch of a woman, and a few hard, sticky yellow candies. Another man had a charm made of small chicken bones and leather. No one had a wallet, driver's license, credit card, or identifying tag.

Richie watched Connor search the corpses but couldn't bring himself to help. He felt very cold, surrounded by blood and lifeless flesh, stranded high and helpless in a strange world he didn't understand. The scrape of something moving made him whirl around, but all he saw were corpses. One dead man, large and brutish with a mess of blood and hair on the side of his head, stared at Richie with glassy eyes.

Richie turned back to Connor and took a deep breath.

"What are you looking for?" he asked.

Connor's hand went into another man's grimy pocket. "Something that might tell us where we are."

"What, a map?" Richie asked. Maybe making jokes about it would help the twisting in his stomach. "A big 'You Are Here' sign?"

Connor only grunted.

"Maybe one of those pocket global positioning thingamajigs," Richie hopped from foot to foot, trying to get warm. "Tells you your latitude and longitude and the nearest ATM machine."

He knew he was rambling, and also knew that Connor wasn't listening to him. Richie dug his hands into his jacket pockets and tried to think of something other than death, blood, mud, ghosts -

Another scrape.

He turned around and watched, mouth agape, as the brutish man climbed to his feet with a sneer on his face and a long spear in his hand. The man gave off no warning buzz of Immortality, nothing that prepared Richie. He squeaked in alarm and tried to step backward but the grisly tip of the weapon, already covered with raw human debris, came to a pointed rest against his chest.

The man spoke in an alien language that twisted like a snake in Richie's head, translating in the passages between his ears and his brain into words he understood.

"Stealing from the dead is a crime around here, Horin," the warrior growled.

Connor rose slowly and carefully. The man holding the spear against Richie's chest was well over six feet tall, with brown hair hacked short, a nose that had been broken and healed crookedly, and a thick scar that ran across his chin. A warrior all the way to his bones. And an Immortal, it would seem, although Connor had no preternatural awareness of him. Connor searched his own brain and found, to his astonishment, that not only could he understand the soldier's strange language, but could speak it as well.

"No one's stealing from the dead," he said.

"Looks like it to me," a second voice said harshly, and Connor watched as a second corpse stirred on the ground and then pulled himself upright, coughing out blood and mud. The second warrior was shorter, stockier, and less ugly than his companion. He wore a muddy sash capped by a silver pin that Connor interpreted as some kind of rank. "Damned Horins."

Richie couldn't tear his gaze away from the sharp metal tip pressing into his chest, but somehow he found his voice. "Look, guys, I think there's been some kind of mistake."

"The mistake is leaving you two alive - " The first warrior growled, thrusting his spear ominously and making Richie stumble backwards.

"That's enough, Hash," the second man warned.

"Yes, Captain," Hash said immediately, but none of the menace left his eyes.

"Tie them up." The Captain spat out more blood, then straightened his back with a grimace that told Connor his healing hadn't finished. "Let's get back to camp."

Hash ripped a corded belt from one of the dead men and tied Richie's wrists in front of him. Connor watched silently, his body betraying no tension, but as Hash turned for another belt he exploded into action. He had already decided he wouldn't have time to go for his sword and with a swift powerful kick knocked the Captain down instead.

"Run!" Connor ordered Richie in English.

Hash swung on Connor with his spear, but the Highlander ducked, delivered a savage blow to the warrior's midriff and followed up with an elbow to his face that shattered his nose. He turned to check on Richie's progress, but the kid had fallen beneath a punch from the recovered Captain.

Connor launched himself at the Captain and found the man surprisingly fast and agile. They rolled in the mud, ripping and clawing at each other. Somehow the Captain twisted Connor's right arm around and snapped it. A white hot bolt of agony slammed up Connor's arm and shoulder into the very base of his skull, and the world spun out in a blistering explosion of red. The next thing he knew he was being hauled to his feet, his wrists lashed in front of him. The world tilted crazily beneath his feet, and he thought he might throw up.

"You'll pay for that later," Hash threatened, his foul breath hot in Connor's ear. Dimly the Highlander realized he was being searched, and felt his sword cut loose from its scabbard. Richie was hauled to his feet also, his sword likewise confiscated.

"Fine weapons," the Captain said, examining them both closely. "A welcome addition to my collection."

Hash wiped at his already-healed nose. "You're lucky, Horins, we don't use them to slit your throats."

Hash pushed them into walking. Connor clamped down on a cry of pain and focused all his energy into putting one foot in front of the other. The Captain led the way, picking a path through the muddy, gory battlefield. The clearing smoke and ash revealed a battered countryside of wasted farmland that had obviously seen battle before. A few minutes walk towards the looming hills ahead led to a narrow dirt road gouged by wagon ruts. With Hash and his spear bringing up the rear, they turned onto the road and started uphill. Each step ripped at Connor's consciousness, made easier only when his arm started to slip into a cold numbness.

A numbness but not a healing. The absence of the familiar warm tingle that had been his gift since his first death near Glenfinnan sent worms of worry and doubt through Connor's stomach. Although healing time was sometimes affected by the wound, weapon or his general health, it had never taken so long for a fractured bone to heal. He could see the misshapen lump in his sleeve that marked the break, and knew if his wrists hadn't been bound together his palm would twist backwards. He still felt sick to his stomach, and fought to catch his breath as they were marched at a relentless pace up the hill.

He spared a glance once or twice for Richie, who looked pale and grim but seemed to be holding up fine otherwise. Connor thought of Duncan, and of how long it would take for his clansman to realize something was wrong. He didn't have high hopes that Duncan could follow their tracks in the thousands of other muddy marks made by war, and even if he could, the growing darkness ensured it wouldn't be for long.

A cry sounded on the road behind them. The Captain stopped, and Hash made his prisoners halt as well. Connor nearly sagged with relief, and found Richie at his left hip, steadying him. They watched, bleary-eyed, as a buckboard wagon rounded the last bend with four palomino horses drawing it. The back of the wagon was full of thirty or so soldiers who wore the same silver and green uniforms as the Captain and Hash. Forty or fifty bloody and exhausted prisoners of war had been chained to the back of the wagon, forced to walk. The wagon driver leapt down from his seat and came to kneel in the mud as the soldiers immediately stood to attention.

"My Lord," the driver said, in the strange foreign language, "we thought you were lost."

"No, Fariz, I still have my heart," the Captain said, with a smile. He helped the driver back to his feet and told the men in the wagon to sit down. "Here's two more for your collection. See that they're bound securely. They've already tried to escape once."

Hash joined the men in the wagon, taking with him their swords. The Captain joined the driver. Connor and Richie were pushed around to the end of the wagon and manacled with tight cuffs that hooked into other prisoners' chains. Connor's entire right arm had swollen and it took the driver extra force to fix the cruel cuff around his wrist. Connor's knees went weak and he thought he might black out from the pain, but felt Richie awkwardly support him.

"Don't faint on me," Richie whispered in English as the wagon jolted forward. "They'll probably just drag you along."

The threat of that kept Connor on his feet. As long as he stayed in step the chains didn't pull on his injured arm, but the slightest lag and resulting pull made his eyes water and breath choke in his throat. Richie stayed as close as possible, acting overprotective, but Connor didn't have the heart to tell him to stop.

The last daylight had already faded into twilight by the time they crested a ridge and approached a war camp surrounding an old wood and stone fort. The architecture echoed of the Middle Ages to Connor - nothing fancy, nothing elaborate, just a ringed barricade with a watch tower, walkways and a gate. The green and silver uniforms of battle had been replaced by more drab clothing, but there was no mistaking the discipline of a military fort or the deep bows of the sentries when they caught sight of the Captain. The wagon lumbered up to the gate of the barricade and pulled to a stop to let the soldiers disembark. Connor's head, already swimming with pain and lingering nausea, filled with stinks he barely remembered; raw sewage, hearth cooking, burning torches, dirty stables, chicken and horse droppings, hordes of unwashed bodies. He thought he was going to faint very soon if someone didn't help him, and sagged to his knees in the mud. He wasn't the only wounded prisoner to do so.

Hash jumped down to the ground and collared a handful of passing sentries. "Take these prisoners and make sure they don't cause any trouble. Kill any that do."

Richie didn't know what to make of the fort, the soldiers, or their bizarre situation. During the last few hours he'd tried to believe this was some horrific nightmare brought on by being struck by lightning in a cemetery, but finally gave up that hope. Now, imprisoned on the set of Braveheart or Robin Hood or any of a dozen Hollywood movies, he realized he was going to have to deal with their circumstances on his own. Duncan and Methos were miles away, unable to help, and Connor didn't look like he was going to stay conscious much longer.

He edged sideways to Connor's side and snagged his good arm. "Get up," he muttered. "Come on, you're too heavy for me to carry."

"Shut up," Connor suggested, squeezing his eyes shut against the spin of the earth.

"Make me," Richie suggested gamely, pulling the Highlander to his feet. A baby-faced soldier who looked younger than Richie came and released them, then prodded them at spearpoint around the west side of the barricade to a small stockade enclosed by freshly cut slats and illuminated by massive torches. Seventy or so prisoners already sat or stood in the mud inside, looking cold and hungry and tired. Some freestanding shacks provided makeshift shelter against the fine drizzle beginning to drop from the sky. The shacks were already full, but Richie helped Connor to the backside of one where the overhanging roof offered some protection. He eased Connor down to sit against the flimsy wall, then turned to face a burly man with a scowl on his face. Like all the other prisoners, he wore the blue and gold of the defeated army.

"That's my spot," he grumbled in the same foreign tongue the soldiers used.

Richie didn't need this kind of shit, and certainly not on top of the day he was having. If orphanages and jail stays had taught him one thing, it was the importance of holding one's turf. "Then find another," he shot back, using the strange language that had somehow become part of his own brain. "It's mine now."

The soldier's eyes narrowed with hostility. "I'd like to see you prove it," he spat.

"No you wouldn't," Richie said, menace clear in his voice. "Trust me, pal, just move on and forget it. You'll be a lot happier in the long run."

For a moment their gazes locked, and Richie could see the larger man deciding whether or not to take a swing at him. Thanks to years of training by Duncan and Connor both, he could see exactly how the arc of the punch would swing, and how to drop the soldier with one well-placed blow. The soldier broke Richie's stare, gave Connor's pale, pinched form a dirty look, and then moved on.

"Bravo," a voice said on Richie's other side. Richie turned to eye a small, wiry soldier with bright eyes and a ridiculous goatee sitting against the shack two bodies away from Connor. He wore an odd insignia on his uniform whose details were lost in the darkness. He was forty, maybe forty five years old. He continued, "Always stand your ground against bullies, even if they do outweigh you by a factor of ten."

Richie didn't care about compliments or advice from strangers. His knees had begun to shake. He sat down next to Connor and took a small, steadying breath. "Save it for someone who cares."

"But I do care," the man insisted. "I'm Sarda Gotell, of the fifth infantry division, third platoon. Which platoon would you happen to be from?"

Richie rubbed his tired eyes and then focused on Connor, who'd closed his eyes and appeared to be dozing. He felt the pulse in Connor's good arm, then his injured one. Strong and steady. His forehead was cool and dry.

"Stop mothering me," Connor mumbled, not using English.

"Me?" Richie asked innocently. "Mother anyone? Never."

"I hear that's a very fine platoon," Gotell continued facetiously, when it became apparent Richie wasn't going to answer him. "Strong sergeant, I served with him at Jemhar."

The word Jemhar seemed familiar to Richie for a moment, but he couldn't remember why. He gave the wiry soldier a searching look. "Is there any water? Any food?"

Gotell spat in the mud. "You missed dinner," he reported. "Nothing until breakfast.'

The news didn't cheer Richie, whose stomach had begun to ache in earnest at least an hour ago. He eyed the drizzling rain, wondering what he could use to catch it in.

"Of course," Gotell continued, "I may be able to procure you some spare leftovers, given the proper monetary consideration."

Richie's hopes sank. "We don't have any money."

"Pity," Gotell said, without the slightest hint of sincerity.

Connor reached out and clasped Richie's hand. For a moment Richie didn't know what he was doing, but then he felt the Highlander's fingers close in on his watch. Connor usually didn't wear a watch himself. Neither did Duncan. Richie had once theorized it had something to do with growing up in the middle ages, when time was told by the sun in the sky or shadows on the ground or however they used to do it. Connor's gaze met his, but he didn't say anything.

Amanda had given him the Rolex for his twenty-third birthday. He comforted himself with the thought she'd probably stolen it. He slipped it off and dangled it in front of Gotell.

"Think you could interest someone in this?"

"A piddling piece of jewelry like that?" Gotell asked lazily, reaching to snag it. Richie pulled it back.

"Water and food for two," he said clearly. "And blankets."

Gotell snorted at the possibility, but departed into the dusk. Connor mumbled something that Richie didn't quite catch the first time.

"He doesn't know what a watch is," Connor repeated.

The thought startled Richie. These people didn't have *watches*? Richie held faint hopes of Gotell returning anyway, but after a half hour of listening to the coughs and moans and low conversation of the prisoners Richie heard the squelch of returning boots.

The Rolex had bought a chunk of stale bread, three small hard apples, two strips of meat jerky, a battered metal canteen of water, and an oversized jacket. Better than Richie had expected, all in all. Richie fixed the jacket over Connor and held the canteen for him. Connor drank thirstily and then settled back with a bitten-off moan. Richie gave him the bread and jerky, stashed two of the apples in his jacket, and ate the third to ease the grumbling in his stomach.

"What do you think happened to Mac and Methos?" he couldn't help but ask Connor, long after most of the prisoners had started snoring.

Connor shook his head. He'd been dozing off and on, but the pain in his arm was a razor-like barrier against any true sleep. "There's no way to know."

They sat in silence for awhile, listening to the drizzle, the crickets, the murmuring guards. Fiddle music and the clash of tankards drifted from the fort, very faint on the breeze. The rain had wet Richie's hair, dribbling down underneath his leather jacket and soaking into his jeans and boots. The cold and discomfort ate at his nerves, made no better by the sharp stone pressing through the mud into his right side as he tried to curl up and get some sleep.

"I'll tell you one thing," he grumbled.

"What's that?" Connor asked.

"This is the last time I come to Newfoundland with you," Richie said, and Connor actually managed a low snort of humor.

Duncan waited with growing anxiety for Richie and Connor to return. He made a small circle of the area but found no trace of them. By twilight he'd convinced himself something must have happened. He glanced at Methos and Winokur- one unconscious, the other very dead - and debated the risks of lighting a small fire. The intermittent drizzle, increasing chill, and need to provide some sort of beacon for his friends prompted him to search the nearest corpses. He found a piece of flint and then, better still, some wooden matches wrapped carefully in waterproof cloth. It took longer to collect suitable branches and twigs that would catch the flame. In the end he had a small but warm fire, enough to ease the chill from his hands at least.

Methos stirred and groaned a few hours after sunset. Duncan crouched over him. "Methos? You hear me?"

"Mmm," the oldest Immortal managed. "Where's the barge?"

"What barge?" Duncan asked.

"In Paris," Methos said. He blinked his eyes open and Duncan saw that they were still vague and slightly unfocused. "Bonjour, Pierre. I'm having dinner with Napoleon."

"You're not having dinner with Napoleon," Duncan said firmly. "Come on, wake up. It's me, Duncan. There's nobody named Pierre here, and Napoleon's been gone for a long, long time."

"And Peter?"

"Who's Peter?"

"The czar," Methos said, sounding annoyed. "Don't you know anything?"

Only after several minutes of rambling about historical figures did Methos' mind begin to clear. He raised a shaking hand against the side of his skull. "Oh, my head. What happened?"

"I'm not sure," Duncan admitted, sitting back on his haunches. "I hate to say it, but it was something . . . like a kind of magic."

Methos groaned, "I hate magic. Help me up."

"You sure?" At the answering nod Duncan helped Methos sit up. Methos blinked at the fire, shivered in the cold air, and immediately sank back down to the ground.

"Maybe later," he muttered. He blinked owlishly at the dark surrounding them. "What about the others?"

"Winokur is dead," Duncan said somberly. "He didn't revive. The bullet wounds never healed."

"Maybe they will."

"He's already started to decay."

"Oh," Methos said. "And Connor and Richie?"

Duncan shifted uncomfortably. "Went to take a look around the area."

"How long ago?"

"About five hours."

"Long look." Methos' eyes slid shut, and for a few minutes Duncan was convinced he'd fallen asleep again. Then the oldest living Immortal opened his eyes and focused on the fire. "I remember falling. Like plunging off a glacier, into total darkness and coldness."

"At the cemetery you started to panic - "

"I *never* panic," Methos interrupted.

Duncan ignored him. "You wanted him to stop. Why?"

Methos didn't answer for a full moment. His expression, cast into flickering light and shadows by the small campfire, betrayed itself with a deep frown. "There's a very old legend that at the time of the Gathering, the few remaining Immortals will feel an irresistible pull towards a far-off land."

"I've heard that. Ramirez told it to Connor."

"Once, around . . . oh, I don't know, maybe 200 B.C. - I remember there was only a handful of us left, and I felt the pull. It was disquieting, disturbing. Like not being able to get a song out of your head. A beautiful song, full of bells and drums, like a siren's call. Then more Immortals entered the game, and it disappeared."

"And you felt that same sensation in the cemetery?"

Methos' answer came faintly. "Yes. And I feel it now."

Duncan searched inside himself. He didn't think he could name the growing anxiety in his chest, other than mounting concern over Richie and Connor. He dearly hoped they were both fine. He'd tell them that, too, once it was true and he finished berating them for making him worry.

"How's your head?" he asked Methos.

"Better."

Duncan thought Methos was lying. If anything, the oldest Immortal looked more pale than ever. "You were the worst affected of us all." Maybe because he was the oldest, but Duncan filed that idea away for later contemplation. "Get some sleep, we'll see where we stand in the morning."

Methos nodded ever so slightly and went easily back to sleep. Duncan stayed awake longer, with faint ideas of keeping a watch, but in the end weariness pulled him down to a place with no stars and no sound, where the red blood of fallen armies ran like a river through the world.

***

A savage kick in the back brought Richie slamming back into wakefulness. A great hulking figure towered over him in the blurry gray light of pre-dawn and kicked him again. "*My* spot," the attacker growled, the words barely audible to Richie over the wash of hot pain flooding up his spine and driving the air out of his lungs. He forced his shaking body to roll out of the way of the next boot-led attack, grabbed the man's foot, and pulled him off balance. Awakening prisoners squealed as the soldier crashed down on top of them, his ankle badly twisted.

Connor jerked awake, but could only watch uselessly as Richie and the prisoner who'd confronted him the night before pummeled each other in the mud. Gotell wiped the crust from his eyes with one hand and started collecting wagers with the other. Richie's skill in one-on-one combat triumphed over his attacker's heavier mass, and he was winning quite handily when the man's friends pulled them apart. Connor struggled upright to intervene if necessary, but the blond, scruffy-looking man holding Richie soothed, "There, now, it's better forgotten and forgiven. He saw both his brothers killed on the field yesterday."

Bleeding from a cut on his lip, Richie glowered but said nothing. The blond man helped his friend limp away. Richie turned in a circle, fists clenched, ready to take on anyone else, but the prisoners settled back into half-sleeps made difficult by the chill, the mud, and the occasional drizzle of rain from the cloudy sky above.

Connor sat down, careful not to jostle the sling Richie had fashioned for him the previous evening from the ripped lining of the younger man's leather jacket. After a moment, Richie sat too. Gotell, watching with bright eyes, offered, "You did better than I expected."

"Yeah," Richie said sourly. "I'm an overachiever. All my teachers said so."

Connor smiled faintly, that wry sardonic twist that Richie knew only too well. Richie wiped at his lip and tried to ignore the ache in his back where the boot had slammed into ribs. He supposed it shouldn't be a surprise that he wasn't healing - Connor looked worse today than he had yesterday - but the loss of his ability still felt odd. An essential fact about his body that he'd grown accustomed to during the previous five years seemed to have been stripped away. He and Connor were . . .mortal, maybe. He didn't want to test the theory by taking a bullet or spear through the heart, but if anything, the lack of healing indicated something was very, very wrong.

The thunder of drums several minutes later jerked Richie's head up from where he'd pillowed it on his drawn-up knees. He blinked at the fort and saw soldiers lined up atop the barricade, facing what he thought might be east. He saw Gotell use his thumb and forefinger to sketch a circle around his chest, and other prisoners echoing the movement.

"Bloody heathens," Gotell murmured.

Connor raised his eyebrows but said nothing. The methodical thunder - precise, timed and powerful - continued on, like a hammer driving into the earth, and then stopped abruptly with the shrill cry of a horn. Richie decided not to ask Gotell what it all meant. He felt the two small apples in his jacket, hoping to save them for later, and asked when breakfast was.

"Should be soon," Gotell said, stretching, "unless we're being freed. Bloody Mazereen never spare a single egg if they can help it."

Mazereen, then, was probably the name of the triumphant army. And what had the Captain called Richie and Connor? Horin. Richie filed the names away for future reference as Connor asked, "Freed to go where?"

Gotell's mouth quirked up humorlessly. "To what's left of your family and lands, man. Did you get hit on the head as well as the arm?"

"We both did," Richie muttered.

A half hour later the soldiers rousted everyone from sleep and made them form a line that snaked around the stockade and out its front gate. Richie craned his neck and discovered that a table had been set up to apparently log prisoner information before release. The prisoners let loose into the countryside trudged away in twos and threes, their shoulders hunched down.

"What do they ask?" he heard Connor ask.

Gotell shrugged. "Names, platoons, and shires. You can't remain men of mystery forever, don't you know."

"Why let anyone go at all?" Richie asked.

"It's what you do when the Lady Jemhar pays the ransom," Gotell said, as the line shuffled forward. "You two really aren't from around here, are you?"

Connor considered him coolly. "We're not local," he agreed. "Where do you think we come from?"

Gotell cocked his head. "From the clothes, I'd wager Seraca, but your accent's more northern than that. Mechi? Ponteray?"

"Something like that," Connor answered.

The line moved amazingly slowly, and it was at least an hour before the first thirty men were on their way. Richie wrapped his arms around himself, trying to keep warm in the cold breeze and lingering dampness of his pants and jacket. Connor's arm started to ache in earnest again. The smell of sizzling ham and bacon drifted from the fort, but Gotell's prediction about the Mazereen's stinginess was borne out. The sun had burned a weak path through the low-lying clouds to the east by the time they reached the table. Gotell went first.

"Second Sergeant Sarda Gotell, Fifth Infantry, Third Platoon," he said, puffing up his chest. "Of Country Lane, West River, Mersey."

Connor, who'd listened carefully to as many answers as possible, stated his name, division and address with no hesitation. "Private Russell Nash, Fourth Infantry, Second Platoon. York Village, Ponteray."

"Never heard of York Village," the Mazereen grumbled, lodging the information anyway.

"It's very small," Connor allowed.

"Where's your insignia? And uniform?"

"Lost in the battle."

The soldier raised an eyebrow but made no further comment. Richie was in the middle of making up an equally fictitious identity when the Horin prisoner he'd beaten that morning limped his way to the front and swore to the soldier at the table, "This man stole from me! I want to lodge a formal complaint."

A low, hostile grumble went through the line. Connor knew the sound - as in any other army, betraying a fellow soldier to the enemy was deeply frowned upon. The man's blond comrade, the one who'd pulled him away earlier, tried to stop him, but he continued to complain loudly to the soldier at the desk and then swung another punch at Richie.

Livid at the accusation, Richie was unprepared for the blow and went staggering off-balance. Gotell caught him and almost involuntarily propped him up while the Mazereen soldiers clubbed Richie's attacker down into the mud. The commotion attracted a familiar figure whose appearance made Connor's stomach twist.

"What's going on here?" Hash demanded, scowling at his soldiers. Then he caught sight of Connor and Richie, and his scowl turned into a cold smile. "Oh, you two. I'd almost forgotten about you."

"This one started it," one of the Mazereen stated, kicking the prisoner at his feet, but Hash wasn't very interested in him.

"Take them to the Captain," he ordered. "We'll deal with them properly."

The scruffy looking blond man took a step forward, only to find himself stopped by the edge of a Mazereen spear. "Lieutenant, " he said bravely, "those men are innocent. It was a simple misunderstanding."

Hash glanced at him with what might have been fondness. "Thank you, Lieutenant Townsend, but I'm sure I can clear up any misunderstandings there might be."

The Mazereen marched Connor and Richie around the fort, through the main gate, and up the narrow alleys of the village crammed within the thick wood and stone walls. If he hadn't been so scared of what might lay ahead, Richie would have found the stables, armory and stockpiled supplies they passed interesting. Connor, more resigned than frightened, noted that the Mazereen were organized and well-supplied. Their triumph on the battlefield had not been a fluke or twist of fate.

A distinct, ominous cracking sound alerted Connor seconds before they were shepherded around a corner and into a small courtyard. A whipping-post, erected dead center, held the bloody form of a man being flogged by a soldier. The Captain and his advisors sat on a low balcony above, signing papers and conversing casually while occasionally glancing downward.

The whip-wielding soldier inflicted five more strikes and announced a total count of fifteen as Connor and Richie watched silently, pulses beginning to race in dread.

"Let that serve as a lesson to you," the Captain called down calmly. "No man in my army takes advantage of an unwilling woman, whether she be a lady or a whore."

The whipped soldier was released from the restraints and staggered away. Another man had been whipped and freed - this time a civilian, twenty lashes for stealing bread and ale - before Hash arrived and reminded the Captain who Connor and Richie were.

"We found them on the battlefield yesterday," Hash said, pushing Connor forward. "This one was stealing from the dead."

The Captain rubbed his side. "Has a hell of a kick, too," he said, although the look he gave Connor indicated no malice or desire for revenge.

A push for Richie came next. "His friend was caught stealing in the stockade."

The Captain leaned forward slightly. "What do you have to say for yourselves?"

Connor squared his shoulders, no easy task with his arm in the sling. "Neither of us stole anything," he said clearly, his voice ringing in the courtyard. Richie was sure that if he'd tried, his voice would have wobbled and shaken like a ten year old.

"There are witnesses," Hash reminded his superior.

"Twenty lashes each," the Captain ordered after a moment's deliberation.

"No," Richie said. It came out barely audible. He tried again. "No."

The Captain frowned. "No?"

Richie didn't look at Connor. He didn't want to see the expression on Connor's face. He worked hard to keep his voice and knees steady. "Forty for me. I'll take his."

"Like hell you will," Connor growled in English for Richie's ears only.

Richie kept his gaze on the Captain. He knew that Connor could never stand being lashed to the post, not with his broken arm. Already the limb might be crippled beyond repair. Connor probably knew it too, beneath his stubborn streak of denial and bull-headedness. Richie had no idea what whipping felt like, the rip of pain across raw skin, but if he was going to be punished he might as well be punished for both of them. He didn't feel courageous in the least - his knees had gone watery, and his stomach flopped like a fish pulled out of water - but maybe he could hold out for just a few more minutes, enough to get through this.

"I take my own punishments," Connor told the Captain, his voice tight with anger.

"The offer was made," the Captain said, gazing thoughtfully at the two of them. "It stands. Take the boy for forty."

Richie's vision grayed a little, but he held on to consciousness grimly as Hash caught him by the elbow and spun him towards the whipping post. The Mazereen lieutenant stripped him of his leather jacket and T-shirt. Richie stood shirtless in the cold, damp air, trying hard not to look at anything at all. He could feel all the hairs rise on the back of his neck and down his arms. Hash prodded him forward against the post, then yanked his wrists high above his head and looped them with a cruelly tight rope. The Mazer soldier shoved a splintered rod of wood between his teeth, presumably to keep him from biting off his own tongue. Richie nearly gagged and tried to force it out of his mouth, but it was tied steadfastly behind the back of his head.

He stood pressed against the worn wood of the post, its thick hardness pressing against his chest, his hollow stomach. He turned his head sideways, vision mercifully blocked by his own arm. He didn't want to see anyone's face as they watched him in his ignominy, and especially didn't want to see whatever expression Connor had on his face.

Ironic that a twenty-first century guy like him should be bound nearly naked in this muddy medieval courtyard, in a world of strange language and stranger customs, lured by the promise of a dead woman into a battlefield of death. This scene belonged in Duncan or Connor's past, not his present. Maybe if he concentrated on what Mac would do, how Mac would stand this -

A crack cut through the air.

Something struck his back. For a second he didn't feel anything at all. Then a white-hot lightning bolt of pain ripped from one side of his back to the other, forcing him up on his toes and bringing a muffled gasp from his throat.

"One," a voice counted. Hash's voice. The soldier wielded the whip himself.

Richie's eyes started watering almost instantly. Oh, shit, no one had ever told him it would hurt like this. The second lash came, and before he even recognized the sound a companion bolt tore the breath from his heaving lungs and drove up his spine, spiraling into his arms. Frantically he tried to wrench himself free, anything to duck the agony, but the third lash cut him so badly the strength fled his legs and he momentarily sagged, his vision red and pulsing.

Oh, God, it hurt, it hurt so very badly. But he refused to give any of the bastards the satisfaction of crying out. He'd learned that lesson very early on, in an abusive foster home where the father had used his leather belt on his own three children as often as on Richie. Never a sound. Never let them know how much hurt they were inflicting. Never let them know how vulnerable you were, how much you could suffer at their hands.

Four. Five. Every muscle in his body tensed involuntarily as barriers against the pain but the agony came anyway, flooding over them. He tried to relax, tried to center himself as Mac would have done, but found the task impossible. The sixth stroke made him bite so hard on the wooden gag that he thought his teeth might split. The seventh made his vision go to red and silver sparkles, and the sky and earth switch places.

The eighth brought a grunt from the bottom of his belly.

The ninth brought a hoarse cry.

The tenth almost made Connor close his eyes. He stood with a Mazereen spear at his back, forced to watch the horror unfold. He remembered all too clearly watching the English flog Scottish rebels and the Americans scourge African slaves. He'd vowed never to watch it happen again. But in this muddy fort, in this alien world, as a mortal stripped of his healing gifts, he forced himself to watch the punishment inflicted on the young man he'd once called his student and now called his friend. Richie's sacrifice both angered and sickened him - Connor MacLeod was not a man who demanded anything of his friends - and he witnessed every second of the whipping, letting it burn like dry ice into the back of his brain.

At twenty five Richie's legs went out, and he sagged in his bonds in a faint. Hash halted the proceedings, wiping a clear glisten of sweat from his forehead, and motioned for a soldier to dump water over Richie's head and back. The cold shock on slashed flesh revived him almost instantly. Five more lashes struck one after the other, with the intensity and crackling of gunshots, and then the Captain leaned forward over the balcony.

"Enough," he ordered.

Hash turned to glare at his superior. "You said forty, sir!"

"And I'm reducing it by ten for his courage. Let them go. They've tasted enough defeat for two days."

The soldiers freed Richie of the ropes and gag. He stood on his own, but seemed unaware of what to do when a second soldier passed him his jacket and shirt. His wide blue eyes wore a dull glaze, and his hands trembled so badly he could barely hold the clothes. Connor crossed to him, ignoring Hash's look of pure hatred and everyone else in the courtyard. He took the burden from Richie's hands and steered the young Immortal onto a path following the Mazereen soldier who led them to the gates. Richie said nothing, his legs moving woodenly, his shoulders hunched forward, blood drenching his back and pants.

Connor willed him silently just to keep walking. The busy fort swirled around them both as the soldiers and civilians saw to daily tasks, but the two of them had been locked in an isolating cone built from violence and humiliation. Some of the soldiers called out disparaging remarks, saying "That'll teach you, Horin!" but Richie didn't even blink at the catcalls.

Past the main gate, Connor urged Richie onto the muddy road the other prisoners had taken out of the area. The treeline stretched just three hundred yards away. They'd barely made it to the sheltering pines before Richie collapsed to his knees. Connor went down beside him, anger and relief draining him of all physical energy.

"That was a stupid thing to do," Connor reprimanded. "Do you know that?"

"I do now," Richie mumbled.

"Let me see." Connor made him lean forward and inspected the ghastly damage. Torn flesh and muscle and blood marred the once smooth terrain of the young man's back. Richie's skin felt icy cold, and his lips wore a blue tinge. Physical as well as emotional shock, Connor decided. He had nothing to help Richie with the pain, nothing to treat the loss of fluids, nothing to stave off infection. All he could do was drape the jacket over his shoulders to protect from the dirt, earning him a hiss of pain and a look of betrayal.

"We need to get to shelter," Connor told him. "And we need to get you warm. You'll have to walk." Although, truth be told, it was debatable about how far Connor himself could walk given their current circumstances.

"No," Richie protested. "I'm too tired."

"Too bad," Connor told him sternly. He would have said more, but a weak shadow fell across them both and the Highlander stumbled to his feet to meet whatever new attacker had targeted them.

"Easy now," the blond man said, holding up his hands. Townsend, Connor remembered. The friend who'd been the cause of Richie's pain hovered a few feet behind, eyes on the ground. "We stayed to help."

Connor retorted, "I've seen your *help.*"

"My friend is sorry," Townsend said, although the friend's expression remained stony. The lieutenant gestured carefully at Richie. "How many did they give him?"

"None of your business. Haven't you caused enough trouble for us? You go your way and we'll go ours," Connor said, too tired and too much in pain to debate.

"I know a little about healing," Townsend promised. "I can help."

Slowly, carefully, he went to Richie's side and crouched down. Connor tensed, ready to spring into a fight if need be, but the lieutenant merely touched the side of Richie's face and spoke a few low words to him. Richie seemed too miserable and disoriented to care who was talking to him, and mumbled something. Townsend stood and reached into a belt pouch to produce a small number of brownish leaves.

"Hedicant root," he offered. "It'll help the pain. Yours and his."

Connor sniffed suspiciously at a sample. Maybe the lieutenant wanted to poison them. But it seemed readily apparent that he and Richie were defenseless anyway, and the tired buzzing in Connor's head told him he might as well trust the man. He chewed two leaves as instructed, then stowed the soggy mess into the corner of his mouth. It tasted like peppermint, and within a moment or so he began to feel distinctly better. For the first time in countless hours the throbbing in his arm subsided to a tolerable ache. Connor produced the nearly empty canteen Richie's watch had bought them. Townsend dropped some leaves inside, swished the canteen around, and then poured a mouthful down Richie's throat. The harder part came when the Horin lieutenant dribbled the remaining mixture on Richie's back. The mixture stung like a swarm of bees. Connor steadied Richie awkwardly with one hand, and when it was done Richie half-collapsed against him, his head sheltered in Connor's shoulder.

"Why are you helping us?" Connor asked Townsend, even as he held and tried to comfort Richie by rocking him back and forth slightly.

Townsend shrugged. "How could I not?"

"And your friend?" Connor said. The friend had gone to sit on a boulder and stare at nothing in particular with a glazed expression.

"Norelle will be fine," Townsend promised. "He won't cause any trouble. The battle . . .upset him. So did your friend. But he follows my orders."

Something about Norelle bothered Connor. It took a moment for him to figure out what. Then he said, "The bruises from this morning - they're gone."

Townsend gave him a quizzical look. "Of course. We Immortals always heal fast."

Connor's head jerked around. Richie made a muffled, surprised sound against his shoulder. "You're Immortal?" Connor demanded.

"All officers in the army are Immortals," Townsend said, sitting back and give him a searching look. "How can you not know that?"

Connor didn't answer for a moment. All officers. The memory of Hash and the Captain rising from the dead returned to him. "If you're Immortal, why do you carry medicine?"

"For my troops," Townsend said, sounding puzzled Connor would even ask such a question. He changed the subject with, "I saw the Mazereen logs after they took you away. You're not really from Ponteray, are you?"

Connor debated how much to trust this man. Beneath dirt, beard stubble and dark circles of exhaustion, he appeared sincere enough. Possibly even trustworthy. Connor found it disorienting to realize that although Townsend appeared to be in his mid thirties, if he was truly Immortal than he could be of any age. He wasn't accustomed to the cards of the game all suddenly being reversed.

"You don't want to know," Connor said, pointedly.

"I wouldn't ask if I didn't want to know."

"And I would tell you if I wanted you to know," Connor returned.

For a moment they stood in silence, judging one another. Townsend finally gave a slight nod, as if acknowledging a peer, and Connor hooked his hand under Richie's arm to give him some help up. The herb had definitely helped, but he still appeared shaky and white-faced. His eyes were rimmed red from exhaustion and pain.

"Where are we going?" Richie asked, the first question he'd managed since the ordeal at the post.

"Back to Sharna," Townsend said. "It's only a day or so, and the troops will be regrouping there."

Connor had his doubts about whether he or Richie would last a day, but kept them to himself. They started walking. The weak sun, clearing sky and warming air made the season almost feel like spring. The road twisted back along the battlefield, bringing them to one Mazereen funeral pyre after another. The stench of burning bodies rolled on the wind, along with the thunder of drums beating out an accompaniment. Whenever they passed a pyre, Townsend and Norelle were quick to repeat the same warding gesture Connor had seen at the stockade.

"May the Faeron keep them and preserve them," he heard Townsend mutter once.

Connor wanted to ask who the Faeron were, why the Mazereen and Horin were at war, where the hell they were - but all the questions would just bring more suspicion on him and Richie, and suspicion was something they could do without. He kept a sharp eye peeled on the hillsides and valleys, trying to remember where it was they'd left Methos and Duncan. But he saw nothing that looked familiar in the morning light, no natural landmarks or grisly markers.

The dread they might never see Duncan or Methos again filled Connor's empty belly with a sour coldness, but there was nothing he could do about it at the present moment and he pushed the fear aside.

Duncan woke to a woman's weeping. He blinked in confusion at the gray sky above, and then rolled over stiffly to focus on the slim, tall profile of a woman sitting next to Winokur's body. He realized he should have at least covered the corpse, but somehow it had seemed the least of his problems at the time. The woman had thick auburn hair pinned up in braids beneath a black hood. Her cloak protected most of her from the dawn chill. She was in her early thirties and plain to look at, but he thought some of that plainness was cultivated. Her hands clutched a short loop of silver weave that supported a dozen small circle charms, each clinking softly in the breeze.

Duncan didn't know what to say, or do. He glanced over at Methos, who appeared to be sound asleep. The fire had gone out, leaving only a pile of gray ash. Finally, pushed more by cold and discomfort than anything else, he pulled himself up. The weeping woman glanced over at him, clutching her silver loop more tightly.

"He died for you, didn't he?" she demanded.

For a moment he sat in shock. The words didn't matter as much as the fact she was speaking in a foreign language his conscious mind couldn't identify, but which translated automatically deep in his subconscious. Then the words themselves hit home.

"I don't know what you mean," he answered, and felt a second wave of shock with the realization he could speak as well as understand her language.

"Whatever his mission was, he accomplished it," she continued bitterly. "But it killed him."

"I don't know why he didn't heal . . . " Duncan offered lamely, before it occurred to him that maybe she didn't know Winokur had been Immortal. But one look at her eyes and the angle of her cheekbones had told him that she was a relative, however impossibly.

She sniffed into a handkerchief. "He didn't tell you?"

Duncan only shook his head in bewilderment.

She turned back to Winokur's body and laid a hand on the side of his face. "He was my father. He wasn't Immortal. Not on this side. Just as you're not Immortal here. Crossing over changes things."

Duncan sorted through her words in confusion. Not Immortal? Of course he was Immortal. Then he looked at Methos, who was just now beginning to stir, and down at his own hands. Tiny scrapes he hadn't even noticed marked his fingers. He drew in a sharp breath, and then turned his attention back to the woman.

"I'm Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod, and this is my friend Adam Pierson. Who are you?"

"Brennar Winokur," she said carelessly, as if it didn't matter. She wiped her eyes. "You have to help me bury him. It's not right to lay out in the world, especially this cursed place."

They had no tools to dig a hole in the hard dirt. Brennar grimly told Duncan to gather stones to pile atop the body. Methos, who seemed much better this morning than he had the night before, got up and helped too. When Winokur's body lay completely enclosed by rock Brennar knelt and murmured a long prayer. Then she brushed the dirt from her knees and stood, cast a raw look at both Methos and Duncan, and started to walk away. Duncan didn't know whether to follow her or not.

At the rise she turned back and demanded, "Are you coming or not?"

"There were two more men with us," Duncan said. "We can't just leave them behind."

"When did you last see them?"

"Yesterday," he admitted. "They went to look around - "

"If you haven't seen them since," Brennar interrupted, her voice blunt and brittle, "then they were either wounded or captured by the Mazereen. You're better off coming with me, before the Duenne catch up to us."

She'd just buried her father, Duncan reminded himself. Her tone was probably more a function of grief than personality. That her words were the truth stung in a different way. Reluctantly he and Methos began following her through the maze of twisted bodies up to a small rocky slope. "Who are the Duenne?" Duncan asked.

"And what is this place?" Methos added.

Her lips tightened as she chose to answer Methos first. "This world is called Zeist."

"Zeist?" Duncan asked, even as Methos stopped in his tracks. Brennar didn't notice or care that they'd stopped. Duncan prodded Methos into resuming his walking. The Highlander had heard rumors of a very old civilization named Zeist, a land of Immortals, just as he'd heard about Atlantis, but he'd never put stock in either of them truly existing. From Methos' reaction, he'd heard the same rumors and probably more of them.

"The Faeron work in mysterious ways," Brennar said, marking a circle against her chest with her thumb and forefinger. "It's not our place to question when or why. But I don't think you were ever meant to come back here."

"But we've never been here before," Duncan protested.

Brennar drew her cloak tighter. "It's not my place to say."

Methos caught her by the arm and made her stop. "Say it anyway," he ground out, and Duncan heard a strange mixture of dread and finality in his words.

Brennar pulled her arm free. She gazed from one to the other. "Of course you've been here," she spat out. "You were born here and taken to the other world. Where did you think Immortals come from? Trees? Storks? Abandoned in the wilderness by forgetful mothers?"

"Immortals come from here?" Duncan repeated, dumbfounded.

"Yes," she said. And there was absolutely no trace of warmth in her voice as she said, "Welcome home."

*****

The walk to Sharna drained Connor of every last resource he had. He spent most of the trip trying to wring information from Townsend without appearing to need it. He casually remarked that Lieutenant Hash and Townsend seemed to know each other. Townsend said they'd studied together in Misphalia, wherever that was, and that he respected the Mazereen despite the present war.

"They're demons," Norelle said in response to that. "Bastards and demons. Who else would turn their back on the Faeron?"

At the mention of Faeron both Norelle and Townsend circled their chests. Connor finally understood it was some kind of religious ward, just as Catholics made the sign of the cross. Gotell had called the Mazereen heathens, and now they stood accused of turning their back on the Faeron. The drums and sunrise worship certainly were indicative of some kind of pagan worship. Connor wondered if this battlefield of dead armies was the result of a holy war.

"How many do you think were killed?" Connor asked.

Townsend's eyebrows furrowed in thought. "About half their forces. Most of ours."

That wasn't helpful. Connor wanted to know the size of the armies, to judge the nations from which they came. He wanted to know their organization, armament capabilities, stockpiled resources, strategic philosophy. He realized that he was thinking like a chieftain, which seemed entirely appropriate to the situation.

"What happens next?" Connor asked.

"The politicians and priestesses will decide," Townsend said.

They stopped an hour later for a short break. Richie had said almost nothing since leaving the fort, but he refused to let Connor or Townsend look at his back. Without water Townsend couldn't do anything anyway, and he adamantly refused to search the dead. Around noon they crossed a stream, and Connor drank long and hard of the cool, refreshing water. Richie gulped gratefully from the refilled canteen and swallowed down more of Townsend's diluted roots. His flayed skin still seeped blood and serum past forming scabs. A paste of the hedicant leaves seemed to ease his discomfort a little.

"You should let me take a look at your arm," Townsend told Connor.

Connor shook his head. "Later." Later mostly because he didn't think there was anything the Horin lieutenant could do out in the middle of nowhere, unless he intended to reset the broken bones. And later because he had no wish to see how bad the damage was, or reawaken the ferocious sleeping dragon of pain.

The sun had barely started its downward arc in the western sky when Connor's strength ran out. He didn't know how Richie was managing it, but he had the desperate need to rest. Luckily enough Norelle spotted two riders over the next ridge, and flagged them down. The riders turned out to be young privates from the Second Infantry, second platoon, bearing water, food and news for any stray survivors.

"The armies are regrouping west of Sharna, at Kilvrey Field," the younger private said. He couldn't have been more than fifteen. "The injured go to the city hospital in Sharna."

"We have injured," Townsend said. "We need one of your horses."

The baby-faced private obediently turned over his gray mare. The two riders departed on the remaining horse, off to find more survivors or freed prisoners. Connor's sling made it difficult to swing up to the saddle, but he finally managed with Townsend's help. Richie refused to share the ride.

"I can walk," he insisted.

"Better to ride," Connor said, not understanding Richie's recalcitrance.

Richie shook his head. "I'll walk."

Richie didn't want to launch into an explanation right there, in front of the likable Townsend and his psycho friend, but he knew Connor was mad at him for what had happened. He didn't want to share the horse or hear a lecture. Better to keep to his feet, despite the fact his toes ached with coldness and his sneakers and socks were soaked with blood and mud. Each step brought fresh twists of pain up his back and through his frame, inescapable reminders of the humiliation he'd suffered back at the fort. Townsend's herbs helped, but not much. He felt stripped open, bare and vulnerable. Every snap of twig beneath his feet reminded him of the cracking whip, and his mouth tasted of wood no matter how much water he drank.

Still, despite his resolve, he wasn't sure if it was the sky darkening or just his vision when they began to see houses and horse traffic on the road. Within a half hour they had crossed the well-guarded drawbridge of a small city. The narrow cobblestoned streets, small thatched houses and whitewashed architecture reminded Richie dimly of old Scottish villages he'd traveled through with Connor. Then again, his head was beginning to ache so much he wasn't sure he could tell the difference between Scotland and Seacouver anymore.

The twisting and darkening streets, the flickering of torches, the wafting smell of dinners being set down on thick plank tables, the call of soldiers and sentries ready to defend the city, the scurry of children late to their chores, even the cry of an alley cat, pouncing on a mouse - everything swam in Richie's head, as if a kaleidoscope had replaced his senses. The melodic lift and fall of the foreign language carried him along, beside Connor's horse. He wasn't even sure when they stopped, only that a bright lantern was dangling in someone's hand, and a woman in starched linen was cupping his face.

"Take this one down to the wards and give him a warm, medicated bath before anything else," she told someone. "He's going to get an infection."

Richie roused himself from his daze to demand, "Where's Connor?"

"I'm right here," he heard Connor say. Richie turned his head to see Connor sitting on a bench beside him. When had they sat down? How had they come into this neatly swept stone hallway, where the air smelled faintly of lemon and lavender? A figure just beyond the nurse might have been Townsend, but Richie couldn't focus that far.

"Where are we?" Richie demanded.

"In the city hospital," Connor assured him. "Just do as they say."

Richie closed his eyes. "I don't need a hospital. I'm Immortal, remember?"

"He's delirious," the nurse said.

He fainted before he could answer.

Voices dragged him out of his fog some time later. Familiar voices, clashing in anger. Duncan and Connor. Arguing about him, it would seem.

Duncan rolled over on a too-soft mattress, gradually drifting up from a heavy, leaden sleep. He sleepily recognized the second- floor guest room in Brennar Winokur's house. Methos stood hunched under the low eaves, watching the street outside through the narrow window. Duncan could see snatches of sunlight reflect off the windows across the street. He barely remembered going to bed, although it had been very, very early that morning.

"Anything good out there?" Duncan asked.

Methos didn't turn. "Horses, carriages, chimney sweepers, streetkeepers and milkmen. Think London in the nineteenth century."

"Without the factories," Duncan put in, bunching the pillow beneath his head.

No Industrial Revolution had caught up to Zeist yet. No engines, belching steam or smoke into the sky. No machines, grinding away gears and metal and jobs. No missiles or even muskets for warfare. Everything they'd seen so far was the product of human and animal labor, bargained by powerful guilds, paid for in silver or brass coins.

"I talked to one of Brennar's maids," Methos said, sounding distant and thoughtful. "She said we're in the most fashionable of all the mortal districts in the city."

"Mortal districts?"

"This is a very segregated society. Immortals live in the finest houses, hold commissions in the army, have all the best jobs and hold royal titles. The maid said Brennar was once engaged to an Immortal, a big no-no because such a union only produces mortal children. It ended badly when he couldn't stand his family's disapproval."

"Mmmm," Duncan grunted. He rolled over, stretching against the linen, and studied the low rafters of the ceiling. His stomach grumbled with emptiness, and he wondered what marvels the kitchen might hold. The bigger problem of finding Richie and Connor weighed heavily on his chest, along with all of the astounding things Brennar had told them about Immortal origins while sitting by the downstairs fire the night before.

In Zeist mortal women could only give birth to mortal children, but the offspring of two Immortal parents could be either Immortal or mortal. No one knew which until the child reached puberty and started emitting a preternatural hum - the same hum a seventeen year old thief named Richie Ryan had given off the night he broke into Duncan's store in Seacouver. When an Immortal woman gave birth to twins, a not unusual occurrence, the Faeron came and took one of the infants.

"I've never seen it," Brennar had confided, her eyes dark and brooding, "but I've heard tales of mothers sitting in their beds, still haggard and weeping after the births, clutching the babes against their breasts, when the Faeron appear. They look like moonlight spinning through icicles, accompanied by a strange and wondrous music said to be sung by the dead. The Faeron usually take a twin to Earth. No one knows how they choose, or why. Sometimes the one they leave behind turns out to be Immortal. Sometimes he or she turns out to be mortal."

Angels, Duncan thought. The Faeron were angels. And then he shuddered to think that his own birth mother might have sat up bravely against a headboard, holding him and his twin, having to surrender one to the Faeron.

Methos asked, "You say usually. Not always?"

Brennar cupped her hot tea. "In Horin, it's a tradition to try and appease the Faeron through gifts of song, verse, or art. It's the father's job in the birthing room to do his best to charm the Faeron into leaving both twins behind. Sometimes it works. In Mazer, they try and scare the Faeron away with animal sacrifices, magic circles, or drums. I hear it doesn't work with any more success than Horin methods. The babies are still taken away."

The war between Horin and Mazer was ostensibly a holy one but in truth, Brennar said, religion was just an excuse. The bloodthirsty and greedy Mazereen wanted to get their grubby hands on Horin's prosperous trade with other northern countries such as Misphalia. Originally they had been one kingdom, united under a monarch at Jemhar, but seven hundred years earlier a southern lord who lost a twin daughter to the Faeron turned his back on the priestesses and the temple to embrace paganism. A true and terrible Holy War had broken out then and finally ended in an uneasy truce.

Jemhar. Winokur had said all the answers were at Jemhar. Brennar said her father had worked and lived there for many years, as she had, but left royal employment almost nine months earlier. He had come to live with Brennar in Sharna, then announced to her his plans to go to Earth on some mysterious mission. He wouldn't say why, or when he might return. Every week she visited the ancient, sacred site where he'd used an ancient and forbidden incantation to cross over.

Methos asked Duncan something. Duncan blinked at him, coming out of his reverie, and asked, "What?"

"I said, are you going to lie there all day, or do you want to try and find Connor and Richie?"

Duncan pushed back his blankets. "Guess."

Brennar's five-room townhouse had indoor plumbing with cold showers. It had been a long time since Duncan had taken a cold shower, but the icy water blasted away the last of his fatigue and the harsh soap left his skin clean and tingling. He dressed quickly in the trousers and shirt the maid left for him and towel-dried his hair. He caught up to Methos in the kitchen, and found the other man munching toast and playing with his porridge.

"Hate porridge," Methos grumbled. "Always have."

Brennar arrived, stomping her boots on the doormat but shooing away the maid who tried to take her cloak. She looked tired and sad, as if she hadn't slept much. Of course, Duncan reminded himself, she'd just buried her father. "I went to see what news there is of the armies. Our forces are regrouping at Kilvrey Field, but many of the soldiers are here in town for supplies or dispatches. We could start by asking them about your friends."

"What if they were hurt?" Methos asked.

Duncan didn't like the thought. "They weren't hurt when they left," he protested feebly.

Brennar answered, "The city hospital is on the other side of town. We can certainly ask there."

They went out into the fine spring morning. Rain during the night had left the cobblestones slick with moisture, but the warming sun felt good on Duncan's face. He and Methos followed Brennar through the neat orderliness of Sharna's newer neighborhoods, trying to absorb as much local detail as possible. Brennar's silver loop of circle charms repeated itself on carved doors and etched windowpanes. Other herbs, wreaths and charms hung over doorsteps, and a surprising amount of ornate lightning rods dotted the roofs above. A street lined with merchants yielded familiar sights - a butcher's, a baker's, even a candlestick maker's - and some unexpected shops as well. One establishment sold Faeron charms, for the enticement of favors and good fortune. Another had a window full of swords. The swordmaker had set a display up on the sidewalk, and he hefted a broadsword for Duncan's approval.

"Fine craftsmanship, wouldn't you say?" he asked, blocking their path with an engaging smile.

Duncan examined the blade critically. "I've seen better."

Methos, who never could resist an unfamiliar book, leafed through a hand-crafted combat manual propped up on a table outside the doorway and winced at one of the illustrations. Once they had moved on, Methos asked Brennar how Immortals in Zeist were killed.

"By taking their hearts, how else?"

Suddenly the mutilated corpses on the battlefield made sense to Duncan, although he still blanched at the idea. "Hearts? Isn't that . . . messy?"

"Isn't all death?" Brennar returned bitterly. "Ask my father."

Duncan decided to keep quiet.

Methos pressed with, "Do Immortals challenge each other? Fight to the death every day?"

"Not in Horin," Brennar said. "That kind of foolishness was outlawed years ago. The only legal way to kill an Immortal is in war. Anytime else, it's murder, just like with anyone else."

They stopped outside a dry goods store, where several wagons were being loaded by soldiers in gold and blue uniforms. Duncan waded into the action and found the master sergeant in charge of the work detail. He was looking for friends, civilians, who'd gotten caught in the battle. Had he seen them? A young man with blond hair, an older man with light brown hair.

The master sergeant had not seen them. Neither had any of the soldiers loading the wagons. Soldiers quizzed outside the butcher's shook their heads and said they wished they could help. A grizzly- looking private outside the royal post office said civilians had no place being on a battlefield. Two hours and dozens of interviews later, Duncan began to feel discouraged.

"We haven't tried the hospital yet," Brennar reminded him. "Let's stop here first, though. I know someone who might help."

She pulled them down a stone path neatly camouflaged from the street by a thick garden of evergreens. A windowless stone building of indeterminate age sat at the back of the garden, low and level and peaceful-looking. Immediately inside the door they found a cream-colored temple of pews and burning candles. A handful of soldiers knelt in prayer beside housewives in crimson shawls. Duncan wanted to quiz the soldiers, but Brennar pulled them past the pews with a frown and down a side passage to a smaller, darker prayer hall lit only by the glow of red embers on a raised altar.

This one had no pews and no furniture. The heady sense of burning incense filled Duncan's head. A young woman in a blue robe and wooden sandals poured water over the embers, raising a cloud of steam, and in recoiling from the heat nearly tumbled off the alter.

"Careful!" Brennar called. "Or you'll never make it past novitiate."

The young woman squealed with delight. "Cousin!" she said, and flung herself enthusiastically into Brennar's arms.

"My cousin Dalia," Brennar said, and made introductions.

Dalia took Duncan's hand warmly and affectionately. She couldn't have been any older than twenty one or twenty two, and her face still bore the chubbiness of adolescence. "I'm so pleased to meet any friend of Brennar's," she said.

Then she took Methos' hand, got a close look at his face, and froze.

Methos knew a shock of recognition when he saw one. Five thousand years of observing the behavior of both men and women had taught him a fine thing or two. He felt the smile on his own face dissolve with a different shock - not only did this woman know him, an impossibility in its own right, but she *worshipped* him.

"Oh, my lord," she said, going immediately to her knees and pressing her forehead to Methos' hands.

"What - " Duncan started to say, but was interrupted as Brennar, stunned, laid her hands on her cousin's shoulders.

"Dalia, this man is no lord. He's just a friend. A mortal friend."

"Forgive them, for they don't know who you are," Dalia pleaded reverently.

"I know you're charming," Duncan muttered, in English, "but this is a little bit too much."

Methos ignored the Highlander and said, "You must have me confused with someone else."

Dalia shook her head. She started to pray, words tumbling out past her mouth faster than any of them could understand.

"No, really," Methos said, taking Dalia's hands and forcing her back to her feet. "I'm not anyone you should be kneeling to. Look at me. I'm just a guy."

Dalia dared to meet his gaze. "I know who you are," she insisted, her face filled with the perfect rapture of Catholics beholding saints. "I've seen your picture in the temple at Pielle."

"Maybe you've seen the picture of someone who looks like me," Methos said, his patience beginning to wear away.

Startled gasps from the doorway made them turn to see four women clad in the white robes of priestesses go to their knees. Dalia started to go down again, but Methos prevented her. "Tell them I'm no one special," he begged her.

"But you are," she said, wide-eyed. "You're the Horned One. Her son."

"I think we better go," Brennar suggested, and Duncan immediately agreed. Attention like this was something they could do without. They fled the temple as quickly as possible. In the street Duncan turned to Methos and smirked, "The Horned One?"

"Shut up, MacLeod," Methos grumbled. He glared at Brennar, as if Dalia's reverence was her fault. "What was she talking about?"

Brennar tilted her head. "It's a very ancient myth that hardly anyone talks about these days. The Faeron Queen had a son, the Horned One. Together they rule the planets and stars. I don't put much stock in it, or didn't until today - "

"I don't care what those women think," Methos growled.

"Well, as the man said, 'The next time someone asks you if you're a god, say yes,'" Duncan smiled.

Methos raised his eyebrows. "What?"

"It's a line from one of Richie's favorite movies."

"I am *not* a deity."

Methos remained in a foul mood all the way to the city hospital. Duncan thought up a dozen smart-ass remarks, but decided to save them for future use. The hospital, an imposing brick structure three stories tall and half a block long, had six wings of beds and patients. Brennar found the physician on duty and asked about men brought in matching Connor or Richie's description. The physician referred them to the chief nurse of the wards, who in turn sent them to the records nurse, who stood out back flirting with her boyfriend, the pharmacist's apprentice.

"I only came on at noon," she said, after being pried from her affections. "But we can check the logs."

Duncan knew it was going to be a waste of time, but they went to the records office and the leather volumes used to log admissions. "What name?" the records nurse asked.

He could only hope they were using their most common aliases. "Russell Nash and Richard Ryan."

Her ink-stained finger flipped through the pages. "Civilian or army?"

"Civilian."

"I don't see them," she said. "Sorry."

Brennar sighed. "I guess we're on our way to Kilvrey Field, then," she said.

What were the chances they'd find any trace of Richie or Connor there, though? Duncan knew firsthand the chaos and carnage of a battlefield. True enough, the battle had been over by the time they arrived, but it only took one surviving soldier armed with a spear . . . expecting to heal, Connor and Richie would have taken chances no mortal would take. They could already be buried in unmarked graves for all Duncan knew.

They were halfway down the hall when the records nurse shouted after them.

"They're soldiers, not civilians!" she said, chastising Duncan for his lack of accurate information. "Fourth infantry, second - "

"Just tell me where," Duncan interrupted.

Impatient, relieved and still strangely apprehensive, Duncan beat both Brennar and Methos up the stairs and collared the head nurse for the third floor west wing. She led them down a long passage of alcoves and fluttering white curtains, past pairs of beds occupied by wounded soldiers. The fresh air and sunlight streaming through open windows to the hardwood floors masked but didn't entirely dissipate the smell of sickness, medicine, and rot. The ward nurse pushed aside the curtain on the last alcove and only then did Duncan feel the weight of worry ease off his shoulders and away from his neck.

Connor lay in the bed to Duncan's right, propped up against pillows, his right arm in a cast and sling, his eyes ringed with dark circles but his breathing easy and even. Richie slept on his left side, wedged up by pillows with no shirt on, no injuries or illness that Duncan could see except for a flush in his cheeks that might be from fever. Then he circled around the bed, saw what had been done to his protege's back, and felt his jaws, neck and shoulders all seize up with anger.

"Connor, wake up," Duncan said, moving to his clansman's side.

"Don't you think we should let them rest?" Brennar asked.

"No." Duncan shook Connor's shoulder. "Connor, wake up!"

The older Highlander jerked fully upright with a gasp. "What?" he demanded instantly, not completely aware of Duncan or the other two standing in the alcove.

"It's Duncan. You're in the hospital."

"I *know* that," Connor said testily, and eased back against his pillows. He favored Duncan with a weak glare. "Go away and let me sleep."

"You're drugged, aren't you?" Duncan asked.

"Not as much as I'd like to be," Connor said, which was true. Whatever they'd given him for the pain had mostly worn off and his arm hurt like hell. The doctors had reset it during the night, and he remembered screaming at them at the top of his lungs. So much for his stoic image, he reflected grimly. He felt tired and itchy and Duncan's accusing face didn't improve his mood.

"What happened to you?" Methos asked, finding a chair and pulling it up. He offered it to Brennar, who declined, and then plopped himself down.

"It's a long story," Connor said.

"What happened to Richie?" Duncan demanded. "You were supposed to look after him."

"Look after him?" Connor sputtered. "He's not a child! He looks after himself. And I was a little preoccupied, in case you haven't noticed."

"Hey," a voice objected from the other bed. Richie blinked owlishly at them both, and said something that came out so badly slurred none of them could tell if he spoke in English or Zeistian.

"Now look what you've done," Methos said reprovingly. "You've woken up Junior."

"It's not Connor's fault," Richie repeated, making a groggy but concerted effort to speak clearly.

"How do you feel?" Duncan asked, his mood shifting to concern.

Richie tried to answer, but dryness choked his throat. Duncan helped him prop up on his left elbow and drink from a tall green cup. Richie nearly choked on the water, but most of it managed to go down the right way. He realized he'd been wedged on his side to give air to his injured back, but some kind of drugs kept him relatively pain-free.

"Where are we?" he asked, sagging back down to his pillow. A tiny stray feather popped up into the air, drifting in the sunlight. He felt hot, and kicked at the blanket covering him to his hips.

"The hospital," Duncan said, laying a hand on his forehead. "Leave that on, you've got a fever. But you're going to be fine. You both are."

"You could at least be grateful for that," Connor said sourly.

"It's not Connor's fault," Richie repeated, remembering the fragment of overheard argument. "Blame the bad guys."

Duncan fixed the blanket back in place and avoided Richie's gaze. "I'm not blaming anyone."

Connor muttered something that sounded Gaelic and possibly sarcastic. It made Methos laugh, at least, although Duncan pretended not to hear it. Richie asked, "How did you find us?"

"Persistence," Methos said, propping his feet up at the edge of Connor's bed.

Richie focused on Connor's sling and cast. "They reset your arm."

"With hammers," Connor agreed, his expression tightening. Duncan looked away. The older Highlander said, "It's over, that's the important thing. It should mend evenly."

"How come?" Richie asked Duncan. "Why aren't we healing? And where are we? Why does everyone speak - "

"One at a time," Duncan said firmly, one hand squeezing Richie's shoulder. Richie realized, for the first time, that both Duncan and Methos had traded in their clothes for simpler garb, including long coats that presumably hid their swords. His and Connor's swords were back at the fort. Remembering the fort brought a pang to his chest, and suddenly the ward swirled icy cold instead of burning hot.

"I'll go find the doctor," Brennar offered. "See when they can be released. I don't think they should stay here, with the Duenne around."

"Who are the Duenne?" Connor asked.

"It's a long story," Duncan said. First he told them about all the Immortal twins, separated at birth by the Faeron. Disbelief washed almost immediately over Connor's face.

"You mean to tell me that every Immortal here has a mortal twin in our world?" the older Highlander asked. "Slan Quince was Ethan Winokur's twin?"

"Apparently," Methos said.

"So vice versa, right?" Richie asked. "All of us on Earth have - or had - a mortal twin here."

Duncan met his gaze and tried to understand what he wa