MANHUNT
Armenia, 14 October 2053
"You won't have to have sex with him anymore," Erianne quietly told Cassandra as they watched Duncan haggle with the driver for a ride. "After we get to Haven."
Cassandra doubted that many women would consider sex with Duncan to be an imposition. As long as they had a choice, of course. "That's good to know," she replied, "but I'm not having sex with him now."
"Really?" Erianne said, turning to Cassandra in surprise then looking back at Duncan. "Then why is he protecting you?"
He wasn't "protecting" her, any more than she was protecting him. They were helping each other. But immortal friends were rare, and during Erianne's seventeen years as an immortal, it seemed she had survived by using more than just her wits. Amanda had once described the technique with her usual forthright aplomb: Give some head to keep your head.
"Duncan and I are friends," Cassandra replied, and gave Erianne a moment to think about that before asking, "Did the man you were with teach you anything about swords?"
"Not the first two. The third one did; he wasn't too bad. Jaqi even said I didn't have to sleep with him, but he liked it, and it made it easier. I figured he was less likely to abandon me—or kill me—if I kept him happy."
Cassandra couldn't fault the logic or blame the approach. She'd done the same herself in years past, as had millions of other people. "How did you meet them, these men?"
"They were the victors."
And Erianne had been the spoils. "What happened to Jaqi?"
"The woman who killed him had no use for me. No time for me, either. She said she'd heard something about a place called Haven that might have a teacher, so I started searching for it online. I didn't find much, but after a while, someone from Haven contacted me."
That someone was either a helpful immortal who'd created a bonafide school or (more likely) a spider waiting for a fly to touch a strand of its web. If Duncan were the one missing, Cassandra wondered, what would Methos do at this point: walk into that web or walk away?
"Good news," Duncan said cheerfully as he came over. "We've got a ride to the next valley."
The three of them climbed into the back of the stripped-down truck, maneuvering between boxes and bales and a crate of unhappy chickens. Erianne took a seat next to Duncan, instead of avoiding him as she'd done so far.
In the front seat, the driver released the handbrake and put the truck in gear then picked up the reins and called to his team of horses. Petrol was strictly rationed, but grass still grew on these hills. Cassandra hadn't watched the world go by at this gentle pace for decades. She had time to decipher the names on a road sign, which was lettered in both Cyrillic and Armenian scripts. The Arabic numerals were familiar enough to be easy: nineteen kilometers to the old monastery that was now Haven.
The trees blazed with autumn color, and the air grew cooler and sharper as they climbed. On a steep grade, when they got out to walk as the horses labored up the hill, Erianne asked, "How did you hear of Haven, Cassandra?"
"Another immortal mentioned it to me," Cassandra replied. No matter that the immortal had been Erianne herself.
"Why are you going?"
"Partly because I'm curious. Mostly because I'd like to be on Holy Ground and not have to be on guard all the time."
"Me, too," Erianne said fervently. "Is that why you're going, Duncan?" She looked up at him with the slow and luxurious blink of a woman interested in a man. "You certainly don't need a sword teacher."
Duncan's smile was friendly, but nothing more. "I heard a friend of mine might be there, and I'm just following Cassandra's lead."
Cassandra hadn't led them here. They were following ripples of water, created from the key carried next to Duncan's heart.
The Cell – Reviving
Methos woke to darkness and a bitter taste on his lips. He was lying on the floor in the cell and covered by a blanket yet again, courtesy of the self-styled Tribunal who'd set themselves up as police, judge, jury, and executioner for immortals. Waking up this way was irritatingly familiar, but he also felt hollow, stretched out somehow, and his limbs were weak and slow to respond.
That feeling was familiar too, though not recently. Still, it wasn't something you ever forgot. He'd been dead for months, perhaps years. Apparently, the Tribunal had decided to keep him quiet and out of mischief while they completed their "further investigation" of him. How very logical of them.
Had they also been quick? Methos sat up then waved a hand, hoping to activate the vid screen on the ceiling. It came on, to his relief and surprise. The date displayed was the fourteenth of October, and the year was 2053.
Eighteen months. They'd made him miss both the launch date and the meet with MacLeod. Methos cursed softly. He'd been looking forward to those. But he still had his head, which was always a good thing, and a year and a half wasn't too much lost time.
He skimmed the newsfeeds for highlights, pausing to read an article about last week's long-delayed return of the Ganymede expedition to Earth. He caught a glimpse of Serena in the crew, her brown hair close-cropped for practicality. She looked good, but he missed the red tresses. In other news, New York City had been flooded again, a 25-story wooden skyscraper had been built in Osaka, and around the world, population was declining, food was scarce, loose trousers were all the rage for all the sexes, someone had been assassinated, someone had been elected, et cetera, et cetera, blah, blah, blah.
Food arrived, and he ate slowly, chewing each mouthful thoroughly. He saved half the food for later, then went through a gentle exercise routine. Even that was tiring, and he lay down again to give his body more time to remember being alive.
He put the blanket behind his head for a pillow then selected the novel One Hundred Years of Solitude from the vid screen. The book opened at the same page he'd been reading eighteen months ago, but he wasn't in the mood for reading. Soon, presumably, the Tribunal would continue their show-trial. After which, they would either let him go or want to kill him.
Clearly, it was time to make plans.
On the road to Haven
"Could this Haven place be part of Phinyx?" Duncan asked Cassandra as the truck started down into the valley. Erianne was dozing in the corner. On the hillside ahead of them, a collection of buildings seemed to grow out of the very rock. The path to that former monastery was narrow and steep, suitable for people on foot and donkeys but not for horses or large groups. The red tiles and solar collectors on the roofs and turrets gleamed and glittered in bright contrast to the mottled stone of the walls and foundations. Phinyx had acquired quite a few old and easily defensible places, and they tried to operate them off the grid.
"Phinyx focuses on mortals," Cassandra said. "Though a school for immortals—and for preimmortals, such as Ceirdwyn and Chelle are doing—is a good idea."
Whoever had set it up, it was on a good site. From up high, Duncan could see that the valley contained wooded areas, grassy fields, and small farms on either side of a stream that foamed white as it rushed over rocks. To the north and south, snow-capped mountains stood tall. Duncan liked it. The place reminded him of the Highlands.
Which reminded him… "When you scried for Methos the other night," Duncan asked, "did you look to see if Chelle is in the Highlands with Connor now?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because Chelle is probably in the Highlands with Connor now."
It took Duncan a moment to make sense of that. He'd never thought of Connor and Chelle as a couple. "You think they—"
"Yes."
Cassandra didn't seem bothered by the idea, but it was still a touchy subject, so Duncan let it go. He was, however, curious about something else, because in the nearly four years of their traveling, Connor had never mentioned Cassandra's name. Duncan's attempts to find out why had been slashed and burned in classic Connor style. Cassandra was by far easier to talk to, so Duncan asked, "What happened between you and Connor this time?"
Her mouth twisted, part smile and part grimace, and she kept looking out the window. "Nothing new."
That covered a lot of territory. Duncan decided to cut to the heart of it. "Did you leave him or did he leave you?"
His bluntness earned a slow head turn and a searching look from Cassandra, but she answered. "We agreed to separate, but it was my idea." The truck lumbered through a rocky patch, tilting them this way and that. "I suppose that is new," she mused. "He's always been the one to leave before."
Since she'd volunteered information, Duncan took another chance and asked for more. "Why did you want to leave?" They went over a bridge and around a hairpin turn, and Duncan began to wonder if she would answer.
She did, finally. "The violence within him frightens me."
"Connor's always had a temper." Duncan could remember quite a few dustups. "You know that."
"You and I both know that," she retorted. "He's killed each of us in a fit of rage."
OK, more than a dustup. Duncan had long thought his death at Connor's hand during sword practice in the Highlands had been brutal training, designed to teach him a lesson he wouldn't forget. Only centuries later did Connor admit the truth: he'd lost his temper and his control. Still… "That was centuries ago, Cassandra, and you two have been together for years. What changed?"
"I had thought," she said carefully, staring straight ahead with her hands flat on her thighs, "that if I didn't make him angry, I would be safe. But then I saw him fighting, soon after Sara died."
Duncan had seen Connor that night—dried blood on hands and shirt, a smear of dirt and blood on the knee—and had spoken to Connor of his own rage after Darius had died. Did you kill anybody? Connor had asked with dull despair. Connor hadn't actually killed anyone that night, but the fellow had ended up in hospital and needed surgery to survive.
"I never realized how much Connor enjoys hurting people," Cassandra said next.
Duncan wanted to protest, to defend his kinsman, to tell her she was wrong. But he had seen Connor fighting, many times, lost in savage joy. Just how far had he gone that night? How far would he go?
"Methos used to be like that," she said. "Roland was like that."
"Connor is not like that," Duncan said firmly. "They took pride in it. Connor regrets it."
Cassandra shook her head. "Regret doesn't lessen the pain of the blows."
"Connor hit you?" Duncan asked incredulously.
"No, not—" She stopped and breathed out slowly then repeated: "No." She was staring straight ahead again. "I wasn't referring to Connor specifically. Roland would sometimes apologize afterwards, or tell me he regretted it, or even ask me to forgive him. Usually if someone hits you, you're angry at him. That's simple. It's worse when someone hits you, then entangles you in hate and guilt, pity and love."
"Physical and emotional abuse," Duncan said.
"Yes. One style." She used both hands to smooth her hair back from her face. "Methos never apologized."
Duncan wasn't going to talk about Methos now. "Did Connor?"
"Yes. And so have I, when things go wrong. Then we try not to hurt each other again. "
"Sounds like a good relationship to me."
"It has been. Very good. Connor is…" Her smile and her voice were trembling with tears. "I love him."
She made it sound like an announcement. Duncan had known it for years.
"But there is a darkness in Connor, and he won't acknowledge it," Cassandra went on, "and it frightens me. We're still friends, and I care for him, but I can't…be with him." She finally lifted her head to look at him. "I feel safer with Methos than I do with Connor."
Holy Christ. Any hope Duncan had had of playing matchmaker went up in flames right there. "I'm sorry," Duncan said at last.
Her answer was a whisper. "So am I."
The Cell – Calling
When Methos woke, he ate the rest of his food, exercised a little, then thought a lot while apparently watching a documentary about the universe. By the end of it, he had a few schemes, and he had gleaned that the universe was big—very big—and spherical, expanding in all directions all the time, except that it created more space simply by expanding, and time got dragged along. Time and space were two sides of the same coin. Not to say that the time-space connection was shaped like a disc. It could perhaps be thought of as a triangle. Or something.
He hadn't been watching all that closely.
Methos went through another set of exercises, this time more vigorous. To build up his endurance, he sang while he jogged in place: "The universe itself keeps on expanding and expanding | In all of the directions it can whizz…"
But no. That wasn't how the song started. What was the first line? He tried a few, but they were all wrong. He could have looked it up through the vidscreen, but that would have been cheating and would also have made him stop jogging, so he kept trying on his own.
The vidscreen came on anyway, configured for chat, just as he was belting out the high note in the phrase "a million miles a day". He stopped running, then lay down and stretched out on the floor so he could see the ceiling without getting a crick in his neck. He put his hands behind his head, cultivating an aura of relaxation and trying not to breathe too hard.
The avatar on the screen was a nondescript head, and the voice that said "Good morning" was mechanical. The Inquisitor had returned.
"Morning," Methos replied, purely for the sake of politeness. He wouldn't get anywhere by being rude.
"The tribunal will meet soon to continue your evaluation," the voice informed him.
Methos had no patience with euphemisms anymore. "You mean my trial, don't you?"
"You are not being tried for past crimes. You are being evaluated."
"Evaluated for future crimes," Methos clarified.
"Yes."
Lovely. Though truthfully, the future was more in his favor than his past. "Got a fortune teller as well as a truth teller, do you?" Methos asked. The Inquisitor didn't answer, and Methos wondered if they really did have such people. Cassandra's witch powers included prophesy, and the Voice gave her unusual insight into people's state of mind. Maybe that was Cassandra behind the vidscreen. Or another like her. Part of her Sisterhood? Or a distant cousin? Or a completely unrelated group? Who the hell were these people, anyway?
"For the evaluation," the Inquisitor said, "is there any you can call upon who would testify on your behalf?"
Time to get more information. "Will you evaluate them, too?"
"If need be."
No surprise there. "Can they be mortal?"
"If they already know of your immortality. We do not wish to share the secret."
The Tribunal was being logical again. "Do you evaluate the mortals?"
"No. That is not our mission. Again we ask: Is there any you can call upon who would vouch for you?"
Methos had given this question a bit of thought. The last of his mortal friends to know about immortality had died nearly twenty years ago, and of the immortals he knew, most had absolutely no clue who he was or how old he was or what he was capable of. Since the Tribunal was sure to ask about his past as well as his future, that left seven possibilities.
Methos wasn't about to give the Tribunal Duncan's name for a number of reasons, not least of which were the Dark Quickening episode and the Ahriman incident. An expert swordsman who heard voices urging him to kill then took the heads of a student and a friend? The Tribunal might well decide it was better to be safe than sorry. Methos didn't want to be sorry, so he definitely wanted to keep Duncan safe. And Evann, of course, so Methos could never mention her.
Connor MacLeod was out, too, because Connor would never forgive such a breach of privacy, and (assuming the Tribunal let them both go, which wasn't at all certain) Methos didn't want Connor out for his blood.
Cassandra was provisionally on the list of friends, but considering what Methos had done to her, she would be more of a witness for the prosecution than the defense. Also, though the Voice might give her protection from the Tribunal's truth teller, if it didn't, then Cassandra would soon run afoul of the Tribunal's "future danger" alert. After all, he and Duncan and Connor were all prepared to kill her if she got out of line. Methos didn't want the Tribunal making that judgment call.
Elena, she of the fierce temper and rash actions, had tortured and killed a dozen mortals while seeking revenge for a murdered friend. He definitely didn't want to bring her to the Tribunal's attention. Amanda, fond though Methos was of the charming minx, was a thief and professional liar. Not the best character witness.
That left only Serena. She didn't headhunt, she didn't hear demon voices or have the Voice of command, she didn't steal for a living, and she hadn't tortured anyone to death. Instead, she was a fine upstanding citizen who liked to build things and who had been an asset to her communities for centuries.
"There is an immortal," Methos told the Tribunal. "Her current name is Jillian Vathos. She just got back from the Ganymede expedition."
There was a pause longer than usual, then the Inquisitor's voice said: "We know of this immortal."
"I call upon her."
Another pause, even longer, and then the Inquisitor said, "Agreed."
"All right then," Methos said calmly, though secretly he was quite pleased. In addition to being lovely, charming, and intelligent, Serena carried a toolkit with her at all times. She could help him get out one way or another.
The Gateway to Haven
When the truck reached the hamlet near the center of the valley, Duncan and Cassandra and Erianne climbed out of the truck and were met by a stocky immortal with dark hair, dark eyes, and regular features above a short beard. He was a little shorter than Duncan and looked to be about thirty, with broad shoulders and large, strong hands. Amanda would have described him as "more than decent looking" and probably asked him to dance. He announced himself as "Urushan, born of the House of Mehnuni."
"I'm Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," Duncan replied. Cassandra and Erianne simply said their names.
"Welcome." Urushan's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Haven is holy ground, and swords are not permitted," he informed them. "You must surrender weapons before entering its walls, or you can stay here in the hostel." He motioned to a long building with many windows. The driver who'd given them a ride was leading his horses inside.
"Isn't that the stable?" Erianne asked dubiously.
"The horses are on the ground floor," Urushan said. "Upstairs has rooms for people."
Cassandra and Duncan exchanged a glance with each other, making silent plans to divide and conquer. "I'll stay in the valley," Duncan said, wondering how old Urushan was and if he had grown up near here. His English was correct and clear but not colloquial, and his accent was Slavic-sounding, not Russian, not Ukrainian or Czech, but something in between.
"I'd like to enter Haven," Cassandra said.
"So would I," Erianne said eagerly.
"May it be so," Urushan replied formally. "But first, each of you must speak with the preceptress. She will decide if you are permitted to stay." He was smiling a little as he nodded to the women, but his eyes and stance were wary when he turned to Duncan and said, "The preceptress is waiting for you, at the old shrine under the oak tree near the bridge."
A small patch of holy ground, a place of safety for the interview. Even so, Duncan approached cautiously, alert for any signs of an ambush along the way, and he looked back to Cassandra and Erianne frequently to see if they were still safe. Urushan was standing off to one side, and the women seemed completely fine, while the forest held only the rustle of leaves and the hum of insects, with the softness of old pine needles and dead leaves underfoot. The preceptress, a tall slim figure dressed in dark brown, stood with her face in shadow and her empty hands motionless at her side. Just behind her, a cairn of mossy stones rose from the forest floor, perhaps a shrine to some ancient pagan god of the stream.
He stopped a few paces away to announce again: "I'm Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod." His hands were empty, too, though not far from his blade.
She moved forward into the light, revealing familiar features elegant in their severity, and hair dark as a raven's wing. "Welcome, Duncan." Her smile was like light through cathedral windows.
"Karla?" he asked in surprise and glad relief as he took her hand with a warrior's grip. If Karla were in charge, then this Haven place wouldn't be a trap. Though getting out might be, Duncan thought grimly, as he remembered how Kalas used to lie in wait just off holy ground whenever an immortal left Brother Paul's monastery.
"I did say we'd see each other again," Karla was saying.
"Yes, you did. And what's half a century or so?"
"Too long," she replied. "I had thought to see you sooner."
"I was in New Zealand for a few decades," he explained.
"And now you're here. With companions." She because serious again, all business. "And I must ask you why."
"I'm looking for a friend. I heard he came here."
"What's he look like?"
"About my height, more slender in build, Caucasian, hazel eyes."
Karla shook her head. "We have one male instructor, Urushan,whom you just met, and two male students; both are shorter than you."
"And no male immortals here in the village?"
"No."
Yet the scrying key definitely said Methos was in this valley. Was Karla or someone else hiding him? Or was Methos in hiding? "Maybe he's still on his way," Duncan suggested, not ready to be totally open with Karla, comrades-in-arm though they had been.
"I can ask the others if they know of any—"
"No," Duncan said swiftly. Some of those others might be involved in Methos's disappearance. "I'll wait."
"You may stay as long as you wish, but we do ask that you pay."
"Euros? Rubles?" He was running short of cash.
"Either, but labor is highly valued," she replied. "It's the harvest, and we can always use help in the stables. And if you would like to teach swordwork or other skills, we can arrange a class."
He enjoyed that kind of physical labor, and young immortals always had a lot to learn. "Fine," he agreed.
"What can you tell me of your companions?" Karla asked next, but still looking at him, not back at the women.
"Erianne seems to be a decent young woman who's hoping to find a teacher, but I met her on the road only a few days ago." He didn't bother to add that appearances could be deceiving; they both knew that. "Cassandra is a friend; I've known her all my life."
"Would you trust her with it?"
"Yes." He added deliberately: "I have. As she has trusted me."
"Are you sleeping with either of them? Or both?"
Duncan had forgotten how forthright Karla could be. "Is that relevant?"
"Yes. It affects training. Also, our housekeeper needs to know."
"No," he replied evenly. "I'm not sleeping with either of them. And I'd like to stay in the hostel, not at the school."
"Certainly." She waved her hand at Urushan, and he waved back, said something to Cassandra and Erianne, then left.
Duncan turned back to Karla. "No more guard?"
"Not needed."
It was nice to be trusted. Now it was his turn to ask some questions. "Did you start Haven?"
"Yes. I've seen too many young immortals without teachers, or ruined by bad ones."
Duncan knew exactly what she meant. "I haven't heard of it before. Is it new?"
"We've been taking students for about a decade, and I've set up similar schools in times past. Urushan is from this area; he found us this location just last year."
"How many instructors do you have?"
"Three: Urushan, Pivik, and myself. You can meet all of us, and the students, at dinner this evening, if you like."
"Thank you, I would." He could learn a lot that way.
"I'll speak with Erianne now," Karla said, effectively dismissing him before he could ask anything more.
Duncan bowed slightly, got a gracious tilt of the head in return, then went back to the hostel where Cassandra and Erianne were waiting. "Your turn," he said to Erianne, and when she swallowed nervously, he gave her an encouraging smile and added, "It'll be all right." She straightened and went to meet Karla at the bridge.
"You know the preceptress of Haven," Cassandra observed.
"I met her fifty years ago when she was Sister Mary Carlotta, a lay sister in a Paris convent. But she's been a professional soldier most of her life. Her student Frederich called her the She-Wolf of the Battlefield and the Raven of War."
Cassandra seemed amused. "Quite the titles."
"Her name is Karla Morgan."
"Morgan," Cassandra repeated, looking over at the preceptress. "Do you know how old she is?"
"She's mentioned fighting for Arthur in Britain fifteen hundred years ago, but she called him a duke, not king."
"The Roman title, not the Saxon," Cassandra noted.
"Didn't Arthur fight the Saxons?"
"Exactly," Cassandra agreed. "His people would never have used the word cyning."
"Anyway, Karla's not a head-hunter," Duncan said, focusing on the important point, "and it looks like Haven really is a school, not a trap."
"At least not for us," Cassandra murmured. "She knew nothing of Methos?"
"When I described him, she said no one who looked like that was here."
"Would she lie?"
"She's honorable," Duncan said slowly, "but she would 'keep information confidential', if she thought it was necessary. And there are two other instructors here; they could be up to something. Urushan is local; he would have contacts."
"So our mission is unchanged: Assume everyone here is hostile while we search for Methos."
"Pretty much," he agreed. After Cassandra went to talk with Karla, the three women ascended the hill. Duncan spent the day scouring the countryside but found no trace of Methos. That afternoon at the stables, Duncan picked up a rake and shoveled out stalls.
When evening came, he climbed the hill then reluctantly handed over his katana to Karla. She locked it in the armory next to nearly twenty other swords, one of which belonged to Erianne. Duncan checked, but Methos's broadsword wasn't there. Cassandra wasn't carrying a weapon these days. "How many of these are yours?" he asked, for Karla had quite a collection.
"Seven. The students practice with different types."
Dinner was to be served in a large room with an enormous fireplace and a long wooden table set for thirteen. Cassandra was already seated in front of one of the deep windows on the south side, and she smiled and lifted her glass to Duncan in greeting even as she gave a tiny shake of the head. No sign of Methos so far.
Karla formally introduced the other instructors: Pivik, a petite woman from the island of Luzon who bowed but did not smile, and Urushan, the guard from earlier that day.
Urushan seemed friendlier than before, shaking Duncan's hand, then mentioning the migrating birds that might be seen in Armenia at this time of year. "Not so many as there used to be, alas."
Duncan took the opportunity to probe for age. "Have you lived in Armenia a long time?"
The quick smile was nearly hidden by the beard, and the answer "Most of my life" was vague. But he added, "I studied in Krakow and Venice, and traveled in Europe at times. And you?"
"I've traveled in Europe, too," Duncan replied, with just the same kind of vagueness and same kind of smile. The door to the right opened, and Duncan turned to see a woman in her sixties, backing into the room and carrying a large tray of food. A plain gray dress covered her thin frame, and she wore black stockings above sensible shoes.
"Excuse me," Urushan said and immediately went to hold the door. She smiled up at him merrily then placed the food on the sideboard. He followed her through the doorway to help, and Duncan wandered over to a small table in the corner that held a magnificent chess set carved in red onyx and white marble.
After a few moments the sideboard was laden with food, and Urushan returned to Duncan. "My daughter, Gohar," Urushan explained. "She is the housekeeper here and knows of immortals."
"And the villagers below?"
Urushan shook his head. "We keep to ourselves on this hill. They think we offer 'rehab' for the spoiled offspring of the rich." He looked down at the chess set. "Do you play?"
"A little," Duncan replied.
The smile returned and lingered. "Perhaps you and I should have a game."
Chess was almost as good as swordplay for revealing the character of a man. "We should," Duncan agreed. "After dinner?"
"Indeed," came the enthusiastic reply, and both of them were smiling now, for the challenge had been made and accepted, and each was wondering who would win.
Then the students began arriving, in pairs. "If we all come at once, it makes people dizzy," the student named Joo Hee told him. She pushed a strand of her straight black hair behind her ear. "One person threw up."
"How many students are there?" Duncan asked.
"The new girl makes eight," said a blonde Australian named Aspen, who looked about twenty-five years old. "It's like season seven of Buffy around here."
"It's like what?" Joo Hee asked, saving Duncan the trouble.
"Sorry," Aspen said. "Video series, before your time."
All video series were after Duncan's time. References like that used to be just books, but over the last century, he'd had to get used to people mentioning talkies, radio shows, movies, TV shows, songs, and internet memes. It was hard to keep up.
"I'm the oldest student," Aspen explained to Duncan, shaking his hand with a firm grip and a straight-on gaze. "Sixty-seven come December. Here to learn to use the saber instead of just the epee."
"We call her Granny," said a girl who seemed to still be in her teens. She'd come in with Erianne.
Chonglin, one of the male students, arrived along with Sofie, the immortal that Duncan and Kate had met in Ireland a dozen years ago. "Sofie!" Duncan said in glad surprise. "I didn't expect to see you here."
"What?" she asked with brittle cheerfulness. "Surprised I still have my head?"
"Sofie," Aspen said in warning.
"Right." Sofie nodded with mock penitence then leaned in toward Duncan to confide, "That's not something we say in polite company. And immortals are always polite."
Defensive wise-assery, Methos had called this technique after a twenty-two-year-old Richie Ryan had given an excellent demonstration. Methos was good at it, too. So was Connor. It was best to ignore it completely, so Duncan simply said, with sincere warmth, "I'm glad to see you, Sofie." He was surprised she still had her head. Not many immortals, especially female ones, survived their first twenty years.
Sofie looked confused then backed off and nodded, even managing a smile. "Thanks. It's good to see you, too, Duncan."
"Have you been in touch with Kate?" Duncan asked, because Kate had been worried about her erstwhile student.
"I told her I was here," Sofie replied. "She said she'd come visit soon, now that she's back on planet."
"Good," Duncan said. "Maybe I'll get to see her, too."
The last pair of students arrived then Karla rang a bell, and everyone sat down to eat. Duncan didn't learn much useful for the search for Methos during dinner, but he could see that the students liked their teachers and each other (mostly). Two had come on the recommendations of friends who had attended … and made it out alive.
"We escort students to the train station," Karla mentioned. "It's a good outing for us all."
The school was bonafide. At least he didn't have that to worry about. Duncan relaxed and enjoyed the food.
After the meal, Cassandra took him aside for a quiet word. "The key won't tell us anything here; we're too close. Reach out with your quickening tonight; see if you can find Methos that way. I'll do the same." She left with most of the other students, though Joo Hee and Karla stayed to watch his chess match with Urushan.
At the beginning of each game, Urushan played defensively, but he didn't hesitate to sacrifice a piece when it resulted in an advantage, and once he was ready, his attack was fierce. Duncan lost the first game and won the second, and they both agreed it was too late to play one more.
Urushan stood and shook his hand heartily, with a grip that could easily go beyond firm and into strong. "Tomorrow?" Urushan offered. "If you come at one-thirty, you can join the fencing class first."
"Perhaps we teachers can spar," Karla suggested. "A demonstration for the students."
And another contest between him and Urushan. Duncan smiled again. "I'll be here," he promised.
He thanked Karla for the hospitality, retrieved his sword, then went down the hill. He stopped at the ancient pagan shrine by the bridge, held the key in his hand, and reached out to Methos, hoping to find some trace of his friend.
All was darkness.
Cassandra tried seeking Methos that night, but the nearby presence of eleven other immortals was overwhelming, and she quickly closed down. She tried again before dawn when everyone was likely to be asleep, but the interference was still too great. The forest should be better. She could ask Duncan to watch over her.
As she was crossing the outer courtyard, Karla came through the gate, her cheeks glowing and her clothes spangled with water droplets from the mist, probably just finishing her morning run. "Good morning, Cassandra," Karla said. "Off for a walk?"
"Just visiting Duncan. I'll be back in time to help Gohar prepare the midday meal."
"She might like help with the shopping tomorrow," Karla suggested. "It's market day."
Cassandra smiled. "Certainly."
"It doesn't bother you, does it?" she asked, stripping off her gloves and tucking them in her pocket.
"Cooking? Or buying food?"
Karla nodded at the gate. "Leaving holy ground without a weapon in your hand."
Cassandra shrugged one shoulder and smiled slightly, a wordless admission.
"Or is it because you have other weapons?"
"We all do," Cassandra replied.
"Not like you." Karla took a step closer. "I've heard of you: the witch in the woods. The siren."
"And I've heard of you," Cassandra replied, seeing the woman for the first time in the true light of day. With her feet firmly on stone Karla stood, slender and elegant as a blade. A narrow lance of sunlight gave her hair a halo of fire, and tiny gems of water glittered on her hands and arms. "The lady of the lake," Cassandra named her then added softly, "The keeper of the sword. The morrigan."
Karla shrugged, just as Cassandra had recently done, but dismissed the truth with words: "Old legends, retold and revised and misunderstood over the years."
Cassandra knew well how stories could change over the years, how much could be lost. How much people hungered to be heard. "I heard the tale when it was new."
"Did you?" Karla's eyes narrowed in suspicion, and she challenged, "And are you the keeper of the tales?"
The keeper. She had not heard that title in that way for untold years. Cassandra blinked back sudden tears, for so the Lady of the Temple had named her, back before it all went wrong, before she had betrayed her vows. Could it be? Perhaps not all had been lost, perhaps the ancient order could be revived. Perhaps…
"I am a Keeper," Cassandra proclaimed, dredging words from a chant not heard or spoken in thousands of years. "Charged through the ages, from hand to hand and heart to heart, to guard and protect and to serve."
"I am a Keeper," Karla replied, her words husky with wonder. "Charged through the ages." They stood and stared at each other, motionless in the growing light of dawn. "I thought I was the only one left," Karla finally said.
"So did I," Cassandra said, and a laugh came through the tears as they caught each other's hands and held on. "Do you still have your talisman?"
"Not here, but I know where it is," Karla replied. "Do you have yours?"
"No. It was destroyed." Burned at the fall of Troy with a thousand other treasures and thousands of lives.
"And you didn't remake it?"
"I couldn't protect it," Cassandra explained. Roland had begun his hunt, and so she had hidden those memories away, forced herself to forget, to safeguard at least one secret from that man. "It seemed the safest choice."
"I suppose," Karla acknowledged.
"Perhaps there are other Keepers still," Cassandra suggested.
"The charge was not always passed down, and stories are forgotten and lost," Karla warned.
"Or simply silent," Cassandra countered. "I haven't asked anyone if they were a Keeper in ages. Have you?"
"No. Nor have I looked for any of the talismans." Karla flexed empty hands. "But I will."
"Would you like help?"
The Valley, 15 October 2053
Duncan opened his door to Cassandra and winced at the early morning sunlight, even filtered through the shreds of mist that lingered in the valley. The migraine from last night's efforts to find Methos was nearly gone, except for the intermittent flashes in his right eye.
"Anything?" Cassandra asked as she came in.
"No, just darkness. You?"
"No. There are too many immortals, too close, in the monastery. Can you stand guard for me while I try in the forest?"
"Of course. I'll get my boots." But all the trip to the forest provided was the sense that Methos was very near. "Damn," Duncan swore in frustration then ran his hands through his hair. "Guess we get to play detective now."
"Knock on doors?" Cassandra suggested.
"Or look for holes," Duncan said thoughtfully. "If he's underground, that would explain the darkness I saw."
"Good idea," Cassandra said. "You look for caves; I'll look for cellars and tunnels at Haven."
But Duncan didn't find Methos that morning, and when he climbed the hill to Haven that afternoon, Cassandra reported the same. "Where's the fencing class?" Duncan asked, and Cassandra pointed him to the old chapel, now converted into an exercise room. Everyone from the school was there: three instructors and eight students. Duncan brought the number to twelve. He was glad to see ear plugs as well as face masks available; swordfighting was loud. At an invitation from Karla, Duncan joined in as teacher. For the next hour they worked with students on repetitive drill then paired off for attack and counter moves.
Then everyone moved to the edge of the hall while Duncan demonstrated a kata. Next, Karla brought over wooden swords, and she and Duncan sparred. Her style was straightforward, but Duncan found it unnerving to face an opponent who didn't smile, didn't joke, didn't seem to see him as a person at all. The She-Wolf was all business when she had a sword in her hand.
Pivik and Chonglin, both practitioners of muay thai, showed how dangerous elbows could be, and then Urushan and Duncan picked up wooden swords. After the first few exchanges, Duncan stopped holding back, because if Karla was a wolf, Urushan was a bear: observant and patient, faster than he looked, and immensely strong. When Karla called a halt at the end of the class, Urushan and Duncan were both battered, temporarily bruised, and breathing hard. If they'd used real blades, they would have been bloody as well.
"What's your weapon of choice?" Duncan asked Urushan after they'd cleaned up and were walking to the dining hall to play chess.
"I had a Bidenhänder I liked, but you can't hide one under a coat."
Duncan nodded. "That's true for claymores, too."
"A battle axe is satisfying," Urushan said next. "And a flail is good to have. For the dueling, a broadsword, I suppose, though I'm fond of the saber. You?"
In other words, he was comfortable with weapons of many kinds. Duncan was, too, but he didn't want to name them all. "Broadswords are good," he agreed. Methos had a beautiful one.
"Ever try the Japanese blades? The katana and the wakizashi?"
"Yes," Duncan said, "I like those, too." They entered the building, ducking their heads a little to get under the lintel, and went to the dining hall. Duncan lost the chess game, and they didn't have any luck in finding Methos that day.
The next morning dawned cool and clear, and the village was busy with people all around. "It's market day," Cassandra explained when she knocked on his door at dawn, for she had come down from the hill. "Aspen and Erianne and Gohar came down, too."
"Not Urushan?"
"Gohar said he went to visit friends this morning. He should be back by noon."
Duncan got dressed and went outside to greet the day. But when they returned to the hamlet, instead of busy market stalls, they found a trial going on in front of the schoolhouse. Aspen and Erianne and Gohar were at the back of the crowd. "It's a rape trial," Erianne explained in hushed excitement.
"I heard that these people are from the village in the next valley over," Aspen put in. "They come here for judging."
"Don't they have police?" Duncan asked. "Or judges in town?"
"We take care of our own," Gohar said stolidly. "As we have done through the ages, so we do now again."
Just like the Highlands, Duncan reflected. When travel was hard and the government wasn't trusted or was non-existent, justice was homegrown.
"Ashkhen went to Yerevan for guard training ten years ago," Gohar said, pointing to a woman with short hair and dressed in grey. Ashkhen was standing just behind the man and the woman who were tied to chairs on the schoolhouse porch, shaded from the sun. Her hand was on her weapon, and her eyes were always on the move.
"One of yours?" Duncan asked Cassandra very quietly.
"Phinyx trained," Cassandra confirmed but added, "One of theirs."
"Ashkhen has trained others since then," Gohar said then added with pride, "Urushan helps when he can, as is his duty."
It was one of the quickest trials Duncan had ever seen. An older couple, he with a gray beard and she all in black with white hair, stepped forward then took turns asking the seated woman questions. A blue light shone steadily upon her face throughout.
"What's that light?" Aspen asked.
"The light of truth," Gohar said. "It comes from the Stone of St. Peter. They place the circlet upon your head, and the light goes out if you lie. Usually, we keep it hidden from outsiders, but this morning Urushan said people at Haven were permitted to see it."
After a few more questions from the couple, Ashkhen took a silver circlet from the woman's head and placed it on the man's. Then the couple started talking to him. The blue light shone upon his face at first, then it disappeared.
The crowd murmured, and Gohar spat on the ground. "They just asked him if she protested. He said no."
The questions continued, more intently now. The blue light came and went and then stayed. The watching crowd gave a long, hissing sigh.
"He just admitted he forced her," Gohar explained. "He is guilty."
"And that's it?" Duncan asked in disbelief. "A blue light?"
"The Stone of St. Peter is never wrong," Gohar huffily informed him.
"Wish we had one of those in our town," Aspen said fervently.
Cassandra was up on her tiptoes, trying to see more of the crowd. The woman on the porch was being released from her chair. Duncan asked Gohar, "How long have you been using this 'light of truth'?"
"Almost a thousand years. It is a holy relic, kept in the monastery since the Second Crusade. When the Soviets came, the monastery closed, and now we keep it hidden."
"What if the accuser was lying?" Aspen wanted to know.
"Then he would pronounce sentence upon her," Gohar answered.
"Do you mean—"
"Hush," Gohar ordered, for now the older woman was asking a question and the woman on the porch answered with just one word. Duncan's Armenian was minimal, but that word he knew: Death.
She had just pronounced sentence upon him.
The rapist started yelling, curses by the sound of it. Ashkhen shot him in the back with her stun gun. He fell silent and limp, but he was still aware. He was untied, carried off the porch and across the village square to a grassy space near to the church. A cluster of older women, all dressed in black, surrounded him and hid him from sight. The accusing woman joined the circle, and a wordless chanting began as they circled the prone figure, an eerie dance of women bending up and down.
"What are they doing?" Duncan asked.
"If the sentence is death, the grandmothers execute the rapist," Gohar explained. "The victim may join them, if she chooses."
"Right now?"
Gohar's hand went up, then dropped palm down. "It is done."
The women in black had already dispersed, wiping their knives clean as they walked, and the body of the rapist lay bloody on the ground. Two men picked up shovels and started digging a grave in the churchyard, and everyone else just walked away. Gohar went too, off to the market to buy onions and butter and eggs.
"Crikey," Aspen said softly, and Erianne was holding her hand to her mouth in shock.
Duncan blinked in disbelief then turned to Cassandra, who seemed perfectly calm. She lifted her eyebrows at him, and he challenged, "Was this rape taken 'seriously enough' for you, Cassandra?"
"I'm not in favor of capital punishment for rape, Duncan, as you know. But mortals deal with mortal crime."
"By using a blue light?" he demanded. "It's like … studying entrails or relying on trial by fire."
"Or divining by looking at ripples in water?" Cassandra asked pointedly. "Seeing the future in the flames?"
He'd never been comfortable with her witchcraft, but at least it hadn't been used to sentence a man to death.
"How about living forever and quickenings and all?" Aspen put in. "That's bizarre, too, but here we are. Besides, he did confess."
"No one even hit him," Erianne said. She sounded surprised.
"It's…" Duncan tried to explain what bothered him. "It was so fast, with no evidence. I'm used to a court of law. Due process."
"You want lawyers?" Aspen asked incredulously then shrugged. "Seemed like due process and a court to me. And the bad guy's done for. I'm stoked."
The three women walked away, and Duncan was left standing alone. He went to help the gravediggers, and after the body was buried, Duncan stood at the graveside and said a silent prayer for the man's soul. Then he went to talk to Urushan and find out what the hell this "light of truth" really was.
And if it really were legitimate, maybe Duncan could borrow it to help find out where Methos was.
The Garden of Haven
"Did you know the villagers have a truth stone?" Cassandra asked Karla in the garden of Haven.
Karla paused then yanked another weed from around the onions. "I had no idea." She sat back on her heels and squinted up at the sky. "A keeper and a talisman both. Quite the coincidence."
"I don't believe in coincidences," Cassandra said. "Gohar said the truth stone was a 'holy relic' that had been kept here at the monastery since the Second Crusade."
"Apparently, I should have asked Urushan for the historic tour when I arrived." Karla got to her feet and dusted off her hands. "Let's do that now."
"He's not here," Cassandra said. "Gohar said he went to talk to friends."
"Then let's talk to her," Karla replied.
Gohar was in the kitchen, her hands busy kneading dough. She looked up at Cassandra to say, "The carrots need washing then peeling then cutting into rounds. We won't need many today; Sofie and Chonglin went hiking, and Erianne and Aspen decided to eat in the village."
Cassandra picked up a knife and industriously scraped off long orange peels of carrot skin. "Can you tell us about the light of truth?" she asked. "I told Karla a little, but she'd like to know more. And so would I."
"Like what?"
"How old it is?" Karla asked.
"An angel gave it to St. Peter when he was sharing the gospel, so he could see into the hearts of men. Two thousand years, it must be."
It was likely to be older than that. Cassandra had seen one in the temple of the Muses before Troy fell.
"People call it Petra Petri, St. Peter's Stone," Gohar continued. "It's smooth and white, like the shell of an egg, and it's shaped like a disc with a hole in the center."
"Was Urushan the one to bring it here?"
Gohar nodded as she shaped the dough into a loaf with practiced hands. "From the Holy Land itself, he told me."
Cassandra and Karla exchanged a glance. Perhaps yet another Keeper still existed. Or perhaps Urushan did not know the history of what he had. Either way, Cassandra was definitely going to find out soon.
To be continued in "Justice" - wherein Urushan tells a tale and extends an invitation
Karla Morgan is featured in my story "The Guardian", which is stored at s/6517185/1/The-Guardian