Dearer Yet the Brotherhood

by Parda February 2000


To set the cause above renown,

To love the game beyond the prize,

To honor, while you strike him down,

The foe that comes with fearless eyes.

by Sir Henry Newbolt (1862-1938), from "The Island Race"


Chapter 1: Running


Duncan MacLeod was dying. He knew it. He ought to know; he had died often enough before. There was that same roaring in his ears, that same dimming of vision, that same painful and desperate gasping for air. But this time he wasn't lying down while he died. Oh, no. There was no peaceful closing of eyes, no relaxing on the ground for him. No, this time he was dying on his feet, and this time it was Connor MacLeod, his kinsman and former teacher, who was trying to kill him.

Connor wasn't using a sword to kill him. That would be too quick, too easy, and Connor wanted the dying to be slow. Duncan had arrived at Connor's farmhouse in the Highlands just this afternoon. Duncan had not even taken his bag from the car before Connor had invited Duncan to go running. But it had not really been an invitation; it had been a challenge.

Duncan had accepted that challenge, and now Connor was running him into the ground. Duncan breathed deeply of the brisk Highland air, and Duncan kept running.

The first four miles of the run had been pleasant, when John, Connor's twelve-year-old adopted son, had still been with them, before the boy had run to another farmhouse to visit his friend. Even the second four miles had not been too bad, when Connor had cheerfully suggested they "stretch out a bit." But this part-this hill, this mountain, this bloody great pile of rock that went up and up and up-this part was going to kill him. Duncan knew it.

Connor knew it, too; Duncan was sure of that. On level ground, Duncan could keep up with him. At sea-level, Duncan could keep up with him. For the first ten miles, Duncan could keep up with him. But they were running up a hill in the Highlands, and they had been running for over an hour. Connor could hear his wheezing gasps, his stumbling footsteps, his scrabbling for handholds on the steeper parts. Connor knew Duncan was not used to this altitude, was not used to this pace, was not used to running up hills that might just as well be cliffs, was not used to running twelve miles a day. Oh, yes, Connor knew. And Connor was still running, and Duncan was still following him.

It was an old, old game between them, and Duncan always lost. Duncan might be an inch or so taller than his kinsman, a bit stronger, a bit wider through the shoulders, but Connor had been born to run. Connor loved to run, and he was still running. Those damnable white running shoes were moving steadily and evenly up the path, sure-footed, finding the secure places on the rocky hillside, while Duncan's feet slid and slithered on the pebbles. Duncan's ankles were aching, and his knees were buckling, and his side was hurting, and his chest was burning, and Duncan kept running.

He saw only Connor's feet in front of him, and he focused desperately on keeping those feet in sight, even with his head down, and his eyes half-slitted, and the sweat dripping down his face. Duncan knew that if he ever lost sight of Connor's feet, he would never catch up to Connor. He knew that if he quit, if he just stopped running and lay down on the ground as he desperately wanted to do, then Connor would think of some other way to make him pay.

For that was what this kind of running was about-payment. Duncan had killed their friend Sean Burns three months ago. Killing Sean had been bad enough, but Duncan had owed Connor an explanation or at least an apology, and he had given him neither. Not a phone call, not an e-mail, not a letter. Not a word.

Duncan had waited too long to come to his former teacher, and now Connor was making him pay. Duncan knew Connor didn't want just an apology anymore; a simple "I'm sorry" would not be enough. Connor wanted Duncan to be sorry, and he was making sure that Duncan was sorry. He would make Duncan pay, either in sweat or in blood, and only then would he accept an apology. Duncan had paid in blood before, and he preferred paying in sweat. At least that was what he had thought when they had started running, some twelve miles ago. Perhaps paying in blood would have been easier. It certainly wouldn't have taken this long.

Duncan kept running.

Finally, Connor's feet slowed and mercifully ceased moving, and there was blessed level ground beneath them. Duncan stopped, his legs numb and trembling. He leaned over, his hands braced above his knees, and gulped in great gasps of air, trying to do it silently, trying not to let Connor know, trying not to throw up.

An exultant yell split the air, and Duncan closed his eyes and felt the sweat drip off the tip of his nose. He didn't need to look to know that Connor was standing upright, his fists raised, his head thrown back, that exuberant cry of triumph still ringing from his throat. Duncan didn't need to look. He needed to sit down, he needed to rest.

Connor wasn't resting. He was walking about on the top of the hill, stretching his arms over his head, doing deep knee-bends, flexing his legs. "I run up here twice a week or so. It's a great view, isn't it, Duncan?"

Duncan managed to stand upright, and he turned slowly to gaze at the panorama. Across the narrow peat-dark loch, the peak of Meall Mor stood silent sentinel among its brothers, hill upon hill lit to brilliance and deep shadow in the summer sunshine. "Yes," Duncan said, breathing carefully, forcing his chest not to heave for air. "It is." He wiped his face with his shirt and eased the air in his lungs out, then in, tasting the sweet scent of wildflowers and a hint of salt from the sea, all underlaid with the dryness of stone dust at the back of his throat. "The Highlands are beautiful."

"It's good to be back here," Connor agreed.

They stood for a few more moments, listening to the wind, watching the sun sparkle on the water far below. Duncan turned to his kinsman, hoping Connor would listen to him now. "Connor, I-"

"Enough sightseeing," Connor broke in cheerily. "Ready to run down?"

"Connor," Duncan started, but Connor was already running. Again. Duncan had known Connor would be angry, but he hadn't quite expected this. Connor hadn't run Duncan this hard since Duncan had been his student. Not since that one summer, right after Connor had come back from his trip to Aberdeen. Duncan had paid in both blood and sweat that summer, paid more than once.

Duncan took another deep breath and started after Connor. At least this part of the run would be downhill. It wasn't too bad at first, running back down. He was using different muscles now, and that brief rest on the top of the hill had given his body a chance to heal. But he was still tired. He had gotten on the plane in Seacouver nearly twenty-four hours before, and he hadn't slept much during the trip. He had been thinking of taking a nap when he got to Connor's house. Connor knew that, too.

Duncan kept running, trying to catch up.

He should have slowed down; he should have seen how steep this part of the trail was. But he had almost caught up to Connor, and he wasn't really looking at the trail. His heel skidded on the loose pebbles, and he was too tired to correct his balance. He landed on his butt and started to slide. He slammed into Connor, knocking his feet out from under him, knocking the breath out of himself as his kinsman landed heavily on top of him. Then they both slid down the hill, until Duncan smashed into a rock and came to an abrupt and shuddering halt.

Connor slid a few more feet, then grabbed some bushes and stopped himself. He crawled back up to where Duncan was lying. "You all right?"

Duncan supposed he should be grateful Connor hadn't told him to get up and keep running. The backs of his legs were burning from the abrasions, his hip hurt from landing on it, and he was pretty sure he had cracked a rib or two when he had smashed into the rock. Or maybe that had happened when Connor had fallen on him. "I'll live," he answered shortly, feeling the tingling of healing in various places.

Connor grunted in reply and sat down next to him, his elbows propped on his knees. He stared out at the hills beyond them and waited.

After a few minutes, Duncan sat up and adopted the same position, wondering who was going to break the silence. Connor could say nothing for a very long time. Duncan was just about to give in when Connor spoke first.

"Just decided to drop by?" Connor asked without looking at him.

Duncan knew Connor was angry because of Sean Burns, but Duncan didn't want Connor to be in control of this conversation. "No," Duncan answered and brought up something completely different, "Cassandra suggested I visit." Connor didn't react to the name, and Duncan continued, "How do you know Cassandra, Connor?"

Connor shrugged. "Ramirez introduced us." Then he turned suddenly to look directly at Duncan. "How do you know her, Duncan?"

"She was the Witch of Donan Woods. I met her when I was thirteen."

Connor's eyes narrowed at that, but he said merely, "And since then?"

"The next time I saw her was in Seacouver, about ten days ago." Connor hadn't given him much information; Duncan wasn't going to give Connor much information. Duncan knew how this game was played, and it was his turn to attack. "You never told me you know her."

"Neither did you." Connor wasn't going to retreat.

Duncan wasn't going to retreat, either. "I thought she was a witch, a legend. You knew she was an Immortal."

"So?" Not a retreat, but a block.

"So?" Duncan repeated, letting his frustration and his irritation show.

"So, Cassandra suggested you visit," Connor mimicked. "And did you do everything she suggested?" That was another attack, and a specific one this time.

Duncan paused. Apparently, Connor already had a lot of information. Duncan said evenly, "You know about the Voice." Duncan knew more than he wanted to about the Voice, that hypnotic control that made you into a puppet, jerked along by whoever held the strings. Cassandra knew exactly how to pull those strings.

A quick nonchalant lift of the eyebrows, then Connor looked out at the hills again.

Duncan was tired of this game of not-talking. "Do you know about Roland?" he demanded. Roland Kantos, Cassandra's former student, had followed Cassandra to Seacouver, but he hadn't been looking for her. Roland had been looking for Duncan-the Highland Foundling, the fulfillment of an ancient "prophecy" that told of a foundling child born on the winter solstice, who would go through Darkness into Light.

Connor nodded slowly. "What was he like?"

So Connor didn't know everything. Duncan felt a little better. "A slimy bastard."

Connor grunted.

"Did she tell you about the prophecy?" Duncan asked. When Cassandra had first spoken of the prophecy, Duncan had dismissed it as absurd, but then Roland had appeared. Roland knew how to use the Voice, too, but he liked to use it to kill, to be the Voice of Death. Duncan had taken his head the day after Cassandra had come, silencing Roland forever.

Connor gave him a sidelong glance and a brief nod.

Duncan wondered which question to ask first. Just how long had Connor known about the prophecy? Why had he never mentioned it? When had Cassandra and Connor last seen each other? How did they really know each other? Connor had said that Ramirez had introduced them, but he hadn't said what had happened after that. Duncan didn't know where to start, so he said nothing. For now.

Connor reached down and picked up a pebble from between his feet, then started tossing it from hand to hand. "Odd, to think she's been waiting for you since before the fall of Troy."

Duncan stared at Connor in shock. Cassandra had mentioned waiting for centuries, but Duncan had had no idea it had been that long. He had had no idea Cassandra was that old. "She waited for me for over three thousand years?"

"Three thousand, one hundred, ninety-one years." Connor tossed the pebble away. It clattered down the hill, then Connor said sardonically, "Isn't it nice to be wanted?"

Duncan stood and took a few steps down the hill. "This is ridiculous."

Connor reached down and picked up a stone, then rose and joined him. He threw the stone this time, a long over-handed heave. "I told her it was stupid."

"You don't believe in this prophecy stuff." Duncan was relieved to back on solid ground again, to hear the voice of reason after all that talk of a prophecy and dreams.

"No. But she did." Connor bent and picked up two stones, then handed one to Duncan. "And she let it control her life for over three thousand years."

"I still can't believe this," Duncan said. The stone felt cool in his hand, the edges sharp against his palm. He and Connor had often thrown stones together, seeing who could throw the farthest, who could throw most accurately. Duncan hefted the stone in his hand. It was a good size.

Connor took aim and threw his stone. It hit the boulder down the hill and bounced off. A small patch of lighter gray gleamed on the darkness of the boulder where the stone had struck. Duncan threw his stone, and another patch of light gray appeared, a few inches above the other.

Connor nodded, acknowledging the throw, then squatted down to examine the stones. "What about the other part of the prophecy, Duncan? Was that true?" He picked up two stones and stood, then offered one to Duncan. His gray eyes were direct yet unaccusing. "Darkness into Light?"

Duncan had already grasped the stone, but at Connor's question he froze, feeling the warmth of Connor's hand beneath his own, the hardness and the coldness of the rock between them. Sean's hand had been warm, too. Duncan had gripped it tightly, immobilizing the other man, and cut off Sean's head. Duncan clenched his fingers around the stone and lifted it from his clansman's outstretched hand.

Duncan turned away and looked down into the valley. A cloud had moved in front of the sun, and the sparkling water of the loch had gone flat gray. "It was... a Dark Quickening." He closed his eyes and whispered, "I took Sean's head."

Connor laid his hand on Duncan's shoulder. "It wasn't you," he said softly.

Duncan jerked away from Connor in a flash of rage, then hurled the stone. Duncan did not look to see where it landed, but listened to the empty echoes of the clatter of the stone. He felt just as empty, except for that rage, that alien overpowering rage. He swung around and confronted his former teacher. "Wasn't it?" he demanded. "Isn't it?"

Connor merely stood there, watching, waiting.

Duncan took a deep breath and tried to control that rage, tried to find himself again. He could do it; he had done it before, and he knew he would have to do it again. After a moment he said, "They're still inside me, Connor. Still there. I can hear them." He turned away again, unable to meet Connor's eyes. "And sometimes," he admitted softly, "it's not them. It's me."

Connor did not try to touch him this time, but came and stood beside him, close enough so that Duncan could feel the warmth from his body along his left side. Connor said nothing, merely waited, and this time Duncan was glad of his silence.

A falcon soared above them, the wingtip feathers showing black and separate against the blue of the sky. There was no sound but the wind.

Duncan sank down, sitting on his heels, then stared at the rock between his feet. Solid rock, highland rock, rock he had grown up with, rock that was a part of him, and a part of Connor, too. He should have come back to Connor sooner. He should have come home. "I'm sorry, Connor. About Sean."

Connor grunted, the only acknowledgment needed between them, then squatted next to Duncan. He sounded merely curious now. "How did you get out of it? The Darkness?"

"A friend." Duncan didn't want to explain his friend Methos to Connor. Methos-the oldest immortal, five thousand years old. Methos-a myth, and yet a man. Methos, who had become both friend and mentor to Duncan during this last year, not really taking Connor's place, because no one could ever take Connor's place, but still filling a need in Duncan's life.

It was a need Duncan hadn't even realized he had. He hadn't realized how much he had missed seeing Connor occasionally, calling him every few months or every few years, just knowing that he would always be there. Connor was still there, of course, but Connor had gotten married almost two years ago, and it wasn't the same. Connor was living with his family in the Highlands of Scotland, and although he accepted challenges, he didn't go looking for them anymore.

Duncan didn't want to intrude on Connor's time with his family. Duncan knew how brief and precious this time would be. And he didn't want to bring the brutal and ugly business of the Game into their lives, and the Game always seemed to follow him. So he hadn't called Connor very often, and he had only visited once, back in August last year.

Duncan had missed having a friend and a mentor, and Methos had stepped into the place where Connor had been. No, Duncan didn't want to explain who Methos was. Duncan added, "My friend helped me come back to myself, took me to an ancient healing spring."

Connor looked at him even more curiously now. "A good friend."

"Yes." Duncan tried to explain. "I'm not sure, but I think he may have gone through something like that. He seemed to know about it."

Connor grunted again.

Duncan said earnestly, "I couldn't come here, Connor. Not while your family was here. Not while I was like that. And I didn't want to do anything to you."

Connor considered that, rubbing the side of his face, then he nodded. "Yeah. Thanks, Duncan." He stood and took a few steps, then swung around to face Duncan. "What about after?"

Duncan stood, too, and took a deep breath. Connor had forgiven him for killing Sean, and for not asking Connor for help, but he was still angry about this. Duncan had seen Connor angry before, and he knew what it looked like. And Connor was very angry. "Connor, I-"

"You didn't even tell me Sean was dead, let alone how it happened." Connor picked up a stone and threw it against the boulder. The stone shattered. "I had to find out from her._"

Duncan was surprised at the bitterness in that last word. Connor wasn't angry only with him; he was angry with Cassandra, too. What, exactly, was between those two? At least now Duncan knew that Cassandra and Connor had seen each other lately. Sean had only been dead since March, three months ago. "No," Duncan thought savagely, "I killed Sean three months ago."

Three months ago, a lifetime ago. Two lifetimes. He could remember the person he had been before the Dark Quickening, and he could remember-God! those memories!-what he had done during those terrible weeks of the Darkness. But even though he had escaped the control of the Dark Quickening, he was not the same. Even though the prophecy had spoken of going "through darkness into light," he had not gone through the Darkness. He had taken it inside him, and it would be a part of him forever.

Duncan closed his eyes again and willed himself to calmness, silencing the voices in his mind, leaving them alone in the darkness again. They were nothing. He was himself again, the sky shone blue and clear, he was back home in the Highlands, and Connor was waiting.

He walked over to stand beside his kinsman, in just the same way as Connor had stood beside him earlier. "Connor, I didn't want to face up to everything I'd done. I didn't want to admit it to myself." He waited for Connor to look at him again, then Duncan said softly, "And I didn't want to admit it to you."

Connor looked back with ancient, knowing eyes, then dropped his gaze and looked away. "Yeah," he muttered.

Duncan recognized that particular combination of guilt, embarrassment, and shame. He saw it every morning when he shaved. It was almost comforting to know that Connor had done things he didn't want to admit, either. Duncan had been... afraid-yes, damn it, afraid!-that Connor wouldn't listen, wouldn't understand, wouldn't forgive him for killing their friend Sean. Connor did not forgive easily.

Then Connor gave a soft snort, the one that meant he was both amused and exasperated, and glanced back at Duncan. "I hear I'm not an easy man to admit things to."

Duncan was equally amused, and equally exasperated. He snorted in return. "Who told you that? Alex?"

Connor nodded, the barest hint of a smile on his face.

Duncan grinned openly. "She's right."

Another snort from Connor, this one of simple amusement. He bent down and picked up two more rocks, then handed one to Duncan and said casually, "So, what else did you do?"

It was not a casual answer. "There was a woman."

"Did you rape her?" Connor did not sound surprised.

"It might have been better if I had." Connor gave him a sharp glance at that, and Duncan explained, "I seduced her, just to irritate her husband. If it had been rape, at least she wouldn't have had to explain. She wouldn't have had to live with the guilt."

"The way you do."

"Yes. She shot me, to keep me from killing her husband. Killed me."

Connor shrugged. "You got what was coming to you."

"I know. But it doesn't make it better. Not for me, not for them." Duncan hefted the latest rock Connor had given him. It was smaller than the others had been, with sharp edges. He clenched his fist tightly. "And I tried to take Richie's head."

Connor paused in taking aim at the same boulder, then threw his rock. It hit just below the mark he had made earlier. "Have you seen him since then?

"Last week. We're talking again, at least. But he doesn't trust me." Duncan took aim and threw. The rock landed short and made a small puff of dust in the dirt. The dust drifted, blown by the cool breeze, finally settling to the ground. Duncan said bitterly, "Why should he? I don't trust myself."

Connor laid his hand on Duncan's shoulder again. "It wasn't you, Duncan."

It was Duncan's turn to snort, this time in denial. "It was my sword in my hand." He raised anguished eyes to his teacher. "And I wanted to kill him." He had wanted to take Richie's head, to feel his sword swing round and slice through that neck, to watch the body crumple to the ground, to see the blood spilling forth as the lightning came for him. He had lusted after that Quickening, and sometimes in his dreams he still did.

Connor nodded slowly, acknowledging that hunger for blood. It was part of being an Immortal. His hand tightened on Duncan's shoulder. "But you didn't."

"Because Dawson shot me!" Duncan turned his face away, but he didn't shrug off Connor's hand this time. His voice became quiet. "I would have taken Richie's head if Dawson hadn't been there to stop me. I would have done it, Connor." He swallowed hard, the memory still taunting him. "And I would have enjoyed it. Like I enjoyed killing Sean."

Connor's hand fell from his shoulder, and when Duncan lifted his head to look at him, he saw a terrible inward stare on Connor's face, a stare of memory and guilt and fearful longing.

"I know," Connor said quietly. He blinked and shrugged a little. His eyes were calm once again. "But it wasn't you, Duncan. Not really."

Duncan knew that; he knew the Dark Quickening had changed him, taken him. But Duncan also knew that just as he had been afraid to tell Connor what he had done, Connor had something he was afraid to tell him. And Connor had never taken a Dark Quickening. He didn't have that excuse to fall back on. Duncan said softly, "Connor?"

Connor met his eyes for an instant then turned away.

Duncan reached out to him, laying his hand on his shoulder. "What?" he said lightly, "Has Alex said I'm not easy to talk to, either?"

Connor's shoulder was rigid under his hand, then it relaxed into a shrug and he turned back to Duncan. "It was a long time ago, Duncan."

"If you want to talk...," Duncan offered.

"Me? Talk?" His snort was derisive now. "I hear I'm not much of a talker, either."

"Alex again?" Duncan asked with a grin. "Sounds like she knows you pretty well."

That did not bring the answering grin Duncan had hoped to see; Connor's face was completely closed. Too late, Duncan realized that if Connor wouldn't tell him what had happened, he probably hadn't told Alex, either. Connor had told Alex about immortality, but he still kept other secrets from his wife.

"When you're ready, Connor," he offered again, but Connor had already moved away. Duncan knew better than to push. They watched as the falcon circled lazily, then suddenly dropped to earth, talons spread, beak gaped wide in a scream. It hit the ground and disappeared in the dark-leaved heather. After a moment the falcon rose, wings flapping hard to lift it slowly skyward, a rabbit hanging limp and bloody below.

Duncan forced himself to watch until the falcon disappeared in the shadows of a distant hill, gone home to feed its fledglings, no doubt. All life fed on death, Duncan knew. It was the way of things. But sometimes death took more than its share.

"I'm glad you came, Duncan," Connor said, breaking into his thoughts, breaking his dark mood.

Duncan turned to Connor with a smile. "So am I."

Connor slapped him on the arm. "Ready to finish the run?" He laughed at Duncan's exaggerated sigh. "When we get home, we can eat lunch. Maybe even take a nap."

Duncan grinned. "I'd like that."

"Good." Connor grinned back. "Then let's run."


Chapter 2: Investing

As Connor and Duncan approached the farmhouse, John was currying his bay gelding in the paddock, and Alex was leading Ariadne, her gray mare, from the barn. Connor took the opportunity to appreciate his wife from a distance-the long legs outlined in snug jeans, the even better view when she bent over to pick up a bucket, the generous curve of her breasts under her white T-shirt. Alex had pulled her long blonde hair up into a simple ponytail, but as Connor got closer he saw her give that shake of her head and quick puff of air she always used to get her bangs out of her eyes. Connor grinned, for Ariadne had just done the same with her forelock. Connor's mind wandered off to other things Alex and Ariadne had in common: both good to look at, with lean graceful lines and hidden strength; both high-spirited, both responsive to a firm but gentle hand; both good to ride...

Connor put on a burst of speed and beat Duncan to the gate, then went into the paddock and kissed his wife, taking his time about it.

"You and Duncan all right now?" she asked, her arms still about his waist. Alex had been in the kitchen when Duncan had arrived, and she had seen the tension between the two men. "Business taken care of?"

Connor nodded and gave her a smile. "All done." He ruffled his son's curly black hair as he walked to the stable, then Connor brought the new stallion, Dian, outside. All of the horses needed a good brushing. Duncan gave John a hand with the gelding, and clouds of fine hair floated around them. The three horses grazed contentedly.

"Want to go riding, Uncle Dunc?" John asked, while they were putting away the curry-combs in the barn.

"Yeah, John, that would be great," Duncan said. "But there are only three horses, and there are four of us."

"You can ride the mare, Duncan," Connor said. "Alex won't be riding." Connor deliberately avoided looking in Alex's direction, knowing that her dark blue eyes had gone even darker with anger.

But Duncan had not missed her level stare. "Maybe we should go later," he temporized, looking back and forth between husband and wife. "I'd like to eat first."

"Me, too!" John said.

Connor laughed. "You always want to eat first, John. Why don't you go help Mrs. MacNabb in the kitchen?"

"I guess I'll go help, too," Alex said, seeming calm and cool, then she and John went into the kitchen.

The two men finished putting away the horses' tack in silence, and then headed for the house. "Looks like the wall is holding up," Duncan observed when they reached the garden. He bent slightly and peered at the chest-high wall that provided protection for the plants from the harsh winds.

"Yeah," Connor agreed. "We did good work last summer." Duncan had helped build the dry-stone wall during his visit in August, when he had been searching for a long-lost grave near Glenfinnan, at the northern end of the loch. "Alex likes to garden."

"I think she likes to ride, too," Duncan said, but Connor did not respond to that. "Are you adding onto the house?" Duncan asked, going past the garden and around the corner of the house. A large rectangle of ground had been excavated along the entire east side.

Connor nodded. "The original farm-house was just the kitchen and the parlor downstairs, with two bedrooms on the second floor."

"They added a living room and another bedroom about a hundred years ago, didn't they?" Duncan asked, motioning to the wing that changed the shape of a house from a rectangle to an el.

"Yes, but we need more space. This addition will be two stories. An office and a guest suite on the ground floor, and a bigger bathroom and a nursery on the second."

"A nursery?" Duncan said, bending to look at the layers of dirt in the excavation. "A greenhouse? Does Alex like to garden that much?"

"No," Connor said, keeping his face absolutely expressionless. "Not for plants."

Duncan straightened and turned slowly. "Not for plants," he repeated.

Connor shook his head. Duncan was a smart lad. It shouldn't take him long.

It didn't. "Not for plants," Duncan said again, and then an enormous smile slowly lit up his face. His smile turned into a grin, and he slapped Connor on the arm, then pulled him into a hug and laughed. "That's great!"

"Yeah," Connor agreed, grinning in turn. "It is."

"Are you using an adoption agency in Scotland?"

Almost there, Duncan, but not quite. "No, no adoption agency."

"A private adoption, then."

"No." At Duncan's confused look, Connor added, "No adoption at all."

Duncan's confusion lasted only a moment longer, then it turned to complete surprise when he finally figured it out. "Alex is pregnant? But... how? I mean who... I mean..."

Connor took pity on him. "It's called artificial insemination, and we used an anonymous donor."

"Yeah, I know, I've heard of it. I just didn't..." Duncan shook his head, and his grin grew even bigger. "So, that's why Alex isn't riding."

Connor didn't want to go into that. He had told Alex not to ride while she was pregnant-every pregnancy book he had read warned against riding horses-but she hadn't been very gracious about agreeing with him.

"When's the baby due?" Duncan asked.

"Middle of January. Want to be a godfather?"

"Absolutely!" Duncan shook his head and laughed again. "This will be something new for you, won't it?"

Connor nodded. "John was about three-" He stopped, not wanting to talk about Brenda, not here, not today. It had been another life, a different time, and it was over. They had had such a short time together, less than a year of marriage before she had been killed in a car accident, not far from here, nine years ago. Connor had died, too, but that had not mattered. When he had revived, he had been alone.

Except for the young boy waiting for him at the adoption agency in Morocco. Connor had almost called and told them he didn't want the boy. But Brenda had wanted him. She had fallen in love with the single picture they had been given, and Connor couldn't abandon the child. So he had gone to Africa and adopted the boy, stayed there in Marrakesh, made a home for himself and his son. And now he had a new home with his son, and a new wife, and a baby on the way. A new life.

For now.

"Does John know he's going to be a big brother?" Duncan asked, his words touching on that bubble of thought and popping it, wiping it away.

"We told him a few weeks ago, when we were sure. It didn't work the first time we went to the clinic, but she tested positive on Mother's Day."

"That's a good omen."

"I guess. It was hard to hide; Alex had morning sickness every day. But I don't think it's real to John yet." Connor snorted. "Some days, it doesn't seem real to me."

Duncan grinned yet again. "Just wait till the middle of the night when the baby cries. It'll be real enough then."

"So I hear," Connor agreed, looking forward to that day-and even to those nights. "Want to eat? I bet lunch is ready now."

Mr. and Mrs. MacNabb had left for the day, and John was drying the dinner dishes when Connor said to Duncan, "How about a drink?"

"Sure," Duncan agreed, sweeping up the last of the dirt from the slate floor of the kitchen. "In fact, I brought something." He put the broom away and ran up the stairs to get it from his room.

"I'm going to go check my e-mail, Connor," Alex said, setting the last of the leftovers in the refrigerator. "John, don't forget you have to leave for karate in half an hour. You wanted to show Duncan the dojo, didn't you, Connor?"

"All three of us will go," Connor agreed. He gave her a kiss before she left the kitchen, then wiped down the long, wooden table that stood in front of the enormous fireplace. John finished the last plate then set the towel down and went to get dressed.

Duncan came back into the kitchen and handed a bottle of whisky to Connor. "I know you usually drink Glenmorangie, Connor, but this is a new brand, and I've come to like it."

Connor examined the label. "A twelve-year-old. Fionnmore, from Speyside." He lifted one eyebrow. "A new brand, you said?"

Duncan nodded. "I first saw it in the stores in the States about a year ago. I think you'll like it, too."

"Only one way to find out." Connor got two glasses out of the cabinet next to the sink, then headed for the door to the garden. "Outside?"

The two men stood silently, close by the dry-stone wall, and Connor poured a small amount into each glass. Duncan waited for Connor to speak first. "Grassy, like new-mown hay," Connor said, holding the glass close to his face, swirling the golden liquid and breathing in the aroma. "But sharper, I think." He bent his head for another sniff. "Thyme?"

Duncan inhaled deeply. "Thyme, yes. And sweet, too." He looked at his kinsman. "Shall we?"

"MacLeoid!" announced Connor, saying their name in the old way, reminding them of the bond between them, the bond that went beyond blood. There was a hint of a smile on his face, and he held his glass high.

"MacLeoid!" agreed Duncan, smiling, lifting his glass. It was always their first toast after a separation.

Both men closed their eyes as they took the first sip, allowing the whisky to warm on their tongues, feeling the tingling there and on their lips. A slow inhalation through the nose, allowing the flavors to penetrate. Smooth and flowery, with a clean crispness. Then the first swallow, the warmth of it down the throat, the glow in the belly. Eyes still closed, another slow breath through the nose, tasting the ghost of it still, a faint lingering essence of peat smoke and honey, and the scent of wild flowers on the wind.

Connor opened his eyes and regarded the golden liquid left in his glass. "You were right, Duncan. I like it. At least to sip." He tossed back the rest of it and held the whisky in his mouth a moment, then swallowed and let out his breath in a short explosive gasp. "It's good that way, too." He looked at Duncan, waiting.

Duncan accepted the challenge with a slight grin and tossed back the rest of his drink, then breathed deeply. "Glad you like it."

Connor poured them each another drink, a larger amount this time, then picked up his glass.

It was Duncan's turn to propose a toast. "To three things that a man needs in the world: a good whisky, a good friend, and a good woman."

Connor gave a short, dry laugh at that, and they each took a sip, but Duncan didn't smile. His gaze was direct and serious as he looked at his kinsman, his teacher, his friend. "I'm glad you've found a good woman, Connor. I can see that Alex makes you happy."

"Yes," Connor answered after a moment, looking out across the valley. "She does." His eyes narrowed slightly with good humor as he regarded his kinsman, the late afternoon sunshine glinting on Duncan's dark hair and accentuating the shadows in the weave of his sweater. "But that means you don't get all of the fun..."

"... and all of the good women," Duncan finished for him, and laughed. "But I've got a good whisky," he said, as he lifted his glass, "and I've got a good friend."

Connor nodded at the warmth in Duncan's brown eyes. "And so have I." He smiled then, a real smile, the smile he gave to very few people. "I'm glad you came, Donnchadh. It's good to have you here."

"It's good to be here, Conchobhar," he said simply, using the Gaelic pronunciation of Connor's name in return. Then he lifted his glass again. "To Alex!"

Connor clinked his glass to Duncan's. "To Alex!"

Duncan laid his hand on Connor's arm, stopping him before he could drink. "And to your children."

Connor paused with the glass near his lips, then nodded. His voice was soft and low. "And to our children." He downed the rest of the drink and stood for a moment, the glass held loosely in his hands.

Duncan tossed back his drink, then leaned his elbows on the top of the wall and stared at the loch below. Connor poured them both another drink then stood next to Duncan, comfortably silent, sipping the whisky. "You're a lucky man, Connor," Duncan said, after a moment.

Connor knew that. He also knew it wouldn't last.

"I envy you," Duncan said quietly.

Connor hadn't known that. He turned to Duncan in surprise, his eyebrows raised.

His kinsman shrugged. "Well, you've adopted two children and been married three times. And now you're about to have a baby. I've never-"

Connor hesitated, then went ahead and said it. "There was Kahani, and Little Deer." He hesitated again. "And Tessa."

Duncan nodded and shrugged and sighed all at the same time. "And Debra, and Teresa, and Linda, and-" He stopped abruptly then said softly, "And Anne."

"Anne?"

"I met her about a year after Tessa. We were together a couple of months, and then Anne saw me die. So I left. I called her later, and she came to see me in Paris. She was pregnant."

Connor merely nodded.

"We talked about raising the baby together, but then she saw me take someone's head."

"Oh. Different than hearing about it."

"Yeah. Has Alex...?"

"No. Did Tessa?"

"Yes, but we had been together for twelve years by then. Anne couldn't handle it. She left." Duncan shook his head and looked over the top of the wall at the water below. "I wanted to be a father, Connor. To be there, see the baby grow, but..."

"Someday," Connor said, but Duncan was still staring at the loch. "After all," Connor added with a smile, "you're only four hundred and four. I was about twenty years older than you when I found Rachel. You're young yet."

That brought the answering smile he had hoped to see. "Right," Duncan agreed. "I'm young yet. Unlike you."

"Another drink?" Connor offered, and Duncan agreed, and they were silent once again.

Alex came outside a few minutes later, and Connor went to greet her with a kiss. Her gaze fell on the bottle of whisky, and she said, "I see you two have finished talking and started drinking?"

Duncan lifted his glass to her and to the summer-scented evening. "It's not often I get to drink in the Highlands on a day such as this."

Alex looked more closely at the bottle, then turned to Connor, sliding her arm around his waist. "Have you been telling Duncan about your distillery?"

"His distillery?" asked Duncan, his voice deceptively even.

"Yes," said Alex. "Connor started the Fionnmore distillery twenty years ago. Didn't they start bottling a few years back, Connor?"

Connor nodded, his expression bland, his arm about her shoulders.

Alex continued, "Now that we live in Scotland, we've bought some more. Fionnmore is the only one in Speyside. All the rest are in the Highlands."

"All the rest?" Duncan's voice was more challenging now. "And how many is that?"

"Seven," Alex answered. "And we're looking into one on Islay."

Connor gave a deprecating shrug. "We don't own the others. More of a partnership."

Duncan's jaw tightened in an obvious mixture of irritation and amusement. "And would you say that distilleries are a good investment?"

"Long-term investment, yes." Connor grinned at Duncan, a very rare grin. "Most of my investments are long-term." He picked up his glass again and inhaled the fragrance of the whisky. "And not all of the returns are monetary." He lifted his glass to Duncan in a silent toast and drank, then smiled at his former student. "You were right, Duncan. I do like this brand."


Chapter 3: Remembering


The next morning, John's voice called to Connor from the hall. "Dad! Dad! Phone!" Connor put down his book and left the living room for the kitchen, where Alex was warning John he was going to be late for the game, and John's muffled voice was yelling, "I'm getting my shoes!" Connor arrived in time to catch a hurried, "Bye, Uncle Dunc!" as John jumped over Duncan's outstretched legs, then an equally hurried, "Bye, Dad!" and the slamming of the door.

Connor smiled at the cheerful chaos of the day, nodded to Duncan and Alex sitting at the table, then picked up the phone. "Connor MacLeod."

"Connor? Cassandra," came the reply.

Connor's smile disappeared. He went into the hallway to sit on the stairs. "Yes?"

"I can fly into Edinburgh this weekend."

Connor grimaced, reminding himself that he'd asked her to call him. He'd asked her to teach him to resist the Voice.

"Or Monday, if you would prefer," she offered.

He didn't want to see her at all. Ever.

Cassandra must have managed to figure that out, because she sounded hesitant now. "If you want to do to the training."

He didn't want to. He needed to. He rubbed at his neck, remembering Cassandra standing over him, smiling, holding his own sword to his throat. No one was going to have that kind of power over him, ever again. Especially her. "Late Sunday would work," Connor said. Duncan was leaving in four days. "I'll get you a hotel room and pick you up at the airport," Connor told her. She had said the training could take as long as two months, and no way in hell would he let the lying bitch stay in his house. "What name are you using?"

"Catherine Grant."

"And the flight?"

She gave him the details and added, "I'll see you on the twenty-third, then."

"The twenty-third," he agreed and hung up on her, then dangled the telephone in his hand, wondering how in the name of God he was going to explain this to his wife. At least he didn't have to explain it to Duncan.

After a delicate-and truthful, if somewhat incomplete-explanation to Alex, the rest of the day went well, and the rest of the visit went well, too. For once, the Game did not intrude on their lives. No other Immortals came looking for their heads. No one threatened or kidnapped someone they loved. Even the Watchers were invisible. Duncan asked which of the local villagers was Connor's Watcher. Connor didn't care.

"They can all go to hell," had been his reaction when Duncan had first told him of the Watchers three years ago, and it was still his reaction.

The four MacLeods spent the days working in the garden and taking care of the horses. In the long summer evenings, they played baseball or cards. Connor and Duncan sparred everyday, and they even found time to talk once in a while. The day before Duncan left, Connor drove the two of them north past the town of Marybank, to go hiking in what was left of Strathconan Forest.

"The hermit's cave was close to Orrin Falls, wasn't it?" Connor asked as they made their way between the great trees.

"Yes," Duncan answered readily enough, "we're almost there." But when they reached the side of the hill, he stood silent, staring at the jumbled pile of stones that marked where the cave's entrance had been.

Connor stood silent, too, remembering that night long ago, that night Duncan had taken his first head, that night Connor and Duncan had met as Immortals.


- Strathconan Forest, Early Spring 1625 - -

Easter was near, but winter still gripped the land. Connor pulled his furs closer about him against the sleeting rain, then tucked his hands under his plaid and adjusted the reins of his gray mare as they made their way through the forest, the great trees bare and stark against the darkening sky.

"Should we stop to make camp?" asked Alistair MacDougal, his gangly, young companion. Alistair's three-year-old gelding, another gangly youth, snorted impatiently as Alistair pushed thick blond hair back from his forehead and wiped the water from his face.

Connor shook his head, though the thought of a fire or shelter was tempting. He had almost forgotten how cold a winter in the Highlands could be. He had been gone for over thirty years, living in Edinburgh and London, sailing to far-off lands. When he had made port in Formosa a year and a half ago, he had found a letter from Cassandra, telling him that young Duncan MacLeod had become an Immortal and needed a teacher. It had taken him ten months to get back to Scotland, and Connor had been searching the Highlands for the lad since last summer. "It's not that far to the next village," Connor said. "I'd rather not spend another night in the forest."

"I fancy a bed myself," Alistair replied. "And they say the whisky in these parts is uncommon good," he added with a learned air.

Connor grinned. No doubt Alistair was absolutely correct; the fellow knew his whisky. Connor had first seen Alistair in a tavern four months ago, engaged in a spirited discussion with some Frasiers about the various breeding habits of sheep-and MacDougals. After Connor had joined the conversation, the Frasiers had conceded the argument, and Alistair had treated Connor to a fine meal and an even finer "wee bit to drink." Halfway through the jug of whisky, Alistair had announced he would help Connor find his "long-lost kinsman, who's nay been seen these last long years." The two had been tramping the Highlands ever since.

"I believe we may soon be finding young Duncan," Alistair said with determined good cheer. "The goodwife in the village of Marybank did say that your kinsman was heading this way."

"We are getting closer," Connor agreed. The wind was rising, and the rain trailed icy fingers down his face and his neck. Connor clicked to his horse to go faster, her hooves stirring last year's dead leaves. The path was rougher than they had expected, growing slick with a thin coating of ice. Night fell while they were still a mile from the village.

"Not long now!" Alistair said as they reached the top of a rise. "Ah, for a blazing fire to warm my backside, a drink of whisky to warm my inside, and a willing lass to take care of the rest."

That sounded good. Connor wanted to find Cassandra, too, after he tracked down Duncan. Connor hadn't seen her for twenty-five years, and he'd missed talking with her-and not talking with her. On their last visit together, they'd spent most of their time in bed. Cassandra was a very old Immortal, maybe as much as two thousand years, and she had taught him things he'd never even imagined, both about her body and about his own. This time, Connor was looking forward to teaching Cassandra a few things; he'd learned a lot during his travels to the Orient. He let his mind drift to pleasant memories of things past, and even more pleasant imaginings of things to come.

"That's odd," Alistair commented, pointing to the right. "There shouldn't be lightning with this kind of rain."

Connor took one look at the ghost-white flickers and turned his horse. "This way," Connor commanded and headed back down the hill, away from the warm fires and the whisky and the lasses.

"But-," Alistair called out in protest, staring after him.

Connor didn't slow down, and finally Alistair followed, grumbling. The ghost-white flickers in the distance died away, replaced by a more common red glow. Wood smoke came on the wind.

"That's a big fire," Alistair said, for they were still a quarter of a mile away.

Connor kicked the mare into a trot.

He sensed the Immortal when he reached the base of the hill. If the woman in the village had been right, and Duncan was in the area... Connor dismounted and ordered Alistair to stay where he was. Connor started up the hill in a stealthy prowl, his katana in his hand. Duncan might not have been his student yet, but he was a kinsman, and Connor would avenge him.

He did not need to. The man at the top of the hill, dressed in furs and a plaid, clutching a claymore, kneeling on the ground in the aftermath of a Quickening, wild-eyed with fright and confusion, could be only one man-Duncan MacLeod

Connor sheathed his katana but came no closer. "Duncan MacLeod," he called, and Duncan's head jerked at the name.

Duncan struggled to his feet, and the whites of his eyes gleamed in the red light from the dead pine tree that burned like a torch nearby. "How do you know who I am?" he demanded, lifting the claymore.

Connor took a cautious step towards him, his hands open and empty, aware that Alistair had ignored his order and was watching from behind the trunk of an oak. "I'm Connor MacLeod of the clan MacLeod," he said, invoking the bonds of clan and kin. Duncan's sword wavered, and some of the wildness left his eyes. Connor added, "I've come to teach you."

Duncan stared at him, wary and stubborn as a cornered pig. "Teach me what?"

Connor had a sudden suspicion he'd be teaching this one for a long time. Still, he'd promised Cassandra he'd look after the boy, and Duncan was his kinsman. "Teach you what you need to know. Teach you what you are." Duncan slowly lowered his sword, and Connor took another step. "We are the same, Duncan MacLeod."

Hope and relief flared in Duncan's eyes, and Connor took a few more steps, until he was close enough to grasp the other man by the arm. Then he said to Duncan what his own teacher Ramirez had said to him, long ago. "We are brothers."

The three men rode through the driving rain to reach the nearby village. Duncan sat behind Connor on the mare. None of them wanted to sleep anywhere near the cave of the mad hermit.

"The hermit made me cut off his head," Duncan said, the words coming horrified and stumbling. "He started to fight me, then he pulled my sword across his own neck."

Alistair crossed himself hurriedly, and Connor felt the urge to do the same, though he had gotten out of the practice while he had lived among the Protestant English. An Immortal committing suicide during a fight? Then again, how else could you do it? "Hush now," Connor said to Duncan, not wanting Alistair to hear. "We'll speak of this later."

"But then there was lightn-"

"Later," Connor commanded, and they rode on.

Duncan fell into a heavy sleep soon after they had eaten bowls of mutton stew at a crofters' hut. The next morning Alistair went to the village to procure supplies for their trip back to Connor's old home in Glen Coe.

"Let's walk a bit," Connor suggested to Duncan, eager to be out in the fresh air, away from the close smells of wet sheep and unwashed people. He and Duncan left the small hut, and the curious ears of the crofters.

"You are immortal, Duncan," Connor told Duncan once they had reached the far pasture, repeating the lessons he had learned from Ramirez. "You cannot die."

"You're as daft as the hermit," Duncan scoffed, walking away in disgust. Connor just waited, and soon enough Duncan was back. "Are you truly the Connor MacLeod from the legend?" Duncan asked.

"And what is this legend, there in the village of Glenfinnan?"

"Back in my grandfather's day, it was," Duncan started, his dark hair tangled over dark eyes. "A warrior named Connor MacLeod fell in battle against the Frasiers, but he did not die. He left the clan and walked out into the hills, and was never seen again."

"Left the clan," Connor repeated softly, remembering the thrown rocks and the shouted curses, feeling again the weight of that bloody great yoke chained across his back and shoulders. "Is that how they tell it now?" He jabbed at the ground with a stick, then shrugged the bitterness away. They were all long dead. "It's true enough, in its own way. My name is Connor MacLeod, and I fell in battle against the Frasiers in 1536."

Duncan stared. "But that's... that's near a hundred years ago!"

Connor lifted one eyebrow. "I told you we were immortal."

Duncan started shaking his head slowly, stubborn and wary still. "This cannot be."

A very long time indeed, to teach this one. Connor took off his pack and got out the jug of whisky that Alistair had bought last night. Connor took a welcome swallow, then sat down comfortably on a large rock.

"The hermit said he'd been in the cave six hundred years," Duncan said, sitting on another rock nearby, still trying to make sense of the thing. "I thought he was just mad."

"He may have been mad," Connor agreed, "but he was also an Immortal. You felt him, did you not, before you even saw him? A tightening in the gut? Or an ache in the head?"

"Aye, I did," Duncan said eagerly, lifting his head, his eyes lighting up at finally getting some answers. "Do you feel it, too?"

"Every time we get close to another of our kind, we feel that," Connor told him. "It is how we recognize each other, how we are warned."

"Warned?" Duncan repeated, catching the intensity behind that word. "Why warned?"

Connor handed him the jug, knowing Duncan was going to need it. "There is a Game," Connor began, "and a Prize."

Duncan was still shaking his head when Connor finished. "But why did the hermit make me take his... his Quickening?" Duncan said.

"I do not know," Connor admitted. "Most of us like to keep our heads."

"How many of us are there?" Duncan said. "How many have you met?"

Connor thought back, remembering. "Seven or eight, but I have heard of at least twenty others."

Duncan's eyes darkened from brown to almost black. "How many heads have you taken?"

"There are two questions you never ask other Immortals, Duncan," Connor said. "Never ask how old they are, and never ask how many heads they've taken." He slid off the rock, then turned back to give Duncan his first lesson. "Some might consider it a challenge."

Duncan caught up to him as he reached the cow byre. "How did you know to find me?" Duncan asked.

Cassandra had told Connor, but Cassandra had also told him never to mention her name. "There is an Immortal named Roland, an enemy of mine," she had said, on that icy winter morn, the day after Duncan's birth. "If he learns that you have been my student, that you even know me, then he will hunt you down." Her eyes had been wide and serious, deep green beneath the shadow of her hood. "Don't tell anyone that you know me, that you have ever heard of me," she had said earnestly, laying her hand on his arm. "Not even Duncan, when the time comes for you to teach him."

Connor had agreed, had promised to keep his time with her a secret. But he would not lie to his student; he wanted there to be trust between them. "The same way my teacher Ramirez knew to find me," Connor said, and it was true enough. Ramirez and Cassandra had been lovers, and he had come to visit her while she was the Witch of Donan Woods. She had told Ramirez the rumors from the nearby village of Glenfinnan, of the man who had come back from the dead and been banished from his clan. Ramirez had come looking for Connor, just as Connor had come looking for Duncan.

Duncan nodded, obviously still confused, but seeming to accept this as just one more strangeness in his new life as an Immortal.

Connor searched Duncan's face, seeing in those fine, dark eyes the stubbornness and courage that made him a warrior, and the honesty and compassion that made him a man. "We're clansmen, Duncan MacLeod, and kin," Connor said, proud to claim him as such. "Shall we be teacher and student as well?"

Duncan stared back for a moment, searching too, then nodded and smiled.

Connor caught his breath at the warmth and the trust there. He would have to teach Duncan not to trust so easily; that must be the second lesson, but for now Connor treasured that look. "My hand on it," Connor said, sealing the promise.

"Teagasgair," Duncan said, naming him as teacher, while he took the offered hand in a solid grip.

"For now," Connor agreed. "And we'll always be kin." And, he hoped, friends and brothers as well.


- Strathconan Forest, 22 June 1996 -

"Seems like a long time ago that we met, doesn't it, Connor?" Duncan asked, still looking at the remains of the cave. "Three hundred and seventy years."

Connor nodded but said nothing. He had actually met Duncan over four hundred years ago, at Cassandra's cottage on the day of Duncan's birth in 1592, but Connor would never tell Duncan that. Roland was dead now, and the original reason for that secret was gone, but the silence about it had grown to include other secrets as well. "Want to spar, here in the forest?" Connor suggested. "Like the old days?"

"Not like the old days," Duncan answered with an eager grin, drawing his katana. "I'm going to beat you."

Connor laughed and drew his own weapon, the leaves slippery beneath his feet, the dappled sunshine warm on his back, Duncan facing him across naked blades, just like the old days. "You can try."

Duncan tried and succeeded, at least about half the time, and he grinned triumphantly at Connor, enjoying himself. He and Connor were evenly matched now. Duncan had spent seven years as a student before he had even come close to winning a match with Connor. "Take a breather?" Duncan asked when the score stood at three to three, and the two men lay down on the rocks near the river, the stone sun-warmed beneath them.

"What happened to Alistair?" Connor asked, leaning back on his elbows. "After I left Scotland?"

"He went with me as far as Edinburgh," Duncan said, adopting the same pose and tilting his head to watch the leaves shimmer on the trees. "I took a boat to France, and he stayed. He said something about buying a tavern."

Connor snorted. "Sounds like him."

"All the whisky he wanted," Duncan agreed. "And plenty of people to listen to his tales." He glanced at the smile on Connor's face and decided not to tell him that Alistair had actually been a Watcher. The chronicles about the training of Duncan MacLeod were complete to an embarrassing degree, and there were stories in the Chronicles about Connor as well. Connor wouldn't take kindly to that betrayal of his trust, even now.

"Do you remember the story he used to tell about the nun, the priest, and the donkey?" Connor asked, starting to laugh.

"Oh, yes," Duncan answered, grinning. "I remember." There had been many such stories, and the three of them had spent many long nights around the fire. But sometimes, Connor and Duncan had wandered off together, to tell stories of their own.


Glen Coe, Summer 1625

Duncan lay on his back on the still-warm stone, watching the stars twinkle into existence. His teacher lay nearby, also silent. Alistair was singing a love song as he picketed the horses for the night, not far down the glen, and snatches of his clear tenor carried through the summer air. "As I walked out... all in the month... a flowery garden..."

"You said the legend about you was mostly true, Connor," Duncan said. "What part wasn't?"

Connor didn't answer, and Duncan turned to look at him. His teacher was staring up at the sky, his hands behind his head. "Connor?" Duncan prompted.

"I didn't just 'leave the clan' and walk off into the hills," Connor said finally. "They drove me out, with shouts of witchcraft and deviltry, and threats of burning. The priest sprinkled holy water on my footsteps as I walked away." He shrugged. "They knew no better; they were just protecting themselves."

"But-does it not bother you, then?" Duncan burst out, remembering those very same shouts, the red-tongued mouths screaming "Devil!" and "Demon!" while eyes glared hate, and hands threw rocks and sticks and dung. "To be banished from the clan?"

"It does, aye," Connor said. "Or it did. But even if I had not left then, I could not have stayed. Not for long." His teacher turned to look at him. "They banished you, did they not, Duncan? Chased you out with rocks and curses?"

"Aye," he admitted, the word coming hard, "but it was not just-" He stood abruptly and went to the tumbled pile of black stones.

Connor came to stand behind him, and Duncan spoke without turning, letting the words go out into the gathering dusk of the valley below. "It was in the fall, right after the Michaelmas fair. The Campbells stole our cattle, forty head of our best, so we gave chase. I was wounded, a sword thrust to the belly. When the wound healed, when I... came back from the dead, my father said 'twas the work of the demon-master. Then he... he said that I was not his son."

There was a sharp intake of breath from behind him, and Connor said softly, "He denied you?"

Duncan nodded, blinking fiercely, ignoring the prickling heat of his eyes. "He stood by and did nothing, while the others drove me away. A few days later, I asked him..."

"You're no bairn of mine!"

Duncan took a deep breath. "He said I was a changeling, brought by a peasant woman to replace a boy-child who had died."

"You're not my son, and you never were!"

"He said the midwife had tried to warn him, told him I was a demon, told him to cast me out for the dogs." Duncan managed a short, bitter laugh. "There've been times I wished he had."

A sudden warm hand squeezed his shoulder, and then Connor was right there, holding him, his arms solid and strong.

"To be without clan," Duncan said, his voice muffled against Connor's shoulder, "to be banished..." He let the tears fall freely now, knowing that Connor would understand. "But to be without family, too, to never know where we come from..."

"Aye," Connor said, his own voice hoarse. "None of us know."

"How can that be?" Duncan demanded, pulling back to look into Connor's eyes. "How can none of us know where we come from?"

Connor only shook his head.

"Where?"Duncan demanded again, moving farther back, his hands clenching into fists. "Where do we come from? Who gives us birth?"

Connor opened his mouth to speak, then shook his head again, slowly. He laughed then, and it was just as bitter a sound as Duncan's laughter had been. "We have life immortal, Duncan, with death after death after death. Mayhap God does not think we need a birth." He looked up at the stars. "Mayhap God does not know we exist."

Duncan sucked in his breath at such blasphemy. "You do not think that!"

"No?" Connor challenged him. "Can our souls go to heaven, Duncan, when they are imprisoned by the one who takes our heads? How can we have life everlasting with God, when we are condemned to life everlasting on earth?"

Duncan sat down heavily on one of the stones, and the warm summer night seemed very cold, the stars very far away. "Are we not even human, then? Are we, in truth, demons?"

"Ah, Duncan," Connor said, shaking his head and sitting down next to him. "I should not have spoken so. Dark thoughts on a dark night are best left unsaid." They were both silent, listening the hard chatter of the water over the stones far below, until Connor finally spoke again. "I believe we are human, Duncan, for 'tis certain sure, I'm not powerful enough to be a good demon, and I like being good at what I do."

Duncan had to grin at that. "Aye, I've noticed."

"Have you now?" Connor said, with an answering grin. "I've noticed the same about you."

Duncan sat up a little straighter at those words. Connor rarely gave praise, but when he did, Duncan knew it was deserved.

"We may not have a clan or a family," Connor said, then gave another quick glance to the sky. "We may not even have God, but we do have each other."

"Aye," Duncan agreed, sure of that one thing. "We do."

Continued in Part 2