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 was thinking. Of the four of them, only Richie was young enough to have a twin still alive. Duncan's twin brother or sister would have died over three hundred years ago. He thought about trying to find the grave, and wondered what his twin would have looked like at sixty or seventy years old.

Richie's next words surprised him, though. The kid wasn't thinking of himself.

"Tessa was a foundling," he said. "What if she has a twin?"

"We don't know that," Methos said sharply, ready to stave off any flights of fancy. The quest for that dead woman had been the launching pad for this whole misadventure. "We don't know what the connection is to that painting in Newfoundland."

"But it could be, right?" Richie persisted, shifting uncomfortably against his pillows.

Connor shook his head. "I can't believe you really believe all this. What evidence has Brennar shown you? Faeron, or angels, or just figments of someone's imagination - we don't know what we're dealing with."

Duncan didn't need to hear Connor's doubts. He had enough of them himself, warring with one another in his chest. He wanted to believe Brennar - after all, it was the only half-logical explanation he'd ever heard about where Immortals came from - but too many questions remained unanswered, especially about why Ethan Winokur had gone to Earth and who had painted the depiction of Soldier's Bridge.

"Who are the Duenne?" Connor asked again.

Duncan let Methos answer. "A radical revolutionary group. Apparently they hate most Immortals, but especially hate the current monarch, the Lady Jemhar. They're wanted by the police for treason and plotting against her Royal Highness. Brennar doesn't know why, but she said the Duenne were following her father shortly before he disappeared to Earth."

Connor's head began to pound in earnest. "And you think they had something to do with the man who opened fire on the shop and cemetery? Why? Surely they knew Winokur was Immortal there."

"Maybe they were just trying to kill him long enough to capture him," Methos said. "Him, or one of you."

Duncan shifted uncomfortably. "I've thought about that."

Brennar returned with a small bag of medicine. "The physician says you can both come with us, if you promise to return in two days time for a check-up. He gave me herbs for the pain and fever."

"Good," Duncan said. "Where are your clothes?"

Richie didn't say anything. His gut reaction was to stay exactly where he was for as long as possible. For the first time since waking up in this strange world he felt warm, dry, and relatively safe. The talk of twins and Faeron angels and Duenne made his head spin. He threw a look at Connor, who said, "We're not ready to go."

Duncan's mouth dropped open. "Why not?"

"There's an army officer who's coming by to see us," Connor answered blithely. "The man who got us here. An Immortal, if that means anything. I would hate to leave without saying goodbye."

The tension that had blistered between Duncan and Connor earlier returned in force, and Richie didn't understand it. Neither, apparently, did Methos, who looked blank-faced for a moment.

"Do you trust this man?" Duncan demanded.

"Yes."

"Then leave him a note. We have to get you both out of here. Brennar says the answers to her father's mission are probably in Jemhar, and that's where we should go."

Richie wondered, not for the first time, why the word Jemhar seemed familiar. He'd heard it from Gotell and Townsend. Then he remembered Winokur gasping it at the cemetery in St. Mary's, something about Tessa.

"You think she's there, don't you?" Methos asked quietly.

Duncan's eyes clouded over. "I don't know. The sooner we leave, the sooner we find out."

"Not before the lieutenant comes," Connor insisted stubbornly.

"You need attention that badly?" Duncan shot back in exasperation. "We're not enough?"

No one said anything. Duncan tried to rein his temper back in by counting silently to twenty and glaring at the wall instead of Connor. Connor closed his eyes wearily, as if dismissing them all. After a full moment Methos pushed back in his chair, the sudden scrape jolting all of them.

"Well, this is childish," he said. "Two MacLeods, both wanting to be in charge."

"It's not about that," Duncan protested.

"Of course it is," Methos snapped. "His plan, your plan, someone else's plan - for heaven's sake, does it matter? Of course not. What matters is that every blasted Highlander is stubborn to the point of lunacy and always has to be in charge."

Duncan snorted.

Connor managed a dry chuckle and opened his eyes. "But we're also very cute and easy to house train."

Richie let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. Duncan managed a smile. Methos shook his head affectionately at the two MacLeods. "You're idiots, that's what you are."

Duncan rubbed his eyes wearily. Methos was right. Connor and Richie both needed more bed rest and recuperation time. He'd forgotten the limitations of being mortal. He'd also let tantalizing visions of solving the mystery of Tessa cloud his judgment. Being an idiotic Highlander who always had to be in charge was only part of it.

Brennar eyed the four men judiciously. "So they're staying, not going?"

"Yes," Duncan said.

"Fine," she said, mouth tightening, and spun away to return the medicine.

The lingering threat of the Duenne, however remote it might be, prompted Duncan to stay with Connor and Richie for the rest of the afternoon. Methos went off with Brennar, in search of books. He claimed the best way to learn about a culture was to study its literature. Duncan settled for pulling the chair between his friends' beds and reading the blurry news sheet that Brennar bought from a roving vender for a small brass coin.

War news - the clash at Orseven had resulted in a "strategic withdrawal" of Horin troops and some casualties. Royal news - the Lady Jemhar, soon to celebrate her sixth anniversary on the throne, had put off any celebrations until the present unpleasantness with the Mazereen settled down. The price of wheat had shot up, the price of cows held steady. And two of the pubs in East Sharna advertised special deals for soldiers.

Connor and Richie dozed most of the afternoon, waking once for an unpleasant-looking lunch. The physician who followed soon after told Connor he'd better eat all of his vegetables if he expected to be discharged any time soon. A cranky Connor replied he'd eat the vegetables when they stopped resembling swill. The unfazed physician doubled Richie's rations for juice and water after feeling his forehead and agreeing with Duncan's diagnosis of fever.

"Just a little one," the physician said cheerfully. "And you eat your vegetables too."

The ward grew golden with late afternoon sunlight. Richie couldn't go back to sleep after the doctor's poking and prodding, and Duncan read him some of the newspaper. Halfway through he realized Richie was completely lost in some other thoughts.

"Want to tell me about it?" Duncan asked gently.

Richie blinked. "Tell you about what?"

"What happened to you and Connor? He said you were taken prisoner and then freed in the morning with the rest of the soldiers. How did he break his arm?"

"Wrestling with a guy," Richie said, glancing at the sleeping Highlander. "We didn't know that we wouldn't heal."

"And your back?"

Richie's expression tightened. "It doesn't matter."

"It doesn't matter?" Duncan asked, amazed. On reflection he remembered hearing the same tone and denials before, when Richie had first come to the store. "Don't you have anything besides paper bags to carry your clothes around in?" Tessa had asked the first day, prompting the response, "Nah. Doesn't matter." Weeks later Duncan asked him if he wanted to rearrange his bedroom. "Doesn't matter. Probably won't be here long." The first week in December they went shopping for a Christmas tree, and Richie, depressed by the holidays, answered "It doesn't matter" when asked his preference about real trees versus plastic ones.

"One's dying and one's fake," Richie had added, digging his hands into his pockets. "Not much of a choice, you know?"

That seventeen year old boy had been left behind over the years, maturing into an adult with opinions and confidence. Duncan didn't want to treat him like a child, but knew that whatever had happened at the fort to cause so much damage certainly did matter. No one had told Richie yet, but he would wear scars on his back for the rest of his life.

Duncan took Richie's hand and turned it over, exposing the rope burns on his wrist. Richie pulled back with a flash of annoyance.

"It's not Connor's fault," he said. "He has every right to be mad at me."

"Why would Connor be mad at you?" The sleeping Highlander in the other bed didn't even stir. Duncan thought back, but didn't recall any evidence of Connor being angry with Richie.

"Doesn't matter."

Duncan sat back in his chair. "I was whipped once, by the English. They said I was stealing horses. I told them stealing English horses was a worthless endeavor, they were so sick and weak you couldn't ride them more than a few miles before they keeled over. Made a fair stew, though."

Richie made a face. "Telling me all about your adventures getting whipped is not going to inspire me into telling mine, Mac."

At least he'd gotten Richie to partially admit what had happened.

"You didn't really eat horse stew, did you?" Richie asked.

"Yes."

"Gross. Ever eat dog? Monkey?"

"Yes to both. And beetles, slugs, spiders the size of Wisconsin - "

"Tessa hated spiders," Richie said.

Duncan's smile slipped but didn't fade entirely. "I know. She was very glad when you came to live with us, because she had two men around to kill them for her."

Richie rubbed at his eyes. "What did you do, Mac?"

"When?"

"When the English were . . . you know."

Duncan thought carefully about what to say. Many times Richie's questions were loaded, designed to settle some internal and often erroneous assumption. "There's not much a man can do," he said. "It's not like you have a choice in the matter."

"I know that," Richie said. "But did you . . . "

The words trailed off. "Cry?" Duncan hazarded. "Scream? Beg for mercy? Yes, yes, and yes."

"I didn't beg," Richie said darkly. "But I would have."

"There's no shame in that," Duncan said firmly.

Richie didn't look convinced. The rattle of the alcove curtain distracted Duncan from his next words, and he turned in irritation to see who had interrupted. It was a blond army officer, in a faded but clean uniform, with a companion still hidden by the curtain.

"Can I help you?" Duncan asked, rising.

"That's him," Richie said. "Lt. Townsend. He's our friend."

"Sorry I couldn't come sooner," Townsend said. "I had to ride all the way to get him, and the carriage hit frightful traffic on the way back. Excuse him if he looks a little dusty."

"Excuse who?" Duncan asked, just as the lieutenant's friend stepped forward.

Duncan tried to think of something clever to say, but words failed him. Looking at the young man in front of him was like looking at the march of time. Curly blond hair, startling blue eyes, a face hardened past adolescence, a body that had been given time to fill out and solidify. A man who was almost twenty-four years old, and who would always age.

"This is Aidan Pielle," Townsend said. "Unless I'm mistaken, he's Richie's twin brother."

An entire squad of Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders could have danced naked and jiggling down the aisle, accompanied by the University of Notre Dame marching brass band, and Richie still would not have been able to tear his eyes away from the sight in front of him. The world had narrowed to a single, tunnel-like focus on a face intimately familiar and yet subtly different. Drawing on strength he didn't know he had and ignoring the slight sway of the hardwood floor, he pulled himself to his feet and swatted aside Duncan's helping hand.

Judging from the flutter of confusion on Aidan's face, Richie wasn't the only one who didn't know what to say or think. At least Townsend had given the older-looking twin time to mentally prepare for their meeting. Richie couldn't even begin to pin down the ethereal, unreal concept of "twin brother" floating inside his head. His chest felt tight and hard and his skull ached as if he'd slammed ninety-miles an hour into a concrete barrier.

Aidan took a step forward. With a crooked smile and a deep intake of breath he offered, "Hi. Guess I'm the last person you ever expected to meet, huh?"

Richie somehow found an answering grin. "You could say that," he admitted. The matching smiles and realization of tears clouding Aidan's eyes cleaved Richie in two, letting in a flood of hot and shining joy the likes of which he'd never known before.

He had a brother.

For almost twenty four years he'd been alone. As an orphan he'd had to rely on tenuous legal relationships for food, warmth, shelter and clothing. He'd been helpless and dependent on busy, harried, uncaring grown-ups. Other children presented as rivals for attention and affection. He had watched mothers and fathers pick their children up after school only to wonder why he couldn't have parents too, why no one wanted to love him. Some foster homes had been warm and accepting, some adults responsive to his loneliness and neediness, but in the end something always went wrong. At seventeen years old he flung himself out in the world, determined to never need anyone again, and somehow landed on Duncan MacLeod's doorstep. From Duncan and Tessa he'd learned what a family could be like, what love could do - but that experience had been bloodily torn from him the night a violent mugger shot two strangers for drug money.

As an adult and an Immortal his most significant relationships rested on the basis of friendship. But friendship in the Immortal world was a shifting and inexplicable thing. Duncan had taught him, pushed him, trained him, and then kicked him out and almost killed him twice. Joe Dawson was a friend, but mixed up in that friendship was Joe's job and his responsibility to have his people spy on all the details of Richie's life. And Connor - well, Connor was almost as important a friend as Duncan, but the stoic Highlander had never really said how he felt about Richie. And all three - Duncan, Joe and Connor - had grown up in families who'd cherished and adored them, until Immortality or death dissolved paternal links.

In front of Richie now stood a man who went beyond any concept of friendship. A man who shared his blood, who forged a link to the world. A man who had to acknowledge him, in some tiny way or other, because they were brothers.

From this one point of time forward, his life would always be split into the years he was alone and the day he met his brother.

"Richie?" Aidan asked, smile fading, concern creeping into his voice. "Is something wrong?"

He had no idea how long he'd been standing, staring and silent. He probably looked like an idiot. A disheveled, sweaty, trembling idiot whose back hurt horrendously.

An idiot with a *brother.*

"I'm fine," Richie laughed. "But I think I better sit down now."

He let Duncan usher him back to the bed and then insisted on sitting up despite the discomfort. Connor woke, demanding to know why no one would let him sleep. One look at Aidan shut him up. Duncan surrendered his chair to Aidan and retreated to the other side of the alcove, transfixed by the sight of Richie and Aidan sitting with their heads slightly tilted in total absorption of each other.

"You look younger," Aidan teased. "But you're older. By about ten minutes, or so I'm told."

Richie shook his head in amazement. "Cool. I finally get to be older than someone. Hear that, Mac?"

"I hear it." The words almost caught in Duncan's throat.

Aidan leaned forward. "There's so much you don't know. So much I don't know. You don't know how often I've thought about you, wondering where you were, what life on Earth was like, if you knew about us, if we would ever meet - "

Running off at the mouth, Duncan decided, must be part of the family DNA. He plopped himself down on the corner of Connor's mattress, ignoring the daggered look of indignation the older Highlander threw at him.

"I didn't know," Richie said. "I honestly didn't know."

Aidan took a deep breath. "There's so much to tell you! About Mom and Dad and Clerise - the house, Pielle, everything - "

Duncan could barely define what he saw on Richie's face. It was if some deep, long-ignored hole in Richie's heart had suddenly been filled. He felt extremely happy for the younger man. But swept up in that happiness was a sense of loss, and a small twinge of jealousy.

"Is that why you stayed at Orseven to help us?" Connor asked Townsend as he groped with his left hand for the water cup on the night stand. "You recognized the family resemblance?"

Townsend answered, "I went to school with Clerise Pielle. It's been years since I saw her little brother. But the more the day wore on, the more it nagged at me. I thought you might be strangers. You're from Earth, all of you, aren't you?"

"What do you know of Earth?" Connor returned. The cup scraped his fingertips but remained out of reach.

"Only what the priestesses teach. That there's a far off land where Immortals battle each other for the Prize, and for as long as good triumphs over evil Zeist will prosper. When evil gains the winning hand, crops fail and war breaks out."

Connor scowled at the cup. "And how have the crops been lately?"

"Abysmal," Townsend said somberly. Connor looked at him and saw no trace of sarcasm or humor. Connor turned his attention to Duncan, who couldn't seem to stop staring at Richie and his twin.

"Duncan," Connor growled.

"What?"

"Get that cup for me, will you?"

Duncan absently scooped up the cup and handed it to Connor. Some of the water splashed over the top and soaked Connor's shirt. "Thanks so much," Connor said coldly. "Do you think you could close your mouth and stop drooling now?"

Duncan looked at him blankly. Then he focused on the wet spot on Connor's chest. "Sorry," he said. "I'll get a towel."

"Get a grip, instead," Connor suggested. After taking a minute to introduce Duncan and Townsend he asked, "Did I miss dinner?"

"No," Duncan said. "It should be here soon." So should Methos, he thought, but he didn't speak the words aloud. Methos had promised to relieve him before nightfall. But he didn't come. Long after dark Brennar appeared at the alcove curtain, wrapped in a black shawl. She took one look at Townsend and all the color drained from her face.

"Madam," Townsend said, with a curious spot of color in both cheeks.

"Captain," she returned, equally formal. Both their tones hinted at something deeper and more painful than anything on the surface. It took a moment for Duncan to remember Methos' words of that morning, but then he recalled the second hand story of Brennar's bitter, broken engagement to an Immortal soldier.

Zeist, he decided, might just be a small world after all.

***

Methos stepped out of Sharna's main library into the cool air of twilight and took a deep breath to clear his head of mustiness. For hours he'd wandered the aisles, pulling down one tome after the other, scanning brittle pages for different clues to this world's culture. He'd learned that the Horin had four state holidays and six religious ones, that woven wreaths of tree bark stripped by moonlight brought good fortune to the house on which they hung, and that the sound of a far-off ringing bells was the echoes of the Faeron crossing back and forth between Zeist and Earth. Although the Faeron ranked as the most popular children of the Mother Goddess who'd created the worlds, numerous other classifications of fairies, cherubs and spirits inhabited the Horin culture. The Mazereen, on the other hand, had renounced all spirits except those of War and Death, and used blood, drums and the promise of eternal hell as the rigid backbones of their society.

Methos rubbed a kink out of his neck and started down the dark street. Although he knew what the Mazereen had done to Connor and Richie, he couldn't help but wonder if the authors he'd read had been biased on their accounts of the enemy's extremes. He'd been a scholar too long to accept popular rumor as fact. At the very least he intended to return the next day and tackle more reading on the subject of twin-stealing Faeron - none of the books he'd scanned had addressed it, and Brennar's accounts left too much lacking for his taste.

He was wondering where he could buy supper with the silver coin Brennar had given him when he heard a distinctive patter of steps behind him, a dozen thin sandals skipping on the ground. A dark hood fell over his head as a gaggle of warm bodies surrounded him, gripping his arms. Startled, he almost fought them, but a low voice in his ear stopped him.

"Forgive us for our impertinence," the woman said, "but we know the Horned One might escape on the wings of the wind unless constrained by gold."

Something tightened around him, binding his arms loosely to his torso. Methos didn't need much of an imagination to envision the gold belts of the temple priestesses. The familiar smell of Dalia's sandalwood perfume drifted to him and he groaned.

"This is ridiculous," he protested into the black cloth covering his face. The bodies carried him along the street, like a piece of driftwood on waves. "Ladies, please . . ."

"Forgive us," one whispered, and another echoed, and soon at least six female voices begged for pardon with the softness of dove wings flapping against each other.

Methos debated fighting them - he doubted the belt around his arms would hold long if he did, and he could kick and strike with his feet - but he had no desire to hurt the priestesses. This was their game, and he would let them play it for as long as he could learn something. With a sigh of surrender he let them lead him down a maze of what must have been back alleys and side streets. He heard the wind pushing in the trees above, his own heart beating, and a faint ringing that might have been a faraway bell. When a door opened he caught the heady aroma of burning incense, and heard the echo of the priestesses' soft steps on stone walls.

They helped him gently to his knees on the floor and unbound his arms. They took his jacket and his sword. He started to protest that but a voice in his ear, one he hadn't heard before, whispered, "Quiet," and he found himself strangely obedient. Firm, warm hands unbuttoned his shirt and slid the cloth from him, raising goosebumps on his flesh. The hood was left in place, and beneath it Methos' pulse began to pound a staccato rhythm against his temple.

The game shifted. The multiple footsteps retreated, leaving him with someone's soft breathing and a smell not of lavender but instead of roses, which inspired old half-forgotten memories of a different nature.

"Who's there?" he asked. He could have taken off the hood, but the darkness and the press of her fingers built like an erotic symphony in his head, and he didn't want to disturb its growing orchestration.

"Don't you know?" she asked, her hands taking him by the shoulders and then drawing firmly down his chest, his ticklish ribs, the hollow of his stomach. Methos shifted fractionally, aware that he was betraying himself. He raised his hands to find her, but she pushed them back down to his sides.

"It works better when I can participate," he suggested, wondering how far to let this seduction go.

"You don't have to do anything," the woman promised.

"What do you want?"

"Ssssh." She circled behind him, and this time her hands soothed the tension in his shoulders and followed the lines of his spine to circle close to the edge of his trousers.

Partly to distract her, partly to distract himself, Methos asked, "Who are you?"

"The more important question is, Who Are You?" Her hands snaked around his waist, reached up, and tweaked his sensitive nipples. Enough was enough, Methos decided.

"I'm probably not who you think I am." He moved away and took off the hood. He didn't recognize the small chamber, but he recognized the architecture of the temple. Light spilled from dozens of golden candles on the floor. His seducer was a beautiful dark-haired woman in a flowing emerald gown. She'd thrown her right arm in front of her eyes.

"It's not permitted to look upon you in the bridal chamber," she protested.

"You're not my bride," he promised, and gently pulled her arm away. She kept her eyes averted. He could see in the candlelight that they were green, like her robe.

"The High Priestess of city temples are by tradition the brides of Her Son," she said, her voice low and tremulous.

"Tradition isn't all it's cracked up to be."

"You don't find me worthy."

He eyed the ample bosom filling her gown, the creaminess of her throat and face, the spill of her curls down her shoulders. He wondered, fleetingly, if she were a virgin. "Any man would find you infinitely worthy," he promised. "Look at me."

She resisted. He put his finger beneath her chin and lifted it, willing her to meet his gaze. He'd at first thought the room was chilly, but now found it pulsing with warmth. "What's your name?"

"Lita."

"Lita, I'm not Her Son."

"You're someone's son," she said, which sounded logical enough.

"Look at me," he repeated. Her green eyes shifted to him reluctantly. Methos tried his best reassuring smile on her. "Whoever I may look like, I promise I'm not a god. I'm not here to make you consummate your vows. All I'm looking for are a few answers and maybe a hot meal, if I can find one."

He saw her search his expression, trying to tell if he was somehow making fun of her. Her hands came to his shoulders again.

"You look just like Him."

"They say everyone has a lookalike," he joked, but then sobered at exactly how true that had turned out to be. An entirely different thought occurred to him, but threatened to evaporate as her hands rubbed at his skin and woke another series of goosebumps that had nothing to do with cold. "Look, I really am flattered by the offer, but this probably isn't a good idea - "

"It's a fine idea," Lita said, bearing him backwards to the floor. Methos groaned, fully intending to end this little romance, but she really did kiss well, and the waves of arousal pulsing up from his groin tried to assure him that just a few minutes more couldn't hurt. Her strong thighs straddled him, and while her mouth pinned him against the floor with promises and teasing her hands slid down to loosen his trousers.

Events had already progressed far beyond any concept of a good idea, but Methos hadn't lived to be five thousand years old by avoiding all pleasure. Maybe he deserved this little interlude for trekking coldly and miserably all over muddy battlefields. If he worked very hard he could rationalize it at least half a dozen other ways, but the press of her breasts against his bare chest persuaded him not to try.

After all, he knew he wasn't a god. That was the important thing.

But he was mortal now, carrying the burdens of injury and illness and procreation. The thought of leaving a little Methos behind in the temple made him open his eyes and start to protest, "Lita - "

The silver flash of a dagger plunging toward his side cut off the rest of his sentence.

"Hey!" Methos shouted. Not a very original thing to say, surely, but the sight of the knife plunging towards his very mortal flesh frightened away his creativity. He caught her wrist and deflected the blow, but she was both stronger and quicker than he anticipated. Her left hand, still positioned between his legs, squeezed him so harshly it brought him arching up off the floor with a choked cry. No fair, he thought. The priestesses of Zeist did not play fair.

They tumbled to the side, grappling for the knife, spilling a dozen candles. Hot flame and searing wax stung Methos' back. Lita's gown began to smolder, and her brief moment of distraction was enough for him to disarm her.

Methos took the knife and retreated a few inches. His back burned and his groin ached with a ferocious reminder of her grip and fingernails. "Now," he gasped, "what the hell was that all about?"

Lita's small smile was cold and unapologetic. "The Horned One doesn't know?"

"I'm not the Horned One!"

"But they'll think you are. The priestesses will spread word to the people that Her Son has come to lead the way to victory on the battlefield. It doesn't matter if it's true or not. Misphalia, Coberg, Tasharin - they'll all want to see, they'll all want to believe, and then they'll help the Horin win the war."

It took a few seconds for awareness to sink in. "You're a Mazereen spy, aren't you?"

"You'll never prove it," Lita said triumphantly. "And they're going to hunt you down and burn you alive for this - "

She threw herself forward, driving the knife in his hand between her ribs and up into her heart. She collapsed against him, hot and bloody and already dying. Her beautiful face stilled, her emerald eyes losing focus, but her throat worked soundlessly for a second and then she gasped, "For my country."

The High Priestess of Sharna died in Methos' arms, a knife in her chest, her blood on his clothes. He knew she hadn't lied earlier - according to the books he'd read, the penalty for murder was a public flogging and then burning alive. Stunned, his own chest still heaving, his skin slick and cold with sweat, Methos could do nothing more than gape at her lax face.

A small, startled gasp made him look up at Dalia, Brennar's cousin, standing in the doorway with a hand clasped over her own mouth to keep from screaming.

***

Brennar and Townsend eyed each other with the kind of goodwill Duncan would have extended to his old enemy Kalas. For a moment the only sounds were of the other patients in the ward, the click of a rolling cart, the breeze rattling the windows. Connor slurped from his cup, breaking the spell, and Aidan took the initiative by rising and sketching a half-bow to Brennar. "We've never met. I'm Aidan Pielle."

"Brennar Winokur."

"I know your father - he's a good man. I remember seeing him at the court, and being impressed with his devotion and sense of honor."

"He is a very honorable man," Brennar agreed, a muscle twitching in her cheek. She hadn't announced her father's death publicly, and had told Duncan it should wait until after they were in Jemhar. Speaking of him as if he was still alive must have been enormously difficult for her.

Another moment of awkwardness.

"I believe I should be going," Townsend announced, pulling at his jacket and fiddling with his cufflinks.

"Please don't leave on my account," Brennar said, then turned to Duncan. "I must see you privately."

Without waiting for an answer she walked towards the stairs. Duncan followed her to the muddy yard behind the hospital. She took him to the small, pungent carriage house where the horse- drawn ambulances were kept, waiting for the next emergency. Before he could ask anything two figures emerged from the shadows - Methos and the temple novitiate Dalia, both dressed in dark traveling clothes and hoods that hid their faces.

Methos immediately said, "It's not my fault."

"What's not?" Duncan asked, bewildered.

Judging from the redness in her eyes and quivering in her voice, Dalia was not far from tears. "The High Priestess of the Temple is dead. We hid her body in the cellar but it's only a matter of time before they find her."

She spoke so quickly, all the words jumbling on top of one another, that Duncan wasn't sure he'd heard correctly. "Someone's dead?"

"She killed herself," Methos said tightly. "But I'll get blamed. Do you know what they do to murderers around here, MacLeod?"

"Both of you just calm down now," Duncan ordered. He looked at Brennar for help. She looked no more pleased than he felt.

"The only thing you can do is go to the Crown Priestess in Pielle," Brennar said. "Tell her that Lita tried to kill you. She'll know whether or not you're lying, and she can clear your name with the police."

Duncan said, "Wait a minute, slow down, start at the beginning. Who tried to kill you?"

"And please speak louder," Townsend said, edging out from the shadows. Duncan had to give the man credit for stealth. He'd crept up on them without the tiniest sound of betrayal. "It seems to be a most interesting story."

Brennar turned on him accusingly. "You never could mind your own business!"

"And you could never stop interfering with business that wasn't yours," Townsend shot back. He fixed a cold gaze on Methos. "Did you kill the High Priestess?"

Methos' voice could not have been more adamant. "No. I absolutely, positively, without a doubt, did not kill her. She killed herself."

Haggardly he recounted the events of the seduction, although he chose to leave out some of the more erotic parts. Duncan believed him, but Townsend's face remained hard and impassive all the way until the end, as Methos and Dalia explained how they'd hidden Lita's body.

"Why do you believe him?" Townsend asked Dalia.

The novitiate sniffed her running nose. "I was watching."

"Watching?" Brennar asked, her voice a squeak.

"There's a secret alcove behind the altar in that chamber," Dalia explained, her throat and cheeks beginning to take on a rosy hue. "I only know about it because I have to scrub the hallway there every day, and one morning I noticed a spot where the wall didn't line up precisely."

"But *watching*?" Brennar asked again, in obvious dismay.

Dalia folded her arms defensively. "I wanted to see if he would turn into a bird and fly away."

"If I could, I would," Methos said morosely.

Duncan gazed at the young girl in puzzlement. "Then you're a witness. You can clear him."

Dalia's voice took on a new strength. "I saw her pull the blade, and I dashed around to help. But by the time I ran down the hall and around to the room she was dead in his arms. I would have to tell the police that. No one will believe a High Priestess was a Mazereen spy, and it will be just the word of a stranger and a novitiate."

Townsend gazed at Methos and Dalia in turn. Duncan held his breath, afraid the army officer might think it was his duty to take Methos to the police and let a judge or jury or whatever the Zeist justice system offered determine the truth. Duncan felt certain he could stop him - just because he was no longer Immortal didn't mean he'd forgotten centuries of martial arts and weapons training - but he didn't want to hurt the man. Then he remembered he couldn't hurt the man, not in any significant fashion, because Townsend was Immortal. He sighed, wondering when things had gotten so complicated.

"I think Miss Winokur is right," he finally said. "The Crown Priestess can clear you."

"Point the way," Methos grumbled.

"You can't possibly go alone," Brennar said.

Dalia said, "Of course not! I'll go with him."

Brennar's eyes rolled. "You are a child."

Dalia drew herself up stiffly. "I am a novitiate of the temple, anointed by the Crown Princess herself." Some of the imperiousness left her tone as she amended, "Along with fifty others, of course. But that doesn't matter. I know the way and I can take him there."

"You'll never make it," Brennar said skeptically.

"They will if we take them," Townsend said. "I'll take Aidan and Richie and depart for their family estate in Pielle tonight. Pilgrims are a common enough sight on the roads these days. If there's trouble, we'll say we picked you up and gave you a ride. Better yet, meet us outside the northern gates - that'll keep the driver innocent if there's any question later."

Duncan almost started to protest that Richie wasn't in any condition to leave that night, but the issue was moot. They had only a few hours before the High Priestess' absence would be noticed. A turning point had come, faster and harder than he thought it would. He wished he could blame Methos for this whole mess, but that would be unfair.

"I suggest you and Connor leave the city as well," Townsend said. "Once the police begin to track your friend, people might remember you all being together. When Dalia is discovered missing, they'll come to question Brennar. It wouldn't hurt to put some distance between you and any investigations."

"I know," Duncan said. He didn't mind setting out for Jemhar immediately. But the thought of Connor traveling on horseback - only Immortals and their guests could use carriages and coaches - displeased him. Maybe the older Highlander would consent to stay hidden here in Sharna. He snorted at the idea. Connor had a compulsive need to be in the middle of trouble. He would no more stand for being left behind than Duncan would.

He and Townsend went back up the three flights of stairs. Aidan stood and stretched by his chair, saying that he should go now and let Connor and Richie rest. "But I'll be back tomorrow," he promised. "And maybe in a few days we can head back to Pielle. Everyone will want to meet you - "

"Actually," Townsend said, laying a hand on the younger man's shoulder, "I think it's best if we leave the city tonight and go back to Pielle."

"Why?" Aidan asked. "We just got here. It's a seven-hour journey!"

"I'll explain later," Townsend said, favoring him with a firm look.

Duncan nodded in the face of Connor's questioning gaze. "I'm sorry," he said. "We do need to go."

The duty physician was not entirely pleased with the idea of his patients walking out the door, but the ward nurse delighted in the news of freeing up two beds and rounded up some clean if worn clothing for Connor and Richie. Both men made it upright on their own, and Duncan had hopes that they would each be able to keep going for awhile. The doctor pressed packets of herbs and medicines into their hands even as Duncan tried to usher them out the door.

"Steep the kolder root in spring water, not lake water," the man said sternly. "And make sure you circle yourself twice before you drink it!"

They had to wait for Townsend's coach in the crisp night air. Richie shivered and shook his head at the rather abrupt decisions Duncan had made on his behalf.

"I want to go to Jemhar with you," he said, pulling Duncan aside as four horses appeared at the street corner, steam rising in faint wisps from their noses, their shoes clanging on the cobblestones.

"It's better this way," Duncan said. "You can meet your family."

"But . . ." Richie said, throwing a look towards Aidan that spoke of both longing and uncertainty. His argument trailed off, then changed tack. He turned a very vulnerable gaze on the Highlander. "Mac, you're family. Don't you need me? What about Tessa?'

Duncan gazed at him with fond exasperation. "Of course I need you," he said, pulling Richie into a very careful hug and speaking softly into his ear. "But you need to do this. It'll all work out. Worst comes to worst, we all meet back here at the hospital in thirty days. Methos will explain everything else."

"Okay. I guess." Richie still looked doubtful, and turned to Connor.

"Take care of yourself," Connor said, clasping one hand fondly to the side of Richie's head and then letting it drop away.

"You too," Richie said, and started for the coach.

"Richie," Connor said.

Richie turned back. "Yeah?"

"I *was* mad at you," Connor said. "Not because you did something stupid. But because you did it before I could."

Richie stared at him for a full moment, then smiled. Without another word he let Aidan help him up into the sleek black conveyance. The younger twin followed, and Townsend gave a sharp order that started the carriage down the cobblestoned street.

Duncan stared after it, lost in his own thoughts. Connor nudged him.

"It's cold," Connor muttered. "And brooding doesn't help."

An hour later, just as the slow and ponderous bells from the main square announced ten o'clock, the two Highlanders met Brennar in the east side stables. They were late, having twice gotten lost and once choosing to detour through an alley at the approach of two police officers. Brennar, impatient and cranky, shook her head at them as if they were incorrigible children. She'd already roused the grooms from their rest and paid them for the use of three palominos. She slung bags of fruits, cheeses and dried meats over the saddles, along with several flagons of water and rolled blankets for sleeping.

She handed Connor a thicker cloak against the chill night air, and he struggled into with one hand and barked at Duncan when the younger Highlander tried to help him. He didn't have a sword, his last one having been confiscated at Fort Orseven, but Brennar had a short dagger she gave him for his own protection. The highways, she said, were sometimes full of bandits and cutthroats. Her own blade rested in the soft leathery folds of her boots, and Duncan had no doubt she knew how to use it.

Once past the city gates, Brennar stopped to look over her shoulder at Sharna's spires and towers. Duncan wondered what she was thinking. Maybe of dead fathers and priestesses, or of broken promises and failed love. He didn't feel he knew her well enough to ask. She turned back, shoulders squaring, face set with grimness, and spurred her horse forward. At the bottom of the hill the road forked left and right, and they took the silvery white path toward Jemhar.

The countryside beyond Sharna rolled gradually into farmland and forest still caught in the chill of early spring. They rode until past midnight, then snuggled down into their bedrolls for a few hours sleep. Duncan rose before the other two and had a small crackling fire going at dawn. Connor woke with muttered Gaelic oaths, displeased with both the hour and the pain shooting up his arm, and gladly drank the hot soup and medicine Duncan handed him. Brennar rose just as stiffly and almost as grumpily, but by lunchtime outside the village of Grafa her disposition had improved enough to tell them tales of Jemhar's royal court.

"My father was the First Chronicler for thirty years, in charge of all the imperial records. Not a very glamorous or exciting position, but he enjoyed it. I was born and grew up in Jemhar, along with all the other children of the court employees. The royal halls were off limits to us except on special occasions, but the rest of the palace was ours to run loose in. Stables, gardens, kitchens, music halls, schoolrooms - I remember them all as clearly as if it was yesterday. Visitors from outside would remark on how rich and beautiful it all was, but to us it was just normal.

"My mother died of golden fever when I was seventeen. By that time I was an assistant to the ladies in waiting, following them around and doing whatever they needed done - writing correspondence, acknowledging gifts, planning parties. Eventually I grew tired of court life and finally left to come to Sharna and work at the bank. My father adored court life. I never thought he'd leave it. But nine months ago he came to me and told me he was going across to Earth. "

"You said he used a forbidden magic spell," Duncan prompted. "Do you know what it is?"

Brennar's expression tightened. "No. I never had need to know or find out. I can't cross. But my father could, because his twin had been taken to Earth at birth. And in any case, to cross without the joint blessing of the Lady and of the High Priestess is punishable by death. I don't think he had that."

By nightfall they'd covered forty leagues, about thirty miles by Duncan's calculation. Brennar rented a room at a country inn, registering with the owner under an assumed name. Duncan posed as her husband and Connor as her brother. The rented room had one large bed with a lumpy mattress and stained blanket, big enough for all three of them if no one rolled over in the night.

Duncan was surprised that the outwardly prim Brennar would consent to sleep in the same bed with two men, but she lifted her eyes at his suggestion one of them sleep on the floor. "I don't bite," she said.

"It's not that," Duncan answered, slightly flustered. "I just didn't think you'd be comfortable."

Brennar rubbed her lower back. "After a day in the saddle I don't care where anyone sleeps."

Connor managed to down a hearty supper of beef stew and rye bread before practically pitching over in exhaustion. Duncan manhandled him into the center of the bed with a muttered suggestion his kinsman might want to lose some weight. Brennar curled up on her side of the mattress, her auburn hair loosely braided down her back. The window rattled with the strength of the rising wind, and fat drops of rain splashed against the dusty glass. Duncan was glad they hadn't chosen to spend the night outside. He turned down the lantern and slipped beneath the blanket and an additional layer of coats and clothing. His head spun with questions and visions about Jemhar, and for awhile his thoughts spiraled through centuries of his own royal intrigues in France, England and Scotland. A soft sound brought him back to the present, and he realized Brennar was crying.

"Are you okay?" he asked, peering at her over Connor's warm, sleeping body. The words sounded lame - of course she wasn't - and he immediately wanted to kick himself.

She didn't answer right away, but then said, "I was thinking about my father, buried in the middle of nowhere under the weight of those stones. Do you think he's cold?"

Duncan said softly, "No, he's not cold. He's with your mother."

Brennar sniffed, then blew her nose in a handkerchief pulled from her sleeve. "It's silly, isn't it?"

"Grief is anything but silly."

"I suppose," Brennar agreed. A fart from Connor made them fall into a silence broken by their own breathing and the kick of wind outside, and they said nothing more about the subject.

Duncan dropped off into a black, dreamless sleep, and blinked his eyes open some time later at the unexpected sound of a scrape on the wooden floor. Before he came fully back to his senses a hand clamped down over his mouth and something sharp pressed up against his throat.

"Move and I'll slit you from ear to ear," a harsh voice whispered.

Duncan didn't move. In the past he wouldn't have worried much about such a threat, but as a mortal he couldn't help the shiver that ran down his spine and legs. Roused by the voice, Brennar jerked up and into the hands of a second intruder. The sharp edge of a knife against her side quelled her struggling. Connor raised himself up his left arm, trying to see in the room's darkness, and demanded in an amazingly calm voice, "What do you want?"

"Ethan Winokur," growled the man holding Brennar. He shook her. "Where is he, girl?"

"He's not here," Brennar said. She looked like she was just barely holding back from spitting in the man's face. "What do you want with him?"

"We want to know why he went across," the second man said, pulling Duncan from the bed. They were of the same height, almost equal build, and a mask over the man's face hid his features. The razor-sharp blade didn't waver at Duncan's throat.

"He's not here," Brennar repeated.

"Then maybe you can help us find him," the second man suggested, and started pulling her towards the door. With a sharp, short cry she swung her elbow up into his face, smashing it into his cheek and eye. Duncan felt the blade skim his neck and for a split- second he seriously believed his throat had been slit. The thought his life might be over left him shocked. Then the knife's heavy wooden handle slammed into the back of his head, dropping him to his knees as he slid down a spiraling tube of red hot light and thumping pain. The next thing he knew Connor had flown out the door in pursuit of the men, and Brennar was sitting in a slump on the floor, the right side of her nightgown stained red.

It occurred to Duncan in a dull, hazy sort of way that she might need his help, and he pitched himself forward against the impossible tilt of the floor in an effort to crawl to her side. She made it to him first, and they clung to each other for a few seconds.

"You hurt?" he muttered thickly.

"Just a scratch," Brennar said, her fingers pushing his clumsy hand away. She traced the swell of blood at his throat that the shallow slice had produced. "Are *you* hurt?"

"Nope," he said, and the room grayed out. The next thing he knew he was back in the bed, something cold pressed against his head, and two men were shouting. Connor and the landlord, it seemed. The landlord blustered, saying Connor had stirred up a ruckus and woken half the inn. Connor retorted by saying the inn was obviously a dangerous place where no man could sleep safely without being attacked, murdered and dragged out into the alley like a dog.

The landlord said they'd have to leave for being unruly.

Connor said if the landlord wanted them to leave, he'd have to throw them out himself. He illustrated the point by hauling the small, skinny man to the hall by the scruff of his neck and slamming the door behind him.

Brennar swam into focus above Duncan's head. "You got a nasty knock on the head," she said.

"I remember that part," Duncan said. Against her protests he wedged himself upright and squinted at Connor. "Who got murdered?"

Connor gave him an odd look. "No one. How's your head?"

"Hurts." Duncan probed the tender lump on the back of his skull and decided he didn't like being mortal. "What happened to the two men?"

"I lost them," Connor admitted, a trifle sheepishly. His clothes squished wetly as he sat on a side chair and began wiping his feet clean of mud. "I did catch one of them, for just a few seconds, and saw something very interesting before he squirmed free."

"What did you see?" Duncan asked.

Connor held up his right wrist. "A blue tattoo, right here. A circle of dots around a bird's head."

Both Connor and Duncan looked at Brennar. "The mark of the Duenne," she said.

Duncan swore softly and leaned back against the pillows, his head spinning from both the revelation and lingering concussion. Watchers wore tattoos of rams' heads. The Duenne wore birds. Another strange coincidence, or just another link between Earth and Zeist? He wondered if he'd ever find out.

"Well, that makes it all just a little more interesting, doesn't it?" Connor yawned. "There's nothing to do about it tonight. I'm going back to sleep."

Duncan half expected the skinny little innkeeper to round up a few dozen burly friends to throw them out onto the streets, but the man apparently decided to leave well enough alone. They did prop a chair up against the door as a precaution against more uninvited guests. None of them slept well for the rest of the night. The next day they covered forty more leagues, stopping only in the face of a flooded river and washed-away bridge. Sturdy, frustrated men with horses and fulcrums struggled to swing a new bridge in place, and Duncan pitched in to help. By the end of it he was freezing and soaked to the bone. The local inn had no spare room that night, but for three brass coins Brennar procured an empty stable stall that at least sheltered them from the elements. Connor went in search of dinner, and came back with roasted chicken wings dripping hot grease and a flagon of pungent wine.

"This will warm you up," he promised Duncan.

The farmlands disappeared the next day in the wake of increasingly larger villages and towns, wider roads, and snarling traffic from pedestrians, horses, mules, carriages, coaches, buggies, and wagons. The leaden skies looked heavy with more rain to come, but the foul weather held off. At three o'clock they passed the outskirts of Jemhar City, and continued riding out into the well- kept countryside until just before dusk, when Brennar brought her mare to a stop.

"There it is," she pointed.

Duncan squinted at the farthest ridge. Late afternoon mists obscured his vision for a moment, blending the sky and ground into equal shades of gray. He despaired of seeing anything, but then a shaft of sunlight broke free of the clouds and the mists rolled back to reveal the graceful spires and jutting towers of a mammoth palace rising behind a stone fortification. Spread upon a hill, seemingly ageless and impervious, it could easily turn back any assault mounted against it. He could easily imagine thousands of troops quartered in its precincts. A deep, nameless thrill ran through him at the sight of it, his pulse pounding like a tiny Quickening.

Connor wasn't impressed. "I've seen better."

"Sure you have," Duncan said.

Brennar lifted her chin in challenge. "Are you ready?"

"More ready than I've ever been in my life," Duncan swore. "Lead the way."

"Why are we stopping?" Aidan asked, as the coach rumbled to a halt just outside Sharna's north gate.

Richie didn't know why, but he was glad. They'd only been bouncing up and down on the uneven roads for about ten minutes, but he'd already begun to think this might be a mistake. He had to lean forward to keep his back from scraping the velvet backing of the bench, and the fatiguing effort kept him off-balance as the wheels and springs jogged the coach in constant motion.

"Pilgrims," Townsend called down from above, where he sat with the driver.

Aidan frowned. "I hate pilgrims," he said. "They're usually smelly and pious. In that order."

But the two pilgrims who climbed into the coach followed by Townsend were neither smelly or pious.

"What's going on?" Richie asked Methos, who did a double take at the sight of Aidan.

"Thought we'd join you," Methos said slowly, and then settled himself down beside Richie. The facing benches allowed just enough room for five pairs of legs. Townsend rapped sharply on the ceiling, and the horses plunged forward again. In English Methos said, "There was some trouble at one of the temples. A priestess is dead and I'm going to get blamed. It's better if your ... brother? - doesn't know about it."

Aidan watched Methos and Richie quarrel in English for a few more minutes and asked Townsend what exactly was happening. The army officer scratched at his scruffy chin. "It's better not to say, exactly. The police might come looking for them."

"Police?" Aidan asked. "Why?"

"If you know," Richie said, breaking back into Zeistian, "you could be blamed for helping."

"You're going to get blamed," Aidan said to his twin, sounding slightly exasperated. "And you too," he added to Townsend. "So stop protecting me like I need special treatment. I may only be Karcey Pielle's mortal son, but I'm a Pielle nonetheless."

Methos' ears sharpened at the hint of more segregation or discrimination in this world of Immortals and mortals, but a jolt of the carriage sent Richie grasping for a hand-hold and he didn't catch his twin's irritation. After exchanging looks with Townsend, Methos decided to keep quiet. Dalia, wedged beside Methos against the coach wall, started to open her mouth but shut it again as Methos surreptitiously squeezed her arm.

Aidan's frown darkened to a scowl when he realized he wasn't going to get any answers. He spent the next half hour glowering at the moonlit countryside outside the coach's half-curtained windows. Townsend settled back, eyes closing in obvious fatigue. The only way Richie found any comfort at all was to wedge himself sideways against the bench, careful to keep his flayed back from scraping the coach wall. Uncomfortable but bearable, at least for the first hour. Then a growing queasiness in his stomach began to churn and boil, and he knew he was going to be sick.

Ridiculous, he told himself. He'd started joyriding in stolen cars when he was thirteen, lured by the adventures of older boys in the orphanage. He'd gotten his first bike at sixteen and wrecked it exactly three weeks later in an accident that convinced his new foster parents to turn him back over to the state. Since then, either with Duncan or on his own, he'd been on freighters, trains, airplanes, gondolas, hot-air balloons, and almost every modern conveyance he could think of with the exception of a nuclear submarine and the space shuttle. Never, ever, had he fallen victim to motion sickness before now.

He stayed silent until the building pressure threatened to erupt like a volcano. "Stop the coach," he muttered to Methos, squeezing his eyes shut.

"Huh?" Methos asked, coming out of a light doze.

"We have to stop!" Richie pleaded, louder, and Methos rapped on the ceiling. They hadn't even stopped moving fully before Richie tumbled out, heaving into the darkness at the side of the road. Aidan bent beside him, one hand pressed lightly against the back of Richie's head. Richie vomited up the remains of dinner and then sat back on his haunches, face green in the moonlight.

Aidan put his hand against Richie's forehead. "You're feverish."

"I know," Richie said weakly. "But I never got car sick before."

"What's a car?"

"Combustible engine personal transportation," Methos said, crouching down to feel for fever himself. Richie's forehead was indeed very warm. They had any number of options before them, including turning around and returning to Sharna, but it would be better in the long run to get to Pielle.

"Maybe things will be better if you lay down," Methos suggested.

"Maybe things will be better if you shoot me," Richie muttered.

Methos helped him up. "That's not as funny as it used to be."

"Who's joking?"

Dalia switched benches and Methos found himself occupying the floor, sitting beside Richie's prone body crammed onto the remaining bench. Water and fever medicine came choking back out of him an hour later, followed by dry heaves an hour after that. Methos reflected darkly that if Richie were still an Immortal, they could at least put him out of his misery by snapping his neck - but if he were still an Immortal, he wouldn't have these problems in the first place. The sour smell of sickness filled the coach, wrinkling everyone's noses and prompting various creative thinking.

No inns or houses marked the rocky, remote road they were traveling, and the chances of tracking down a doctor at that late hour seemed ridiculously small. Townsend suggested wine to help Richie sleep, but Methos dissuaded him. They stopped to boil some of the physician's kolder root, but that produced even more vile results. Finally Dalia took Richie's head into her lap and began stroking his temples and face, whispering words Methos couldn't hear. The young man relaxed by degrees, although they kept a bag close at hand in case he became sick again. When he finally dozed off they breathed a collective sigh of relief. Daybreak came two hours later, after one of the longest nights Methos could remember in several hundred years, and with it came the promise of shelter, hot water and rest.

The countryside had turned rocky and craggy - beautiful in a rugged way, Methos noted, but the trees and grass had yet to come back from winter hibernation to flesh out the barren countryside. The tired driver brought the coach to a stop at the base of Pielle's temple, which Methos glimpsed high above - a stark fortress carved into the side of a mountain, utterly lacking any sign of a welcome mat.

"You have to walk from here," Townsend said.

Richie woke with bright eyes and flushed cheeks and demanded to know in English where Methos was going. Methos reminded him that he had to leave now, to find the Crown Priestess and clear his name.

"Don't go," Richie pleaded.

"I have to. Besides, you have your brother now. He'll take care of you."

Richie shook his head. He had a brother, but he didn't know anything about him. He had a family, but the word carried scary prospects of total strangers who would expect him to be a certain way. He was in unfamiliar surroundings, in a strange and foreign world, and he felt like shit. The last thing he wanted was for Methos to abandon him, and told him so.

Methos knew he was dealing with a sick and feverish young man who wasn't exactly being rational, and tried to soothe him. "I won't be far. You'll be in safe hands, and they'll take care of you."

"No," Richie insisted, squeezing his eyes shut. "Stay with me."

Six hours of playing nursemaid in a cramped, foul coach bouncing up and down thirty miles of rough road and getting no sleep whatsoever had done nothing good for Methos' mood. He'd never liked whining and especially didn't like it from Richie, who should know better. He held his tongue, though, and engaged in a raging inner debate about exactly how much he owed anyone in the name of friendship.

He looked at Dalia, who had already stepped out of the coach and was standing in the chill morning air waiting for him, and finally sighed. "We'll come back," he said in Zeistian. He turned his gaze to Townsend and Aidan and said, "Let's get him settled down first."

"Thanks," Richie whispered.

Methos knew the kid meant it. But he grumbled anyway, "I hope I don't regret it."

***

The main gates of Jemhar stood poised at the end of an imposing drawbridge. Duncan tried to still the insane hammer of his pulse as they walked their horses across the weathered oak. Brennar announced them to the guards and petitioned for entrance. They didn't have an appointment in the palace, they had no proper royal credentials, and they couldn't state their business. The guards said they could not enter. Brennar demanded to see their superior officer and refused to back down. The guards finally found someone who recognized her from her days at the palace. The ruddy, jolly soldier insisted on escorting them through the palace's lower keeps toward the lodging inns.

"Unexpected visitors with the proper credentials can beg the court for an audience," Brennar had told Connor and Duncan, "but it could take weeks or months of waiting for just a few minutes with some bureaucratic ninny. I'll find us some credentials, but this still might take awhile. We might as well find somewhere to stay."

The four small inns in the lower keep were each crammed to the hilt - the war had made the palace a popular refuge and opportunities for business abounded - but again Brennar's old connections came through, and they rented two tiny attic rooms under a set of gables that were five times as luxurious and ten times as expensive as the one they'd spent their second night in. The three of them ate dinner in the inn's loud, nearly riotous dining room, surrounded by a rowdy group of drunken merchants and tooth-gapped mercenaries.

Duncan remembered a time when Connor would have hoisted his own mug of overflowing ale in the spirit of celebration, but Connor had seen the war and its muddy, gory battlefields. He didn't appreciate the brave words and cowardly hearts of the men who'd stayed here, sending boys off to fight their war. He started to say as much to a particularly obnoxious swordmaker from Misphalia, but Duncan interrupted him with a dig to the side.

"We don't want to cause any trouble," he muttered in English.

Connor gave him a cold look that said he would cause as much trouble as he wanted to, but he subsided over his ale and remained stoically quiet for the rest of the evening.

Brennar disappeared after dinner, setting off in search of information and access, having first warned Duncan and Connor to stay in the room and try to keep a low profile. She came back bearing both good and bad news.

"I spoke very briefly with my Uncle Yarley. He's not really my uncle, but he's as close as family. He's willing to help us seek an audience with the Lady."

"Did you tell him about Earth?" Duncan asked.

"No. There wasn't enough time, and there were too many people around that could have overheard. But at least it's a start."

It was a start, Duncan agreed silently. But he didn't want beginnings. He wanted endings. Impatience coursed through him like an inner fire, fueled by the fantasy of finding Tessa alive and well in this walled city. He went for a walk, bristling at Brennar's warnings that he be careful - he'd been able to take care of himself for almost four centuries, after all - and tried to stomp off excess energy with a long walk.

Over the next few days he did quite a lot of stomping, at all hours of day and night, cutting repeated trails through Jemhar's keeps, wards and precincts. Brennar painstakingly went through her list of old friends and acquaintances in the city, trying to negotiate a tricky path that would lead to information about what her father had been doing. Connor chummed up to the palace guards, finding kindred spirits in the professional soldiers who bet their weekly wages on card games in dark, rowdy inns. Duncan felt useless and helpless, impatient and anxious. Brennar didn't want his help and Connor didn't need it. The younger Highlander ended up visiting the market every day, listening to odd snatches of gossip, cursing Ethan Winokur's ghost for leading them here and then abandoning them.

Brennar came back to their rented rooms one day with the news that Uncle Yarley had wrangled two extra invitations for a minor state function that evening in the royal courts. Duncan didn't think much of Yarley - the aging mortal fancied himself of royal blood, carried himself with an excessively haughty manner, and had failed to produce an audience with Lady Jemhar - and he certainly didn't think much of minor state functions.

"What good will it do us?" he said bitterly. "We've been here eight days and we're no closer to any answers than when we first arrived."

"But tomorrow we might discover everything," Brennar said practically, unpinning her hair in order to brush out the long curls. "Or did you want to give up? This is a game that we have to play very delicately - "

"It's not a game," Duncan interrupted darkly.

She gazed at him without expression and then left the room. Connor made a disapproving sound from his corner. "Do you really think taking out your bad mood on her is going to help?"

Duncan threw his hands out in an exasperation. "Name one thing we've accomplished."

"We're still alive," Connor said with a raised eyebrow. "Considering how we started off here, I think that's quite an accomplishment."

After half an hour of yells and shouts and reminders about just who was older and wiser than who, Duncan took Connor's advice and apologized to Brennar in her room. He knew she was doing all she could to help them. He dressed in the clothes she'd bought him - a too-tight shirt, a lacy collar, a pair of satin breeches - and wrestled a pleasant expression onto his face. The function was in fact a ball for the Merchant Guild, hosted in a crowded hall of gold and mirrors in the palace's west wing. Duncan and Brennar circulated with Yarley and his chubby little date, the widow Janys, and with each fake smile and pleasant nod Duncan's head began to pound. He wanted to leave after only an hour.

"We have to wait," Brennar told him. "It would be impolite to leave now."

Duncan could think of a few impolite things that might get them ejected from the room, and was entertaining a very lively fantasy of hijinks when a hush fell through the hall. Men and women began to drop down in subservience.

"What - " he started to say to Brennar, then caught sight of a purple-robed party entering the room. The band in the corner began to play a march.

"Get down!" Brennar hissed, tugging at his arm.

He started to obey her and then focused on the royal party. The brunette woman in the lead, wearing magnificent purple robes of pure silk, had to be the Lady Jemhar. The men would be advisors or cabinet ministers, and the three women holding the Lady's gown were obviously attendants.

"You have to kneel!" Brennar hissed.

But he couldn't kneel. He couldn't do anything with his body. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't feel. Everything washed away, like a cold tide draining to the sea, leaving him stranded in the golden hall of candles and music, and he knew with a horrid certainty that he was going to faint.

Faint in front of the Lady Jemhar, the Queen of Horin.

Faint in front of Tessa Noel.

Methos spent a long, worried night toying with the notion of trying to make penicillin out of moldy bread. Surely there was a way, even in this primitive culture devoid of technology and science. He fell asleep without even realizing it, worn down to the bone from the worry and stress of playing nursemaid for three days. When he woke the sun had made a grand reappearance after heavy rains and Richie was blinking at him from a mound of yellow pillows and blue wool blankets.

Methos sat up, wincing at the stiffness in his neck and back. "Are you coherent?" he asked Richie hopefully.

"Any reason I shouldn't be?" the much younger man croaked out.

"You've been delirious with fever for three days," Methos returned.

Richie's gaze roamed the bedroom. Methos glanced too, although by now he'd already memorized the brass bed, oak dresser, wash basin, basin stand, and two sitting chairs. A small watercolor of the countryside hung framed by the window; unlike the Mazereen, the Horin believed it was unlucky to draw or paint the image of human face. The cream-colored walls and pale green trim made the room seem airy and bright, and the renewed blossoming of spring outside brought in fresh air and bird song.

"Where are we?" Richie asked.

"What do you remember?"

Richie's face furrowed in thought. He still looked gaunt and weary, but normal color had returned to his cheeks. "The coach," he hazarded. "And then we stopped at a house . . . " Abruptly he pushed himself up, swaying a little, his fists clenching the pillows. "Are we at my parent's house?"

"No," Methos said. "You adamantly refused to go there. Put up quite a fuss, actually. This is your brother's house. He lives in Pielle village, not too far from your parents' castle."

"Castle?" Richie sounded as if he'd never heard the word before. "They live in a castle?"

Methos shrugged. "I've seen it. It looks drafty."

Richie seemed to be having trouble assimilating information. "But we're not there."

"We're not there," Methos echoed. "This is Aidan's house. We've been trying to get your fever down for three days."

Richie leaned back against the pillows, careful to prop himself on his side. Methos knew his back had scabbed over but the wounds would still be painful. It had been exactly seven days since they'd landed in Zeist, seven days that had fundamentally changed many of Methos' assumptions about Immortals and life. Six days since Richie writhed beneath a Mazereen whip for theft. Four days since the High Priestess of Sharna killed herself and died in Methos' arms. He should have just stayed in Seacouver, and let Duncan spin off into this misadventure on his own. But hindsight, as usual, wasn't going to accomplish anything.

"I'm hungry," Richie complained.

"Good," Methos said approvingly. "It's about time."

Aidan had no servants, but was delighted to make breakfast for his twin. Dalia was still sleeping. Aidan and Methos watched Richie down two glasses of apple juice, one piece of toast and a boiled egg before sagging back in weariness.

"I guess I'm not as hungry as I thought," he said glumly, eyeing the remaining food on his tray.

Aidan shook his head. "You did fine. It's just good to have you back. You were so feverish I feared for your life, but I didn't dare call in a doctor. Everyone here knows me. Word of my twin would travel far and wide."

Methos stretched, cracking his back. "Luckily you're still the stubborn Richie Ryan we all know, and you fought it off."

"It feels like I lost." Richie scratched his head and made a face. "I'm all sticky. Is there a shower around here?"

"You can take a hot bath later," Aidan promised him, moving to take the tray. "You should get some more sleep."

"No way," Richie said. "I want to go meet our parents."

Aidan paused in amazement. "Now? You're not well enough."

"I have to," Richie said. "They're so close. I have to do it."

"I'll bring them here, then."

"No!" Richie's voice was firm as he threw back the blankets and swung his bare feet towards the floor. "I don't want them to see me like this. Let me get cleaned up and we'll go."

Methos decided to put an end to that nonsense. "You're staying right where you are," he warned sternly, "if I have to tie you down myself. For three days I've been sitting here playing Florence Nightingale while you did a very good impression of someone in a delirium. Do I look like a nurse? Changing sheets and forcing water into you and watching you burn up is not my idea of a good time. You're not going to jeopardize your recovery by getting out of that bed one minute before we say you can."

Richie stared at him, taken aback by the sternness. "I bet Florence Nightingale was cuter than you are," he finally grumbled, and let Aidan push him back to the pillows.

"You didn't really think you'd get far anyway, did you?" Aidan asked curiously.

A faint smile came from beneath the crumpled blankets. "No," Richie admitted. "But I had to try." The smile faded, replaced by a crease of concern. "I meant what I said, though. I don't want them coming here and seeing me like this. I'm going to meet them on my own two feet."

Aidan patted his arm. "Trust me. They don't even know we're here. If I'd told them, Dad would have knocked the door down to get in. Mom's a little more restrained, but they'll probably both cut my heart out for keeping this a secret, even if I'm not an Immortal like they are."

During Richie's illness Methos had spent many hours discussing Zeist Immortals and mortals with Aidan. The division between the two classes became even more pronounced in the case of mortal children and Immortal parents. Aidan owned this small house in the village because he didn't feel comfortable living with his Immortal parents and sister. They moved in their own social circles populated by other Immortals, and enjoyed job and educational opportunities denied to Aidan because of his mortality. Aidan swore his parents loved him, and would love Richie as well, but he did say that Immortal parents usually tried not to get too attached to their mortal children.

"I think it must be difficult for them," Aidan confided. "Until puberty their children might be Immortal, might be mortal, no one can say. Then suddenly it's one or the other. And if the kid's mortal, the parents are faced with having to watch him or her grow older and older. One day I'll look sixty, and my dad will always look thirty. I'll get sick or die of injuries, and he'll live forever. With Richie it might be different, though. He's Immortal. Just not here in Zeist."

Methos asked how often Immortal parents had children.

"Immortal women aren't always fertile. I mean, they can't get pregnant all the time. They go through phases of fertility. My mom and dad have had seventeen living children - four Immortal single births, seven mortal single births, and three sets of twins where the Faeron left the mortal ones behind. My oldest Immortal brother is a hundred and fifty years old. He defected to Mazer a long time ago, and I've never met him. My oldest sister is mortal. She's seventy five, and lives in a hospital with nurses in attendance."

Methos imagined how the mix of mortal and Immortal children could change a family's dynamics. He asked Aidan if only Immortal heirs in Zeist could inherit crowns and titles, and wasn't at all surprised when Aidan said of course.

"It just makes sense," Aidan said. "Mortals die far too easily and young. An Immortal offers stability and continuity. Unless he or she gets bored and hands the title down. That's in Horin, of course. In Mazer, heirs can challenge their parents to duels. Whoever keeps his heart wins. In Misphalia, the courts decide who gets the crown, usually limiting one person to a hundred years or so."

"So in Horin, at least, the power is concentrated in relatively few hands," Methos mused. "And there are a lot of frustrated Immortal heirs who'll never get anything."

Aidan nodded. "That's why many of them end up wandering all over Zeist, never settling down, always looking for something new to do or see. Many of them become explorers, journeying past the edge of the known world - "

"Edge of the known world?" Methos asked. "Do you believe the world is flat?"

Aidan hesitated. "Well, it's said that on Earth they've proved the world is a globe. But no one believes that here. It's one of the reasons it's forbidden to go across - it's heresy to claim the world is round."

"What happens to the explorers who journey past the so-called edge?"

"No one knows. We never see them again. But it's said they go to a far away land of magic and powers the likes of which we've never seen." Aidan's voice dropped and his face, showing the maturity Richie's couldn't, took on a faint look of wonder. "It's said they go to where the Faeron live."

Richie would have to be told all of that, of course, but since he'd already fallen back to sleep Methos held his tongue. He went and took his own cold shower, the first in two days, and then settled into a feather bed for several hours of sleep. For the next few days Richie rested in bed, although rested was probably not the word for the cranky patient who used his returning strength to fidget, complain, toss, turn, and complain some more. At every opportunity he attempted to persuade Methos, Aidan and Dalia that he was ready to be up on his feet, and each time they told him he was crazy.

But finally they threw up their hands in defeat and let Richie take his long-awaited bath. He crawled into bed immediately afterward, weary from the exertion. The next morning he put on fresh clothes and combed his hair and announced that he was ready to meet his mother and father.

Aidan looked doubtful. "You're sure?"

Richie took a deep breath and managed a cocky grin. "No. But if I lie here much longer wondering what it's going to be like, I'm going to drive myself nuts."

Townsend, who'd been spending his days visiting the local army garrison and enjoying lunches with the Pielles, came by with his carriage to pick them up. "I was very tempted to tell them about you," he grinned to Richie as they climbed in. "It took great constraint on my part to keep quiet."

Richie said very little on the trip from the village to the castle. Methos glanced over a few times to ensure he wasn't getting sick again, and decided it was anxiousness not physical discomfort on his young friend's face. Methos remembered meeting Alexa's parents and how nervous he'd been then, despite the fact he was nearly a hundred times older than they were. He couldn't image how nerve-wracking it would be to meet his own parents.

But Richie wasn't thinking about his parents. He had been, for days, wondering what they looked like and how they acted and whether or not they would accept him. The thought of being only a few miles from them had driven him crazy, like a nonstop itch in his lungs and stomach and bowels. Now that the carriage was on the narrow road, lumbering up through mountain passes, he found himself curiously calm about the whole thing. He looked at the road, the barren trees, the incredibly blue sky. He heard Methos and Townsend talking, although he couldn't say what they were discussing. Instead of thinking about what was ahead he found himself turned backward, to his very first night living in the antique store with Duncan and Tessa.

Only seven years ago, but it seemed like centuries. He'd been seventeen, scrawny, cocky, scared, and at the end of his teenage rope. Duncan had come looking for him after the night on Soldier's Bridge and tracked him down to the rat-infested warehouse where Richie had been crashing with some other runaways and a few homeless men. Richie could very clearly remember the sight of Duncan MacLeod's brown Italian loafers wading through trash and coming to a stop beside him.

"You're coming with me," Duncan had announced.

"Like hell," Richie retorted.

Duncan didn't even blink. "Grab your stuff. The car's parked outside."

"No," Richie said, sitting up and clutching the knapsack that held all his worldly possessions. "Why should I?"

"Because Tessa's worried about you."

"Who's Tessa?" he'd asked.

Duncan hadn't been exaggerating. When he'd outlined Richie's living conditions to her she'd been aghast at the idea of a teenage boy living in a condemned warehouse with no heat, no running water, and no food. Richie found that out much later, of course. That first night he'd been too busy fighting fear and suspicion to register Tessa's concerns. The two adults promised him a job and a place to sleep if he stayed out of trouble. It seemed like a fair trade, except for that little thing about Duncan being a murderer.

"Well," the Highlander had acknowledged, "there are some things we'll talk about regarding that, but let's wait until after dinner."

Hot food, and plenty of it, knocked Richie almost right to sleep. Duncan's little birds and bees talk about Immortals didn't come until later. That first night, clean for the first time in a week, well fed but still confused and off-balance at Duncan's unexpected offers, Richie had barely enough energy to climb between fresh sheets and settle down into a sweet smelling pillow on his own. The door opened a minute later, letting in a shaft of hallway light that illuminated Duncan and Tessa's silhouettes.

"Sleep well, Richie," Tessa said.

For a few seconds Richie allowed himself the luxury of thinking this was his house, and those were his parents in the hall. Silly fantasy. "Is this my bed check?" he challenged. "I didn't go out the window."

"Good night," Duncan said firmly, and shut the door.

Richie could almost smile at the memory now. Tessa and Duncan *had* been his parents, in a way. He'd certainly tested their patience and judgment. It had taken months for him to trust them, and probably vice versa. Their support went beyond food, clothes, his room, the bike, the trip to France, everything. Tessa's death had dissolved most of that. Now he was about to gain a family he'd never met, and it felt like a betrayal of her and Duncan both.

The coach stopped. He looked up, bewildered, and saw they'd arrived. Methos, Aidan and Townsend all waited for him to make the first move. He stepped down to the ground, his feet curiously light and chest extremely tight. A paved walk led from the circular drive to a slate-gray castle three stories high and four times as long. Towers stood at each end of the building, spiraling up into understated Gothic spires capped by fluttering red flags. The top floor had fourteen small rectangular windows, while the first and second floor boasted larger frosted windows. Exquisite lawns ran from the drive to the castle, bordered by precisely hemmed bushes and pruned trees. In the summer, he saw, flowers would bloom along the sidewalks.

"We won't meet them if we stay out here all day," Aidan said gently.

Richie wished he'd stayed in bed. He wasn't ready for this. Somehow he found the strength to nod in agreement, and he followed his twin along the walk towards the massive stone arch doorway ahead.

"I was kidding, before," Methos said. "It doesn't look too drafty."

"You're not helping."

"It's not my job to help," Methos said, offering a cheeky smile, and Richie almost laughed.

A servant answered the door. Before she could even look at Richie, Aidan sent her for his parents. Richie tried not to gape at the high ceiling, lush tapestries, polished silver and exquisite rugs as Aidan led the group into a small library off the main flagstone hall. The place was worth a fortune. Aidan offered them seats on red velvet sofas but Richie couldn't bear to sit, sure that he wouldn't be able to get up again.

"Maybe you should have warned them we were coming," he said to Aidan. "Shock's not a good thing, you know?"

"It'll be fine," Aidan reassured him.

"They'll be delighted to see you," Townsend added.

Richie could feel his entire left leg beginning to shake. "Maybe today's not a good day. They might have other things planned."

Aidan said, "Plans change."

He grasped for his few remaining straws. "They have tons of kids already. Who wants another one?"

"Richie, please sit down," Methos said. "You're making *me* nervous, and they're not even my parents."

"I don't think they're home - " Richie started, and then a man's voice from the hallway cut him off.

"Aidan? Where are you?" A man came to the doorway - a strong looking man with finely chiseled features, high cheekbones, deep blue eyes, and dark blond hair brushed close to the curve of his skull. Richie didn't need any swooning women in the room to realize that Karcey Pielle was devastatingly handsome. He looked Duncan's age, which threw Richie off for a moment. The fantasy image of his father he'd built up over the years had included petty details of mortality - aging, balding, and even liver spots.

"Dad," Aidan said, his voice tinny and faint like a radio transmission from Mars, "there's someone you should meet. This is Richie. Richie Ryan. Your son."

"Duncan, *down,*" Brennar hissed, yanking on his hand. Duncan stumbled to his knees in a daze and fought to keep from fainting. Lady Jemhar's implacable gaze turned from him, and one of her ministers took a step forward to whisper something in her ear. She shook her head. The minister fell back, his quizzical eyes scanning the room, and Duncan made himself look down. He dragged in one deep breath, then another. His pulse pounded twice its normal speed through his veins as he forced himself to stay still. Rashness would serve nothing. He had to be extraordinarily careful. But all he wanted in the universe was to grab her in his arms and carry her away -

A blast of horns announced the seating of the royal party on a hastily arranged throne. The crowd rose to its feet, but it took Duncan a few seconds longer than everyone else to find the strength to stagger upright. Brennar clutched his hand.

"You look dreadful," she said. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he said thickly. He felt slick with cold sweat and giddy with relief at the same time. His gaze slid past her to the throne. The Lady Jemhar had begun to accept the first lucky few to be standing in the receiving line. "Everything's fine. Did you know she would be here?"

"Who? The Lady? No. But she often shows up unannounced."

"I have to talk to her."

Brennar followed him to the receiving line. "Why?" she asked. "You think she knows what my father was doing?"

"Yes." Duncan mentally gathered himself, bracing for the charade still to come. He would have to kneel at her feet and pretend to be a total stranger. For her sake as well as his, and for the benefit of unknown enemies circulating at their elbows, they had to be strangers. The line edged forward. Duncan's heartbeat wouldn't slow down. He closed his eyes, trying to imagine himself doing a focused kata, but all that did was intensify the loud conversations around him and the sense of *her* just thirty feet away. He dried his damp hands against his pants. What if he failed? What if he threw himself on her in unrestrained joy? Her guards would probably stab him. He had to calm down or risk losing her again.

"What do I say?" he asked Brennar.

"Tell her your name - not your real one, of course. Tell her where we're staying. Ask for a private audience about something innocuous - your farm, your son's education, something like that."

Duncan glanced around desperately for a glass of water or wine. How could he ask her anything with his throat seized by dryness? He rehearsed a few simple lines, and with each increasing shuffle forward tried to quell the insane nervous twisting of his gut. Thirty people ahead of them. Twenty. Lady Jemhar's profile as she graciously accepted the kind words of an aging merchant, her quicksilver smile as she patted an elderly woman's hand. The lights of the hall dazzled his eyes. What if she wasn't Tessa? What if he was deluding himself?

Ten people. Five. One.

His turn.

With weak knees he walked slowly across the red carpet and turned to her. Lady Jemhar wore a perfectly inscrutable expression. Her brown hair had been pulled back into a thick cascade of curls down past her shoulders. Her purple robes offset a trace of blush in her cheeks and golden shadow above her eyes. She gave no indication that she knew him, no visual sign whatsoever of any turmoil in her own heart or head.

"Your Majesty," Duncan said, dropping to one knee. It took a supreme act of willpower to bend his head and focus on her gold slippers. "My name is Allan Rothwood." A safe name, an old friend of Tessa's in France, someone only she and Richie would know. "I'm staying at the White Lion Inn. I've come from Sharna to seek a private audience with you, regarding a matter of great personal importance."

"What matter might that be?" she asked, her voice perfectly level. The resonance and timbre sounded like Tessa, but the inflections betrayed no trace of the French accent she'd never been able to rid herself off at home.

Duncan's rehearsed story vanished from his head, and in its place he spoke directly, humbly. "The loss of my one true love."

Someone behind the Lady Jemhar snickered. Duncan's face burned, but he didn't lift his head or say a word.

"True loves are rare things," Lady Jemhar said. "Hard to find, harder to hold. I'm afraid my calendar does not permit us to meet, Allan Rothwood. But I'll pray for you tonight, that you might find your true love again."

"Thank you," he said.

And rose.

And walked away, the hardest thing he'd ever had to do.

***

Richie stood frozen in the middle of the library, feeling tiny and insignificant and dwarfed by the handsome, rugged Immortal lord in front of him. Aidan's words "Your son" hung heavy in the ornate room as Karcey Pielle's smile faded. His gaze narrowed in on Richie with an intensity and force that would have bent metal. Richie wanted to flee and hide - this had been the worst he'd ever made - but his feet wouldn't move an inch despite the desperate commands racing down his spinal cord.

Karcey's mouth opened. "May the priestesses save us," he whispered, so softly they all had to strain to hear him. More loudly he said, "Morrin. The last time I saw you . . . you were just a tiny babe squalling as the Faeron carried you away - "

Whatever he was about to say ended in choking noise. An elemental coldness in Richie's chest eased beneath a flood of warmth, and his feet almost floated over the carpet as he moved to his father. "Me? Squall?" He offered up his cockiest grin. "Not for a long time . . . Dad."

Dad. He'd said the word in jest, trying it out for size, but here for the first time in twenty four years stood someone who'd earned the name. The realization brought a trace of moisture to his eyes. But Karcey only stood and stared at him, and Richie feared he'd made a horrible assumption, committed some gross violation of manners.

"Son," Karcey said, and threw his arms around him with a half-cry, half-laugh. Richie almost staggered under the man's weight, and warning twinges raced up the still-healing slashes on his back, but he squeezed his father as hard as he could. Karcey broke away first, a dozen questions spilling out of his throat to "Morrin." How had he come to Zeist? When? Was he well? Was he hungry?

"Dad," Aidan laughed, "his name is Richie now. And why don't we sit down? I'll get some tea and sandwiches."

Karcey pulled Richie to the sofa and made him sit down. "Look at you," the Immortal beamed, squeezing Richie's hands. "All grown up! So like Aidan. But you look younger! How can that be? Unless - "

"Yeah." Richie didn't know how to stop grinning. "I'm Immortal. Well, in Earth. Not here, apparently."

"You crossed - but how? Who brought you? When did you arrive?"

"It's a long story," Richie said. He looked for Methos, but he and Townsend had disappeared with Aidan. "I didn't know any of this existed. I didn't know about you or Aidan - or anyone."

"How could you? Tell me about Earth. Did you grow up with a good family? Did they take care of you?"

Richie took a mental step backwards. He had no desire to share war stories about orphanages or foster homes with his real father. The truth would only rip open old wounds and inflict new ones. "I ended up with some really nice people," he said, thinking solely of Duncan and Tessa. "They took good care of me. I owe them a lot."

"We all do," Karcey said, beaming at him. "For almost twenty four years we've wondered where you were, what was happening to you, how you were faring - you can't imagine how worried your mother has been!" With those words Karcey's expression broke open. "Your mother! We need to tell her. She's in the garden, picking out decorations for the west wing."

Richie would have preferred to stay on the couch - his back had begun to ache horribly, and the lingering weakness from his illness made his head feel light - but he obediently followed Karcey outside to a series of descending terraces. The warming sunlight offset the brisk spring air. Three servants sat on footstools by an ornate armchair, holding bolts of cloth. The woman critically eyeing their offerings was extraordinarily beautiful. Her thick blonde hair hung in a short bob around her head, and her flawless skin bore a porcelain tinge that made her look almost ethereal.

"Alenda," Karcey said.

"Not now, dear," Alenda Pielle said, running her graceful fingers down a strip of fine green wool. "We're trying to decide on valences. You think it's easy work, redecorating an entire wing?"

"I have someone you'll want to meet," Karcey said devilishly.

"Not another relative of yours from Misphalia, I hope." Her gaze didn't stray from the cloth but a tiny smile graced her mouth.

"A relative, but not from Misphalia. Meet Richie. He's our son."

Alenda's head lifted. Richie, who'd been holding his breath through the entire exchange, beheld the most extraordinary aquamarine eyes he'd ever seen. Her smile faded into a puzzled quirk.

"What kind of trick is this?" she asked her husband.

"No trick," Karcey said. "He's come from Earth. Aidan brought him."

Alenda rose from her chair. A servant girl grabbed the swatches that spilled from her lap. She made no move toward Richie. She eyed him head to toe, with her hands clasped together in front of her and that half-twist on her mouth passing as a smile. "Morrin," she said.

It took everything Richie had not to step backward. He'd met this woman before, in a series of disapproving teachers, social workers, foster mothers. He'd clashed with her before, over his school behavior or choice of clothes or juvenile delinquency. She didn't like what she saw and so she would treat him as a second-class citizen, someone common and inconsequential and meaningless.

Tessa had been the first woman he'd known to look at him and see promise. This woman - his own mother - looked at him and saw something she didn't like and didn't want.

"It's a miracle," Karcey said.

"So it would seem," Alenda murmured. She cocked her head. "Almost but not quite identical to Aidan. Come here, child."

He was not her *child* but his feet moved him forward before his head could rebel. She stood exactly his height. Aidan had told him she was six hundred years old - older than either Duncan or Connor - and she'd borne seventeen children. Richie's mistake had been in thinking she would remember him as the one stolen to Earth, or think he was special in any way.

"You're mortal," she said softly.

Richie couldn't help the swell of bitterness that pushed itself up from his heart. "Does it matter?"

"So fragile," she murmured. With cold fingers she briefly touched the side of his face. Richie fought the urge to wipe the spot clean. Alenda turned to her husband briskly. "He's probably tired, my dear. I'm sure the trip must have been arduous. Why don't you put him in Aidan's old room?" To Richie she said, "We'll see you at dinner."

Richie blinked in the face of her dismissal. He went back toward the house with Karcey, his eyes stinging. "She's very glad to see you," Karcey said hastily as they walked. "She just has a hard time expressing it."

"Yeah," Richie said. "Okay."

Aidan, Methos and Townsend stood waiting inside the doorway. Richie couldn't tell how much they'd seen or overheard, but Aidan's face was sympathetic. "How about I take Richie upstairs, dad?" Aidan asked as he took his twin's elbow. "Come on. I'll show you the way."

"No," Richie said.

The men looked at him.

"We're not staying," Richie said. "I want to go back to Aidan's house."

Karcey put a hand on Richie's shoulder. "Your mother didn't mean anything, Morrin - Richie. She doesn't take easily to strangers. But she'll take to you."

Richie shrugged away from his father's hand. "Thank you, but we really have to go. Isn't that right, Aidan?" he said, throwing a deliberate look toward his brother in a test of fraternal support.

"Umm, yes," Aidan said. "We have some business to attend to. We'll be at my house."

"Richie - " Karcey said, blocking his way. Sorrow deepened the fine lines in his face. "Please stay. You look tired and pale. Do you feel well? It has been a long trip, after all. Please understand your mother loves you. She just doesn't remember that yet. For twenty four years you've been dead to us. We *never* thought we'd see you again."

Richie hesitated. He couldn't imagine enduring the long carriage ride back to Aidan's house. He certainly didn't know how much longer he could stay on his feet. But he didn't want to stay in *her* house. He was going to be "put" anywhere, like a knick-knack on a shelf, a curious object d'art picked up during someone's travels.

"We'll be at Aidan's," he said. "I promise. Come visit, won't you?"

Aidan threw his father a helpless look and followed Richie out the door. Methos lingered, as if about to say something, but then turned and walked outside as well. Townsend helped Richie climb into the carriage and only when he was safe inside did he let his shoulders drop under the pain in his back and rub his temples against a mounting headache.

"You're sure you want to leave?" Methos asked, climbing up to sit on the bench beside him. "What did she say to you?"

"It's what she didn't say," Richie answered. "Let's go."

Methos rapped on the ceiling. The carriage swung down the drive. Richie closed his eyes against the sight of Pielle castle retreating and vowed never to return again.

Connor MacLeod had a problem. He had several problems, in fact. His arm itched horrendously beneath its cast and the mending bone hurt like hell most days. He was stranded in a land far from Scotland, and unexpectedly ached for the hills and heather he'd known for five hundred years. He still had no idea what mysterious forces had brought him and the others to Zeist, or for what purpose. He was sick of Zeist's bitter potatoes and sinewy steaks. And he had a hangover.

But his real problem was Duncan.

At the Merchant Guild ball Duncan and Brennar had chanced across the Lady Jemhar, the woman Duncan *swore* was Tessa. Connor caught a faint glimpse of her the day after, across a crowded square with the sun in his eyes, far too distant to prove Duncan's claims. Brennar really couldn't say. But Duncan held stubbornly to his grim faith, and despite being cordially rejected by her in the reception line he swore she would send for him at the White Lion Inn.

That had been three nights ago.

No one had come for Duncan. No one had sent him secret missives. No cloaked figure appeared at the door, unmasking herself as Tessa Noel. The inn was conspicuously clean of any secret passages - at least to Connor's trained eyes and examination - and on the two occasions he'd booted Duncan out of their room to go get some fresh air, no one had brushed up against the younger Highlander muttering cryptic messages.

She hadn't sent for him.

Duncan sat by the window for hours, a dull-looking statue with hunched shoulders and pale face. Connor didn't need a telephone call to a special psychic hotline to know that all Duncan thought of was *her.* He liked Tessa just fine, but at times he wondered if she was really worth the trouble of crossing to Zeist, Winokur's death, Connor's own broken arm, Richie getting whipped, Methos on the run for murder -

Connor sighed. He rubbed his hand across his face and tried to work the sandpaper feeling from his eyelids. Duncan's restless bedtime gymnastics of tossing, turning, fluffing pillows, pounding the mattress and twisting the blankets did nothing for the quality of Connor's rest. He could easily slide right off the counter stool of the White Lion's pub and go to sleep on the rough hewn floor. Instead he sipped at a large, benign mug of tomato juice and kept an eye on the front stairs, ninety percent ready to leap into action should the need arise.

The other ten percent of him still complained about his arm and hangover.

The city bells had just struck the noon hour when a familiar figure strode into the pub, his hands stuck jauntily in his pockets and piece of hay protruding from the corner of his mouth. "You!" the bartender snarled, reaching for a bat. "Do you know how much you owe me - "

"I paid!" the little man protested. "Didn't you get it? I swear I sent the money months ago!"

"Gotell, you scheming little bastard - " the bartender raised his weapon.

Connor slid off his stool. "Sarda Gotell," he called out. "Long time no see."

The sergeant squinted at him from across the room. "Ah!" he said finally. "My mysterious friend from our luxurious days in enemy hands. Private Nash, wasn't it? From Ponteray?"

Connor eyed the raised bat. "Looks like you're still getting into trouble."

"Trouble is his middle name," the bartender growled.

After several minutes of haggling over exactly how much money was owed to the bartender, and rather grievous complaints from Gotell about the lack of respect paid to a common soldier these days, the little sergeant rolled fistfuls of eagles down the wooden counter and earned forgiveness. The sergeant let Connor buy him a drink and settled down on the next stool.

"So where's your friend?" Gotell asked.

Connor wasn't about to mention Richie's whereabouts. "Elsewhere," he said. "Why aren't you at the front, fighting?"

"Furlough, of course. Cost me a fair sum to bribe my captain, too, that greedy bastard. Not all of us are quite as lucky as you, to be wounded in battle and get to sit out the rest of the fighting. Get much sympathy from the girls, do you?

Connor examined his cast glumly. "Not especially."

Gotell grinned cockily. "You're not hanging around with the right kind of girls, then. What are you doing in Jemhar?"

Connor glanced at the bartender, who had moved to the kitchen doorway to argue with a scrappy serving girl. "Trying to see someone," he said, tracing the tip of his mug.

Gotell perked up in interest. "Yeah? Who?"

"The Lady."

Gotell whistled. "You might as well wish for the goddesses themselves to descend out of heaven and give you a hot bath, Nash."

"You don't think it can be done?" Connor asked.

Gotell scratched his goatee. "You'd be more likely to housetrain a Mazereen than see the Lady Jemhar."

"Not even for the right price?"

The servant girl cursed out the bartender. A wagon rolled by in the street, chased by a batch of schoolchildren on their way home for lunch. A cat on the windowsill across the street arched up her back and meowed.

Gotell cleared his throat. "Well," he said, leaning forward conspiratorially, "I suppose everything has a price."

"After all," Connor prodded, "a man like you is bound to have . . . . connections."

Gotell drained his ale. "True enough."

"Connections to the right people. The right offices."

Gotell shrugged modestly. "I suppose."

Connor lifted his gaze squarely. "Suppose real *hard.*"

Gotell grinned and signaled for another mug of ale. "I'll do that. But you're buying the next round, my friend."

****

Methos said, "It's just a party. It's no big deal."

Richie yawned. The two of them sat on opposite sides of Aidan's living room listening to the sounds of spring crickets filtering through the open windows and the occasional night sounds from the village of Pielle.

"Thanks for the unsolicited opinion," Richie said, with no real bitterness or denial.

"There will be others."

"Other parties, or other opinions?" Richie asked, without taking his gaze off a vase of blue flowers on the windowsill. Aidan loved plants. Every room in his small, neat house held dozens of flowers, ferns, ivies or other flourishing members of the plant kingdom. Richie had owned a banzai tree once, but it died forty- eight hours after he put it on his kitchen counter. His guppy had gone belly-up a day later. After that he was through with plants and pets both.

Aidan's indoor forest apparently came from Karcey. Their father had come to dinner twice in the last three days, each time bearing armloads of plants for Richie and Aidan both. Dalia called them traditional symbols of love between parents and children. Alenda hadn't come, hadn't even sent a cactus. Richie tried not to think of his mother, or the way her smile had faded when she saw him. He tried not to think of how much more important curtains were than he was. He tried not to think of her at all, because thinking of her just pulled open the invisible wound he felt in his gut.

On the other hand, Alenda's apparent apathy towards him didn't seem to be contagious. The second time Karcey visited, he brought along a sturdy young woman with long black hair and a gleaming sword strapped across her back. She took one look at Richie and threw a hug around him with such force they almost cartwheeled onto the sofa together.

"Squirt!" she exclaimed. "Long time never meet!"

Methos, who'd sworn he'd heard the sounds of combat, came running from the kitchen in alarm. Richie laughed under the woman's bone-crunching embrace, and struggled up for air.

"Hi," he said. "You must be Clerise."

"Your big sister," she confirmed, tousling his hair so that it stood almost straight up. "Don't forget it!"

Over dinner she ruthlessly and cheerfully interrogated him about every aspect of his life on Earth - girlfriends, what he did for hobbies, girlfriends, where he lived, girlfriends, who his friends were, and did he have any girlfriends?

"I have just the girl in mind for you," Clerise announced. "My friend Lacey. She's adorable. You'll love her."

Karcey cleared his throat. "But Lacey's . . . " he started, then stopped with a slight flush.

Richie looked at his father quizzically. "She's what?"

Aidan rose and began clearing the dinner dishes, his face carefully blank. Richie waited for an answer, but none came. He glanced at Methos, who was tearing his bread roll into little shreds. Richie wondered what he was missing, and then realized what his father had been about to say.

Lacey was *Immortal.* And he wasn't. Not in Zeist.

Clerise pushed back her chair. "Come on, squirt. Let's see what they taught you to do with a pointy stick."

"No," their father said sharply. "I don't want to see you fighting him, Clerise."

She raised her eyebrows. "I had a mortal fencing teacher for years, and you never minded me fighting *him.*"

Karcey folded his napkin. "No."

Clerise sat with a flourish. "Fine," she said, sounding peevish. She smashed a pea against the table top with her right thumb. "So is Richie coming to your anniversary party Saturday, or is it just for Immortals?"

Karcey's face darkened, but he said nothing. Aidan took an empty bowl from Dalia, who had started piling dishes in the sink. They'd introduced her to Richie's father and sister as a friend, just visiting for a few days. Without her novitiate robes she seemed much younger than Richie originally thought, and twice as unsure. She hadn't said a word all through dinner.

"As a matter of fact, it's a bad idea for Richie to go," Aidan said. "We don't actually want to publicize to the whole world he's crossed over from Earth. Who knows what the authorities or priestesses will do?"

Clerise bit her lower lip. "So we hide him? For how long?"

"Until we know more," Karcey said. He reached over and grasped Richie's hand. "Son, I'd love to introduce you to everyone. I want nothing more for you to be there Saturday night, to see the house in its full glory, to meet your cousins and our friends. But it's not a wise idea."

"I know," Richie said, but he didn't trust himself to look his father in the eye.

Sitting in the living room with Methos, Richie mentally reviewed his father's arguments and wondered how much of it Karcey had really meant. He had half a mind to sneak over to the family estate, just to see the party from afar. Aidan had gone reluctantly, taking Dalia with him, Richie's encouragement ringing in his ears. It would look strange if he didn't make an appearance, and they all had to keep from arousing suspicion - especially since the heinous murder of the High Priestess of Sharna had been discovered, and Methos blamed for it.

Townsend had brought the news. Methos swore in ancient Egyptian when he heard. He knew the murder would be uncovered eventually, but he'd hoped that word wouldn't have spread so fast. He should have gone to see the Crown Priestess the moment they arrived in Pielle and not waited because of Richie's illness. Now she was in Jemhar, called away on some business, and Methos had to hide in Aidan's house. The suggestion of moving on to Jemhar had been squelched with Townsend's report that Methos' description was posted in every police station, fort and temple in the kingdom.

"You're better off waiting here until the Crown Priestess returns," Townsend suggested.

Easier said than done. Methos grew quickly sick of the close confines of Aidan's house and itched to get out and learn more about Zeist. His finely honed instinct for self-preservation warred with his curiosity and won, but only by a close margin.

"They probably don't have good parties here anyway," Methos said to Richie. "Not like I remember from the good old days of Babylonia, anyway."

Richie rolled his eyes. "Please don't start telling me stories about Babylonia again - "

Methos opened his mouth to reply but a flurry of knocks on the door cut him off, followed by a sharp order that cut through the night.

"Police!" A man shouted. "Open up!"

"Run!" Methos hissed to Richie.

Richie and Methos dashed towards the kitchen as the front door broke open. "Stop!" someone yelled. A hulking policeman coming through the kitchen grabbed Methos, wrapped him in a crushing grip, and lifted him so that his feet flailed several inches above the hardwood floor. Richie dropped and propelled himself under the kitchen table, skidding towards the back door like a baseball player sliding into home base. He wanted to help Methos but when the older man ordered, "Go!" he threw himself out into the darkness, knocking aside the policeman keeping watch in the garden.

Shouts and bootsteps pursued him down the dark twisting streets of the village. He fled as fast as he could. What would the police do with Methos? Would they kill him right away for the murder of that priestess? Fear drove him faster and faster. When he reached his parent's castle he had to stop behind the hedges of the terraces to drag in huge gasps of air. He thought he might throw up or faint or do both. Stabs of pain ran haphazardly up and down his back, like bolts of electricity. The lights of the house swam dizzily in his vision, and the laughter of mingling party guests and clink of wine glasses carried through the night like distant bells.

Methos. He had to find a way to save Methos.

He couldn't just walk up to the doors and let himself in. Dirty, bedraggled, the obvious twin of Aidan Pielle - no, not a good idea at all. He thought of bribing one of the kitchen girls or boys to take a message inside to Townsend - he could see servants in the lights of the scullery, scurrying like particularly overworked mice - but he had no money. As Richie circled the hedges he saw Karcey in a knot of people gathered on the terrace, but before he could catch his father's gaze he went back inside.

Richie slumped to his knees in the damp grass and tried to set his thoughts in order. Before he could completely despair, words floated through the trees, barely discernible, and he lifted his head to listen more closely.

"You shouldn't have dared - " Alenda's voice said. Richie edged his way carefully through the thick trees, trying to pinpoint her location. Why would she be so far from the party? A male voice answered her, too low to be fully understood. Richie caught sight of Alenda standing in a grove, looking slim and straight in a white gown. The man had his back to Richie, his dark clothes making him almost fade into the forest.

"You don't think two hundred years is worth celebrating?" The voice sounded familiar, but Richie didn't know why.

Alenda kissed his hand. "I'm so glad you came. I love you very much - "

His mother was having an affair. Richie took an involuntary step backward and a branch snapped beneath his heel. Alenda and her companion both spun toward him, and for a frozen moment the three of them stared at each other. Alenda. Richie. And the Mazereen Captain who'd broken Connor's arm and had Richie whipped in a muddy courtyard on a cold and gray day.

Richie broke into a run. Too slow, too late. The man tackled him, driving him to the ground, pinning him mercilessly. He clamped a hand over Richie's mouth, muffling his shouts for help. The other hand pressed a knife against the soft flesh of Richie's throat.

"Shut up," the Captain ordered. "Shut up before I kill you here and now."

Alenda's pale face appeared. "Pater, you can't kill him."

"Why not?" Pater demanded.

"Because he's your brother. You've never met Aidan, but this is his twin Richie. From Earth."

Her words struck Richie like a hammer between his eyes. This man was his *brother*? Only vaguely did he remember Aidan mentioning something about an older brother who'd moved to Mazereen and been disinherited. Pater's weight on his chest made breathing difficult, and the knife at this throat didn't help. He coughed for air. Pater removed his hand.

"Don't shout for help," Pater warned, sounding dazed.

"He won't." Alenda crouched at Richie's side. "Are you hurt?"

Memories of pain and terror at the Mazereen fort drove Richie's heartbeat faster. "No."

Alenda touched the sweaty dampness of his shirt and frowned. "What have you been doing?" She helped him sit up. The softness in her touch and apparent concern in her voice kept him off- balance as he tried to recover from the shock of seeing the Mazereen Captain again.

"Nothing," Richie answered automatically.

Pater sheathed his knife. "I certainly didn't expect *this.*"

Alenda's hand stayed firmly on Richie's arm. "It's a long story."

"Longer than you probably think," Pater agreed. Richie couldn't tell what his older brother thought of the situation. He couldn't tell what he himself thought. Everything in his head seemed mixed up and shaky, and above all he needed to go save Methos.

"I came to talk to Aidan," Richie said to Alenda. "I'll stay out of everyone's way. I won't tell anyone that you - well, I don't know what." He gave Pater an appraising look and tried to force some strength into his voice. "That you're a double agent? That you're a traitor?"

Pater's mouth tightened. "It's best that you forget ever seeing me here. Never speak of it. Never think about it."

Alenda rose gracefully to her feet. "Richie, come with me. We'll discuss this all later." She nodded at her older son and he slipped away without a word or backwards glance. Alenda took Richie past the terraces and lawns to a small stone cottage set on a pond. Once inside she lit a kerosene lantern. By the flickering light Richie scanned the cottage's immaculate interior. A small bed with a blue blanket lined the north wall. A writing desk stood opposite it. A rocking chair draped with a red and gold afghan sat by the window, for contemplation of the pond and forest.

"Sit down, Richie." Alenda disappeared into the small bathroom and returned with a small bag and a glass of water only to find him still standing in the doorway. Bluntly she said, "I can do this with you standing, but it will be harder. Did you know your back is bleeding?"

Richie reluctantly sat on the edge of the bed and gulped down the flat-tasting water. He hadn't realized how thirsty he was. He let his mother ease him out of his shirt. Some of the deeper slashes had torn open and began to sting as she dabbed some type of healing ointment on them. He worked to keep his breathing slow and steady, to not whimper like a baby. He couldn't help but shiver in the cool air. Alenda worked silently, her face impassive, and at the end she draped the shirt back over his shoulders.

"Who did this to you?" she asked.

"It doesn't matter. I need to see Aidan and Lieutenant Townsend."

"Why?"

"It's nothing to do with you," he said. "Or with Pater."

She narrowed her gaze. "Your brother came tonight at great personal hazard because it's my two hundredth wedding anniversary. Politics and war have nothing to do with it."

Richie wondered if she was lying. "Like he said, it's none of my business. I just need to see Aidan - "

He pushed himself to his feet, but stopped as the cottage lurched several feet to the left. As it swung back to the right, Alenda guided him down to the mattress and propped him on his side. "I'll tell Aidan you're here," Alenda promised. "You need to rest a few minutes."

Richie found it almost impossible to keep his eyes open. A blanket came up across his body, covering him with blessed warmth. "'s important," he protested. "He's my friend . . ."

Her cool hand pressed against the side of his face. "Rest," she said. "I'll bring Aidan back."

He couldn't remember why it was important to stay awake or what he wanted to see Aidan about, and instead surrendered to the warm darkness of sleep.

***

Brennar returned from a visit with her Uncle Yarley flushed with excitement. "The war is over!" she announced. "The announcement hasn't been formally made, but it will be soon!"

Duncan said, morosely, "That's good."

Connor sat straighter on the bed. "Over? Who won?"

Brennar untied her hood and gave them each a brilliant smile. "It's a truce. The Crown Priestess is going to marry Horin and Mazereen, and we'll all be at peace - "

"Marry?" Duncan demanded sharply. "Who's going to get married?"

Brennar blinked, her smile slipping a notch or two. "Prince Odolpho of Mazereen and Lady Jemhar, of course. Who else?"

Duncan gasped as if he'd just been sucker-punched to the stomach. Seconds later he snatched down his coat from a wall peg. Connor intercepted him quickly. "Where are you going?"

"To see her," Duncan replied grimly.

"See who?" Brennar asked.

"Think this through," Connor warned, putting his hand on Duncan's arm. He could feel the muscles shaking, as if a Quickening had thudded into Duncan's body.

"I have thought it through," Duncan returned bitterly. "I'm going to see her. I don't care if they kill me, I don't care what they do - "

"*I* care if they kill you - " Connor said, blocking Duncan from the door. Duncan's unexpected blow sent him flying into the wall. For a few minutes all he saw was black, accompanied by the nonsense mumblings of a woman's voice. Pain flooded back through his head and jaw, and he blinked his eyes open to find Brennar cradling him in her lap.

"He hit you!" Brennar said, appalled.

"Just like old times," Connor said ruefully, rubbing his jaw. He sat up despite his own best judgment and waited until all the speckles disappeared from his vision before asking, "Where did he go?"

"He stormed out. I can't believe he hit you - "

"That's true love for you." Connor would have said more but for a knock on the door. Brennar let in Sarda Gotell, the sergeant with all the bets and all the answers.

"Lose a fight?" Gotell asked, smirking.

"Something like that," Connor agreed.

"Lose some, win some. That favor you wanted? Let's go."

"Go where?"

"To see that person you wanted to see, remember?" Gotell slid a look towards Brennar. She glanced between the two men, puzzlement on her face. Connor couldn't quite believe Gotell had arranged an audience with Lady Jemhar so quickly, but he pulled himself off the floor and grabbed his coat.

"I'll be back," he told Brennar. "If Duncan comes back, sit on him until I return."

"But - " Brennar started.

"Brennar," Connor said. "Please. And thank you."

To silence her further protests he stepped forward and kissed her. Not politely on the cheek, not tentatively across the lips. He pulled her to his chest and bestowed on her his best Connor MacLeod kiss, full of promise and passion and questions.

Brennar stumbled back, blushed and trembling. "We'll talk about *that* when you get back," she threatened, her hands on her hips.

Connor grinned and followed Gotell out the door.

Gotell was small but quick, and Connor had to work to keep pace with the sergeant. "How did you manage to work so quickly?"

"You said you'd double my fee if I did it within twenty four hours," Gotell reminded him. "I can be very motivated at times. Besides, this is my home town. I know everyone who knows anything."

Within a half hour they were wading through the steaming, hissing, sweltering underkitchens of the palace. Shouts from temperamental chefs mingled with the chatter of prep cooks, while flushed young assistants struggled to slice and dice thousands of pieces of food. Kettles the size of coaches heated over roaring fires, holding enough soups, sauces and batters to fill a small lake. Slaughtered animals, their faces set in pain, turned and sizzled on spits as thick as Connor's leg. Gotell led him past the pantries and up three stories to a servant's passage and hidden set of stairs.

"We're almost there," Gotell promised.

The passage was dark, narrow, and short enough that Connor had to stoop. He felt the brush of cobwebs against his face. Fifteen steps. Thirty. He wondered what waited for him at the top - Tessa Noel, or an army of soldiers? He heard another click and some swearing from Gotell. They stumbled into a small dressing chamber done in pink and cream, hung with several dozen gowns and stacked with rows of finely crafted shoes. Women's laughter drifted in from somewhere close by.

"My money," Gotell said pointedly.

Connor smiled. "When I see the lady."

Gotell frowned, but took him to the side panel and a slot of wood that pulled aside. Connor squinted through the peephole and sucked in a sharp breath. Aside from darker hair, the Lady Jemhar was the spitting image of Tessa Noel. She sat before a mirror in her dressing chamber as attendants finished painting her nails, affixing jewelry, or sewing last-minute alterations to her golden gown.

Gotell pulled him back and slid the peephole shut. "Now give me my money!"

"There's not enough money to save you this time, Gotell," said a voice from the doorway. "The deal's over. Both of you get down on your knees and put your hands over your head."

Connor turned his head enough to see three palace guards standing in the doorway, their faces set with the intention to slaughter him if he should offer so much as a hint of resistance.

He dropped to his knees and surrendered.

Richie woke in a sunlit stone cottage, warm and cozy under a thick blanket. For a few minutes he drifted, wondering only half- heartedly where he was. He felt safe and comfortable, wrapped in a haze of sleepiness. Someone's snores rang in his ears, and he rolled over to find Aidan stretched out on the bed beside him. .

"Wake up," Richie urged, shaking his twin's shoulder. "Aidan, wake up."

Aidan yawned and murmured, "What's the matter?"

"Where are we?"

Blue eyes opened and fixed on him bemusedly. "The house, remember? You showed up last night at the party. Mom brought you here. We tried to wake you up, but you were exhausted, so I just decided to spend the night."

Richie tried to think back. The house? Alenda? Memory flooded back like a bucketful of ice water over his head, and he bolted upright. Pain spasmed across his slashed back, bringing a gasp. Aidan instantly sat up beside him and steadied him. "Are you okay?" he asked.

"Fine," Richie said, gritting his teeth. Being tackled to the ground by Pater hadn't done him any lasting good. Complaining wouldn't help, though. "Where's Giles?" he asked, referring to Townsend.

"He has a guest room up at the house," Aidan said. "What's the matter?"

"The police came and arrested Methos last night." Richie pulled free of Aidan's protective grip and stood. His dirty, bloodstained shirt had been hung neatly on the back of the rocking chair, and he started donning it with a grimace. "I need to get him freed. I don't know how, but I have to."

Aidan didn't say anything. He'd been angry when finally told about the real reason Methos and Dalia had to leave Sharna in such a hurry, but Richie thought he was over that shock. Richie wondered where his socks and shoes were, and used the pretext of searching for them as an excuse not to meet his brother's gaze. "Like I told you before, he didn't do it. I have absolute faith."

"Oh." If Aidan thought more about that subject, he didn't say so. Instead he said, "Richie, you can't leave this cottage in that shirt. Many of the guests stayed over, and they'll be wandering around the house. Let me go get you some clean clothes and breakfast. Just stay put, okay?"

Richie chafed with impatience but Aidan returned within twenty minutes bearing clothes and a tray of fruit and bread. Townsend and Dalia appeared minutes later, rubbing sleep out of their eyes. Townsend frowned when he heard news of Methos' arrest.

"We'll have to get him a lawyer," Townsend said, "but lawyers cost money."

Richie hadn't actually been thinking about a lawyer - he'd been more interested in a *jailbreak* - but he reminded himself that Townsend was an officer of the Horin army, a brave and courageous man who'd been helping them since Orseven. Asking him to do something illegal was an insult. As to the question of money, he had none whatsoever.

"Mom and Dad have the money," Aidan said, as if reading his mind.

Richie shook his head. "Dad said it before. No one can know we crossed over. It brings up too many questions. Sooner or later someone's going to figure out Methos is not from around here. I don't want our parents mixed up in that mess."

Dalia spoke up. "Richie, because they're your parents, they're already mixed up in it."

Aidan nodded in agreement. "You can't shut them out to protect them. It doesn't work that way."

"Maybe I should just leave - " Richie started hesitantly.

"No." Aidan's voice was firm. "Don't run out on this, or on them. Whatever they may think about Immortals and mortals, Richie, they'll help in whatever way they can. I'm sure of it."

Richie wished he had his twin's faith. Too many years of having to fend for himself, even in Duncan's company, warred with the idea of letting his family help. Reluctantly he sat down on the bed.

"Okay," he said unhappily. "Let's tell them."

***

Connor went passively with the palace guards who'd arrested him and Gotell outside the Lady Jemhar's rooms. Bitter with defeat - they'd been so very close - he swallowed down any thoughts of escape or assault. He hadn't come armed, and hoped that and cooperation would work in his favor. With one arm still trapped in a sling he couldn't put up much resistance anyway. The guards escorted them back down the staircase. Two took Gotell in one direction, while the leader of the group steered Connor down a wallpapered passage to a sitting room filled with two silk chairs and a coffee table.

"Sit," the guard ordered firmly.

Connor sat.

"Shut up," the guard said when Connor opened his mouth.

Connor shut up.

The guard took up a position by the door and stared at him stonily.

Connor didn't fidget under the gaze - he knew better than to betray his nervousness - and instead sat quietly, humbly, glad not to be in a dungeon somewhere, even gladder to be alive and unharmed. He would play whatever game they wanted to play, for as long as possible. He wondered where Gotell was, and if the slippery little sergeant had arranged the trap from the very beginning.

He was still wondering when a door in the wall swung open and the Lady Jemhar entered in her golden-spun gown, tinkling jewelry and perfectly applied makeup. She took one step inside and fixed on him with an expression that shifted from hope to surprise to crushing disappointment.

"Connor!" she said.

And with that one word he knew she was Tessa Noel.

Without worrying about the guard or his sword, Connor rose and met her and wrapped her in an embrace. His arm screamed with pain but he ignored it. Tessa trembled against him, warm and soft and crying. "Oh, Connor," she said, speaking in French. "Where is he? Where's Duncan? Is he all right?"

"He's fine," Connor assured her in the same language. He broke free to examine her at arm's length. "There was no time for him to come. Don't cry. You'll ruin your makeup."

Tessa sniffed and wiped at her eyes. "Perhaps it's for the best. You can tell him. He'll listen to you."

"Tell him what?" Connor asked. "Tessa, what's going on? How is it you're the Queen of this country?"

"Not Queen," she corrected. "Lady. There's only one Queen, the Faeron queen."

"But how - "

She shook her head and lifted her chin. "There's no time for that. I need you to tell Duncan something. I need you to tell him to go back to Earth and forget about me, about us, about Zeist. He has no other choice."

Connor lifted his eyebrows. He took a full minute to reply. "Well, that's an interesting perspective."

Tessa turned her head and gazed out the window. Stars had come out, dotting the sky with patterns of tiny light that bore no resemblance to the constellations back home. "It's not a perspective, Connor. It's his only option. Tonight my engagement to the Prince of Mazereen will be announced. A war that has killed thousands of good people will end. Two kingdoms will be reunited after seven hundred years of estrangement. I have no choice but to do what I must. Duncan must leave and forget about all this."

"Sounds nice," Connor said caustically. "I don't believe you."

Tessa's gaze whipped around sharply. "It doesn't matter what you believe. It's the truth."

"Duncan buried you in France," Connor said. "You're the one who refuses to stay dead."

She moved to slap him. Connor caught her hand and stopped the blow. The guard moved behind him instantly and jabbed the tip of his sword between Connor's shoulderblades as a warning.

Tessa switched to Zeistian. "It's all right, Strickley. Wait outside."

"But, Your Highness - "

"Wait outside," she ordered. The guard flushed and backed away, but didn't tear his gaze from Tessa's expression. Her features softened, and she moved to cup his face with her hand. "Please," she said. "I promise, he won't hurt me."

Something sparked between them - Connor could almost see it, like heat lightning - but then the guard turned and slipped outside the room. When Tessa turned back, her cheeks held a tinge of pink.

"You love him," Connor observed.

Tessa's eyes didn't deny anything. "I've been here five years, Connor. I thought Duncan was dead. He thought I was. Tell me Duncan has had no other women and I'll feel ashamed."

Connor didn't answer that. She knew Duncan too well to believe he would have given up love or sex after her apparent death.

Tessa folded her arms, crinkling the exquisite gown. "They brought me here against my will. They told me Duncan and Richie were dead. Is Richie - "

"He was alive the last time I saw him," Connor said.

Tessa covered her mouth, unable to speak for a minute. She finally continued with, "I wept night after night, locked in this palace. I knew no one. I was Immortal - isn't that ironic? They told me the real Lady Jemhar was my twin sister. An unknown assassin had taken her heart right here in the palace. She'd only been Immortal a year. They feared that if the truth got out, the kingdom would descend into turmoil and civil war between the Duenne and different political factions. I begged them to take me back to Earth. I tried to escape. I even went on a hunger strike. But finally I realized too many people needed the Lady, too many good and honest people who had nothing to do with my abduction. So here I am. There hasn't been a day I haven't thought of Earth since."

Connor took her soft hands into his. "You painted a picture of Duncan and I fighting on Soldier's Bridge."

Tessa tilted her head. "How did you know that? I gave it to one of my closest confidants when he retired."

"Ethan Winokur," Connor said softly. "He brought it to Earth."

"He brought it - " Tessa said, trailing off in amazement. "That's how you found your way across? Winokur brought you over?"

Connor nodded. "He hung it in a gallery in Newfoundland. Maybe he tried to find Duncan and couldn't. Duncan sold the antique store after you died and moved back and forth between France and Seacouver for a few years. In any case, we found the painting and Winokur and he brought us here." He hesitated, but then told the truth. "He's dead, Tessa. I'm sorry."

She stared at him, searching his face for lies, and then turned away with her thin shoulders shaking. He gave her time to compose herself, and then put his good hand on her arm. "Tessa," he said, "why do you want to stay here, with these people who kidnapped you and lied to you?"

Her eyes were red, her voice tremulous. "They kidnapped me because they needed a monarch. They lied to me because they were desperate. People have done much worse in the history of Earth - of France, for heaven's sake - to save a country. And it was only a handful of people here in the palace who planned it. Believe me, I've made them pay the price for that. As for the rest of the kingdom - how can I abandon them? How can I let this war continue?"

Connor put his hand to her head. "Tessa, your home is Earth. Your life is with Duncan."

"My home was Earth," she agreed. Her voice hardened and her eyes took on a glint of defiance. "But like you, I was born here, Connor. We all were. Over there I'm mortal. Here I'm Immortal. Over there I'll die. Here I can live forever. There I'm an artist who can barely get herself noticed by snobbish Parisian critics. Here I'm the Lady Jemhar."

"And over there, you have Duncan. Here you have the Mazereen Prince. I see the distinction."

Her face turned hard. "Don't mock me, Connor. Don't judge me. If I'm so important to Duncan, why didn't he come here himself?"

"He tried to see you. You refused him an audience."

Tessa shook her head. "It was too dangerous to meet with him."

"For him or for you?" Connor asked. "Do you love him enough to become mortal again, Tessa? To give up this kingdom and power?"

She didn't answer.

Connor's grip on her arm hardened. "Leave with me. Now. This minute. I'll defend you against anyone who tries to stop us. We'll go to Duncan. If you want to stay in Zeist, I'm sure he'll stay with you. If you want to go back to Earth, I'm sure he'll take you there. But don't abandon him, Tessa. Don't stand here and tell me to go break his heart for you. You may be the Lady Jemhar, but I don't do your dirty work for you."

Tessa wrenched free of his grasp. "I have to announce my engagement," she said coldly. "I have to go save a kingdom. My guard will see you out."

He watched her walk away and said, very softly, "If I tell him, he'll die."

She stopped but didn't turn back.

Connor took a deep breath. Duncan was more than kinsman to him. This woman, whatever Connor thought of her personally, was the love of Duncan's life. He would do his absolute best by them both.

"As surely as if I drive a stake through his heart," Connor promised. "If I tell him you don't want him, he'll die inside."

"I *do* want him," Tessa whispered. "I just can't have him. If I don't do what I have to, this war will never end. Mazereen will take my rejection and be goaded into new heights of cruelty, of viciousness. The entire kingdom might be lost, because of my selfishness. . . "

She turned to face him. The anguish on her face spoke more truly of her love for Duncan than anything she might have said. Connor straightened, painfully aware of the horrendous struggle in her heart, of a monarch's need to sacrifice herself for the good of her country.

He couldn't say what his own decision would be, given her position.

But Duncan was his *kinsman.* He deserved to have a say in this too, didn't he?

"He'll die, Tessa," Connor said. "You'll kill him. You have to come and explain it to him yourself. Make him understand."

Silent tears streamed down her face. "How can I?"

He took her hands into his and clasped them to his chest. "How can you not?"

Methos hated handcuffs. He especially hated handcuffs digging into his wrists. He particularly, especially hated them digging into his wrists while he sat in a cold dungeon cell in the Pielle prison, his battered ribs pressing sharply against the bruised muscles of his sides and chest. After his arrest, he'd been taken to the prison. Three men asked him if he'd killed the High Priestess in Sharna. He denied it. They hit him. Violence was nothing new to his life, of course, but the blows and kicks still hurt, still stripped away his dignity and made him cry out. After several minutes of abuse they'd dragged him to this cell and dumped him on the floor. Methos wondered how long the beatings would last before the judge heard his case. He wondered if they would ever bother to feed him, give him water, let him wash. He wondered mostly if he would ever get free of the handcuffs, because he really, really hated them.

But not half as much as he hated being mortal.

He flexed his jaw slowly and probed with his tongue at the loose teeth along his bottom right gum. The left side of his face had swollen and he could feel the skin stretched tightly over collected fluid. Regular breathing made his chest ache, and deep breathing sent red sparkles dancing in his vision. He was accustomed to most physical discomforts fading within minutes. These annoyances might persist for hours, even days. He remembered Connor's broken arm. His *sword* arm. Richie, feverish and on the verge of death in Pielle.

He flexed his cramped arms, stretching as far as the handcuffs allowed. He'd read about the Horin judicial system back in Sharna. Guilty until proven innocent. Unless he could convince the judge that Lita had been a Mazereen spy intent on his murder because of his resemblance to a god - a doubtful proposition at best - he would be dragged to the middle of a public square, whipped one hundred times, and set on fire. His brief, unenlightened career as a mortal would be over.

"Time to beam back home, Scotty," he muttered to himself in the cold, dark cell. "Anytime is good for me."

Unless Richie mounted some heroic and probably foolish rescue attempt, Methos might be in the cell for a long, long time. Worrying wouldn't make the time go faster. Dreading the application of the Horin justice system wouldn't help at all. He leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes, disassociating himself from the discomfort and cold, focusing instead on shifting memories of earlier, happier times.

The faces of his wives flitted by - dark, fair, olive, some as flawless as a marble statue, others freckled or marked, all interesting in their variety. He remembered blue eyes the color of the ocean, eyes as brown as the fertile earth of the Great Rift Valley, as gray as a Siberian sky filled with snow. Full lips lush like berries, thin lips firm and suckling. Tall wives, short wives, thinner than himself, fatter than tree trunks, some adorned with gold, others dusty from the fields, many glistening with the sweat and fluid of their coupling - their shouts at climax, soft groans of pleasure, tiny sounds of surprise and laughter and delight in his skill -

Methos' eyes shot open. With his hands still fastened behind his back, he didn't need unrelievable arousal to add to his list of discomforts. He shifted his hips, biting down on a sigh. The clang and screech of the basement gate opening brought his attention to the thick iron bars and the guard bearing a tray of food. The heavyset young man, pig-like with his jutting jaw and beady eyes, entered Methos' cell and set the tray down on the bare earth floor. He dangled a key in his right hand and ordered roughly, "Stand up and turn around."

Methos stood awkwardly and turned to face the wall. A hard fist drove into his back, sending a fireball of pain to the pit of his stomach, up his battered spine, down through his aching bowels. The impact drove him against the jagged stone wall, slamming his forehead, scraping his face and chin. He collapsed to his knees with a grunt, and the guard kicked him in the back. Methos crashed to the ground, his face inches from the tray, his body a riot of pain and panic. The guard's fingers grabbed his short hair and pulled his head up.

"You just wait," the man hissed, his breath rotten and fetid. "My sister is a novitiate, you bastard. You'll see what we do to people who kill priestesses."

Only dimly aware of receding footsteps and clanging bars, Methos gasped for air. For several minutes he could do nothing more than lie helplessly, his muscles too weak to follow his brain's commands, his body too agonized to move anyway. Only the sight of a bowl of water on the tray moved him to action. He slowly knelt up, his hands still handcuffed behind him, and stuck his face into the bowl. The cool, flat water mixed with the blood in his mouth and he spat out a few times before swallowing any down. He eyed the bread roll on the tray but decided against it for the time being. Part of him argued he needed to keep up his strength; another part said that if he ate anything, it would just come back up immediately anyway.

He pulled himself to the corner of the cell and dragged his knees up to his stomach. Exhaustion had caught up to him, making it impossible to stay awake. Maybe a few hours of sleep would help drive away the despair and helplessness settling into his sore gut. He sank deeper and deeper, giving himself up, and too late did he realize something was wrong. He'd hit his head, hadn't he? Concussion. Possible neurological damage. He struggled towards the waking world but the encompassing darkness in his head grew thicker and blacker. He heard his breathing slowing down. His heart skipped a beat, then skipped another. Despite his frantic attempts to move, to fight, to *live,* his body turned to lead - lifeless, inert, cold lead.

Friends who'd died beckoned to him. Friends who still lived, like Duncan and Amanda and Joe, waved him farewell.

The last thing he heard was the distant, ethereal ringing of bells.

***

Connor made his way carefully back toward the inn, wondering what to tell Duncan about Tessa. The evening sky had opened to a fine drizzle that wet his hair and face and began to seep into his clothes. Torches and gas lamps sizzled under the rain, the sound carrying through the empty streets. In a few hours, when the announced engagement of the Lady Jemhar and the Prince of Mazereen ended the war, the neighborhoods would fill with celebration, music, revelry. But Duncan wouldn't rejoice. Duncan would be cruelly wounded, as if his heart had been ripped out of his chest. A tiny, selfish part of Connor wanted to be nowhere near when that happened. The more responsible part of him dismissed that childish cowardice and worked on how to save Duncan from himself.

By the time he made his soaked way back to their rooms he had firmly resolved to do his best to make Duncan leave Jemhar that very night. He would lay the facts out to Duncan plainly. Tessa could not leave her position despite her love for him. She wanted him to move on, to find his own happiness. She had a kingdom to save. Some magical twist of words would persuade Duncan to listen to Tessa's decision, Connor's advice, and the logic of the situation.

And pigs would fly. Hell would freeze over. Any number of impossible events would unfold, including the raining of cats and dogs, all paving the way for Duncan to actually abandon the truest, deepest love of his life.

Brennar answered his knock on the door. Connor shrugged out of his jacket with her help, scattering water all over the hardwood floor. "What happened?" she asked.

"She's not coming," Connor said curtly. "Where's Duncan?"

"Here," Duncan said, in the hallway behind him. Connor hated the fact that mortals couldn't sense each other. He turned to see the younger MacLeod glaring at him with eyes dark and flat and dangerous. "What do you mean, she's not coming?"

"This might go better if we all sit down," Connor said.

Duncan advanced a step, water squeezing out of his boots onto the floor. He was completely water-logged, and must have been wandering around in the rain for hours. "What do you mean?"

Connor tried not to flinch. "She can't. It's complicated. But she loves you, Duncan. If it means anything at all, she loves you."

Duncan didn't say anything for a full minute. A muscle pulled on the right side of his jaw, betraying the only emotion in his pale, chiseled face.

"Take me to her," he said.

Connor started to shake his head. "I can't do that - "

Duncan slammed him against the wall. Sick of being manhandled, Connor retaliated by yanking his kneecap up into Duncan's crotch. The younger Highlander went to his knees with an agonized howl, and Connor knocked him to the floor and sat on him.

"You listen to me!" Connor said sharply, as Duncan heaved for breath beneath him. "Stop trying to beat up the messenger! Do you think I live to bring you bad news?"

Duncan's expression had broken into bewilderment and pain. "Why won't she see me? What did I do?"

"Oh, Duncan," Connor sighed. He eased off his chest and sat on the floor beside him, startled that Duncan could have such a wrong interpretation of the situation. Had he really been sitting around blaming himself all week? "You didn't do anything."

"I must have," Duncan said, wiping at his eyes roughly. He dragged in a deep breath. "Don't you see? I must have done something to make her want to stay away."

Connor put his hand to the side of Duncan's face and bowed his head in shared pain. He thought of what arguments to use to convince Duncan that none of this was his fault, but a woman's sharp, frantic cry for help from the alley beneath their window cut off his first word.

Both Highlanders recognized the voice immediately.

Tessa.

***

Richie's parents took the news of Methos' arrest fairly well. Karcey said he wished Richie and Townsend had confided the problem earlier. He liked Methos. Alenda, who had reverted to treating Richie politely and distantly as if he were a stranger, correctly observed that even with Dalia's testimony it would be very hard to convince a judge that Lita had killed herself. With the additional problems of concealing Methos' and Richie's origins, the situation wasn't likely to improve in the near term. But Karcey called for his carriage anyway.

"Giles, Aidan and I will take Dalia to the temple. She'll be safe there from the police until we can sort this all out. Then we'll go to the police station and see what we can do. The sheriff is an old friend and besides, he owes his office to me."

Richie understood the wisdom of staying behind even if he felt ready to jump out of his skin with impatience. He couldn't believe he'd fallen asleep at the cottage instead of rounding up help. What a wretched friend he'd turned out to be. He watched the carriage leave and turned back to see his mother gazing at him from the doorway. Maybe she still worried about him having seen Pater, a Mazereen captain who should be nowhere near Pielle, in the garden during the party. But Pater was the least of Richie's concerns. He went back to the stone cottage to wait, fidget and fuss. Clerise showed up two hours later, brandishing two swords.

"Heard you were around," she said cheerfully. "Come on, let's practice. I think Dad went off to do some errands, so he can't voice any objections."

She knew nothing of Methos' arrest and Richie didn't want her to find out until it was absolutely necessary. Although his back still hurt from cuts he'd reopened during his flight to the estate, he decided maybe a little swordplay would help make the time go faster. They squared off on the back terrace. They soon discovered they were equally matched in skill and talent, which surprised Clerise but cheered Richie up to a certain extent. He'd expected her to completely annihilate him with her first thrust - after all, she been practicing for years longer than he had. Her pointed questions, however, were harder to dodge than the thrusts of her weapon as they circled, advanced and retreated.

"Why did you come here last night? I thought we all agreed you should stay at Aidan's."

"Circumstances changed," Richie said, sidestepping a feint. He envied Clerise's stamina - despite several minutes of fairly aggressive maneuvering, she didn't even seem winded.

"Do those circumstances have anything to do with Dad taking off for town this morning?"

"He had to go check on something." Sweat loosened Richie's grip, and he fought the urge to wipe his eyes clear.

"Something or someone?" Clerise asked.

Richie circled around her, stalling for time and words both. "You'll have to ask him."

Clerise grinned. "I'm asking you, squirt. You weren't the only sibling to show up last night unannounced, were you?"

Richie dropped his guard in surprise. The tip of Clerise's sword scraped past his side, slicing open his shirt but leaving his skin unmarked. She pulled back, cursing at herself, and they both stood sweating and breathing hard, considering each other in the sunlight.

"I don't know what you mean," Richie finally said.

"You'll find out sooner or later," Clerise answered, all trace of humor gone from her face. "Mom and Dad are Mazereen collaborators. Pater works for them. Aidan knows nothing about it. The reason you slept so late this morning was because Mom gave you something to make sure he had a head start getting back to Mazer."

Richie gaped at her in astonishment. "I don't believe you!"

Clerise shrugged. "It doesn't matter if you believe me or not. The question is, whose side are you on?"

Too many conflicting thoughts spun through Richie's head, making it hard to form a coherent sentence. "Whose side are *you* on?"

"Think about it," Clerise said, and saluted him with her sword before she left.

He was still thinking about it when Karcey, Townsend and Aidan returned from town. One look at Aidan's face told Richie they hadn't brought back good news. His first second of dread came when Aidan insisted he sit down. His second came when his father took his hands.

"I'm sorry," Karcey said, with genuine sorrow. "Your friend is dead."

Duncan scrambled down the stairs of the inn, his ears ringing with Tessa's cry for help, his heart and pulse thundering with panic and adrenaline. The force of his boots nearly shattered the wooden planks beneath his heels. The wind-driven rain outside hit him like pieces of shrapnel as he barreled into the alley and found Tessa crumpled lifelessly on the ground, her beige cloak soaked with blood. The man straddling her had just finished ripping her open from sternum to stomach with a jagged knife.

"No!" Duncan screamed, launching himself at the assailant. They tumbled onto the hard cobblestones, the knife between them. Rolling in a fierce struggle, locked closely against each other, the two men fought for possession of the weapon. The blade ripped against Duncan's side and hot blood spilled down his flank. The sharp edge came up toward Duncan's neck, threatening his aorta. A shape loomed up over them both, leaned forward, took the man's head in his hands, and snapped his neck with hardly any effort at all.

"Pardon me for helping," Connor apologized, drawing in a deep breath. Behind him, her face shockingly pale, stood Brennar.

Duncan couldn't answer. Not in the face of so much reawakened sorrow, not with the horrifying tableau set out in front of him. He ignored the pain in his side as he crawled to Tessa's limp, lifeless body. Not again. Oh, God, not again. He gathered her in his lap and began rocking in the rain, cold to the very center of his heart.

"Duncan," Connor said, kneeling beside him, "we have to get out of here."

Duncan tightened his grip. He couldn't see anything through the tears in his eyes. "I'm not leaving her again," he choked out.

Connor sounded puzzled. "You'd better not leave her. If you do, she'll be very mad when she wakes up."

Duncan's head jerked up and Connor lifted his eyebrows. "What?" the older Highlander asked. "You forgot the tables were turned?"

As a matter of fact he *had* forgotten. The sight of Tessa sprawled on the ground had sent him spiraling back in time to a different night, a separate horror. Duncan looked down at her and watched in awe as sparks of blue light began to play across her torn insides and ripped skin. Elation replaced the sickening grief in his chest.

"Come on," Connor said, urging Duncan up. Duncan tried to carry Tessa's weight but the pain in his side throbbed with every pulse, and he had to concede the task to Connor. They couldn't very well haul the dead corpse of the Lady Jemhar through the lobby of the inn, especially not with a man dead in the alley behind them. Brennar volunteered to take them to her Uncle Yarley's house and led them through the storm-whipped streets. Duncan's knees gave way the minute they crossed the threshold, his muscles and joints overwhelmed by blood loss. Dimly he heard Yarley fretting about the trouble this could all cause. The next thing he knew he was lying in the folds of a blanket on the hard floor, a blazing hearth to one side and Dr. Connor MacLeod on the other.

"Think you can impress me with this?" Connor asked with a grin, tying off his handiwork. "I've seen worse paper cuts."

"Oh, good," Duncan murmured. He felt simultaneously hot and cold, and the bandage Connor had wrapped around his middle was a little too tight for comfort's sake. But he was alive, and reasonably whole. Something nagged at the back of his head, a fact he should be remembering, and he shifted his gaze past Connor to the woman standing at the end of the settee, her hands crossed over the dark smoothness of her gown, her expression set in somber lines.

Tessa.

He sat upright slowly - partly because of the pain, but also because he feared she might disappear, proving herself an illusion or specter or wild dream come true. With flashes as strong as punches he remembered fighting in the alley, seeing her on the wet ground - and Connor in the inn, saying, "She's not coming."

Connor leaned back and gave both Tessa and Duncan appraising looks. "Well, I can see you two don't need me for awhile."

Duncan peripherally noticed Connor leaving, and grew only marginally aware of the details of Uncle Yarley's living room - dark wood paneling, heavy curtains, Faeron charms on the side table behind the settee. He stared at Tessa, barely able to breathe. She opened her mouth as if to speak, then closed it again.

So the first words would be up to him. He tried to muster the courage that had seen him through centuries of battle, the intellect and wit that had served him well in the company of kings and queens.

All he managed to say was, "Are you all right?"

She smiled uncertainly. "Immortal healing comes in quite handy, doesn't it?"

He gestured ruefully at the bandage currently holding his insides in their proper place. "I wouldn't know of late."

Tessa's gaze shifted down. "You could have been killed."

"I wasn't."

Six feet between them. Duncan might as well have faced a raging river high with spring run-off or even the Continental Divide. Maybe the safest tactic was to stick with the facts. "Do you know who he was?"

"A Duenne agent, I suspect. He didn't follow me from the palace - I made sure no one did - so he must have been watching your room."

Duncan rubbed his sore head - he must have hit it when he tackled her murderer - and tried to sort through the situation. Why had she left the palace? He wanted to ask, but already knew the answer. She had come to finish telling him what Connor had started. His choice was whether or not to make it easy for her.

Tessa squared her shoulders and asked, "Did Connor tell you he came to see me?"

"Yes." His voice had grown hoarse in his chest.

"Did he tell you my decision?" Her voice had a slight catch in it, a tiny wobble.

Out of selfishness, out of defense, he opted to make her take the harder path. "He said you weren't coming."

She didn't move from where she stood, rigid and strong. "That's what I told him. Did he say anything else?"

A flush rose in his cheeks and he looked to the fire. "He said you loved me. You loved me, but you weren't coming."

Silence. He could hear the rain and wind against the windowpanes, the snap of burning wood, the insane beat of his own heart in his ears.

"I told him I had a decision to make," Tessa's voice said behind him. She sounded impossibly calm and composed. "I told him it was a choice between my kingdom or you. For any number of reasons I chose my kingdom. But now I have to ask you a question."

He closed his eyes. He vowed not to cry. He would think up any number of arguments, he would yell and shout, he would threaten to carry her off kicking and screaming over his shoulder - he was Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, after all, a warrior who would not go down without a fight. But he would not cry.

"What question?" he managed.

She took a deep breath. "Will you let me change my mind? Will you let me chose you? Because I simply can not lose you twice."

In the end he did cry, after all.

***

"No," Richie said.

"I'm sorry," Karcey said, rubbing Richie's hands, as if the gesture would somehow ease the gulf of grief widening within him. "We saw the body ourselves."

Richie looked to Aidan. His twin stood by the fireplace, sorrow etched on his face. Townsend poured himself a glass of liquor and downed it with one shot. He poured another, and came to press it into Richie's trembling hand.

"It can't be," Richie whispered. "How?"

Karcey took a deep breath. "They're not sure. He had a wound to his forehead - perhaps something broke inside. I've seen it happen before."

Richie didn't answer. The sofa beneath him, the sunlight falling through the tall windows of the library, the men staring at him as if he might break or fall apart - everything had turned unreal. A five-thousand-year old man was dead. How could the sun be shining and the world still spinning? His friend, Mac's friend, a brilliant scholar, a man who'd watched Earth humans invent writing, discover science, build vast cities, travel to the moon . . . He gulped at the liquor Townsend had given him, and barely felt the burning swallows travel down his throat to his gut. He held out his hand and the glass blindly, silently asking for more.

"I"m sorry, son," Karcey said, pulling Richie into a fiercely protective embrace. "It should never have happened. I'll see that the police are punished."

Richie wanted to melt against his father's strength and conviction but couldn't. His stiff muscles wouldn't bend or lose any of the awful tension that gripped him from neck to knee. Methos was dead. And the worst of it was that Richie could have saved him, could have rescued him, could have *tried* - but had instead fallen asleep in the stone cottage.

Had been drugged to sleep, he reminded himself. Or so Clerise claimed.

Drugged by his own mother.

And Methos had paid the price for that.

"I have to be alone," Richie said, pulling from his father. He stood up, ignoring the faint spin of the room. He wanted to curl up under a rock and die himself. He wanted to punch someone. He wanted Methos alive and grinning at him from across the room. He wanted silence, and solace, and an end to the guilt hammering at his skull like a jackhammer. "Please let me be alone for awhile."

They didn't follow him as he walked out of the library, out onto the terraces, across the back yard. He circled the lake, heading deep into the woods, and passed the grove where he'd seen Alenda and Pater in their clandestine meeting. He walked for hours, unaware of the passage of time, only faintly aware of the need now and then to wipe his eyes and face dry. He didn't know if he would go back to his parent's castle. He didn't know where else to go. He didn't know how he would tell Mac that he'd let Methos die. He didn't even know if he'd see Mac again. Since crossing to Zeist Richie had done nothing but screw up - was this the worst of it? Or was it his destiny to bring doom on Aidan and Townsend and Duncan and Connor, on everyone he knew?

Strength fled out of his legs and left him stranded on the ground, in the shade of a weeping willow tree. He could see Methos, over and over again, sitting by his bedside in Aidan's house after the fever had nearly killed him. "For three days I've been sitting here playing Florence Nightingale while you did a very good impression of someone in a delirium," he'd declared. "Do I look like a nurse?"

Methos had saved his life then, just as he'd saved it before. He'd never asked for anything in return, which made Richie's failure even more stinging.

The glade where he'd finally stopped was quiet, alive only with the sounds of insects in the grass and a faint breeze stirring through the trees. Methos had liked to sit in parks, in Seacouver or Paris or anywhere else Richie had ever seen him. He'd liked the way men and women shaped the architecture of trees, paths and lakes into synergistic wholes, and he liked watching people picnic or play games. He'd never partake himself, always preferring to remain alone - a sign some had read as aloofness, but one which Richie had eventually come to recognize as a defense mechanism. Nothing in Methos' life had ever stayed the same, and so he tried to never attach himself to people, places, possessions. Everything moved on in time without him. He was always the one left behind.

This time, in this world, he'd be left behind in a grave.

In privacy, in overriding grief, remembering the man who'd sit for hours in parks, Richie let himself cry. Hot, scalding tears blinded his vision and choked his throat. When no more tears would come he sat, exhausted and spent, against the tree. It was dusk before he returned to the cottage behind the castle. Clerise and Aidan had waited all afternoon for him. His sister wrapped him in a blanket - he'd barely felt the cold, but his skin had risen violently with goosebumps - and his brother pressed a hot cup of tea in his hands.

"Just rest," Clerise said, after he'd wordlessly finished his tea. "Lay down and rest."

Richie let them take off his boots but resisted his siblings' attempts to pull off his clothes. He wasn't a child. He could undress himself, if he wanted to, which he didn't. Undressing, like almost everything else - eating, breathing, living - was too monumental an expenditure of energy to even consider. He felt like a leaf, caught in a raging current he didn't understand, helpless to change direction or offer an opinion about his own destination.

"Where is his body?" he asked, as Clerise pulled the bedsheets and blankets over him.

"Safe," Aidan soothed. "With the priestesses of Pielle."

***

A woman's voice broke into his darkness and silence. "I know you're awake. Open your eyes."

She surprised him - he hadn't realized he was awake or that anyone was nearby. He opened his eyes to a shadowy gulch filled with fallen boulders and slabs of granite. A slit of pale blue sky wavered above, hemmed in by the sheer cliffs. Someone had dressed him in a pale yellow robe and laid him out on a hard stone altar. It didn't occur to him to move or speak. All he could do was look at the woman standing over him, her face marked by displeasure.

She was easily the oldest woman he'd seen in Zeist, with facial skin folded dozens and dozens of times into wrinkles. Snow-white hair, pinned in elaborate braids on her head, added at least five inches to her already tall stature. Her pale blue gown, stiff with silvery embroidery and a collar that rose behind her head, gave her a clerical look. In her youth she might have been beautiful. Now she seemed only stern and unforgiving.

"Do you know who I am?" she asked.

If his mouth had shown any inclination to work, he would have said she was the Crown Priestess. But all he could do was stare.

"Did you kill the High Priestess of Sharna?"

An important question. An answer he needed to give. He tried to shake his head but his neck had frozen in place and wouldn't turn the slightest fraction of an inch. He struggled within the tomb that was his body, the lead casing that enclosed every bit of him, and produced only the faintest, most desperate of sounds.

She lifted her chin. "Of course not. Why would She bring you back if you had?"

She left his side. Methos panicked at the thought of being helpless and alone. He could close his eyes and he could breathe, so obviously the paralysis wasn't complete, but what had happened to him? Where was he? Why did she look so displeased with him?

"The Lady Jemhar has disappeared," she said, from somewhere behind him now. "I suppose you know nothing about that?"

The change of topics baffled him. What did the Lady Jemhar have to do with anything?

"I distrust you," she said.

He closed his eyes and ignored her. Wrists. Arms. Shoulders. With a mammoth effort he lifted up his right foot and let it fall beside his left one. He concentrated on breathing and the rise and fall of his diaphragm, willing his abdominals to obey his commands. After several agonizing minutes of effort his entire body loosened, so much so that he was able to sit up. The Crown Priestess stood five feet away, watching him. He felt weak and helpless and unworthy in the face of her sternness.

"Dalia," the Crown Priestess ordered. Methos hadn't even seen her standing in the shade of rocks, dressed once again in her novitiate robes. She darted forward with a cup for Methos.

"It will all be fine," she whispered, earning her a dark glare from the Crown Priestess.

"Silence, child! Go back to your prayers."

Dalia quickly vanished again. Methos sipped at the water carefully, reverently, almost undone by gratitude. The cool air of the gulch tickled his body, as if charged by a current.

"May I ask a question?" he said timidly.

"If you must."

"Was I . . . dead?"

"Yes."

"But how - "

She frowned. "That's two questions."

He blushed furiously. "I was dead," he repeated, unable to grasp the concept.

"And now you live again. Is that such a surprise? It's happened to you before."

His gaze narrowed. "What do you mean?"

"I know who you are. I know where you're from. You died in the Pielle jail, and the police gave us your body for final rites. Imagine our surprise when She brought you back."

He wanted to say that he hadn't asked for anyone to bring him back from anywhere, but didn't think the Crown Priestess would tolerate impertinence. In terms of age she was a child compared to him, but an extremely self-possessed and confident child at that. She tilted her head, as if listening to a far-away summons. Dread darted through Methos' stomach, a cold and slippery sensation that passed so quickly he might have imagined it.

"She's waiting for you," the Crown Priestess said.

His breath almost caught in his throat. "Who?"

"Who do you think?" she returned, with a smile that carried no humor and no warmth. "Disrobe and follow those steps."

"Disrobe?" he squeaked.

"When you go to Her, you go naked."

For a fraction of a moment he considered rebellion, but She had given him back his life and She could probably just as easily take it away again. Methos slid off the stone altar and turned to the steps that had been chiseled down through a crevice in the rock face. The robe slid off with a soft slushing sound, and pooled around his ankles in a puddle of yellow. Acutely aware of the rough sand beneath his cold feet and the rattle of his shaking knees, he told himself to stop being a coward. He forced himself down the path, into darkness, into mist, to whoever - whatever - waited for him below.

***

A noise woke Connor. He opened his eyes, momentarily confused by the embroidered coverlet beneath his cheek, the golden light spilling from a bedside lamp. He'd only meant to sit down for a few minutes, but must have fallen asleep. He rolled onto his back and looked at Brennar. She stood against the door with her hair loose around her shoulders and a curious expression on her face.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"Nothing."

He swung his legs to the floor and sat up. Weariness tugged equally hard at his muscles and thoughts. "What are Duncan and Tessa doing?"

"Talking."

Talking. He wondered if that was a good or bad sign. His broken arm sent a twinge of pain up into his shoulder and he pulled at the sling in irritation. Talking. In the good old days of the Highlands a MacLeod didn't talk to a woman. He slung her over his shoulder, carried her to the nearest pile of hay, and ravished her to the point of mutual exhaustion. Or so he would claim to anyone foolish enough to listen.

Brennar sat down beside him on the bed. "What did you say about hay?"

Connor gave a slight start - what had he said aloud? - and tried to decide if the twinkle in her eyes signaled mischief or ire. "Did I say something?" he asked innocently.

"You muttered something."

"I don't mutter."

"Maybe you mumbled."

"I definitely don't mumble."

"What *do* you do, Connor MacLeod?"

He decided the twinkle meant mischief. And humor. And even a hint of arousal. Still, no matter how open an invitation, he always felt reducing to a fumbling, awkward boy in the face of a woman's interest. He reached over with a flush in his face and pulled gently at the top of her dress, half afraid she might slap him, wholly pleased when she didn't.

"I do this fairly well," he said, regaining a little confidence as he worked down the row of tiny pearl buttons. His mouth hovered inches from hers, so that their breath intermingled. "I've been told I'm fairly accomplished at this, too." He gave her a quick, sweet kiss. His good hand came around to cradle her head, and he moved her down to the mattress. "As for the rest of it . . . well, maybe you can help me figure out what to do."

Brennar laughed and patted his cheek. It was the first true laugh he'd heard out of her since they'd met in the hospital in Sharna.

"Maybe we can help each other," she said.

***

The steps led down into a dark chamber filled with steam and shifting columns of red light. The light came from a pit in the ground. He knew of no natural source that could produce such an illumination. He strained to see in the darkness, to hear anything but an unseen trickle of water and his own erratic breathing. He fought the urge to wander around and instead stood perfectly still.

"Is there anybody here?" he asked. He hated the fact his voice wobbled. "Hello?"

Nothing. No supernatural presence, no awe-inspiring visions, no choirs of angels descending with banners and fig leaves. No bells. He had been duped. He must have slipped into a coma at the prison and just been presumed dead. The Crown Princess, in her dotage, was using his recovery as a religious tool. He needed to find clothes, find Richie, and get back to Sharna. Back home he wouldn't have to worry about deities or gods or mortal concerns -

"You *are* home," a woman's voice said behind him.

Methos spun. He saw nothing in the mist. Her voice sounded almost human but it had too many components to be from a mortal woman, too many inner voices and echoes and shades that bounced off the unseen walls of this deep, dark place.

"Who are you?" he asked. "Please tell me."

Laughter.

"Don't you remember?" She asked.

The mists parted and he saw Her - tall and hard and lean, her dark skin as deep and vibrant as ebony, her eyes gray like a snow-filled sky.

He spread his hands helplessly. "I'm sorry. I don't remember."

She had moved to his left. "Like all the rest, you were born here. Like all the Immortals, you come from me. You come back to me. You are me."

He studied her fair complexion and aquamarine eyes, the curve of her ample hips and full body. Memory tugged at him like a long- forgotten fishhook embedded in his gut for over five thousand years. "We go to Earth to fight the battles we can't fight here," he said slowly.

"And you come back," she smiled. Her skin seemed olive in the red mists. He shook his head, trying to clear his vision, but the mist obfuscated everything and clouded his senses. "You come back to the One."

He almost laughed, but instead of merriment he felt a deeper joy - a reunification of parts newly discovered missing, a return to a place he'd been missing for millennia. Mixed into the elation was a darker thread that led, inexorably, back to the tapestry of who he was, and what he had lost.

"Hermos," he breathed.

"Not here," she said. Her breath tickled his neck. Her hands smoothed his back, following muscles and ribs and flesh. "Long gone."

"My twin . . . "

"You were the first twins." Her hands circled and warmed his buttocks. What color or size was she now? Did it matter? "The first of them all."

He remembered. The first and only Faeron Queen, the One, drifting through the cracks between worlds, spinning endless cycles of light and dark in a search for another of its kind. A self- contained microuniverse. Too much energy. Too much to contain. The birthing moment through the vessels of female humans in Zeist, the siphoning of energy from the One that allowed her to survive intact. On the day of Hermos' death - was it really murder, he asked himself now, and would he ever really know? - a terrible reign of chaos and lightning had loosed into the remaining vessel. Methos had taken the first Quickening and conducted it back to Her a thousand fold, nearly ripping apart Zeist in the process.

Too much energy to hold or contain. More twins, engineered through the human vessels, in a parasitic relationship essential to the Faeron Queen's survival. She couldn't survive without divesting herself of energy, but needed the energy looped back to divest herself again. The twins embodied Her - joy and grief, ambition and acceptance, danger and hope, selfishness and giving, power and weakness. Meanwhile, on a molecular level - Methos could *see* the lingering damage, could feel it in the mist that brushed against his skin - Zeist had toppled toward destruction, wrecked by the energy of Immortals coming into its physical plane and then leaving with the blast of Quickenings. She'd had no other choice but to start sending half the twins through to Earth, balancing the worlds, seeking an equilibrium.

When Immortals died on either world, their Quickenings went through the victor back to Her, back to the One. The echoes of their souls became Faeron angels, fireflies orbiting Her magnificent luminescence. He thought of the Immortals he'd known and killed - Kristen, Silas, even poor deluded Cassandra at the end - and imagined them back in the fold with the good ones who'd also died, his friends and lovers and students. The angels were the ones who visited birthing rooms, that stole babies for Earth, that could be tempted or charmed, angered or appeased.

Because he was with Her, seeing through Her eyes, he knew the Horins had bribed one Faeron angel into going to Earth with them, seeking out the twin of their murdered Lady, stealing her back. The Faeron Queen had been vastly displeased of her children's willfulness. Her ire was one reason the Horins were losing the war with the Mazereen.

Over on Earth, no one could ever win any Prize. Not when each Quickening brought new Immortals to Zeist and then to Earth. The myth of the Prize was a rationale to fight, to conduct Quickenings so that she could sustain the loop. Without the twins there could be no Quickenings and without the Quickenings no twins. Circles and circles and circles. Earth and Zeist would not be enough one day, and she would have to take up a third world. A fourth. A galaxy. He could see the future shape in his mind - the macrouniverse of worlds, each with its own battling Immortals, and the thought filled him with an unnamed dread.

The Game was not a game, but a balancing act of survival on a high wire over a bottomless chasm in the middle of an endless electrical storm. The Gathering was the inexpressible, unspoken hope of returning home to Her. The One that could only be already existed, and always had.

She stood before him naked in the mist. Not human. Never human. But he knew Her.

His mother. Himself. All edges blurred.

"Come to me," she beckoned, and he entered.

***

They rode by night, under cover of darkness. They rode cloaked, hiding their faces. Despite their precautions, two Duenne spies found them in the village of Grafa. Connor and Duncan slit their throats and buried them in shallow graves. A greater danger came from the royal soldiers who waited at every crossroads, ruthlessly interrogating strangers who might know something about the abduction of the Lady Jemhar from her own palace on the night she was to have been engaged to the Prince of Mazer. Connor didn't know how much she'd told Duncan about that, or about that guard Strickley, and knew it was none of his business. But sometimes, as they made their dangerous way back toward Sharna, he saw Duncan stare at Tessa with wistfulness and regret, as if he knew she hadn't told him everything.

Duncan knew Connor worried, but he couldn't find any words to console his clansman. He and Tessa had spent several long, frustrating hours talking about themselves, their lives, and the forces that had ripped them apart. Strangers in many ways, they struggled to find a way back to common ground. Tessa was an Immortal now, unaging, trained in swordsmanship. For five years she'd been the monarch of a massive kingdom rife with political danger, the bearer of an awesome load of responsibility. She carried new confidence, new humility, new expectations, new compassion. She said he'd changed too. He denied that at first, then looked inside himself, at the way he'd been leading his life since Tessa's death and the onset of Richie's Immortality, and conceded maybe she was right.

He admitted to resuming his relationship with Amanda. She confessed to having loved one of her palace guards, a man she blithely claimed Duncan would like. Duncan asked her if she still loved the man and she said no, but it was too dark out for him to read the expression on her face when she said it.

Strangers, in many ways. Not the least of which was physically. Duncan wanted her in his arms again, wanted to crush her into himself, but six years had put a barrier between them that he couldn't see and didn't have the courage to scale. On the road, when it wasn't either of their turns at watch, they would lay in cold, separate bedrolls, locked in private thoughts.

It didn't help, Duncan thought sourly, that Connor and Brennar had fallen so obviously in love with each other. The two practiced discretion - a new art for Connor - but Duncan was still aware of the charged emotions and sexuality between them, and thought Tessa was too. Brennar was good for Connor. The older Highlander hadn't been in love for a long, long time. But his involvement with her brought up a whole new problem, one which they were all careful to avoid. Although they were going to Sharna to meet up with Richie and Methos, no one knew what would happen after the rendezvous. They didn't have a spell to cross back to Earth, and even if they did, Duncan didn't know how willing Tessa was to give up her Immortality.

A darker fear gripped him on the second night of their trip, when he heard villagers speak of the man who'd killed a High Priestess in Sharna and how he'd been caught and killed in Pielle. Others said his body had vanished from the prison. An old hag sitting by a well claimed the Faeron Queen had claimed him as her own, but the villagers derided her for spreading foolish nonsense. Duncan didn't want to believe that Methos was dead, and desperately tried to put the gossip out of his head.

They made it to Sharna the night before their scheduled rendezvous and, having decided Brennar's house was too obvious a target for the Duenne, took lodgings by the hospital instead. The city buzzed with rumors of an impending Mazereen invasion, and refugees from the southern villages clogged the outbound roads for miles. Food and drinking water were in high demand. Tessa blamed herself for every hardship. That night, alone in their room, Duncan finally found enough courage to take her into his arms and console her.

"It's not your fault," he soothed. "One woman can't save a kingdom."

"She could try," Tessa said. "She should have tried."

Duncan kissed the top of her head. "If you'd married him it would have been a lie. And nothing good can come out of a lie."

Tessa put her head against his chest. "Make us real," she said softly. "Make us more real than anything else."

They made love slowly, carefully, not in the throes of passion but with a different rhythm that narrowed but did not obviate the distance between then. He came earlier than he wanted to, too nervous to hold back. She came in silence, which he found unnerving compared to the way it had once been. When it was done they said nothing, each secretly and shamefully glad it was over, and as they laid on opposite sides of the bed they tried not to listen to the squeaking of Brennar and Connor's bed in the next room over.

***

"Whose side are you on?" Clerise had asked. Every day Richie thought about that question. He thought about it when his parents insisted on accompanying him, Aidan and Clerise on their way to Sharna. They wanted to meet his friends, but more importantly, they wanted to protect their mortal sons as the entire kingdom tottered toward invasion. The lady of Jemhar had been abducted from her palace by Duenne spies. The countryside was in an uproar. Perhaps they did want to protect him and Aidan, Richie thought. Or perhaps they wanted to give information to Mazer, or defect across the border, and he was just a convenient excuse.

"Whose side are you on?" Since crossing to Zeist he'd been a little too busy to think about politics, but Richie understood that an answer would soon be demanded of him. If his parents did try to defect, would Clerise try to stop them? How had she come to set herself up in opposition to them, and how true was her allegiance to Horin? She claimed Aidan knew nothing. Would his twin be caught in the crossfire, and which path would he choose? Worrying about the possibilities made him sick to his stomach.

Townsend had been recalled to his troops in Kilvrey Field, and Richie sincerely missed the Horin lieutenant. He thanked him for the dozenth time. "If you hadn't helped Connor and me at the Orseven Fort, we would never have made it here. Then you reunited me with my family. Everything I have, I owe to you."

"Rubbish," Townsend grinned, with a fond embrace. He pulled back more somberly. "I am sorry about Methos."

A stab of pain cut through Richie's heart. "Yeah," he said. "Me too."

Richie hardly slept at all the night before he was supposed to meet with Duncan and Connor. He tossed and turned for hours with dread, wondering how he could break the news of Methos' death. The next morning he persuaded his parents and siblings to stay in their rented rooms. The last thing he needed was a crowd scene. When he arrived at the hospital he was struck by memories of lying wounded in one of its wings, his back torn open, Zeist nothing more than a confusing jumble of impressions. Seconds later he heard Duncan's voice.

"I'm so glad to see you!" Duncan grinned, wrapping him in a massive hug. Richie tried not to stagger under his weight. Connor also seemed in especially high spirits, which made Richie's task all the harder.

"About Methos . . . " he started to say, and Duncan's face clouded over in expectation of sorrow.

"What about me?" someone asked.

Richie whirled so quickly he almost lost his balance. Methos grinned at the other three men. His hair had grown longer than they remembered, and he seemed sunburned despite the mild spring day. He smiled at them as if nothing was amiss, as if he hadn't been dead. But Aidan, Karcey and Townsend had all seen the body - had they lied to Richie? Relief and beginning rage made him almost incoherent.

"You - but you died - "

"A mistake," Methos said calmly. "The reports of my death. . . blah blah blah. It's a long story, and I don't remember most of it. But I think something important happened."

Connor clapped Duncan and Methos on the back. "Let's go somewhere private and discuss the whole thing."

Richie couldn't stop poking Methos in the arm, verifying his status as a live human being. Methos reassured him twice and told him to stop the poking. They made their way back to Duncan and Tessa's rented room, where Richie got his second major shock of the morning.

"Hello, Richie," Tessa said shyly.

The next thing he knew he was sitting on the bed, head between his knees, Duncan telling him to breathe. Richie lifted his head and gave Tessa a smile that he knew looked goofy and lopsided and idiotic.

"Hi," he said.

Duncan asked, "Are you okay?"

Richie nodded. Methos alive. Tessa alive. Breathing did help, but he couldn't stop staring at her. She said to the others, "Maybe you could give us a few minutes alone?" and after they left she knelt before the bed and took his hands. He automatically slid to the floor beside her, and they sat together on the braided rug, smiling at each other through tears.

"I've missed you," Tessa said, brushing her fingers through his short curls. "You look exactly the same."

He shook his head in wonder. "God, Tessa. You don't know how many nightmares I've had of that night. We thought you - but you did - but you're not. How?"

She told him about the Horins and the Faeron angel who had taken her place. He grew angry at the forces who'd manipulated their lives and ripped them apart so cruelly, and then told her how much he'd grieved over her death.

"You and Mac were the first real family I ever had," he confessed, ducking his gaze in embarrassment.

"Mac told me you now have another," she said, lifting his chin with her forefinger. "Do you love them?"

He sighed. "I don't know. It's kind of complicated."

"It always is."

He chewed on his lower lip for a minute before asking, "Do you still love Mac?"

Tessa glanced toward the closed door. "Yes."

"He still loves you," Richie swore. "He never stopped."

She leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead. "Let's not talk about Duncan. Let's talk about you. Or do you want to go outside and play with swords? I've gotten pretty good, you know."

He laughed.

Next door in Connor's room, Duncan heard the faint sound of Tessa and Richie laughing and swallowed hard against a pang of envy. He tried to focus his attention on Methos, who seemed extraordinarily serene. "What happened to you? I heard a rumor you'd been arrested and killed."

"Arrested, yes. I don't remember being killed. I think the police turned me over to the priestesses in Pielle. I remember . . . " Methos paused, a faraway look in his eyes. He shook his head slightly. "I remember a cave and some kind of mist. But that's about it."

Duncan didn't like the sound of it. "Did you escape? Did they let you go? How did you get back here?"

Methos shrugged. "I was in the cave, I think, and then I was here. I can't explain it."

"I can," Connor quipped from the corner. "Senility. Your old age is catching up with you."

Duncan frowned. "It's not funny. It doesn't make sense."

"Let it go," Connor suggested. "The important thing is that everyone's here now and everyone's safe."

Tessa knocked on the door an hour later. "Richie went to tell his family he's safe and not to worry about him. He promised to come back with a bottle of wine."

Connor growled in disgust. "Haven't I taught that boy anything? He'd better come back with *several* bottles of wine, or I've utterly failed as a teacher."

Even Duncan smiled at that. He had no illusions everything was right in the world - not with the war still raging, Methos suffering some odd kind of amnesia, Tessa and he still trying to get to know each other again - but they did indeed have cause for celebration. When Richie returned he produced four bottles of wine, two loaves of bread, a hunk of cheese, several sweet cakes and a bag of fresh fruit, all procured on the black market.

"It's great to have parents," Richie beamed, "but it's even greater to have *rich* parents."

For hours they sat in Connor and Brennar's room, swapping stories of their separate adventures, growing increasingly more giddy and relaxed with each cup of wine. Tessa sat against Duncan, and when she took his hand of her own accord he couldn't stop a smile from spreading across his face. Methos tried to tell them his disjointed memories of the temple at Pielle but alcohol made the fragments no more coherent. Connor and Brennar disappeared for several minutes and came back flushed and smirking. Richie drained the last bottle, feeling aglow with happiness and reckless enough to ask the question no one had dared voice.

"So where do we go now?" he asked.

"Back across. Back to Earth," Methos burped.

"Can't," Connor said, nuzzling his head in Brennar's hair. He blinked at them owlishly. "Don't have that spell thing."

Methos smiled. "I do."

Duncan stiffened. "You do? How?"

"I don't know. I just do." Methos closed his eyes, seemed to search deep within himself, and then started speaking in a strange language no one else understood.

Brennar made a warding gesture. "He's speaking in Faeroneese."

Methos opened his eyes and looked quite pleased with himself. "See?"

"You didn't know it before," Duncan said, frowning.

"I know it now. And I intend to use it. Five thousand years of Immortality is a hard habit to break. I'm just not cut out for mortality anymore. Who's coming with me?"

Silence invaded the room, as if the door had blown open under a cold and sobering wind. Richie rolled an empty wine bottle between his hands, spun it on the floor, and finally balanced it upside down. "For the first time in my life I have a flesh and blood family," he finally said, so soft they almost missed it. "They're not perfect, and there are some definite questions that need to be answered, but I want to stay with them. I want to make it work."

Duncan reached over and squeezed Richie's shoulder. The young man sniffed and wiped at his eyes.

"Shit," Richie said, with a half-smile. "I didn't think it would be that hard to say."

"I'm staying too," Connor announced.

Duncan hadn't expected that at all. "What?"

Connor kissed Brennar's cheek. Pink flooded her cheeks as she looked down to the floor. Duncan had the distinct impression the two lovers had already discussed the issue. The older Highlander said, "Staying. I can be useful here, once I get his damned cast off. Once the war is over there will be plent of work for men who know how to use their hands. No computers, no television, no highways or traffic jams or subways - it's like the world I used to know. It's the world I want to live in."

Methos gazed squarely at Duncan. "And you?"

Duncan didn't answer. He and Tessa had studiously avoided the subject. He knew where his own heart lay, but hers was a different issue altogether. He looked at her and tried to keep his expression blank. He would do what she wanted, if it meant he could stay by her side.

"We're going back to Earth," she said.

The cold in the room dissipated. Duncan kissed Tessa, and felt her arch to meet him as if they'd finally remembered who they were, what they'd shared. Richie continued to play with the bottle, restless with his own decision. Connor let go of Brennar and moved to the window, the narrow view of Sharna peaceful and quiet under the stars.

"Do you hear something?" he asked.

"Hear what?" Richie asked.

Connor frowned. "Shouts, I think. Glass?"

They all scrambled to the window, and saw the first red flames licking up to the sky.

The invasion of Sharna had begun.

"This can't be happening," Brennar groaned. "Not here!"

"We have to get out of here," Methos said. "Out of the city and back to where we can cross."

Richie grabbed his jacket. "I have to find my family and make sure they're okay." He looked at Duncan, stricken. "I guess this is it, huh? This is goodbye."

Duncan didn't want it to end this way - not in fear, not with an invading army at their throats. He wanted to sit Richie down and tell him all the things he'd always meant to but never really had. How special he was. How proud Duncan was of him. How he wished their division over Mako had never happened, and his regret over a dozen other mistakes he'd make as a teacher. But time had run away from them, leaving them at this frantic moment of separation.

"Take care of yourself, Mac," Richie said, wrapping him in a hug. "I'll miss you more than you know."

"Richie," Duncan said, holding him tight, wanting to say the important words and unable to trust his own voice. Richie pulled away to hug and kiss Tessa, then shook Methos and Connor's hands and offered them sincere good luck.

"I'll meet up with you later," Connor said confidently. "Thirty days from now at the temple in Pielle. Every six months after that if we miss each other."

Richie grinned. "You bring the wine next time."

Duncan watched him sprint out the door. "Richie!" he yelled, and followed him into the hall. Richie stood poised at the top of the staircase, his expression as torn as Duncan's heart. He didn't want to go, but couldn't stay either, and his family was out there somewhere in the breaking glass and shooting flames.

"What?" Richie asked.

"I love you," Duncan said.

Richie blinked. The tightness in his chest loosened and somehow he found a grin for the Highlander.

"I love you too, Tough Guy," he said, and was gone.

***

Connor wanted Brennar to go into hiding. She argued the safest place for her to be was right by his side. Duncan said they should both flee, get themselves to safety, but Connor growled he would not leave until his friends had safely crossed back to Earth. Methos finally broke them apart and said they didn't have time to argue about the particulars. Tessa grabbed their cloaks, some bread, a canteen of water, and her sword. Between her, Methos and Duncan, they had three weapons in their defense. Duncan led them down the back stairs of the inn and into the narrow streets. They could smell the thick smoke now, the stench of destruction, and saw fire highlighting the southeastern sky with a dull red glow.

"What's the best way out of the city?" Connor asked Brennar.

She shook her head. "The southwest gate will be barricaded. The two northern ones should be open - it'll take some time, but we should be able to circle back."

"No," Methos said, pointing. "We go that way."

"Are you insane?" Connor asked. "You want to go into the heart of the invasion?"

"We'll be all right," Methos said. He caught a glimmer of movement in the darkness ahead of them - an olive skinned woman, slipping in and out of the shadows, her eyes full of red mist. His body shivered, a faint tremble that went to the center of his bones. "We go that way."

"This is probably the worst idea you ever had," Duncan growled, but he followed Methos. Tessa went next, her face skeptical, and Connor and Brennar brought up the rear. They cut down the back alleys as quickly and quietly as possible, moving towards the noise and light and screams. Bands of Mazer soldiers, their faces painted with blood, passed two streets over with shouts and war cries. Methos found the first corpse near the library, a woman who'd tried to flee before collapsing from her wounds. Her eyes remained open, her face frozen in a death mask. Two blocks later they found the temple burning, and six dead priestesses smoldering on the ground before it.

Connor's stomach nearly revolted at the smell. He recognized the Mazer strategy - their main forces were cutting a path of destruction from southeast to northwest, through the very heart of Sharna. Advance groups were laying waste to other parts of the city. They pushed on through the chaos, past blocks of burning houses and piles of freshly killed bodies. Four roaming soldiers found them near Merchant's Row. Tessa killed one with a quick thrust to the stomach. Duncan and Methos took one each and split the third literally in half. They had to battle twice more before the reached the southeast gate. Methos bled profusely from a wound on his right arm and Duncan had to stop and gasp for air, his injured side reawakening with remembered pain.

Tessa had been slit open across her breasts, but the wounds had already healed as she and Connor surveyed the handful of guards posted at the ruined gate. "A diversion would be handy," she muttered.

"Do you have anything specific in mind?"

"About the only thing I can think of is a Quickening, and I'm not volunteering mine," she replied.

In the end they settled for stealth, circling around to a group of horses tethered in a copse of trees and killing the young guard who watched them. His muffled death cry alerted one of his comrades, who came sword in hand to swing at Methos. Methos engaged him with a flurry of blows while Connor and Tessa grabbed the horses. Duncan dispensed of another Mazer soldier, then turned to help Connor swing up into a saddle and grab the reins with his good hand. Duncan heard a whistle and a thump and turned as Brennar fell against him, an arrow jutting from her side.

"No!" Connor yelled.

Duncan went to his knees beneath Brennar's weight. Blood poured out of her, hot and tangy and sticky, but he could do nothing for her. Her heart had already stopped. He heard Connor shout and recognized the sharp edge of grief in it. Before he could climb back up to his feet, before he could even mutter a word of condolence or warning, a second arrow shot out of the darkness and struck Connor square in the middle, piercing him through and through.

Connor fell from his saddle with a sickening thud, his eyes already closed, his mortal body already dying.

***

Richie made his way through the slaughter and destruction with only one goal in mind. He had to find his family. He killed a Mazer soldier who came screaming out of the darkness toward him, and did so without regret or self-recrimination. He fought his way through eight blocks of carnage, each step bringing more blood and exhaustion and fear. They had to be okay. He wouldn't be able to bear it if he lost them to this horror. The neighborhood of their inn had yet to be touched by the fires or invaders, but thick smoke rolled between the buildings and everything lay unnaturally quiet and muffled. He stumbled through the doorway, gasping Aidan's name, and found a knife pressed to his throat.

"No you don't, that's my brother!" he heard Clerise shout, and the knife fell away. The innkeeper who'd wielded it took a step back, rubbing his sore wrist.

"I thought it was one of those murdering bastards," the man said fiercely. He gestured around the inn's front room, where windows had been barricaded by tables and kitchen knives lay spread on the floor. His wife, children and several guests sat huddled in the corner, clutching each other in fear. "We're ready for them."

Clerise didn't bother to contradict the innkeeper's ill-founded bravery. She grabbed Richie by the hand and pulled him upstairs. Karcey and Alenda sat in their well-appointed room, each dressed in the sturdy clothes of common citizens. Aidan stood in the corner, his arms crossed over his chest, his face etched with unhappiness. Richie took one look at his parents and tried to hide the dismay that hit him like a blow to the stomach.

"You're going to Mazer, aren't you?" he asked faintly.

"You know about this?" Aidan demanded.

Clerise made a quieting gesture. "Sssh."

Karcey stood. "I'm sorry we didn't get a chance to talk about this earlier, Richie. I imagine Clerise has told you all she suspects."

"Not everything," Clerise muttered.

"More than anyone's told *me,*" Aidan muttered.

Richie pinched the bridge of his nose. He'd killed a slew of men to get to this room. He'd floated adrift his entire life, lost without a family, and now that he'd miraculously found his own he was going to lose them to war. Somewhere out in the fires and looting and death his dearest friends struggled to escape and survive, and he'd probably never see Duncan and Tessa again. On top of all that, he didn't think he could stand Aidan bickering like a little boy.

Alenda stood and took her husband's hands. "We're not going to Mazer. We're staying right here. The city is already falling. Stay with us and become part of the Mazereen empire, Richie. Once you see what it's like, you'll join us in the fight against Horin."

Richie felt every eye in the room on him. He swallowed past the hard lump in his throat, and fixed on his parents with the steadiest gaze he could manage. "I can't."

"You owe the Horin no loyalty," Karcey said, stepping forward. Richie took an involuntary step backward, and he saw pain twist his father's features. "Richie, listen to me. We know what we're doing. We know who's right and who's wrong. Listen to us, and stay by our side. No harm will come to you."

"All he has to do is sell his soul," Clerise sneered. "Like you two did. Like Pater. Tell him what that costs, Father."

Alenda's frown deepened. "You think you know everything, Clerise, but you never asked us why we believe what we do. You never questioned what Mazer can offer you that Horin can't."

Clerise drew herself up to her full height. "And I never will! I know where my loyalty and duty lay, and it's not with a bunch of bloody pagan worshippers - "

"Doesn't my opinion count for anything?" Aidan asked from his corner. "I guess it never has - "

"Stop!" Richie ordered, so angrily and forcefully they all quieted. "Just stop!" he repeated, more softly. He couldn't argue with his parents on the issue of Mazer and Horin. He didn't know enough about the two kingdoms. Alenda and Karcey might be spies, or they might be freedom fighters. Who was he to say? All he knew was that he had the blood of Mazer soldiers already on his clothes and hands, and that the man who'd saved his and Connor's life was a Horin lieutenant.

"I won't join you," Richie said clearly. "For now, for better or worse, I support Horin."

Karcey's gaze fell in disappointment. Alenda lifted her head higher. "Are you sure?" she asked.

He nodded.

"You know where I stand," Clerise said.

Aidan stepped forward with a deep breath. "Not that anyone values my opinion, but I support Horin too. So what now? You kill us to stop us?"

Karcey turned around sharply. "Don't be ridiculous. First and foremost you're our children. If you want to leave, then leave. Die for Horin. Do what you want. This war is far from over."

Alenda brought her hand up to touch her husband's cheek. The gesture seemed to calm him, and he cleared his throat as if embarrassed at the outburst. Alenda went to Richie and took his hands.

"I want you to know something," she said. "When you first appeared, I didn't want to see you. I'd already lost you once, at birth, to the Faeron. Now I'm losing you again, to the Horin, and it hurts twice as much. But I'm glad you came. I'm glad we met." She kissed his forehead. "I am your mother, and you are my son, and we will always be linked that way. Remember that."

Richie felt Clerise's hand on his shoulder, pulling him away.

The three children of Pielle left their parents and escaped through the burning city.

***

Duncan didn't know how close or far from the crossing site they were. All that mattered was the bloody bundle in his arms. His horse followed Tessa and Methos' across the dark plain. The sky stretching overhead shone with a dome of unfamiliar stars, but he didn't see them. He didn't see the pile of stones that marked Ethan Winokur's grave. He didn't see Tessa dismount and scan their surroundings, her head tilted as if she sensed someone or something unusual. Methos reached up, trying to take Connor from Duncan's arms, and the younger Highlander resisted.

"You have to give him to me," Methos said, quiet clearly. "Duncan, he's still alive, but we have to hurry."

Duncan kept his grip on Connor as he slid to the ground. He laid his kinsman out on the ground and felt for the pulse at his throat. It beat like the wings of dying butterfly. His lips had gone blue in the starlight, and his clothes were drenched with blood despite the crude bandages they'd wrapped around his middle. His breath made a faint rattle in the quiet, and Duncan knew he had only a few gasps left in him.

"Hurry," he begged Methos. "Please hurry."

"Hold my hand," Methos ordered roughly. He closed his eyes and began speaking the same Faeronese he'd recited in the room back in Sharna. Within seconds a wind kicked out of nowhere, and Duncan felt an immense pull in his chest.

"Going somewhere?" a voice asked, and a man in a Mazer uniform came out from the camouflage of a pile of boulders. Duncan pulled his attention from Methos to focus on the man. He was at least six feet tall, with short brown hair and a thick scar on his chin. A warrior. The sword in his hand gleamed in the starlight. "You're not at all who I was expecting."

"Then be on your way," Tessa suggested, rising to her feet.

A smile lit up his face. "Not very likely." To Duncan he said, "You there. On your feet - slowly."

Tessa's sword came out from under her cloak, and Duncan froze with the horror of what was about to happen. She ordered, "Leave them alone. You have no quarrel with them."

"Well, they are Horin, and we are at war," the man said derisively. "What more can you ask?"

"I can ask for your heart," Tessa said confidently, circling the man, drawing him from Methos, Duncan and Connor. "Or I can take it. Whichever you prefer."

"No!" Duncan shouted, trying to stand but hampered by Connor's weight, Methos' grip, and the buffeting wind. Methos didn't open his eyes or give any indication of noticing their latest problem as his words grew louder and stronger. Terror swelled in Duncan's chest. "Tessa, you can't!"

Her gaze shifted to him. "You know what I have to do, Duncan. What all Immortals do. Please don't make it any harder." She took a step closer to the soldier and raised her sword. Ice crusted her next words. "Tell me your name, Mazer, so I can put it on your tombstone."

He laughed, sounding genuinely amused. "Pater Pielle, madam. And yours?"

"Tessa Noel MacLeod," she said. "The lady of Jemhar."

"No!" Duncan shouted again, but he was already too late.

The last thing he saw in Zeist was Tessa and Pater's swords clashing against each other.

And the last things that followed them through to the cemetery in Newfoundland, dissipating over the graves and through the trees with sparks of errant white light, were the remnants of someone's Quickening.

***

St. Mary's, Newfoundland One year later

Duncan waited respectfully for the last mourners to dissipate in the morning sunshine. They headed in twos and threes down the hill, some holding each other for support in their old age. Most everyone he knew in St. Mary's was old - the young people usually went off to the big city after school. No one suspected they had a four-hundred-year old man walking in their midst. His short black hair, unlined face and healthy body seemed perfectly normal. He knew he had a reputation for being a loner, and more than a few gossipy tongues had wagged over his lack of interest in women, but Duncan didn't care. Let them talk. He'd stayed in St. Mary's for only one reason, one hope, one prayer.

He'd lived in a rented room for four months on forged Canadian papers before the job as caretaker opened up. The last one had been fired after too many tall tales about the cemetery being haunted by flashes of light, unexpected winds, and strange voices. The village council happily hired Duncan, the only applicant for the position. It had worked out well. Of all the jobs he'd held over the centuries, cemetery caretaker held a certain quiet, steady appeal. The residents never complained, the grass grew predictably, and tombstones needed very little maintenance. His days passed quietly among the dead, and if he spent most of his nights prowling restlessly through the graves no one noticed or cared.

Working on Holy Ground all day long offered him protection against any stray Immortals, and it came as quite a shock when he flew to Sydney and felt a Buzz just seconds after stepping off the ramp. The Immortal in the bathroom didn't want to fight and backed away with a hastily mumbled excuse about his flight boarding. Duncan's next encounter, in the garish King's Cross district, didn't go quite as peacefully. The Highlander dispensed of his cocky, inexperienced opponent with two strokes and took his feeble Quickening with no satisfaction whatsoever. He spent the next two days scouring every bar and drinking hole in the city before he discovered Connor slumped over a whiskey bottle, breath and body reeking of too many unwashed weeks.

Duncan drove him out to Bondi Beach and threw him repeatedly into the ocean until his kinsman sputtered out of the surf with red- rimmed eyes and a string of Gaelic curses. "Shut up," Duncan said unsympathetically. "Live or die. Don't hover in between."

"Fine for you to say!" Connor spat out. "You hide in a cemetery all day."

Duncan remained unperturbed. "I'm waiting for her to come across."

Connor threw himself face-down into the sand, as if hoping to bury his head in it. "She's not coming."

"You don't know that."

"You said you saw a Quickening."

"I don't know what I saw," Duncan lied. He found it easier to lie than face the idea Tessa might have lost her heart in Zeist. Sitting on that cold winter beach in Australia, flashing back to the night they'd crossed back, he pulled his knees to his chest and stared unseeingly into the pounding waves. The return trip had been easier than the initial trip over. He'd maintained consciousness all the way. Connor had revived a few minutes later, his arrow wound fully healed, his broken arm mended beneath the cast. Methos woke last, unable to remember the Faeronese spell no matter how hard he tried. The three of them waited all night, hoping for a miracle, but Tessa never appeared. She had no spell. She'd lost her -

No. He refused to believe that. To believe meant giving up all hope, meant losing her for the second terrible time. Even thinking about the possibilities started to open a huge hole of grief in his chest and beneath his feet. He would find a way back to her, or she to him. The alternative, as the old Methos liked to say, was unthinkable.

The new Methos had returned from Zeist a changed man. He no longer carried a load of cynicism between his shoulders and had lost most of his sarcasm. He retained his wry sense of humor and carried some inner peace that made him less self-serving, less worried about the Prize or its consequences. He'd stayed by Duncan's side in St. Mary's for a few months, lending moral support, but had finally wandered off to Norway and had at last word married a hearty public relations director named Trinda. They'd invited Duncan to visit several times, but aside from this rescue mission to Connor's side he'd refused to leave Newfoundland.

"I miss her," Connor groaned into the sand. "I miss her so much it's like scalpels stabbing into my stomach every day. How can I miss someone that much, Duncan? I only knew her for a month."

Duncan shrugged. "You loved her," he said. "Love doesn't make sense. It doesn't follow the rules. No matter how much happiness it brings, it hurts even more. You should know that."

Connor propped his head on his folded arms and sighed. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said Tessa's not coming. Believe in what you need to believe, Duncan. Just don't let it kill you."

"Funny," Duncan snorted. "Who called me three days ago saying he didn't know if he wanted to live or die anymore?"

"I was drunk."

"And now?"

Connor gazed at him thoughtfully for a moment and finally heaved a sigh. "Now I'm less drunk. And I'm wondering where I left my wallet."

Duncan flew back to Newfoundland the next day. He had a publicly listed phone number and a top-notch answering machine with battery backup. No one had called. He'd painted his name on the mailbox of the cottage he'd inherited with his new job. No one had sent him mail or notes. He talked to the grocer and the deacon, and found that no one had reported any strange lights or wind in the cemetery during his absence.

Every day he prayed. Every night, shortly before dawn, exhaustion dragged him to darkness in his cold and hard bed.

Summer leaves turned red early that year and rattled off the trees with the chill onset of autumn. He had three burials in the month of October. The third one was a little blonde girl who'd fallen off her bike and hit her head on a pipe. The villagers put enough flowers on the tiny coffin to transform it into a mound of color and fragrance, a bittersweet pile of beauty and sorrow. He didn't go out that night, but instead drank himself to sleep. He hadn't dreamed at all since coming back from Zeist, but in nightmare after nightmare the piteous little girl came to him with outstretched arms, weeping over the coldness of her grave, desperate to find her mommy and daddy.

He spent the whole day crying, rocking before an empty fireplace, chilled to the very bone. The time had come to recognize the truth. No matter how sharply it cut him open - and it did, from skull to toe, as neatly as if he'd been cleaved in two by an ax and doused with alcohol - he had to face the truth that Tessa had died. Richie was a different pain - mortal, in the midst of war, in who knew what kind of trouble - but Tessa was dead, and this time she wouldn't be making any miraculous returns.

He handed in his resignation a week later.

He packed his few meager belongings and made plans to go to Norway. He didn't think he could be around a cheerful and happily married Methos for more than a day before lunging for his sword, but if Zeist had taught him one thing it was the value of friends. Surely Methos would help him bury himself in a deep, dark hole somewhere. Maybe push him off a fjord or, if Duncan begged long and hard enough, just let him freeze in a glacier for a few hundred years.

The day of his flight to Norway he woke in the caretaker's cottage with a Buzz ringing through his skull and a voice commenting lazily, "Well, you certainly sleep soundly these days. What's a body got to do around here to get some attention?"

"Richie?" Duncan yelped, bolting upright. He scrambled free of twisted sheets and blankets and grabbed the young man standing in the doorway. He shook him by his shoulders and demanded, "Is it really you?"

"Well, I'm not Aidan," Richie grinned. "He wanted to come but things got a little busy on the other side. War, upheaval, stuff like that."

Duncan gaped at him. Richie had aged a little in his mortality, and bore a small pink scar near his right eye. He looked thin to Duncan's eyes, but sinewy and strong with muscle. His clothes bore the rough, homespun quality of Zeist, and didn't offer enough protection to keep him from shivering in the cold cottage.

"Don't you have heat?" Richie asked.

"It's turned off," Duncan said, still stunned. "I was leaving. Come on, let's start a fire, get you warmed up. . . . "

"I think that can wait." Richie's grin broadened. "Don't you want to see Tessa first?"

The hole that had threatened beneath his feet for fifteen months sprung open like a trap door. Duncan pitched straight down through it, into a spinning world of flashing light, cold air, tingling nerves, and pounding heartbeat. He clutched Richie for support. "What?" he gasped. "Where?"

Richie nodded towards the front door. "Outside." His expression turned somber. "She asked me to come in first. She brought someone with her, Duncan. Someone she loves very much. I want you to promise to give him a chance, okay?"

Duncan had taken a step toward the door, but didn't remember moving his feet. He found Richie blocking the way. "Promise, Mac," the younger Immortal insisted. "Promise you'll keep an open mind."

"I promise," he choked out hoarsely. He would have said anything to make Richie step aside. In another minute he was going to simply clamber over him. The idea Tessa had brought her lover with her back from Zeist couldn't obliterate his need to see her alive. Everything else they could resolve together.

"Okay," Richie said, stepping aside, his face inscrutable. "Go ahead."

Duncan took two quick steps forward, reached for the handle, and flung open the heavy wooden door.

She stood just outside, wrapped securely against the cold, her face white with it, her cheeks rosy and full. She'd gained weight since their parting. Her hair, back to its natural dark color again, hung in thick waves down her back. Her eyes twinkled with love and mischief and maybe just a little apprehension, but it was hard to tell through her tears.

"Hello, Duncan," she said. "Meet Ethan."

She held out her hands and offered him their baby son.

The End

**************************************************************************

Author's Notes: Whew!!! I'm so glad it's *over*!! Or is it? From where I sit I can see dozens of openings for even more fiction - places I couldn't develop in the space of this novella. Now if someone were paying me to write a book, that would be different! Thank you again to all the fine people who helped with the beta reading, inspiration, and whapping for this story! (Any remaining typos are always my fault.)

Btw, it's been said before, but it bears repeating....

Richie Forever!