Akademie der Sankte Hildegard, 2046
The school hummed with excitement all the next week, as the end of the term drew near and preparations for graduation and going home for the summer were made. Cassandra begged off a few of the classes on the Voice, but promised to make them up after graduation. Attendance in the dojo remained high.
"Thanks to the new and very attractive Sensei Justin," Connor said as he manhandled a mat onto the pile. Duncan ignored him and kept pushing the broom across the floor.
Five students received their black belts, and Connor said farewell to his most recent sempai, a tall redhead who was leaving to attend the academy for Guardians. In front of the senior students, he formally presented her with a beautiful bo, encased in a bag embroidered with her name.
Graduation day came with flurry of parents and speeches and long robes. One week later, Sara and Will and Alea left for Scotland, first to stay with Colin and Oona at the family farm, and then to settle into their new home. That evening, Connor went running in the hills alone.
The headmistress of the school asked Duncan if he'd like to be a dance instructor. "Sister Laina mentioned you were quite good, and we like to have the girls prepared for the Twelfth Night Ball. And I understand you're working in the dojo, too?" Duncan decided he might as well get paid for helping Connor, so he signed a six-month contract and formally joined the staff.
His cleaning schedule arrived the next day, along with various other papers and forms, and Duncan stared at it in surprise. "Didn't you read the fine print?" Connor asked him with a laugh.
Duncan had, mostly, but he hadn't expected to be scrubbing bathrooms or sweeping floors. "The school can't afford a cleaning service?"
"It could and it does, but self-reliance and community service are part of the curriculum. As teachers, we set a good example for the students," Connor said. "Cassandra was in the kitchen last night, and I pulled weeds this week. Everyone here takes a turn cleaning."
Which probably meant, Duncan suspected, that everyone here was more careful about the messes they made. And spending time on your hands and knees scrubbing dirt did keep you humble, as he remembered from his time in the monastery centuries ago. He marked the schedule on his calendar and filed the papers away.
New students began to arrive for the summer session, and soon Duncan was busy with classes, both as student and as teacher. His cleaning chores took only a few hours a week, and he and Connor went running every day. Those ninety-nine stairs of the brown monster grew easier to tame.
Sometimes, he and Connor ran along the river's edge then finished with sprints on the local school's running track in town. "Try something?" Connor asked one day. "Let me know when you sense me." He jogged away, down the street then around the corner. A few moments later, Duncan's skin tightened with the sense of an immortal, so Duncan pulled out his phone and called.
"Got it," Connor said over the phone, then fifteen seconds later the sensation came again. And then again, and again. "Any changes?" Connor asked. "Intensity, direction, duration?"
"No," Duncan said. "It's always the same." And it was getting boring. It also reminded him of his student days, deadly serious games of hide-and-seek among the heather. "What are we doing, Connor?"
"Testing range."
Range was usually either line of sight or within a hundred feet or so. "Where are you?" Duncan demanded.
"At the bridge."
The bridge was at the other end of town, nearly a kilometer away. Suddenly this wasn't boring anymore. "How?"
"Let's finish this first," Connor said, and Duncan impatiently reported in two more times, until Connor said, "Anything?"
"No."
"I'm coming back," Connor said, but Duncan didn't want to wait, so he started running, and they met halfway. "Let's cool down," Connor suggested, and they slowed to a walk. As they went past the houses on the quiet street, Connor explained: "I've been using the quickening to reach out and connect with animals."
Duncan nodded. "The way Ramirez taught you with the stag." Back in the Highlands, Connor had tried to teach him, but Duncan didn't have a knack for it. Not many immortals did. Cassandra, however, had tamed a wolf as a pet. "Is Cassandra teaching you now?"
"We've been practicing these last three years. After we got back from looking for you in the Channel, I realized I could 'reach' farther. I wanted to see how much."
Duncan whistled softly. "That'll be handy. Is the distance the same with Cassandra?"
"Less, actually, unless we're both reaching out. Then it's a bit more."
"Can you connect with each other?" Duncan asked, suddenly seeing possibilities. "Like you connect with animals?"
But Connor shook his head. "People have too many barriers."
A baby or a toddler might not, but Duncan wouldn't want to go into a young one's mind. As they left town and started up the path through the woods to the castle, Duncan said, "I'd like to learn this."
"We'll try," Connor promised then added, "You sensed me as soon as I sensed you, so it's early warning, but it's not stealthy. And it takes energy."
That was why Connor had suggested the cool-down. Duncan grinned. "That means I can finally beat you running up this hill." And he did.
At the end of August, Connor announced, "The police have the rapist." He and Duncan and Cassandra had gathered in Connor's room, as they sometimes did in the evening, and Connor poured out drinks for them all. "He went after Lise, and Maria took him down."
Cassandra let out a long, slow sigh. "Good. Is Lise all right?"
"A mild concussion, some bruises, and a broken finger. Maria stopped him before he got his pants down. With their testimony and DNA from the first victim, the courts should be able to convict."
Cassandra nodded, but she didn't seem very happy.
"What do you think should happen to him?" Duncan asked.
She glanced up then shook her head and returned her attention to her drink. "I don't make the laws, Duncan."
"But if you did?" he persisted.
"If I did…" Her fingers interlaced, forming a cage about the glass in her hands as she stared at the golden liquor within. Then she looked at him and said, "Rape would be treated as a serious crime."
"It is," he replied, and when her mouth tightened and her eyes narrowed slightly, Duncan couldn't decide if her look was of pity or scorn. It also seemed to have a touch of exasperation thrown in. Duncan had seen a similar look on Methos's face from time to time. "Not everywhere," Duncan admitted, "but mass rape during war was defined as 'crime against humanity' half a century ago. Rape by individuals is a felony in many countries, including this one."
"Those are important steps," she agreed. "As were the laws that recognizes spousal rape and rape of men as crimes. It's much, much better than it was."
"But," Duncan said, because she obviously wasn't satisfied.
"But," she agreed. "Most rapes are never reported, and even when they are, most rapists are never caught. If a rapist is convicted, the maximum sentence here is fifteen years. He's likely to be released in five, and he'll be on a sex offender registry for thirty-five years."
"And you don't think that's enough."
"I don't think it's effective."
"What do you want?" Duncan asked, wondering how far Cassandra would go. "Life imprisonment? Castration? The death penalty?"
"That would stop repeat offenders who were caught and convicted." She seemed completely serious. "But as I said, most aren't caught. And castration doesn't remove the impulse to rape, it just forces the rapist to use another method to hurt people. Life imprisonment and the death penalty are both such harsh sentences that a rapist has little to lose by killing the victim. Besides, once a society accepts execution as a form of punishment, it tends to use it more and more. So: no, none of those."
"Well, that's…logical," Duncan said, using a less judgmental word than "cold".
Cassandra merely nodded. "I try not to let my judgment be swayed by passion." She met his eyes and added ruefully, "Not anymore." Then she asked, with a straightforward curiosity that left him blinking in surprise, "How do you decide when to kill people, Duncan?"
"I don't—" He stopped, gathered his thoughts, and started again. "I don't kill people just because I'm angry." Though sometimes, especially in his early years, his anger had been in control. He repeated her words back to her: "I try not to let my judgment be swayed by passion."
She gave him a small smile of fellowship then asked, "How do you think Methos decides who to kill?"
"Not by anger," Duncan said immediately. Not for pleasure, either. Not anymore. Methos was often exasperated but almost never irate, and his primary reaction was to avoid getting involved, usually by leaving. But Methos had helped Duncan, many times, and Methos would kill, when he thought it was necessary: Kristen Giles, Silas, Keane, Morgan Walker and his thugs, O'Rourke's men… Duncan thought that list over and saw the common theme.
"Methos kills people who are a threat to his friends," Duncan said. And Methos was efficient about it—logical, ruthless… cold. But maybe he had to be. The addiction to power came in many forms.
"I kill when people are a threat to others and are outside the law," Duncan said.
"That's how I decide, too," Cassandra said, and Connor also nodded. "Do you start with anger?" she asked Duncan next.
"Sometimes," Duncan admitted. "It depends on what they've done. Betrayal, murder, torture, hunting the weak… any of those makes me angry. But sometimes, I start with regret." Those killings ended that way, too. The angry ones—like Kronos and Sendaro— ended in satisfaction… and relief. "Often, I don't want to kill them," Duncan explained, "but it's necessary. How about you?"
"I never want to kill," she said. "Not anymore. But it is sometimes necessary."
Duncan turned to Connor, who had—as usual—been silent throughout, and asked, "How about you?"
"I was happy to take the Kurgan's head," Connor said bluntly. "And Kane's. And I didn't mind taking Bethel's and some others. But often…" He stared into his whisky then took a swallow and stared into nothingness with bleak eyes. "There hasn't been a choice."
Duncan knew exactly what Connor meant. That bald immortal on Menorca who'd been hunting Elena just wouldn't back down. And now he was dead.
"Because of the Game," Cassandra murmured and took a drink herself. "What about killing mortals?"
Duncan shook his head. "We shouldn't."
"Ever?"
"Rarely," he allowed. "When the mortal justice system fails, to defend people, or during a war. Some wars," he amended. "Darius made me reconsider being a professional soldier, but the Nazis were fair game."
"I killed my share," Connor agreed, then turned to Cassandra. "Where were you during World War II?"
"Borneo," she said briefly. She finished her drink in one quick swallow then poured another round for them all.
Duncan went back to his original question: "So, Cassandra, what do you think would be effective in stopping rape?"
"Stopping it completely? Nothing. But we may be able to reduce it. As with other health issues, prevention is the most effective approach. Rape is more common in societies where people are considered property, and where women are not equal to men."
"Men get raped, too," Duncan pointed out.
"Yes," she agreed, "usually in order to make them feel 'less of a man' and more 'like a woman.' But when women and children are people, and when femaleness is seen as good instead of bad, rape becomes more rare."
Duncan shook his head. "The entire society would have to be remade."
Cassandra seemed unfazed. "Yes."
In early September, Mignone placed second in her horse race, and Elena came to the school. She carried a sprig of the lavender bush in a small pot, and she and Duncan took it to the greenhouse and planted it there. Elena settled in quickly, talking non-stop with Cassandra, sparring vigorously with Connor, and riding horses with Duncan every day. Elena and Duncan kept busy every night, too, enthusiastically.
In one of the quiet moments, as they curried the horses before a ride, Duncan asked her: "What do you think merits capital punishment?" for ever since the discussion with Connor and Cassandra, the topic had been on Duncan's mind.
"Capital punishment by the state?" Elena asked.
Duncan nodded as he gently scrubbed at a patch of dried mud above the horse's eye. The justifications for execution were the same, no matter whether the killing was done by a group or by a lone man. When the state did it, the responsibility for the execution just got spread around, making the burden lighter to carry. It didn't make it easier to decide.
"Murder," she said then clarified, "But not killing, as in war or an accident or self-defense."
"That includes duels."
"Right. Duels—immortal or otherwise—count as war, just one on one. So you could take that bald fellow's head in Menorca, and I kill immortals who try to kill me. But Shaw murdered Claudia, which is why he deserved to die."
Elena's brush raised a cloud of dust from the mare's flank while she listed more crimes. "Deliberate actions that lead to deaths, like betraying your troops to the enemy or setting a building on fire for insurance, or driving under the influence, like that." She paused, the brush in her hand, looking at him over the mare's back, and Duncan stopped what he was doing, too.
"Rape," Elena said, the very word ugly in its brutal bluntness. "Torture of another human being," she said next. "I'd also kill anyone who deliberately hurt a child or an old person badly enough to need hospitalization. Even once."
"Would you kill them by your own hand?" Duncan asked, for all too often, immortals were the ones who had to decide.
"The immortals, yes," Elena said. "Who else knows how? But I don't want to be police; I leave mortals for their own courts to decide." She shrugged at that, then said, "I think that's it. For now."
"Any justifications? Or statute of limitations?" Duncan asked.
Elena's smile was sad. "You mean: Any room for mercy? Or forgiveness?" She started brushing again, raising more dust. "That's the message of Jesus, I know. If it was just once, or if they've stopped… I suppose. Maybe. But if they're still hurting people, I say send them to God now and let him forgive them there." She paused, looked off into space and added, "By my own definition, I deserve capital punishment."
Duncan didn't argue with her. When Elena had been going after the Watchers fifty years ago, she'd tortured and killed a dozen people. To be sure, she'd been looking for the Watchers who'd gunned down her pregnant friend in front of her, and Duncan knew Elena still felt guilty about what she'd done, but even so, those people were still dead by her hand.
"So do probably most immortals," Elena added.
Duncan nodded, for by Elena's definition, Methos deserved execution ten thousand times over, and from a few comments Cassandra had made, Duncan was sure she qualified, too. Duncan himself had some deaths on his hands that felt like murders to him now.
He went back to brushing, even as he wondered how long you should wait for someone to change.
Two days later, Elena said she needed to leave for a funeral. "Lucille Oiseaux, one of Mignone's owners, died yesterday. The cancer finally took her; she was just holding on until the race. And Henri and Jacques will probably need help at the stable, so I may stay for a while; And my granddaughter is due to be born in November, so—"
Duncan nodded. "So after France, you're going to Italy. And then?"
"Home to Argentina," Elena announced. "And I'm going to stay for a while. I haven't lived there for decades, and I want to go home." She gave him a brilliant smile. "Come spend Christmas with me?"
"Yes," Duncan agreed. "Though I'll have to come back here in January; I promised the girls I'd dance with them at the Twelfth Night Ball. But after that..."
"After that," Elena agreed, and that evening they bid each other a sweetly enthusiastic farewell.
The next morning at the train station, Elena said, "If Amanda visits…"
Duncan watched Elena warily, but he knew better than to say anything first.
"I love you," Elena told him. "But I'm the one leaving, and I'm not jealous. Just as long as when we are together, it's only the two of us."
Duncan brought her hands to his lips for a kiss, then kept her hands close within his own. "I feel the same way," he told her, a little relieved but not really surprised. It was the same agreement they'd made decades before.
"Besides, you and Amanda go back a long way," Elena said. "And she needs to be loved, Duncan. We all do." With that and a peck on his cheek, Elena got on the train then turned to say, "Adios, mi amor."
In late October, Amanda stopped by the school for a visit. Duncan promised to buy her a new dress if she danced the tango with him in front of all the students, to show them how it was done. He'd danced it a few times with Elena, but the students were farther along in their lessons now and needed to see it again.
"Only one dress?" Amanda asked, pouting prettily.
"All right, two," he said.
"Let's make it three," she countered. "With shoes." Duncan laughed and agreed, then Amanda looked him over, more thoughtfully than lustfully, and said, "And I shall buy you some outfits. We have a new line of men's formal wear coming out, and I'd love to see you in it."
Duncan agreed again. Keeping Amanda happy brought its own rewards.
Amanda loved her dresses, the students were impressed with the dancing (and Duncan's outfits), and Amanda rewarded Duncan quite well. On the last day of her visit, as they sat drinking wine and sitting in a patch of sunshine outside one of the restaurants in town, he asked her: "What crimes do you think deserve the death penalty?"
"That dress with those shoes," Amanda replied immediately. She shuddered as the guilty party passed by.
"Seriously," he said.
She looked at him from over the top of her dark glasses. "Trying to decide if you should kill someone?" she asked, the words sharp for all their teasing.
Duncan shook his head. "Not right now."
"But 'seriously' even so?" At his nod, she leaned back in her chair and watched the slow rotation of her gaily painted toes. "Clearly not beheading," she said finally. "After all, we kill each other over the silliest things. I wouldn't want to be judged on all of those."
Neither would Duncan.
"And clearly not theft," she added with a wicked grin.
"Clearly not," he promptly agreed.
She shrugged one shoulder, getting impatient. "I don't know, Duncan. We've all done things over the years. And the laws around us have changed. When I owned slaves, no one blinked an eye, but wearing the wrong clothes could land you in jail. If we kill someone because he killed someone, we become a killer, too. Sometimes killing is justified, sometimes it's not. How's a person to know?"
"How about rape?" he asked her. "Does that deserve death?"
Her toes went still, and then she finished her wine. "I must admit, I would find it satisfying to kill some of those men. Did you know," she said, taking off her sunglasses and leaning forward over the table, "that when the Normans first came to England, their law said a woman could gouge out her rapist's eyes and sever his testicles?"
Duncan shifted in his seat. "No, I didn't."
"That was only if he was married," she said, leaning back again. "If he was single, she was supposed to marry him. But usually, he just paid a fine or the case was dropped. Though sometimes rapists were branded," Amanda remembered. "That was helpful."
Duncan remembered a tribe where husbands cut off the noses of unfaithful wives. The "mark of Cain" had been interpreted in many ways. Duncan decided he'd learned enough. "Ready?" he asked, standing up and reaching for her hand.
As they walked down the village street arm in arm, Duncan asked, "Has Cassandra said anything to you? About Connor?"
Amanda looked at him sidelong. "A little," she answered. "Why?"
"I just wondered," Duncan said then confided his concern:"They don't seem very affectionate."
"They are surrounded by hundreds of curious students," Amanda pointed out. "Which is why the school has rules about public displays of affection between teachers."
Duncan nodded. That made sense. But… "Even in private, they're not—"
"In private?" Amanda interrupted. "Do you mean, in front of you?"
"Yeah." He shrugged. "I'm family."
Amanda shook her head and sighed, saying, "Duncan, darling…" in the way that let him know she thought he was being a clueless male. "You are also the only other man Cassandra has gone to bed with in five hundred years."
"Oh." Yes, ok, he had definitely been clueless. Then Duncan stopped short. "She doesn't think I'm jealous, does she? Because I'm not."
"Of course you're not," Amanda said and kissed him firmly on the lips. They started walking again. "But being with a former lover and a current lover is … awkward," Amanda said delicately. "For everyone."
Duncan nodded, remembering a few occasions. Most of which had involved Amanda.
"Cassandra's simply being circumspect," Amanda said. "Believe me," she added, "when Connor and Cassandra do have privacy, he's getting plenty of affection from her."
"Good," Duncan said, glad that those two had finally found each other again and fixed what had gone wrong between them all those years ago. Duncan took Amanda to a romantic spot overlooking the river to say goodbye.
Snow had fallen and people were speaking of Christmas and Hanukkah and Yule when Duncan asked Cassandra, "How much longer is this training against the Voice going to take?" He'd been at it twice a day for five months, and she could still order him around. He could distinguish overtones now and she had to repeat the commands, sometimes two or three times, but he never managed to hold out completely. The practice sessions with Connor had also been frustrating. Duncan had learned to extend his range to nearly half a kilometer, but it gave him a migraine that would be the death of him in a duel.
"I don't know," Cassandra said.
"Connor said he learned in ten weeks."
"As I said, that was intense. And he was more motivated than you are." Duncan stared at her, waiting, and she took a deep breath before explaining, "I had… controlled him before."
More like "lied to, manipulated, and used," Duncan thought, but since Connor had accepted her apology, Duncan didn't bring that up.
"And so Connor didn't trust me," Cassandra continued. "At all. I had given him good reason not to. And even without … our history, he was right not to trust me, because back then I wasn't emotionally stable."
Duncan stopped himself from agreeing and said merely, "I remember."
"Once, when I was having a flashback, I used the Voice on him and started to take his head."
Duncan's estimation of Connor's courage, always high, increased.
"That's why Connor wanted to learn," Cassandra concluded. "Why do you? I won't use the Voice on you, and no one else knows how."
"I know," Duncan said shortly. And he trusted Cassandra… mostly. She wasn't unstable now, and she would probably never try to take his head. But as she had once said to him: Never is a very long time. And also… "What if someone takes your head and takes your power, the way Shaw took Claudia Jardine's?"
"I was worried about that, too, but Elena said Shaw didn't take Claudia's musical genius; it took him. Both Shaw and Elena already knew how to play the piano, and even with that, the effect has faded in time, as most quickenings do."
Duncan nodded. Once, after taking a head, he'd been able to play the piano for a week or two, but soon he'd been back to chopsticks. He couldn't compose poetry, either, even with Byron's Quickening. "I have Roland's quickening," Duncan realized. "And I can't use the Voice."
"Exactly," Cassandra agreed. "Just like music, the Voice is a mix of skill, talent, and training."
Training that no one else on the planet had. The transference was a remote threat, and Duncan could resist Cassandra, at least long enough to knock her out, so Duncan decided he'd learned enough for now. "I'm done with the lessons," he told her. "Thank you."
Cassandra smiled in reply. "You're welcome."
Kate had invited Duncan to see the Christmas market in Frankfurt, and she still wanted to see Connor's katana, so a week before Christmas, Connor and Duncan packed their bags. They would be off to the Highlands after the trip to Germany, to climb the hill together and watch the sunrise over the solstice stones.
Cassandra was at the castle gatehouse, waiting to say goodbye. "Have a happy birthday and happy Christmas, Duncan," she said. "Please say hello to Elena for me when you get to Argentina."
"Thanks, Cassandra, I will," Duncan said. "I'll see you back here in January for the ball. Save me a dance?"
"Of course!" She kissed him farewell on the cheek. Then she kissed Connor goodbye in the same way, though the two of them held hands. "I'll see you in the Highlands on Christmas Eve," she said to him, and Connor nodded in return.
On the train ride to Frankfurt, Duncan finally gave in to his curiosity and asked Connor, "How are you and Cassandra doing?"
Connor turned to look directly at him. "Fine." Then he asked pointedly, "How are you and Elena doing?"
Their year together had been enjoyable, though it was good they had both had jobs and worked long hours. Duncan had seldom lived with another immortal, day in and day out, and the small house had been too cramped for someone with Elena's energy. He was looking forward to seeing her in Argentina, where they could ride every day across the plains and have room to roam. Though he wasn't sure how long he would stay. But Duncan didn't want to get into all of that, so he answered simply, "Fine."
"And you and Amanda?"
Amanda was the same as ever, a whirlwind of mischief and fun, though she hadn't gotten him arrested in years. She never stayed anywhere long. So Duncan said, "Fine."
"And you and Kate?"
They'd enjoyed each others' company, and he was looking forward to seeing her again. He had no plans beyond that. "Fine."
Connor nodded then turned to look out the window once again. The silence was deafeningly thorough, and Duncan leaned back in his seat with a sigh and closed his eyes. He should have known better. Then Connor said, "Duncan," and Duncan looked up. "Cassandra and I really are fine," Connor said. "We get along, we talk, we haven't tried to kill each other in years." He even grinned a bit. "We have fun."
Duncan grinned back. "Glad to hear it. How long are you two staying in the Highlands?"
"Two weeks."
Which meant Cassandra would be with Connor for Christmas, New Year's Eve, and his birthday on New Year's Day. Duncan nodded, pleased to know his kinsman wouldn't be alone—and drinking alone—over the holidays.
"It's good to get away from the school for a while," Connor said. "So… you and Elena?" Connor asked next, really meaning it this time. "And Amanda? And Kate?"
"Fine," Duncan said. "Really." He stretched his arms over his head, leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, smiling all the while.
The city was bustling and cheerful, and the visit with Kate went well, though if it hadn't been for the thrum of her immortal presence, Duncan might not have recognized her. Her clothes were warm and sensible instead of sexy, and her hair was a warm chestnut color this time, pulled back simply from her face with a silver clip. She looked younger, with a scattering of freckles across her nose and no make-up. Her eyes were still green.
Connor gave a hint of a bow when Duncan introduced them, and Kate inclined her head graciously in return. They wandered the stalls of the market for a time, listening to voices in a babble of different tongues, looking at toys and gifts, and buying food from the vendors there. Connor was quiet, as usual, until they got to the privacy of her hotel room. She and Connor obviously had a lot to talk about, though Duncan gave up trying to make sense of it after a while; they spoke of titanium alloys, martensite and pearlite, various levels of carbon content, and the colors of iron as it cooled.
"How did you get the color of the blade?" Duncan asked, for her sword gleamed golden against the dark green bedspread.
"It's coated with titanium nitride, a very hard ceramic." Kate smiled at him. "You may have seen it on drill bits."
Connor was nodding, his nose almost touching the sword as he bent to look at it. "Electron beam PVD?" he asked.
"Yes, for the lower temperature and control." She was on the other side of the bed, looking at his sword in just about the same way. "Duncan said you reforged this. Where did you get the folded steel?"
"I made blocks of it while I was with Nakano in Japan, five hundred years ago. Some was still in the cave. I was glad I didn't have to start from scratch. What's the edge on yours?"
"Embedded bits of tungsten carbide."
He lifted his head to look at her across the bed. "How do you sharpen that?"
She grinned. "A diamond grinding wheel."
They both straightened then stood looking down at the others' sword, their fingers twitching with the urge.
Duncan was about to tell them both to just pick the damned things up, when finally Kate said, "May I?" as Connor said the same to her. They nodded to each other, then each focused completely on a sword, lifting it slowly, holding it to the light at various angles, hefting it for weight and balance. Then they started to talk again, of phase diagrams and sintering and the rate of grain growth while the sword was tempered or annealed.
Duncan left them to it and went shopping in the market for Christmas presents. When he returned two hours later, they were still talking, though they'd taken back their own swords. Papers with equations and graphs and drawings of sticks and balls in various configurations covered the bed.
"Dinner?" Duncan suggested. Thankfully, during the meal the conversation stayed on topics he knew: history and wine, horses and literature. They started quoting poetry back and forth, each taking a line, ranging from the ancients to the moderns.
"High-born ladies in their magic cell…," Connor began, starting the poem in the middle which usually made it harder to guess, but Duncan knew this one.
"Forbidding knights to read who cannot spell," Kate chimed in.
"Dispatch a courier to a wizard's grave," Connor replied.
Duncan concluded that rhyme with "And fight with honest men to shield a knave," then signaled the waitress for another round of beer.
"I think the best part of 'English Bards and Scotch Reviewers' is the title," Kate said.
"Not one of Byron's immortal poems, it's true," Connor agreed then asked her, "Did you know he was an immortal?"
She looked up from her plate with interest. "Did you meet him?"
"Once," Connor said, "but he was only twenty-two. He didn't become immortal until he was thirty-six."
"Twenty-eight," Duncan corrected. "By suicide. His public death eight years later from malaria was staged." They both looked at him with questioning eyes, and Duncan wished he'd kept his mouth shut.
"He told you that?" Kate asked in surprise.
"No," Duncan said. "Not exactly."
Now Kate's eyes grew wide. "You took Byron's head," she said softly, almost in a whisper.
"That's why you've been winning the poetry contests lately," Connor observed.
Duncan ignored him and turned to Kate. "He was killing people," Duncan explained. "Mortals." Byron had nearly killed him. "He was…"
"In the darkness," she murmured then looked away.
"He needed to be stopped," Duncan said. And it had fallen to him to do it, because mortals didn't know how and Methos seemed willing to wait forever for his former student to change. Just like he'd waited for Kronos. "I had no choice," Duncan said.
Connor nodded, for he understood about the game and the prize and about protecting innocents. After a long moment, Kate nodded, too, then excused herself from the table. When she returned a few moments later, the waiter brought the dessert menu, and they ordered strudel and a plate with a selection of cookies. Over desert, Kate and Connor shared stories of Ramirez, and Duncan listened avidly.
When the bill arrived Connor declared, "I'm buying," and by that Duncan knew the evening had been a success.
They went back to the hotel, and in the lobby Kate bid them goodnight and went to her room. They watched her climb the stairs then Connor said cheerfully, "I like her."
"Huh," Duncan said, and when Connor looked at him with narrowed questioning eyes, Duncan explained, "You've never once said that about Amanda. Or Elena."
"They're pushy," Connor said. "And they flaunt themselves."
That they did. Duncan had often enjoyed the show. Kate could "flaunt", too, on occasion, but today she had acted more like "the girl next door", the brainy one with glasses.
"And they talk a lot," Connor added.
"You like your women silent?" Duncan asked.
Connor's grin was more of a baring of teeth. "As I have been told—by Heather and Sarah and Rachel and Brenda and Alex and Cassandra—they are not 'my' women. They belong to themselves."
Duncan nodded, for so did Elena and Amanda and Kate and every other woman he'd known.
Connor said, "I like women who are strong. And stubborn." He grinned again. "And quiet."
"Kate talked a lot," Duncan pointed out.
"Not about herself."
Duncan had to admit that with Elena and Amanda, the conversation usually got back to them somehow. And they were pushy, and they did flaunt. They saw themselves at the center of the universe. Duncan liked them that way. He liked Kate, too. They were each their own woman, with their own way of doing things, and Duncan didn't want any of them to change. Variety made life more interesting.
"It's been a long day," Duncan said with a yawn. "I'm ready for bed."
"Our room?" Connor asked as they headed for the stairs. "Or hers?"
"Ours," Duncan said. Kate had been friendly today, but not flirtatious, and Duncan waited to be invited before he knocked on a lady's door. Perhaps tomorrow night. Perhaps not. Duncan didn't have any plans.
Early the next morning, after they'd finished running, Connor said, "I liked Tessa. And Susan."
Tessa and Susan had both been strong. And stubborn. And beautiful and funny and loving and wise. Duncan nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
Connor clapped Duncan lightly on the shoulder then challenged, "Race you up the stairs?" Duncan won, barely, then they showered and dressed and went to meet Kate. Over breakfast, Connor announced he'd be spending the next two days with a friend then disappeared. Duncan suspected Connor was giving him and Kate a chance to be "fine."
Kate and Duncan walked between towering skyscrapers to reach an ancient church, where a tour guide showed their group tapestries and elaborate vestments. The weaving was incredible. They skipped lunch to make better use of the precious winter sunlight and took a short ride to the outskirts of town, where they went walking among the trees. It was a romantic setting, but Kate wasn't flirtatious today, either. She seemed downright somber.
"Are you all right?" Duncan asked.
"Yes, fine," she said with a very brief smile but then said, "I'm a little concerned about Sofie, that student I took on seven years ago in Ireland. I haven't heard from her in nearly a year."
"Students," Duncan said with complete understanding, and gave her a sympathetic smile.
She returned it but then went somber again. "Not many of my students have survived through the years. I'm not surprised, really; most of them have been women, and we are at a disadvantage in the Game. Have you taken on students?"
Duncan swallowed hard before answering, "Some. But not these last fifty years. You can't do students and families at the same time."
They walked on silently, side by side under the dark trees, until Duncan asked, "Is there anything else wrong? You seem … subdued."
That actually got a grin. "You mean: Why am I not flirting with you?"
"Well…"
And that got a laugh. "I don't flirt with attached men," Kate explained. "And you and Connor both have partners now."
"How did you know?"
"Neither of you is flirting with me. And I saw the gifts you bought yesterday."
Silk scarves and a beautifully carved wooden horse. He hoped Elena would like them.
Kate patted his arm, saying, "Another time, Duncan. We'll be just friends today."
"Sounds good," he agreed, and as they walked beneath the trees they spoke of movies they had seen, the reproductive cycles of moss, and the building of a cathedral, stone by stone.
That night at dinner, he asked for stories of Ramirez. Over the last of the wine, she asked for stories of Byron, and Duncan tried to oblige. He was describing the rock music and the concerts and Byron's jealousy over Mary Shelley's Frankenstein when Kate said: "Last night you said Byron was killing mortals. How? With his sword?"
"No," Duncan said. "Not actively. He would … tempt people and then stand back and watch them destroy themselves."
"It sounds as if it was their decision," she said.
"Yes, it was, but…" Duncan took a drink before stating the reason he had decided that Byron had to die. "He didn't care, Kate. He didn't care whether the people lived or died. It was a joke to him. Meth—" Duncan stopped short and changed that to "My friend Adam said—"
"Philippe was there?"
Duncan nodded and picked up his drink again. "They'd met before. Byron called him Dr. Adams."
Kate set her wine glass on the table. "And what did 'Dr. Adams' say?"
"That Byron was 'empty'. He talked to Byron a bit, I think, but it didn't help. Byron was too far gone. He used a gun on me, while we were fighting."
"I see," she said and refilled their glasses. She stared at the red liquid then murmured, "A pity, all around," before turning the conversation to horses.
When the wine was gone and dessert had been eaten, they went back to the hotel, for they were both leaving early in the morning, she for Paris and he with Connor to the Highlands. Duncan saw her to her door then asked, "Have you heard from Philippe lately?"
"The ship get back from Mars in April. Shall I give him your address?"
Duncan shrugged. "If he asks."
No plans.
Connor got back late that night, and the next morning they ate breakfast with Kate then said friendly goodbyes. Duncan and Connor arrived in the Highlands just in time for a snowstorm that turned to freezing rain. "Won't be much a view of the sun," Duncan commented.
"Weather could change," Connor replied, which was always true, so they woke in the darkness on the twenty-first of December and climbed the hill to the solstice stones. They didn't seen the actual sunrise, but the clouds broke soon after and the sunshine lay liquid and golden over the snowy hills.
"Happy birthday, Duncan," Connor said, and it was.
Next: a MacLeod family picnic with news of the next generation