Now I Know

On the way to Valinor

Connor spent the final leg of the voyage striving for patience and trying not to lose his temper. Viyar avoided him completely, neither Shariade or Amanda would answer his questions about "home", and he'd had to jettison his ship. "Are you completely certain you weren't followed?" Amanda asked at dinner the first night. "Or that no one ever put a tracker on it?"

He'd scanned the ship when Viyar had bought it and again each time they'd picked up fuel or supplies, but he might have missed something. "Not completely certain, no."

"We can use the crystals to scan it," Shariade suggested. "We'd need a full circle, though."

"Yes, and I want Karla in it." Amanda wrinkled her nose. "Not just because she's good; I don't want to have to answer all her questions to reassure her we didn't do it wrong." She turned to Connor. "We can't take theKuromatsuall the way in. We'll have to leave it out here."

Connor didn't like it, but he could see why. The next morning, Viyar moved into a cabin on theNew Frontier, and he emptied theKuromatsuof all his gear. Then he wiped the shipboard memory and rebooted the navigation system. After theNew Frontierwas well away from the planet where Amanda and Shariade had been harvesting crystals, they sent the yacht into automated orbit around a star that Amanda logged in their navtrace so they could find it again.

In the control room, Connor watched on the monitor as the trusty space yacht disappeared into the black. Over his shoulder, Amanda murmured, "Now that's commitment."

Centuries before, he's been stranded on an island after a shipwreck. It felt about the same. To avoid thinking about that, Connor asked one of the questions that had been bothering him: "Shariade, why is your quickening is so much like Cassandra's?"

"You can identify people by their Quickenings?"

"Not most, no. But I recognize hers. And yours. Why?"

She leaned back in her chair, looking thoughtful. "Maybe it's…"

"I think it's all the trance work you two do with the crystals, when your quickenings are aligned," Amanda said, joining the conversation. "You and Cassandra have done that together since the day you became an immortal, haven't you, Shariade?"

"A few days after," Shariade clarified then grinned. "The crossover party was a good one."

"Crossover," Connor repeated. "When you become an immortal?" he guessed, and she nodded, still smiling and cheerful. Connor hadn't enjoyed his crossover, and sure as hell no one in his clan had thrown him a party. They'd thrown stones and cast him out with bitter words.

"Each new immortal has a crossover ceremony," Amanda explained, her dark eyes warm and gentle, because she knew. She'd told him once her first revival had been in a ditch, buried under a pile of dead bodies crawling with maggots and flies. "Then a party with drinking and dancing."

Two of the many things he hadn't known. Time to tackle a third. "Are crystals used for more than trance work and scanning?"

"Oh yes." Shariade leaned forward eagerly. "After a crystal has been initialized by the orb—"

"The Methuselah stone," Amanda explained.

"—an immortal can use it to focus their quickening energy and help with shielding, dampening, extending perception… many things. We each get one at our crossover. Which you didn't have. So I'll get you one. A crystal, I mean." Shariade hopped off her chair and left the room.

"Bring an instruction manual," Amanda called after her then turned to Connor to say, "You should focus on dampening and shielding, not projecting, since Viyar is still saying that you and I are 'loud'. Also, you shouldn't tryanythingthat might fry the ship's equipment."

"Trying to keep me busy, Amanda?" he asked.

Her smile had all the brilliance and falsity of paste diamonds. "Less frustrating for both of us, I'm sure."

She was right about that. He spent the rest of the trip learning about the ship (always useful information), enhancing his shields, and reading about the planet and its wildlife, and about what a crystal and the orb could do: radar, storage device, communicator, telescope, magnifying glass, medical scanner, healing… so many exciting new things.

Soon this "quest" would finally be over. Amanda had given him a list of the immortals who'd come to the colony, along with the reminder: "We're on Holy Ground; we don't duel and there hasn't been a beheading since we landed." Some of the Immortals were his friends and some he didn't like much, but none of them was an enemy. The rest had been vouched for. He wouldn't relax his vigilance completely, of course, but it should be all right.

And he was really looking forward to seeing Cassandra and Chelle again.

The Household of Cassandra and Methos

Methos appeared in the doorway of Cassandra's chamber, the spare beauty of his face gone stark.

"You heard," Cassandra said, rising to greet him.

"It's all the news," Methos said, his words bright and brittle as he leaned against the wall, arms folded, one ankle crossed in front of the other, the pose of the Hanged Man still on his feet. "The great Connor MacLeod of the clan MacLeod, returning from the dead. Not that returning from the dead is unusual for us Immortals, but even so, we do seem to find this case intriguing." He shrugged. "But that kind of luck apparently doesn't run in the rest of the family."

"I'm sorry," Cassandra said, reaching out to him, but Methos had straightened and was walking past her.

"I just came to get these," he told her, reaching for his shoes on the floor in the corner. "I'll be clearing out my room next."

Cassandra went to him. "Methos, I'm not asking you to leave."

He stood with a sigh, his hazel eyes bright with a challenge and a question. "Will you ask me to stay?"

Cassandra hesitated for barely an instant, and Methos took that as a No. He looped the shoelaces together. "It'll be easier for the two of you if I'm not around," he explained, pulling the knot tight and then tighter still, the white cord cutting into the flesh of his fingers.

"And easier for you," Cassandra retorted. Methos froze, his lips tight, his eyes hooded, the eyes of a man running from a battle he was sure he would not win. But Cassandra hadn't even talked to Connor yet; word of his return had come via radio from Amanda, and in that instant, Cassandra's world had shifted and heaved. She needed more time to find a balance, to put the pieces back together again, this time with room for both Methos and Connor.

But Methos was already moving on. "Easier," he agreed. "And safer. He's going to want to kill me, you know."

"Connor's notthatjealous."

"Not over you, Cassandra," Methos said impatiently. "Have you forgotten about the Game?"

Incredibly enough, she had. She'd never believed in it, and she hadn't had to worry about in more than a hundred years. But Connor was a true believer. Connor had killed hundreds of people fighting over a non-existent Prize, and Duncan had died for it. Connor wouldn't easily forgive the man who had invented that brutal game. "Yes, you're right," she agreed. "Connor will need time to adjust, and you should probably avoid him until he does. But this is your home. These are your children."

Methos gave her a gentle smile. "And you are not my wife." He kissed her on the cheek. "It's been fun, Cassandra. Thank you."

"Methos-"

He was already at the door. "See you around."

Cassandra stood in the center of her chamber, looking through the arched opening to the sleeping alcove beyond. She and Methos had spent many hours on that wide, low platform of rumpled blankets and pillows: lazy mornings with their children romping around them, comfortable afternoons reading to each other while the children played outside, passionate evenings after the children were asleep.

She wasn't going to let it end this way. Cassandra followed Methos through the common living area, stepping over little Gershon's block towers and walking around eight-year-old Neliah's puzzle. Methos took his time about answering her sharp knock on his door.

"Yes?" he inquired with elaborate politeness, holding onto the door and blocking her way.

"May I come in?" she replied with equal formality.

Methos took his time about that too, but finally stepped back, bowing slightly and letting Cassandra into his chamber, but leaving the door open, an avenue of easy escape for both of them.

Cassandra shut the door behind her. "Six children and half a century together, Methos, and it's ended, just like that?"

"What exactly do you mean by 'it'?"

She waved her hands at the house around them. "This. Our life together."

"That's not ending, Cassandra, just changing. We've been living in the same house, but we don't have to. Many families don't. Gershon's the only one who sleeps here now, anyway. The older three are grown, and Pauli and Neliah have more fun at the dormitory with their friends. I'll still see them every day, eat with them at the dining hall, teach them at school."

"I know you'll stay connected with our children," Cassandra said. "But what about us?"

"Us." He said it slowly, as if he were tasting the word. "You and I have been partners, and—I hope—friends. But you and I have never been a couple. There is no us."

She counted to five before answering. "When we decided to be partners as well as parents, we agreed to keep our focus on the children so we could give them a good home," she reminded him. "Being physically intimate with you was not easy for me, being emotionally intimate as well, going deeper…" She looked away from him, but found herself confronted by his sleeping alcove: neat, sparse, and solitary, a place she had never gone. Even after all these centuries, she did not want to go to his bed. He had always come to hers.

Cassandra met his eyes again. "There are so many ways things could go wrong between us, Methos. We agreed it was too risky while we had children to care for."

"We did," he acknowledged. "Though I didn't expect the parenting phase to last fifty years."

"You could have said something."

"So could you," he shot back, and they glared at each other in exasperation for a few seconds and then apologized simultaneously and both backed down. They had also agreed not to fight. It was too dangerous.

Methos sighed and ran his hand through his hair then sat on the window seat, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees, staring at the floor. "I was being patient," he explained. "Waiting for you to be ready."

Cassandra sat next to him. "So was I."

He turned his hand and opened it to her, and she laid her hand in his, and they interlaced their fingers. They were still both looking at the floor. In the early days of their partnership, Methos (a veteran of seventy-four marriages) had suggested some techniques to work through issues, and Cassandra (with only four marriages and a history of dysfunctional pairings) had been relieved to follow his lead. They seldom quarreled, and never for long.

Part of the technique was focusing on the good. "These years together have helped," she told him. "Sharing—creating—a home with you, watching you care for our children—making them breakfast, braiding their hair, teaching them how to hunt for food— and all the ways you've made me feel cherished…it's helped a lot. I needed time, Methos, to see you as you are now: patient, kind. Caring."

Neither of them had ever used the word love.

"Perhaps not fifty years," she admitted, "but I didn't think we needed to hurry." She leaned her head against his shoulder. "I thought we had time."

He squeezed her hand. "So did I."

"And—this is awkward timing, I know—but I was going to suggest that Gershon be our last child, so that we could focus on each other."

Methos shook his head and sighed and almost laughed, all at the same time. "You were finally ready?"

They turned to face each other, sitting side by side. "I am," she told him, smiling, but instead of the joy and enthusiasm she had imagined would be between them, there was only wistfulness and regret.

Methos smiled in return but then he took his hand from hers. "And now Connor is here."

"Yes, but that doesn't mean… And he may not even—"

Abruptly, Methos was on his feet, pacing the room. "Cassandra, you two were lovers for more than a millennium, and he just spent thirty years trolling the deeps of space looking for you. He's obviously—"

"I'm his mother, Methos," Cassandra interrupted. "Have you forgotten that?"

"Oh." He stopped pacing. "Right." Then he shrugged. "You're also a mother of his children. Nine, isn't it?"

She felt the urge to both laugh and cry. "I don't think that will help."

"With nine healthy children between you, there's clearly no genetic risk, and you didn't even meet him until he was an adult. Would he really be that stuck on a social taboo?"

"I don't know," she said. "That taboo goes deep." In both directions. As least Chelle wasn't Connor's daughter or niece, so he could still partner with her.

"I'm curious," Methos said. "Would you be objecting if I wanted to leave to be with someone else? Or be by myself?"

"No," she said slowly, thinking that through. "Some warning and discussion would have helped, but I want you to be happy."

"And I want the same for you."

"I appreciate that," she said. "But…" She stood to face him. "You didn't even ask me, Methos. You just walked away. And," she took a deep breath, because she could see it now, and they had agreed to be honest with each other, "what really bothers me is feeling as if I'm being handed over to another man."

"Ah." Methos closed his eyes. "Damn." He came to her and opened his arms, and she stepped into his embrace. They held each other for a time, letting anger and hurt flow away. "I'm sorry, Cassandra. I never meant that. I was … just getting out of your way."

"I know. Thank you."

He pulled back so they could see each other's faces. "So, I'll ask you now. Do you want me to move out? Or should I just stop coming to your room?"

Cassandra didn't hesitate at all. "Please stay. This is your house, these are your children, and you and I are still partners. As for sex…" She took a moment to sort through that set of emotions. "Not right now. I'm distracted, and I wouldn't be able to focus and give you the attention you deserve."

"That does make it better." He kept his tone light and cheerful.

She summoned a smile and told him, "For me, too," but she knew—and he knew— that their partnership might in truth be finished, and she wanted him to know. "I am sorry, Methos. I shouldn't have waited so long."

"Why did you?"

"I was afraid."

His lips tightened, a sign of anger or pain or both. "Of me."

"No," she said instantly, taking his hands before he could begin to leave again. "No," she corrected gently. "I was afraid of being vulnerable." She met his eyes and finally said the words: "At first, I was afraid of letting myself love you, and then I became afraid of letting you know that I do." She kissed him, not with passion, but with deep and abiding affection and trust.

He lifted their hands and kissed the backs of hers, then kissed her lightly on the lips. "I love you, too, Cassandra."

Landfall

As soon as they landed on the planet, Cassandra came on board. Connor met her at the door. Whereas Amanda's welcoming kiss had been a quick flare of passion, Cassandra's steadfast embrace kindled warmth all through him, like the fire on the hearth after a long walk home through icy wind and snow. Connor wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in her hair, content to simply hold her and breathe, feeling her heartbeat, giving their reunion time to become real. Then, slowly, a wondering touch, their fingertips tracing the curves of cheek and jaw, like blind folk learning the shape of a face, but all the while looking into each other's eyes.

Then she took his hands, a comforting grip, and kissed him, not on the lips but on the brow, and he closed his eyes for that benediction, for so had his mother bade him sleep well each night as a child, wished him good fortune on hunting trips, and then sent him on his way at their final farewell.

"Home is the sailor, home from the sea," Cassandra said softly, her voice full of both laughter and tears. "And the hunter…"

"… home from the hill," Connor completed, and then the joy broke through the wonder, and they both laughed aloud. She looked happy and content: no shadows under her eyes, her smile true. Her hair was about as long as his, touching the shoulders, though his was braided and hers was free. She wore an embroidered tunic over leggings and sturdy hiking shoes. Cassandra's crystal hung from a necklace, similar to the ones Shariade and Amanda were wearing today. Connor had put his crystal in his pocket. "Ah, damn, it's good to see you, Cassandra!"

"And you, Connor. I am so very glad you're here."

She kissed him again, on the cheek this time, and he kissed hers in return. He was a bit disappointed—but not surprised—by the lack of passion; they always took time to get to know each other again before going to bed, and it was always worth the wait. Though he did hope the wait would not be long.

Viyar appeared at the far end of the corridor, and while Cassandra was greeting her, Connor and Shariade carried their luggage off the ship. Connor got his first look at the planet where Immortals had made a home. "Land in heaven," he whispered, for white clouds floated in a blue sky, green trees towered over golden fields, and in the distance, gray crags stood in silent ranks. The air was warm with a refreshing breeze. "How did you find this place?"

"Karla found it a few centuries ago, on one of her exploring trips." Shariade began loading the luggage neatly into a cart hitched to a donkey, and Connor retrieved his sword from the pile before she could bury it. Cassandra and Viyar disembarked with Amanda close behind.

Cassandra pointed to a circular single-story building at the end of the landing pad. "We can go there for the orientation, and there's food and drink, fresh food after shipfare. Strawberries are in season."

"Shiny!" Viyar exclaimed. "It's been a long while."

Amanda purred, "I adore strawberries."

Shariade, however, shook her head. "I'll deliver their luggage to their cabins and then take the crystals for processing. There's a blue-tone one I'm excited about." But instead of leaving, she looked at Connor then said to Cassandra, "I'm still…"

"I know," Cassandra said, stepping forward to hug Shariade and kiss her on the brow. "We'll talk soon."

Shariade smiled and nodded, though, oddly, she looked almost as if she were about to cry. Then she came to Connor, but instead of a handclasp or formal bow, she leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. Her grin was all saucy impudence now. "See you soon!"

Connor noticed the cautionary glance that Amanda shot Cassandra, though she had gone into what Connor thought of as her "waiting priestess" mode—hands together, gaze forward, expression serene—and did not respond at all. Amanda, however, noticed him noticing, though she merely sighed and shrugged with a helpless spread of her hands and a charmingly apologetic smile.

"Let me guess, Amanda," he said dryly. "Cassandra will explain it later."

"Happily, for everyone," Cassandra said with knowing looks at both Amanda and Connor, "later has become now. Shall we?" She began walking to the building, arm in arm with Viyar.

When Connor picked up his sword, Amanda reminded him, "You don't need that here." Connor ignored her, and she rolled her eyes dramatically. Connor ignored that, too. Finally, he was going to get some answers.

Once in the building, Cassandra invited everyone to enjoy the food while also handing out tablets labeled Orientation. Viyar loaded a plate with fresh fruit, but Connor immediately started the display. The first screen was entitled "Where Immortals Came From." He stared at that, then looked up to find both Amanda and Cassandra watching him. "Where did this come from?" he demanded.

"The orb," Amanda said. "After we learned how to unlock it, we found our history inside."

Unlock. He and Cassandra had often spoken of the myths surrounding the talismans. "What was the key?" he asked her.

"Not what, but who." Cassandra met his gaze levelly. "Methos."

Connor nodded slowly. "That's why you brought him into the Keeper circle."

"Yes." Now she stared into the distance, into the past. "It was…"

After a moment, Amanda patted her hand and finished the sentence for her. "Awkward."

No surprise there. "But how—"

"The orientation is in the tablet, Connor," Amanda interrupted. "Neatly organized, with a table of contents and appendices and even an index. Why don't you read it and then decide what questions to ask?"

"Yes, please do," Viyar murmured just before she put in earphones and switched to the next screen.

Connor turned to the tablet in his hand. With a mixture of text, images, and even video, the tablet told the story of a Bronze-Age village whose inhabitants used their amazing psychic powers to create the talismans and genetically manipulate people into becoming the first pre-immortals. They were supposed to be emissaries of peace and good will to the world, bringing healing and sharing knowledge through their crystals. But then it all went to hell, because someone who disagreed with the missionary idea stabbed a pre-immortal and then chopped off her head. The orb magnified the quickening energy, killing all the mortals and stunning the pre-immortals and wiping their memories. Eventually they woke up and started wandering, but with no mission or goal and no idea how to use the crystals they wore. And thus did Immortals begin.

As an origin myth, it hit all the right notes: magic and power, good intentions gone wrong, murder and blood, banishment from the garden of peace and plenty. Connor took out his earphones and selected some fruit from the serving platter on the table. Those strawberries were excellent. "Pretty good story," he said after he'd eaten three. "Who made it up?"

"It's true, Connor," Cassandra replied. "That's our history that was stored in the orb."

"The orb had pictures?" he asked skeptically. "Video?"

"I extracted those so we could create the tablets," Amanda said. "When we connect with the orb directly, it's an immersive experience, like a dream. But we have only the one orb, and we use the tablets in school, so we needed copies."

"Would you like to connect with the orb, Connor?" Cassandra asked.

"No." He was not going to "immerse" himself in a mind-fucking machine. Maybe it took images from your own memories to build dream-experiences. "One of those pre-immortals looked like a young Methos."

"Yes," Amanda confirmed. "He was there. That's why he has no memory of his early life."

A neat explanation. Perhaps too neat. Though a teen-age Evann had been in the images, too. and Connor didn't think Amanda knew how old Evann was. "When are these pictures supposed to be from?"

"About six thousand years ago," Cassandra answered. "The tools are bronze, and the textiles seem appropriate for that time."

Amanda added, "Appendix C shows how matching the mountain peaks let us place it in a valley between the Black and Caspian Seas. Methos went to that area, but didn't find anything of interest."

"It's amazing," Viyar breathed.

Connor didn't like it. "Who wrote the 'history'?"

"The orb recorded the event when it happened," Amanda said, "and we think someone edited it later to tell the whole story, probably one or more psychics who wasn't at the village that day, or perhaps even an immortal."

Cassandra added, "I think they started the Watchers, to find immortals, and the Keepers, to care for the talismans. I think they hoped to bring them all together again and teach them to use the crystals to heal. And they did reach some of us. My teacher at the temple had heard of the power of the crystals, though she'd never seen them herself. Many of us knew of the truthstones."

"I think the teacher of Rebecca's teacher knew, but didn't pass it along," Amanda said. "And the legends continued. The Watchers knew of the Methuselah's Stone." She fingered the crystal hanging from the braided ribbon around her neck. "But some things that should not have been forgotten were lost. History became legend. Legend became myth. And for six thousand years, the orb passed out of all knowledge."

"Galadriel," Connor identified the original speaker of those lines. "FromLord of the Rings."

Amanda sighed, saying, "I loved that story," and Cassandra and Viyar both nodded.

"It's a fantasy," Connor reminded them. Full of dragons and magic and elves who lived forever, though they couldn't come back to life. "And this…"

"This," Viyar said firmly, "is more believable than other ideas for origin stories that I read in the Chronicles: fay folk from the faerie realm, demons from hell, avatars from heaven, or children of the God of War. Even aliens from space!"

She did have a point, Connor conceded.

Viyar nodded at the crystals the other women wore. "And it's more than just a story, you have those. And the talismans. And yourselves."

Also true. But obviously, it couldn't be the whole story. "What about the Game?" Connor asked. "What about the Prize?"

Amanda and Cassandra each drew in a deep breath, as if readying for battle. This story, Connor could tell, they weren't eager to share. "That came later," Amanda said.

Cassandra touched him gently on the arm, "Remember, Connor, that I told you I didn't hear of the Game or the Prize until after Troy fell?"

"Yes." He still found it hard to believe. The Game ruled their lives.

"This is why." She reached over and started a new document on his tablet; and Amanda did the same for Viyar. This one was titled: "The Origins of the Game."

Connor started to read. No videos this time, no images. Just text. Word after damning word, telling how four bored and bickering immortals (who'd called each other Brother) had challenged each other to a contest one day and agreed that whoever took the most heads would get to lead their merry band for a time. That was the Game. That was the Prize.

That was it.

"No," he said, and "No" again. That could not be true. That couldn't be the way of it. "No." He read the page again and again and again, until the reality of the words slowly came clear.

The four Horsemen had started a game. But they couldn't stop the Game.

More words followed, laying out in a detached, academic style that tried—and spectacularly failed—to distance the reader from the horrifically gut-wrenching realization that because of this murderous travesty of a Game, thousands of people had been killed in a pointless pursuit of a non-existent Prize.

He'd killed hundreds of them by his own hand. Under a grim compulsion, Connor opened the appendix, with its lists of the beheaded, sortable by date, location, and names, complete with images of each person killed. There was no image of the beheader. In the old Watcher chronicles, they'd labeled the person who took a head as a Victor.

There was nothing to win.

But there was everything to lose. Name after name after name… Teachers, friends, students, lovers, kin.

O God, Duncan! Killed in a battle he did not need to fight, trying to safeguard a prize that did not exist, believing—believing untodeath— in the lie that Connor had told him, the lie that Ramirez had unwittingly shared. All those countless hours of practice, all those centuries of hunting, of fear, of rage, of blood. What a goddamn utterly useless fucking waste. To fight, for nothing. To kill, for nothing.

To die, for nothing.

Damn, damn, damn, damn…

A voice was shouting, and his hands hurt and his face was wet, and then Cassandra was there, pressed close against him, holding him tight, murmuring his name in the Gaelic way over and over, calling him home.

He couldn't go home. That place, that time, was gone. His family, his clan … all gone. "Damn us all to hell," he muttered in despair and down he went, legs buckling underneath him, and Cassandra came too, and they were kneeling on the floor, still holding on to each other, with Connor still cursing, steadily and viciously but not shouting anymore, until that, too, was done, and then silently, she kissed away his tears.

Eventually, Connor took a look around the room. Table: upended. Chairs: in a heap against the far wall. Food: everywhere. His hands had stopped hurting, but his knuckles were still smeared with blood. He cleared his throat. "When did Amanda and Viyar leave?"

"As soon as you threw the tablet across the room."

Good. Except— "I didn't hit you, did I?" he asked in alarm.

"No. I kept out of your way while you were punching the wall." Cassandra took a handkerchief from her pocket and handed it to him without a word.

He'd done the same for her in years gone by. "What did I say?" he asked, as he scrubbed at his face and then his hands.

"You started with No."

He remembered that.

"Then there was a lot of 'Nothing' and 'Bastards' and you ended with Damns." Cassandra reached over and picked up two cups and a water pitcher from a corner on the floor then poured them each a drink. "This last part was mostly sacred and scatological terms, though some of it was in languages I don't know."

Connor took a large swallow of water, then finished it all. Water that didn't taste of metal was a welcome treat. He lay flat on his back on the floor, staring up at the featureless ceiling. "Was this information in the orb, too?"

"No. When I confronted Methos, he admitted it."

Connor sat up immediately, his outrage rising, too. "Youknew?"

"I began to suspect," she said severely. "I've never believed in the prize; you know that."

He did, and as an "I told you so" that was mild. He also knew he shouldn't take his anger out on her. Connor offered Cassandra his hand, and they both lay down on the floor, him on his back and her close by on her side, a familiar and comfortable position, with his arm around her and her head pillowed on his shoulder.

"When you 'died'," she said, "Methos came in person to give me the news. He also gave off tiny hints. I don't think he meant to, but I was looking for them. So I asked him if the Horsemen had started the Game, and after a bit of prodding, he said yes."

"Fucking bastards," Connor breathed, channeling his outrage there.

"They were," she agreed grimly.

He didn't want to be one. "Sorry about the mess. I'll clean it up."

She nodded but didn't offer to help, though she did say, "I've seen worse reactions than yours."

He was almost curious enough to ask, but he kept the focus on her. "What did you do?"

"Broke things. Amanda slapped him. Quite a few people tried to kill him."

Connor was of the same mind. "And?"

"If it was their first time, Methos killed them and then walked away and let them revive. If it was their second time, or if they'd threatened someone else, he took their head." She shrugged. "That hasn't happened since we moved here."

It's holy ground, Connor started to say, but then abruptly realized all over again that the Game was a hoax and none of the rules mattered and no place was holy now. Damn. "There's really no fighting here?"

"With words and sometimes physically, yes, but never to the death with swords. Why would we?"

Why had he? The Prize, of course. Self-defense or protecting his family and friends, many times. Also revenge and retribution and stopping a murderous thug. And the Quickenings. He couldn't forget those.

Cassandra lifted her head to look at him. "Everyone who came to this planet took an oath to treat it as Holy Ground."

Connor heard the challenge there. "Except me. And Viyar."

"Yes," Cassandra agreed, with a serious voice and merry eyes. "And Viyar."

Connor didn't need time to consider his options; he'd already thought this through. "I'll swear."

Now her voice was merry, too. "I'm glad." She rolled onto her back then stretched, pointing her toes and reaching overhead with both arms. Then she sat up, and they both got to their feet. "It's lovely, Connor, living without the Game, in a community where we don't have to lie or hide. You'll see."

It did sound good. He only wished Duncan could see it, too. "Give me a hand with the table?" he asked, and she did, though she played with the tablet while he set all four chairs back where they belonged. Then he picked up the fruit and the dishes that had fallen on the floor. "How often does someone go back to find preimmortals and then bring them here?" He would like that job.

Cassandra looked up from the tablet. "What? Oh, we don't—"

"You leave them out there?" he asked in shock and horror. Only the brutish Immortals were left, and those kids would be easy picking and easy prey.

"We brought them with us, Connor. All of them. We used the orb to find them, and we scoured all the planets and the moons."

"You've been here for a century. What about new ones since then?"

"There aren't any."

"How do you know?" he demanded.

She held up the tablet so he could read the title on the screen: Where Immortals Come From. "Let's get back to the orientation, shall we?"

Connor had thought he was done.

Viyar and Amanda came back, and they all sat at the table again. No one mentioned the throwing of the tablet or the missing food. This document had text and images, and a video, starring Amanda, that he simply did not believe. "This is real?" he asked after he'd watched it twice.

She preened like a cat, all self-satisfied. "Very. And I've done it another nine times since then."

Connor's disbelief meter had already been pegged to the limit twice today. "Bullshit. Immortals can't have children."

"I was the midwife, Connor," Cassandra said. Gently, she took his hand in hers. "And Amanda has been midwife for me."

"For you—" Connor stared at the woman he had shared a bed with for more than a thousand years, with thoughts screaming through his head. Immortals could have children. Immortals did have children. He and Cassandra…

"Duncan?" he asked, his voice cracking as he said the name.

"Our son." Her fingers tightened on his. "Our firstborn."

And they would never be able to tell him. Connor swallowed hard. "Out of how many?"

"Nine, I think. Only one still alive."

He nodded, wondering when that was going to hurt. All he felt now was numb. "Anyone I know?"

"You met her a few days ago."

"Shariade?" She looked nothing like either Cassandra or himself, but the document had said immortals mutated a lot. And that explained Shariade's odd behavior toward him. "Oh." No wonder Cassandra had told Shariade stories about him. All orphans and foundlings wondered about their parents, about where—

"Fuck," he whispered then dimly heard Amanda saying archly, "That is how it starts, dear," but Cassandra said nothing, just looked at him with ancient eyes in an ageless face, and Connor slowly withdrew his hand from hers.

"You." He had to swallow hard again. "And Ramirez." It had to be. No other immortals had lived in the Highlands near the shores of Loch Shiel in the year of our Lord 1518.

The year Connor had been born.

Fuck.

"Yes," Cassandra said quietly then tried to be funny. "You inherited more than his sword."

He couldn't laugh. Not at this. Connor stood abruptly, shoving back the chair so hard it fell over and hit the floor. When he left the room, he took his sword with him. Cassandra had taught him that.

His mother had taught him that.

Fuck it all to hell.