Caen, France, May 2046
Duncan and Elena kissed goodbye one morning, heading off to work like any other couple, he to the station, she to a nearby family riding stable to help train a young racehorse. It was a day like a hundred others… until he died.
Duncan was working the rescue net that day instead of flying, since Ahmed was sick with the flu. Margot held the helicopter in position, and the rescue was going well, two people off the sinking boat in heavy seas, only one more to go.
But— "There's my husband!" the British woman shouted over the noise of the helicopter blades as Duncan checked her safety harness. Duncan turned to see a heavy-set man emerging from the hatch. The man struggled across the tilted deck, clinging to whatever handhold he could find. Duncan strapped him in next, then signaled Margot to take them up. The rescue net had room only for two.
And the helicopter had barely enough fuel to get home, especially overloaded as it was.
Margot hovered, hesitating, wasting precious fuel, while Duncan urgently signaled her to go. Finally, Pierre pushed out a life raft, and it landed in the water, not too far away. Duncan tightened his life jacket and leapt off the boat, swimming hard in the direction of the raft, battling both the waves of the sea and the downwash of the chopper before Margot moved off to one side. By the time he reached the raft, his hands and limbs were already numb with cold. It took him three tries to haul himself into the slippery raft, then he waved furiously once again for Margot to go home.
Pierre waved back as the chopper tilted nose down and headed for shore, its blades beating the air.
As the silence grew, Duncan could hear the heavy slap of waves against the hull of the sinking boat and the hiss of approaching rain. He would be rescued, he knew. Too bad their second chopper was down for repairs. But their fellow stations at Portsmouth or Calais would help. All he had to do was wait.
Duncan wrung out as much water as he could from his clothes then watched the boat sink. Hard cold drops of rain began to spatter his face, and Duncan huddled under the raft's tarp. The rain fell in grey sheets, and the waves surged and heaved. He tied himself down then grasped the ropes along the side of the raft grimly, his hands aching with the cold.
All he had to do was wait. And hang on.
When the storm finally subsided and the rescue helicopter arrived, its crew found nothing but a capsized empty lifeboat atop the white-topped waves.
After a painful eternity of dark water, Duncan woke to a grey light and Elena smiling down at him. He tried to smile back, but his face felt stiff, like badly cured leather. His hands still ached, his fingers curled so tightly that his nails dug into his palms. Oddly, though, he couldn't feel his toes. He tried to speak, but his tongue was swollen and his lips were cracked. He was shuddering with cold.
"Sleep," she told him, her voice quiet above a steady hum of engines. "You're safe now."
Duncan gratefully slipped back into the darkness, and his hands finally let go.
"Two days," Elena told him, after he'd woken in an English hotel room, eaten, washed, and eaten again. "You were in the water two days, longer than me after my plane crash." She shuddered, obviously remembering, and Duncan shuddered too. She smiled at him reassuringly and said, "I rented a boat and started searching for you as soon as the storm died down. Connor and Cassandra had boats of their own. With three of us, we could triangulate. I found you seventeen hours ago then brought you to this village. The immigration official was very understanding."
"And Connor?" Duncan asked.
"He and Cassandra went back to their school in Austria," Elena said. "Something about exams. Oh, and I have your sword here. I picked up your car and got the sword from the trunk."
"Thank you," Duncan said, then told Elena what she had once told him: "I know I can always count on you."
Her smile was brilliant with love, even as her eyes were brilliant with tears, and Duncan took her by the hand and led her to the bed then showed his gratitude in other ways.
He woke to a darkness broken by the glitter of stars, with Elena warm by his side. At sunrise, they went to the balcony and looked out at the sea, gray and silver in the early morning light. "Your memorial service is Friday," she said. "I told Pierre and Margot I'd be there."
Duncan grimaced. He had hoped to keep his identity and his job a while longer. "No chance of a miraculous rescue at sea?"
"After a storm like that and days in the water?" Elena asked. She shook her head. "Too many questions, from too many people. A lot of people."
Duncan shrugged. "Who would care?"
"Oh, about half of Europe," Elena said with a grin. "You died a hero, and you're all over the news." She turned on her phone and showed him the video one of the rescuees had made. It was shaky and blurry, thank God, so his face was obscured. Even so, the voiceover clearly identified him as "Duncan MacLeod, a rescue pilot employed by Soterion" and the picture they'd dug up from his personnel file was clear. The video narrated his "daring rescue" and "noble self-sacrifice" as he waved for the helicopter to leave him behind in "treacherous and deadly seas." An interview with Pierre followed, and he said there was talk of naming the station after "the intrepid Duncan MacLeod."
"Damn it," Duncan swore. He hadn't been ready to die.
The next day, Elena left for France for his memorial service. Duncan stayed in England, taking long walks, letting his hair and beard grow, and avoiding the news. She returned a few days later, bringing with her a suitcase of his belongings, including his extra set of ID. At least he hadn't had to leave everything behind.
"Amanda sent flowers to your memorial service," Elena reported, taking a seat on the bed as he sorted through the suitcase. "An enormous bouquet of red roses."
Duncan resorted to his standard response whenever a current lover mentioned another lover. "Oh," he said, with no surprise or excitement or irritation or anything at all that might be construed as the slightest bit of interest in the lover who wasn't there, and he kept right on sorting papers and books.
Elena, thankfully, let it go, saying next, "People said very nice things about you. And so did I."
Duncan stopped sorting and leaned over to kiss her and say, "Thank you."
She flashed him a mischievous grin. "I told them the interesting stories at the wake."
"At least Duncan MacLeod won't ever have to face them again," he said, picking up his new passport. It held his picture, but it was made out in the name of Justin Morris, a native of New Zealand who'd moved to England eight years ago.
"And Justin Morris won't ever meet them," Elena noted.
Duncan nodded soberly. "Duncan MacLeod should stay dead in Europe for fifty years. Maybe a hundred." She was quiet, and he stood and wrapped his arms around her, closing his eyes as he buried his face in her glossy hair. It was past her shoulders now. "Where would you like to go?" he asked softly, as they had asked each other before, and would again.
"Back to France," she said, pulling back to look at him. "Look, the race is in four months, and Mignone –oh, she's almost ready! She could win it, with just a bit more training, and I—"
"And you want to train her," Duncan said. "And go to the race with her."
"I promised Henri and Lucille," Elena said. "It's just a few months. I could still use your house."
"Yes, you could," Duncan agreed. The rent was paid until June, and their landlady wouldn't mind if Elena stayed a few more months.
Elena smiled. "After that…"
He kissed her lightly on the forehead, then more firmly on the mouth. "After that," he agreed, leaving the details for another day. They would meet again—somehow, somewhere—he knew.
She left three days later, and two days after that, Duncan received a sachet of dried lavender. He inhaled the crisp, clean scent, remembering the way the plant had bloomed magnificently in the courtyard of his home. Then he slipped the sachet into his suitcase and left the room.
Justin Morris was a man of no fixed address with no particular place to go. But there was plenty to see, and plenty of time. He walked the Hadrian Wall in England and took a tour boat down the Rhine. He visited Rome then went south and looked at Vesuvius again, smoking slightly in the sunshine.
In June he was in Austria, enjoying the mountain air. The late spring day was delightful: warm sunshine and refreshing air, blue skies and white clouds. The forests of oak and beech alternated with mountain meadows vibrant with flowers, and he'd seen eagles soaring overhead, marmots sunning themselves, a small herd of deer, and even the scat of bear.
Above him, on the trail on the side of the hill, he spotted another local attraction. A pretty girl was hiking, her tanned legs gracefully muscular above sturdy hiking boots. A blue hat, a white shirt, and sensible shorts with many pockets completed her outfit. Her trail was converging with his, and they reached the junction at the same time. Duncan smiled cheerfully and wished her, "Grüß Gott."
She smiled and dimpled and said "Grüß Gott" in return, looking up at him with dark brown eyes. Her blonde hair was worn in short curls. Instead of walking on, she slowed, then he slowed, and then she stopped. They turned to face each other, and soon they were talking of the weather and the trail and the animals seen that day. She told Duncan of a badger; he mentioned the deer.
"You are American?" she asked, switching from German to English.
"New Zealander," Duncan replied.
"I would love to practice my English," she said. "If you don't mind."
"Not at all," he said.
"Have you been here before?" she asked next.
"No," Duncan said, though he had, more than one hundred years before, back when the Nazis stalked the land.
She smiled and said, "I'm Kristl."
"I'm Justin," Duncan replied, giving a hint of a bow. He'd been using the new name for over a month, ever since his well-publicized demise, but it still felt odd. He and Kristl started walking again, going down the hill toward the village. She was a university student, he found out, studying biology and hoping to visit a rainforest soon. Her only jewelry was a silver ring, but it was on her right hand, not her left.
He answered her questions with the story he'd concocted for Justin Morrison, who'd come to Europe some years ago to meet distant relatives in France and Scotland then decided to stay.
They stopped at a lookover, admiring the magnificent peaks marching across the skyline, gray rock stark against blue sky. Kristl backed up to take a better picture. "No, please stay there," she called when Duncan started to move out of the way. "I'd like to have you silhouetted against the sky for the scale."
Duncan tried to avoid having his face photographed, but a silhouette would show only black outline. Kristl clicked away, then asked him to move and took a few more. "I'm supposed to call my friend Annette," she said with an apologetic smile, so Duncan looked out over the valley and watched the eagles as she talked on her phone.
"Annette and Lise are going to the inn," Kristl said as she came near. She smiled at Duncan, and her dimples showed again. "Would you care to eat lunch with us, Justin?" she asked, and Duncan thought that sounded like a good idea.
The trail wound its way down the mountain, crossing and recrossing tiny streams, then following a ridge line for a time. Other hikers were visible in the distance as many paths started to converge. Kristl and Duncan walked underneath cable car wires and watched a four-bladed helicopter with a fantail make its way along the other side of the valley, almost level with them. Duncan lost sight of it when they walked once more into the shade of trees. Eventually, the trail widened and they could see the inn just below them, a long, sturdy white building with flowerboxes under the windows and wooden shutters.
Kristl's girlfriend Lise met them on the trail. She too had short hair, wore a white shirt and sensible shorts, and her legs were just as tanned. "Maik is waiting, and Annette should be here soon," Lise said, and Kristl nodded.
The girls headed straight for the inn, talking with enthusiasm about cheese dumplings; Duncan paused twenty paces from the door. Another immortal was already inside.
A fight was unlikely; this place was too public. Even so, Duncan slung his knapsack—with katana—off his back and began carrying it in his left hand. As he walked toward the building, he evaluated it for escape options, counting windows and doors.
Then the other immortal appeared in the doorway, smiling cheerfully, a beer stein in one hand. His beard was short, as was the fashion, and his light brown hair was braided into a neat queue. A pair of mirrored sunglasses had been pushed on top of his head. He wore a leather jacket, with tan pants over sturdy boots. He lifted the stein in greeting, then disappeared into the dimness.
Duncan grinned and followed Connor inside.
"Nice beard," Connor said in greeting.
Duncan nodded, not taking the compliment too seriously, for his beard about matched Connor's own. Their hair was about the same length, too, though Duncan was wearing his in a ponytail instead of a braid. "Didn't expect to see you here," Duncan said, even as he gave a wave to Kristl and Lise, who waved back then disappeared into the women's WC. Duncan turned back to Connor and said, "The Phinyx school isn't exactly nearby."
"Business," Connor explained, as terse as ever, but flagged down a waitress and handed Duncan a beer.
Duncan took an appreciative swallow of the dark brew then asked, "Who?", for 'business' most often meant immortal business, and Connor was a serious businessman.
But Connor shook his head and said quietly, "Police business. A rapist who strikes up conversations with women as they walk on the trail."
Duncan raised his eyebrows. "I did that today."
"I know," Connor said. "And since the rapist is also tall, dark-haired, and not bad looking, Kristl thought the rapist might be you." Duncan's beer stopped halfway to his lips, and Connor said, "Come on. I got us a booth."
"You're buying lunch," Duncan told him and got only a skeptical snort in reply.
In the sheltered privacy of the booth, Connor explained. "When Kristl sent me your picture, I flew here to buy you a beer."
"You were in that helicopter," Duncan realized. "And you're Maik."
"Michael Connor Audren," Connor elaborated, giving the name he'd been using for the last twelve years. "About ten days ago, a man raped a friend of one of the students at the school. The local police don't have much to go on, and not enough manpower, so some of the Guardians decided to help."
"The Guardians?" Duncan repeated.
"Phinyx security force. You must have seen them at the corporate offices and the schools. Gray uniforms, black piping," Connor prompted.
"A pin with a silver sword on a circlet of olive leaves," Duncan said, now remembering the very friendly Guard Amshula from his visit to Prague, seventeen years ago. Or maybe a silver ring? Lise had been wearing one, just as Kristl had.
"That's the emblem. Guardians of the Peace is the official name."
"And those girls are in it." Duncan looked over at the nearby table, where Kristl and Annette and Lise were enjoying cheese dumplings and talking, though they also seemed to be keeping an eye on who came and went, and none of them was sitting with her back to a door.
"They prefer to be called women, not girls," Connor informed him.
Duncan nodded but said, "They seem younger every year."
"They're not," Connor said bluntly. "We're older." He added, "Lise is the youngest, and she's twenty-one."
Tessa had been twenty-one when Duncan had met her, and he'd never thought of her as a girl. A glorious young woman, and then an even more glorious mature woman, but never a girl.
"You matched the rapist's description," Connor was saying, "and Kristl didn't like your story, so she took a picture." Connor pulled out his phone and showed Duncan the screen. The thermal image showed a man with the faint line of a knife in the left boot and the familiar curve of a katana in his knapsack. The dagger on his forearm didn't show up, his arm had been turned the wrong way.
Duncan decided he'd never say yes to a picture request again. Not that it mattered. Cameras were everywhere. Two were scanning the inn right now, and there was another just outside the door. Satellites were always in the sky. And these new high-sensitivity thermal cameras were a problem. Duncan resolved to buy a rectangular metal case to mask the outline of his sword.
"If Guardians ever see a sword," Connor said, "they back off immediately and contact me. They're well-trained, but immortals are too unpredictable."
Duncan nodded. The Game was best left to those who could play. However… "Kristl didn't back off from me."
"I told her you were safe," Connor said then added with a grin, "Mostly."
Duncan didn't dignify that with a response. "She was on the trail by herself?"
"A woman alone is a better target than two. But Annette wasn't far behind."
Duncan had heard someone behind them on the trail, but thought nothing of it. Many people were out walking today. "Do the police know what the Guardians are doing?"
"No, it's a volunteer effort; they're out here every few days or so. The Guard wanted to help, and it seemed like a good exercise, so the security council approved their request."
"Who's on that council?"
Connor named three people Duncan had never heard of, along with Amshula, the very friendly guard from Prague, who was probably fifty years old by now.
"Not Cassandra?" Duncan asked with some surprise.
"Why would she be?" Connor asked. "She's not trained in security."
"It's her company."
Connor shook his head. "Cassandra and Alex were the founders of Phinyx, but Cassandra hasn't been on the board of directors since she left Prague about ten years ago. She'd been in the public eye too long, and she needed a break. As for owners: thousands of people have invested in the Foundation, including Sara and Colin; Alex left them her shares. Grace and Elena and Amanda are shareholders, as am I, and so, I believe, are you."
"It seemed like a worthy investment," Duncan said. The returns weren't great, but then the Phinyx Foundation's primary focus wasn't profit. Its slogan was "Build a Better World" and it had founded schools and health centers all over the world. Most of its operating capital came from its media subsidiary and its agricultural business. Amanda had also said their clothing and jewelry line was selling well in her chain of stores.
"What's Cassandra's position now?" Duncan asked.
"Music and language teacher."
"What's yours?"
"Martial arts instructor." He added with a proud smile, "Sara outranks me. She's the head of finance development in Europe."
"How's she doing?" Duncan asked. He hadn't seen his niece since Rachel had died, five years ago.
"Good. She's gotten over the divorce, and she and I are doing fine. Now."
Duncan's own children didn't know about his immortality, and he'd been dead to them for twelve long years, ever since he and Connor had abandoned their boat in the Timor Sea. Duncan looked for Tom and Paula's pictures on the web, and watched his grandchildren there as well. "Did you plan to tell?" Duncan asked Connor.
Connor's mouth twisted in a wry grin. "Plan isn't a word I use much with kids. Alex and I were still talking about what to do; then at your wedding, Sara overhead Methos and Cassandra having a chat, and she figured it out on her own. Which meant Colin had to know. John found out when he was kidnapped by Kane, and Rachel saw me die the day we met." He shrugged. "Their kids don't know. I've been 'Cousin Mike' to them for twelve years, but that's almost done. Alea graduates this month, and Will and Sara will be moving to Scotland for the boys' school there."
Connor took a long drink of his beer. "immortality's a hard secret, either way."
"Yeah," Duncan agreed, and took a long drink of his own.
After lunch, Duncan found himself sitting next to Annette at a table outside while five other young women mapped their routes for the afternoon. Her brows were too dark and her jaw was too strong for her to be considered pretty, but it was an intriguingly attractive face all the same. Her dark blonde hair was just long enough to curl. Duncan wondered what she looked like when she was smiling, so he gave her an encouraging smile and asked, "Are you in university with Kristl?"
"I finished last year," she replied, still serious, then Lise said something in a language Duncan had never heard before, and all the women started smiling. One laughed aloud.
Duncan didn't understand the words, but the joke had clearly been at his expense. "What language is that?" he asked the group, changing his smile to friendly and a little bit clueless.
"Amazonian," said Lise. That answer earned her a warning flick of the fingers from Annette, and they went back to their maps. They nodded goodbye to Connor and Duncan, then set off on their afternoon hikes in widely separated pairs, hoping to find a rapist and bring him in.
"Want to come back with me?" Connor asked.
"Sure. I was planning on showing up at the school in a few days anyway." Duncan went with Connor to the helicopter, parked on a flat space carved out of the hill.
"You rated for this model?" Connor asked when they were airborne, and when Duncan nodded, Connor asked, "You all right with mountains?" Duncan nodded again, and Connor let him have control. Duncan gave himself over to the joy and challenge of flying, as he had hundreds of times before.
When they finally reached the school's valley, Duncan took his time and circled, noting the wind turbines mounted atop the walls and the steepness of the terrain, getting the feel of the air in the space between these hills. He lined the glide path up with the ridge line and took the helicopter down, aiming for the landing pad in the lower courtyard, his feet and hands dancing on the controls. The skids settled softly on the grass. Connor nodded at the smoothness of the landing, with a matter-of-fact acceptance that meant more than words of praise, then started the shutdown routine.
Duncan shouldered his knapsack; then they hiked up the hill. And up. "How many steps is that?" he asked, turning around at the top and looking back down the long line of brown stairs, zigzagging its way along the wall.
"Ninety-nine," Connor answered with relish. "Some students call it the Norwegian ridgeback, others the brown monster."
Duncan could see why. He took another deep breath and followed Connor into the school.
That evening, Duncan ate dinner with Cassandra and Connor in one of the small private rooms off the main dining hall. Connor sat at the head of the table, with Duncan and Cassandra on either side.
"How did Kristl know I was lying?" Duncan asked as he picked up his spoon for the soup.
"You have tells, Duncan, little things you do when you lie," Cassandra said. "Everyone does." She unfolded her napkin and arranged it in her lap then carefully tucked back her very long hair. "The Guardians are trained to look for them."
"Are you training them?"
"I'm one of the teachers," she said. "It's not an uncommon technique. There was even a television show about it a few decades ago."
"So it's not the Voice?" he demanded.
Connor raised his eyebrows but leaned back in his chair. Cassandra stopped slicing her tomato and pushed her plate aside. "No," she said firmly. "To use the Voice, a person must know how to recognize tells, but also quite a few other things. The Guardians have no training in that."
"So, there is no compulsion," Duncan said, making sure.
"There is no compulsion," Cassandra repeated.
Duncan looked to Connor for confirmation.
"It's not the Voice, Duncan," Connor said. "Cassandra won't teach anyone that."
Connor sounded very certain, and Duncan wondered why. So he asked Cassandra: "Why not?"
She took a deep breath but met his eyes. "Because after Roland… turned, and I realized what the Voice had done to him, I swore I would never teach it to anyone. Ever. That was twenty-five hundred years ago."
"Roland's dead now," Duncan reminded her bluntly.
"For these past fifty years. To the day," she added in a murmur and Duncan suddenly realized it was the eighth of June. She picked up her wine and drank it, too quickly, then met his eyes as she reached for his hand across the table. "Thank you—again—for killing him. I was— He…" She took another deep breath and said simply, "You saved my life, Duncan. In several ways. I'd be dead if it weren't for you."
And he would probably have been dead if it weren't for her. She'd protected him from Roland several times. Well, that's what immortal friends did for each other, wasn't it? Each of them needed all the help they could get.
Fifty years also since Cassandra had kissed him, and she and Duncan had spent the night together, seared by a passion forged of dreams long-denied.
Connor had picked up his glass and leaned back in his chair again, watching them both, and Duncan cleared his throat as he patted Cassandra's hand in a brotherly fashion then took his hand away. Connor put his chair back down.
"Also," she said briskly, reaching for her plate, "if I do start to teach anyone the Voice, Connor has promised me he'll take my head."
So much for sweet nothings and romantic endearments, Duncan thought. Amanda had told Duncan that Connor and Cassandra had started sleeping together about three and a half years ago, and Elena had confirmed it, but Duncan had yet to see Connor and Cassandra kiss or even hold hands. Not that their sex life—or lack of—was any of Duncan's business, but he did sometimes wonder…
Then Cassandra offered, "Would you like me to teach you how to resist the Voice, Duncan?"
"Yes," Duncan said immediately. The memory of Roland's words slithering inside him and taking control of his mind and his limbs still made him shudder. Cassandra had controlled him, too, and Duncan hadn't liked that any better, for all that she meant him no harm. "How long does it take?"
Connor looked up from his food. "It took me about ten weeks."
"That was… intense," Cassandra warned, and Connor's eyebrows flashed up and then down, his sign of definite agreement. "We should plan on six months," she told Duncan.
"Haven't seen you in a while," Connor said, the warmth of his voice an invitation to stay. "And this place has plenty of room."
"I want to start tomorrow," Duncan told Cassandra.
"Certainly," she said. "Eight o'clock in my office, just off the music room? During the week, we should also be able to fit in an afternoon session on most days."
"Two hours a day is plenty," Connor said. "Believe me."
Duncan had been about to tell Cassandra "Good" but after that warning, he settled for nodding instead.
Connor reached over and slapped him on the arm with a friendly grin, saying, "Sensei Roxanne is on travel, and I could really use your help in the dojo. Saturdays are busy, and my second class starts at ten."
Duncan grinned fondly even as he shook his head at his kinsman. Connor had never missed a chance to put him to work. But it was good to stay busy, and he was glad to be with Connor again.
The next morning in her office, before Cassandra began the lesson, Duncan said, "The Guardians used a language I didn't recognize. In fact, I'd never heard anything like it before."
"It's Amazonian," Cassandra answered, just as the other woman had.
"Really?" Duncan had thought that was a joke.
"Really," she said. "I lived with the Amazons, a century or so before the Trojan War. Their language is part of the Hurrian family, which has been extinct for thousands of years. The Guardians find it useful to have a language of their own, much like the Americans used Navaho during World War II, so I taught it to the Guardians a few decades ago."
Sometimes, Duncan didn't truly realize just how old three thousand years was. Or five thousand. Methos had brought him up short this way a few times.
"What does this mean?" Duncan asked and tried to reproduce the words he'd heard the other day.
Cassandra shook her head, asking, "Context?"so Duncan described the situation, then Cassandra nodded and explained, "It means, 'Be careful. He's trying to charm you.' Were you smiling at Annette?" she asked.
"Yes."
"That's why they laughed. Annette finds women more charming than men."
Duncan had one more question. "Have you heard from Methos lately?" Duncan hadn't heard a word since their trek through the Paris catacombs three and a half years ago. After the first year, he'd stopped looking, figuring Methos would one day, once again, knock on his door. But the days kept slipping away, and time was going by. Duncan didn't want to wait anymore.
"He sent me a v-card a year ago," Cassandra said.
"Did he say where he was?"
"Mars." Cassandra turned on the voice recorder and the frequency analysis display. "Ready?"
Duncan took a deep breath and began.
When the session with Cassandra ended, Duncan knew what Connor had meant. One hour a day was enough. Duncan arrived at the dojo at nine-twenty-seven, standing to one side as the first class of the day filed out. The girls — most seemed to be about thirteen years old— were silent until they bowed and left the dojo, but he distinctly heard explosions of giggles and high-pitched excitement once they were in the hall.
"They like you," Connor said wryly.
"I'll be careful," Duncan said. He'd worked with teenage girls before.
Connor went to the storage racks that stood inside one of the immense unused fireplaces and wheeled out the rack with the practice swords. Duncan moved the one with the protective gear. The next group of students started arriving at nine-forty-nine. They giggled, too. Connor and Duncan ate lunch at noon, then Duncan went to meet Cassandra in her office. He came back to help Connor with the last class of the afternoon.
"There's an advanced technique class at seven tonight," Connor said, sitting on the stack of mats with a water bottle in his hand. "If you're up for more."
Duncan nodded, but decided that next time he'd take the afternoon off and come only twice a day. He joined Connor on the mats, glad to be off his feet, and asked, "Did you and Kate ever get together so she could see Ramirez's sword?"
"No, we were going to meet in Frankfurt two years ago, but she had to cancel; the Mars fleet needed something fixed in a hurry, and since then she's been on the other side of the world."
At least she was still on the planet, Duncan thought. Maybe he'd pay her a visit when he was done here.
"We've shared some interesting messages about forging techniques." Connor stretched his arms over his head. "I need to go back to school again."
"Me, too," Duncan agreed. There was always more to learn. "Do all the students here study martial arts?"
Connor nodded. "It's required. Quite a few make black belt before they graduate. Sara's son will be testing for in a few years. Alea got hers in karate at fifteen." He wore the proud smile of a grandparent, and Duncan looked at the floor. Then Connor laid his hand on Duncan's shoulder, saying softly, "I know you miss them."
"Paula and Tom are doing fine," Duncan said with a tight smile. "And I just read last night on the web that my granddaughter, Krista, will be getting married soon."
"How old is she now?"
"Twenty-six."
The hand on his shoulder tightened in comfort. "And you haven't seen her since she was nine."
"Fourteen," Duncan corrected. "I went back, after Mark Johnson died. She had the lead in the school ballet, and I sat in the front row." He smiled, remembering how beautiful she'd been. "My daughter, Paula, and her husband were two seats over. They never noticed me." His daughter hadn't known who he was.
Duncan shrugged. "I had twenty-five great years with my family. I was lucky."
Connor's voice was rough. "We've been blessed."
The next day was Sunday, and Connor and Duncan went running together. It turned into a contest, of course, and the last leg back to the castle was brutal. Duncan cursed every single one of the ninety-nine steps in the brown monster of a staircase as he climbed the final hill. Connor was waiting for him at the top.
"Good run," Connor said, slapping him on the back.
"Yeah," Duncan managed, leaning forward with his hands braced on his thighs, breathing hard. "Great." Then he immediately straightened and turned, for an immortal was near.
"Cassandra's up there," Connor said, and Duncan spotted her standing atop one of the castle walls. In her long skirt and with her knee-length hair blowing about her, she would have been sheer inspiration for a medieval troubadour writing of romantic love.
Yet her knight, who was currently wearing running shoes, a faded shirt, and sweatpants, had sworn to take her head if she strayed. Duncan found himself driven to ask: "What did Cassandra say when you told her you'd take her head if she taught anyone the Voice?"
"She said 'Thank you'."
Duncan sure as hell hadn't expected that.
"She's the one who asked me," Connor explained. "As you pointed out the other night, she doesn't have Roland anymore as a living example of how wrong the Voice can go. Twenty years after you killed him, she was feeling more confident, and that made her concerned she'd go too far. Cassandra asked for my help, and I promised." He looked straight at Duncan and clasped his hand hard, a warrior's grip, an oath between kin. "If I'm dead, Duncan, that duty falls to you."
"Yes," Duncan agreed, and knew he had to speak the words aloud. "If Cassandra breaks her vow and starts to teach someone the Voice, I'll take her head."
Connor nodded and repeated Cassandra's words: "Thank you."
Duncan looked back up at the castle wall, but Cassandra was gone.
When he saw her that evening coming from the dining hall, she walked up to him and said it herself. "Thank you, Duncan."
"It's not a promise I wanted to make," he told her shortly. "And it's definitely not one I want to have to fulfill."
"And I will try my best to make sure you never have to." She laid her hand on his forearm and looked up at him as she explained, "But the power is an addiction, Duncan. It destroyed Roland, and at times it has almost destroyed me. I'm not sure I'm strong enough to resist it on my own. So, I am asking you and Connor for your help, once again."
"Odd kind of help," Duncan noted.
Her smile did not reach her eyes. "Fear of the MacLeods is a powerful deterrent for me."
Next: Duncan considers justice