Saturday, 1 June 1996
The MacLeod Farm near Glenaladale, Scotland __________________________________________________

Connor MacLeod rode down the hillside, enjoying the sweet growing scents of summer and the feel of a good horse beneath him. He liked riding bareback. The sky was mostly blue, the lower parts of the hills green with rich grass, and the tops of the crags across Loch Shiel had a faint dusting of the last of the winter's snow. He still thought it was the most magnificent sight he'd ever seen, and he was glad to be home in the Highlands, living here again after more than four hundred years.

He paused as he came to the fence at the high pasture and looked down at his farm. The stables and garage lay slightly uphill from the old farmhouse. The late afternoon sun brightened the colors of the marigolds in the garden beside the house. The flowers and herbs that his wife Alex had planted thrived there, protected from the harsh winds by a wing of the house and the high rock wall that he and his son John and Duncan had built two years before.

Connor clucked to the mare and kept going. As he came to the corner of the fence, he suddenly pulled the mare to a halt, and his cheerful mood disappeared. There was a car he did not recognize parked in front of the garage.

Connor slid off the horse, opened the gate to the pasture, and urged the mare through. She trotted off happily, and Connor began the painstakingly slow process of moving closer to the house. Duncan had told him of the Watchers, the secret organization that kept watch on Immortals. Duncan had also told him of the Hunters.

As Connor moved closer to the front of the house he felt the unmistakable presence of an Immortal. He unsheathed his katana. He was very glad that Alex and John were in Inverness at a football match for the weekend. He smiled a little to himself, grimly. Duncan would have announced himself by now, and Connor couldn't think of any other Immortal friends who might come visiting. This could be interesting.

Then he saw her. Cassandra stood outside of the garden wall, her hands empty, her long green gown swirling down to her ankles. The low-slanting rays of the sun glinted off her long hair, and the color reminded Connor of golden wheat drying in the sun. She was as beautiful as he remembered, and he was not impressed. He walked toward her swiftly, making no attempt to hide his sword.

She made no attempt to draw hers.

He walked straight toward her, his face expressionless. He knew he was not the most welcoming figure, and he was glad of it. When he was almost close enough to touch her, he lifted his katana swiftly and held it just against her neck.

She did not even flinch.

Connor held the blade next to her throat as he cautiously circled her, coming at last to stand behind her. Then he moved in closer.

"How does it feel, Cassandra?" he asked quietly, almost gently, his lips close to her left ear. He was standing right behind her now, his chest almost touching her back, the length of his thigh barely brushing the back of hers. He could feel the heat from her body against him, and his breath stirred her hair. The scent of lavender lay faintly about her.

Connor let his voice drop to a soft caress. "How does it feel to have a blade against your throat?"

His grip tightened at the last word, and he heard the sudden hiss of air that escaped her as the razor-sharp edge of his sword nicked her skin.

"Did you forget what I said?" he whispered, as he placed his left arm close under her breasts, pinning her arms against her sides, immobilizing her further.

He saw her close her eyes and felt her relax against him. He smiled in grim satisfaction; she knew the slightest movement might be fatal. "I told you to stay away from me." His voice was still soft; his right hand still held the edge of the blade close against her neck. "So, why are you here?" he hissed.

He did not ease up the pressure on the blade, and she spoke softly, trying not to move her throat too much. "Duncan is in danger."

Ah. Of course. Duncan. Why else would she come to him? He eased the blade just a fraction, but tightened his arm around her lest she think of escaping. "How?"

Cassandra opened her eyes and sucked air in slowly, trying to draw a full breath. "There is an Immortal hunting him. Duncan will need my help."

Connor was unconvinced and unconcerned. "He's never needed your help before."

The blade came closer to the softness of her neck, and she moved her head back as far as she could. He made sure it was just far enough. "This is different," she said urgently. "This Immortal is different." Connor's blade did not waver. "I brought oranges," she said desperately.

He did not move the sword away or loosen his arm about her, but he repeated with harsh amusement, "Oranges?"

"Yes, oranges," she said, her voice light but with a hint of strain showing through. "Fresh from sunny Spain."

"Spanish oranges?" Connor allowed himself a short laugh, dry and unamused. "Perhaps I will let you live a while longer. For old times' sake. But first ..." He pulled her roughly to him, holding her tight against his chest, and settled his grip more comfortably on the sword at her throat. His left hand went to her waist, and his fingers closed around the hilt of her sword and lifted it smoothly from under the fold in her long gown. "I want your sword." He stepped away from her carefully, her sword in his left hand, his katana still raised and ready in his right. "For old times' sake."

He stared at her mockingly until she closed her eyes briefly and nodded, submitting to him. He opened the gate, walked through the garden to the back door of the house, and laid her sword on the step there. She had a different sword, he noticed, an English one- and-a-half with a wrapped handle, instead of the scimitar she had used long ago.

~ ~ ~

Cassandra followed him through the gate, then waited for him near the wall while he took her sword away. She had known when she came here that she would have to submit to him, to offer no threat. She needed to talk to him, this one last time. At least now he would give her that chance.

He looked much the same as she remembered, of course, though his hair was very short, and he wore a green shirt under his wool sweater and a pair of gray pants instead of breacan and sark. When he had held her tightly against him, she had noticed the scents that lay about him, the scents she still remembered. He smelled of heather and horse, of smoke and sweat and wool.

His voice was different now, rougher, more throaty. He had the indeterminate accent of many older Immortals, though the rhythm of the Highlands still lay under his words. She wondered if that had always been there, or if it had returned to him when he came home.

Two years ago, she had been surprised when the detective agency she used had told her Connor had moved to the Highlands. Today, she had been very surprised to be told at the village of Glenaladale that Connor MacLeod lived in the farm up the hill with his American wife Alex and their son John.

Connor with a family and using his own name again. He had indeed come home. Yet, even beyond the family and the accent and the clothes, he was different. The hardness she had seen in him in Aberdeen had been tempered to steel, a very dangerous steel.

Connor came back and stood about ten feet from her, close to the side of the house. His sword was still in his hand. His voice was cold. "So, where are the oranges?"

She motioned to the bag next to the gate. "Shall I get them?"

"Later," he said, and he leaned back against the house wall. His casual posture belied the intensity of his stare, the readiness of his stance. "Who is this Immortal?"

It was still hard to say his name. "Roland."

Connor went very quiet, very alert. "The same one you warned me about."

"Yes." Cassandra blinked and went on. "He is dangerous, Connor."

"How?" he demanded. "What's different about him?"

"Roland has--a power," Cassandra started, "in his voice." Connor was looking at her skeptically. Well, why should he believe her? she thought bitterly, she had taught him not to trust her. But the time was at hand; she had to convince him. "He can use this power to hypnotize people to do whatever he says. He can make them lay down their swords, or fall asleep."

Connor's skepticism changed to outright ridicule. "In the middle of a fight? Yeah, sure."

Cassandra wondered if he practiced that particular sarcastic tone or if it came naturally. He would have been very good at the Voice. Too good. "It's true, Connor."

She could tell by his unwavering stare that he did not believe her. She gave a frustrated sigh and started again. "Haven't you ever--stopped someone with a word, or a look?" She knew that he had, and she was pleased to see the glint of acknowledgment in his eyes. "Just the way you said it, or the look in your eyes, was enough to control the other person."

He was still skeptical. "It doesn't work all the time, or with everyone."

Her eyebrows lifted, and she inclined her head slightly. "But it can." She looked down at her hands and spread out her fingers, then curled them in slightly, remembering the power she had once held in her hands. Power she had used to heal, to create, to build. Roland had destroyed nearly everything she had ever made, and she had given up healing since Connor had left her in Aberdeen. She had given up on many things since Aberdeen. She folded her hands together calmly and looked at him. "Do you remember what I said to you about the wolf pup?"

He shrugged; it had been a long time ago.

"You asked me if it were magic, when the wolf pup and I understood each other." He nodded slightly, and she continued, "And I told you that the magic lay in the listening. If you are trained in listening and observing, then you know what language another person will respond to, what language will control them."

He nodded slowly, but his eyes were still cold. "How do you know of this?"

She turned to look over the low part of the wall and stared out across the loch at the hilltops. "I was sworn to the Sisterhood of the Temple of Artemis, on the Isle of Lesbos, over three thousand years ago. Part of the training of priestesses included the Voice. It was one of our greatest secrets." Her gaze dropped to the hard bare earth of the path, and she said softly, "I do not think any of the Sisterhood has survived."

Connor straightened up a little and looked at her intently. "If the Voice was taught only to the priestesses, then how did Roland learn it?"

She did not want to answer, but she must. She needed his cooperation, and she wanted his understanding. "I taught it to him," she admitted, calmly staring into his eyes.

"You taught it?" She nodded, and he leaned back again and shook his head slightly. "Didn't you say it was one of the Temple's greatest secrets?"

"Yes," she said. "It was."

He stared at her a moment more, watching her closely, looking into her eyes. "You broke your vows for him," he said softly, almost gloatingly. A cruel glint of humor showed in his eyes and around his mouth. "I bet the Sisterhood wasn't happy with you after that."

She said nothing, but she knew Connor had seen the flash of pain in her eyes before she hid it, for the glint of humor about his mouth became a cold smile.

The smile disappeared as he demanded roughly, "Why Duncan? And if you have this--Voice too, why don't you go after Roland?"

She shook her head and whispered, "I can't."

"Why not?" he demanded. "Too scared?" His eyes mocked her again, and his voice was cutting. "So, you are a coward as well as a liar."

Cassandra did not respond to that.

He left the wall of the house to stand directly in front of her, his sword comfortably in his hand. He looked her up and down, coldly evaluating her body, looking at the soft curves of breasts and hips and the long length of muscles in her legs and arms.

It was not the look men normally gave her; it was clinical and impersonal. It made her feel as if she were standing on the auction block again, stripped naked for people to see and judge and buy. She stood rigid underneath it, refusing to allow it to bother her, pretending she wasn't there, as she had so many times before.

"Can't fight your own battles?" he asked sardonically. "Have to find a man to fight for you?"

Cassandra shot him a murderous glance before looking away, but not before she had seen Connor smiling at her anger.

His voice grew quieter, but not softer. "Roland is your enemy now, but what was he to you before, that you taught him this Voice?"

She did not answer that, either, and he stepped forward, putting himself much too close to her. She could not retreat; her back was against the wall. She breathed rapidly through her nose as he looked at her coldly.

"Was he your student?" He moved even closer to her and leaned forward, tilting his head so that his eyes were only an inch away from hers. His voice was soft and insinuating. "Your--lover?"

Cassandra spoke then, low and furious. "He is my son!"

__________________________________________________

Festival of Gula, 1310 BCE
By the Rivers of Babylon
___________________________________________________

"Mother?"

Cassandra set down the pot she was painting, then turned and held out her arms. Roland left Jarie's side and ran from the doorway across the room to her. Cassandra swooped him up and they whirled around, his feet flying out as they twirled. He had grown so much that his feet barely missed the long table against the wall where the painted pots were stored. "How's Roland?" she asked. "How's my boy?" She set him down with a thump.

"Jarie and I went to the market today, and I saw the most biggest ram ever, Mother. He was huge, and his horns were that wide!" He held his hands as far apart as he could.

"That big?" Cassandra squatted in front of him, listening carefully. He had grown so tall. He was hot and sweaty and smelled of dirt and sheep, a happy combination for a little boy. It was hard to believe he was the same scrawny child she had first seen huddled in the dust in the slave market a year ago.

"Yes, and he was loud, too! When they fed him he went BAAAA!" Roland gave a passable imitation of a sheep, displaying the gap of his missing front teeth.

Cassandra smiled up at Jarie, her neighbor and friend, who was smiling, too. She turned back to Roland. "Did you help Jarie with her shopping?"

"Oh, yes."

"He carried the basket for me," said Jarie, her dark eyes amused. The gold bangles on her arms gleamed in the dimness of the room, and her green robe flowed about her as she came into the room and sat on the bench built into the mud-brick wall. "He carried it all the way home."

"I'm very strong." He stood tall and proud.

Cassandra reached out and brushed his light brown hair away from his forehead, then gathered him to her in a hug, relishing the solid feel of his stocky body in her arms. "Yes, you are," she agreed, "very strong."

She let go of him and said, "Roland, I am going to visit Haram tonight, so you will stay with Jarie until I get home." At the look of disappointment on his face, she said, "But, this afternoon, before I go, we will paint the pots together, yes? And you can help me pound out some clay." She knew he loved to do that.

A great gap-toothed grin appeared, and he nodded. "But first, Mother, can we eat? I'm really hungry." He spread out his arms again. "I'm this hungry! Hungry as that ram!"

Cassandra and Jarie both laughed, and Cassandra said, "As hungry as that? Well, little ram, let's eat."

__________________________________________________

1 June 1996
The MacLeod Farm
___________________________________________________

"He is my son," Cassandra repeated softly, "and I vowed I would never harm him."  Connor retreated, giving her room.  She turned away from him to face the wall and leaned her forehead against the cold rough stone.

"You broke your other vow," Connor said caustically. "Why don't you break this one too?"

Her hands clenched on the rocks, and the rough edges scraped against her palms. "I tried." What was another curse, another broken vow? She had thought it could not be worse than the original punishment. She had been wrong. She closed her eyes again, trying not to see the burned and broken bodies of her friends and her families. Her shoulders trembled for a moment, then she turned to face Connor once again. "I did challenge him, twice."

"And?"

"He was better with a sword than I was," she admitted. "But he did not choose to take my head either time." She gave a quick convulsive shudder. "After a while I wished he had."

"What did he do to you?"

She shook her head quickly, dismissing that. "It wasn't what he did to me that mattered. It was what he did to others in front of me. And the second time I tried to kill him, it was worse." Her gaze turned inward, and there was no escaping from the memories now. "He sold me eventually, when he had finished with them." He was still not finished with her.

She forced down the anguish and let the mask settle over her features once again. She said calmly, "I am forbidden to try to kill him. The Lady of the Sisterhood denied me even the chance to redeem myself." The bitterness of that day had grown throughout the centuries, and it lay heavy and cold within her. "If I do try, then others are hurt."

Connor rocked back on his heels a little, and she was surprised to see a little of the coldness leave his face. But only a little, and only for a moment.

Connor studied her, then asked, "Then those stories you told me about being strangled and being tortured were true?"

Cassandra took a deep breath. She had felt as though she were ripping open her soul when she had told him those stories, and all these years he had believed them to be lies; he had believed she had only told him those stories so that he would feel sorry for her. She would never have lied about things like that. Of course, how was he to know? She had lied about many other things; why not those, too? She answered quietly, "Yes, Connor. The stories were true." Even more quietly now. "Just not--all of the truth." She had left out the worst.

He didn't respond to that, but finally said, "So, this Roland, he's your student, the one who returned and raped and strangled you."

Cassandra swallowed hard, remembering. "Yes."

"He's the Immortal who tracked you down and killed all your mortal families throughout the centuries, and killed your students. He's the one who tortured you."

"Yes." It came out in a whisper.

"And he's your son."

Cassandra could not say the word; it came out only as the ghost of a whisper. "Yes."

Connor's voice was smooth, detached, bland. "Maybe the two of you should go on a talk show for dysfunctional families. You know, sons who hate their mothers?"

Cassandra took a step forward, her hand flashing toward his face. The arrogant, smug, self-righteous, overbearing Scottish bastard!

Connor was ready for her and caught her wrist in his left hand. His right hand casually brought his sword into view. "Careful, Cassandra," he said evenly, "your claws are showing."

She tried to pull free, and he tightened his grip until her fingers curled inward. She took a deep breath and relaxed her arm, but he did not relax his hold on her.

"Why hasn't he killed you? Where does Duncan fit in?" Connor demanded. "You haven't told me the whole story." His eyes grew even colder. "But, then, you never have, have you?"

He was right. She never had. She had never told anyone. "You don't want the whole story." She gave a small bitter laugh. "Trust me on this, Connor." She should have known it was precisely the wrong thing to say to him.

"Trust you?" he hissed, and slammed her hard against the stone wall. "Trust you?" His voice was softer now, and much more dangerous. "Oh, no, Cassandra." He leaned into her, using his body to pin her against the wall, holding her right hand high above her head. "You made very sure I would never trust you about anything. You made very sure I would never trust anyone."

She could feel the beating of his heart against her chest, feel the hard length of one of his thighs wedged between her own. His other thigh pressed painfully against her leg directly above her knee, preventing any movement. His gray eyes were hard and his expression cold. Even though their bodies touched intimately, there was not the slightest hint in Connor's manner that he felt anything but anger. She was not a woman to him; she was an enemy. She wondered what he looked like when he smiled, a real smile, not the predatory glee she had seen on his face today. She could not remember.

He leaned against her even more, squeezing her between the warmth of his body and the coldness of the stones. "I want the whole story, Cassandra, and I want it now." When she said nothing, he growled, "I'm not a patient man, Cassandra."

And that was precisely the wrong thing to say to her. He had taken her sword, and he thought her helpless, intimidated, submissive. He was wrong. She knew she could not overpower him physically, but then, she did not need to. "Let go of my wrist, Connor." The words were pitched just right, a slight uprising on the name, a hint of gentleness behind the command.

Connor blinked, and his eyes lost their focus. He looked as though he were desperately trying to remember something, but his fingers loosened, and he released her arm.

She smiled a slow small smile, then carefully took hold of his thumb and twisted, pressing her own thumb into the sensitive spot on the webbing of his hand.

Her smile widened just a little as she saw his mouth tighten with pain. He started to bring the handle of his katana toward her face, but he was still confused, and it slowed him enough for Cassandra to whisper, "Submit, Connor." As his muscles suddenly relaxed, she saw a flash of panic in his eyes, and there was an answering flash of triumph in her own. "Kneel." She continued to twist his thumb, and he went to his knees before her.

"Stay, Connor." She released his thumb; she knew he would not move. She slowly walked around him and crouched down on his right side, far enough back so that he could not see her. "You're not a patient man?" she asked softly, gently, close to his ear. "You haven't needed to be!" Her voice was still soft, but it was not at all gentle. "I have been patient for over three thousand years, Connor, three thousand very long years!"

She moved back a little and said conversationally, "This is the Voice, Connor." He was fighting it, she saw, but she knew Connor. She knew what he despised and what he admired, knew what he hated and what he loved. She had trained him and killed him, loved him and used him, and he was hers.

She laid her hand on the hilt of his katana. "Give me your sword, Connor," she commanded. His fingers relaxed, and she took the blade from him and stood. She hefted it in her hand, feeling the weight of it, the balance. It felt somehow different from the sword she remembered, but it was still razor-sharp. She stood comfortably beside him and brought the sword in a smooth arc towards his neck, stopping just before the blade touched his skin.

~ ~ ~

Connor could not move, could not see her as she stood by his side, could not quite see his own sword, but he knew it was there.

Her voice came from above him, cool and detached. "Lean forward, Connor, very slowly."

Somewhere in the back of his mind someone was screaming, but it sounded very far away. Her voice was much closer, and he obeyed it. He felt only slight resistance as the cool sharpness of his sword touched his neck, and a damp warmth when the blade sliced his skin open and the blood welled forth. He could smell his own fear and his own blood above the scents of horse and sweat, and the cold resistance became a thin burning line.

"Stop there," she said, and he did. "It's just a little cut, Connor, such as you might get when you shave."

Her voice continued closer to his ear as she bent down a little. "But I could tell you to keep going, and you would. You would lean into the blade and slice through your windpipe." A dry finger very gently traced the center line of his throat.

"And you would cut these two arteries." Now her hand encircled the front of his neck, her thumb and finger following the paths of pulsing blood. "Here, and here."

The hand moved away. "I doubt you could cut your own head off, though. You would probably pass out first. But I don't think that would be much of a problem, do you?"

Connor's mouth was dry, but he could not swallow with the sword at his throat. He tried to move his head back, but her voice stopped him once again.

"Stop," she commanded, and he froze. He could feel the coolness of a sheen of sweat on the back of his neck, and his muscles shook with tremors as he tried to fight her. But he could not move.

~ ~ ~

Cassandra stood next to him, his sword in her hand, and looked down on him as he struggled against her control. Oh, no, Connor, she thought, not yet. You wanted the whole story, and you are going to listen to it.

"You wondered what the Voice could do, didn't you, Connor? You wondered if it were real. Now you know. I could tell you to kill your wife Alexandra, Connor. I could tell you to slice her into bloody pieces while your son John watched. And you would do it. Oh, yes. And if I told you to, then you would do the same to him."

He had closed his eyes, she saw, but he could not close his ears. "The Voice can be used to make a mother dip her infant into boiling water. In. Out. In. Out. Over and over and over again, until the flesh cooks and falls off the bones. The baby still screams, of course. The Voice doesn't work very well on infants, so you can't tell them to be quiet."

Cassandra shifted her weight slightly and eased the sword away from Connor's neck. "Sit," she said, and Connor slowly eased back from his kneeling position to sit on his heels. The thin drops of blood had run down his throat. They disappeared into the deep green of his shirt collar, but showed dark against the light gray wool of his sweater. She held the katana casually in a two-handed grip and stood beside him.

She knew he could not quite see her, but she made sure he was able to see his blade just in front of him, ready to strike.

"This is the story you wanted to hear, Connor; the story you were so impatient to listen to." She took a deep breath and began. "Roland was my son; I adopted him when he was five. He was six when he was taken from me and abused by a man." Taken from Jarie's house that night, taken while Cassandra lay in her lover's arms, though she could not bring herself to tell Connor that. Jarie had been killed, her body left on the floor of the house.

"I finally found him after three days." Three days she had looked for him, three days and nights she had searched the town and visited the inns and the brothels, searching for her son. Three days and nights of hell for a six-year old boy.

"When I found him he would not speak to me, would not look at me." She might never have found him if she hadn't been able to sense his faint pre-Immortal presence. She had found him locked in a small house, naked and bleeding, used and discarded.

"He cowered under the table and shivered." Never again had he run across a room into her arms, trusting her to catch him, trusting her to be there.

"So, I promised him I would never harm him; I swore the most sacred oath I knew that he need never fear me, and finally he crawled out from under the table and wept in my arms." He had flinched when she had held him tight against her, cringed when she had tried to kiss him, and finally she had merely sat there with him on her lap, not daring to touch him at all.

"The next day I started teaching him the Voice, so that he would have some way to protect himself. I knew what it was to be abused, Connor, and I would not let it happen to my son again, no matter what vows I had to break." Never again. Never for her; never for him. Never again. At least, that was what she had thought.

"But he grew up, and he grew apart, and he started to use the Voice to get what he wanted, to force girls to his bed. We quarreled, as I told you, and he left. And then he came back. And I was happy to see him, and he was happy to be home with me."

__________________________________________________

Two days before the Festival of Ishtar, 1291 BCE
By the Rivers of Babylon
___________________________________________________

"Mother?"

Cassandra dropped the pot she was painting, and it fell to the table and broke in half. She turned quickly, aware of the sudden flush in her cheeks, the quick beat of her heart. "Roland?" she asked hesitantly, peering at the tall figure silhouetted in the doorway. But, of course, it had to be him; she could sense his faint pre-Immortal hum clearly.

"It's me, Mother," he answered, his hands nervously twisting his cloak between his hands. He did not step into the room.

"Roland?" she repeated, coming over to him, hardly daring to believe it was really him. His voice was different than she remembered, deeper now, a man's voice. He had grown taller, and his shoulders were wider. But he was so thin! The bones showed prominently in his face and in his wrists, and his stockiness had disappeared. His tunic was filthy and badly mended, and his long curly hair was matted. "Roland." He had come home.

He swallowed and glanced around the room before looking at her. "Mother, I...I'm sorry."

"Oh, Roland," she said and held out her hands to him. "I'm sorry, too." Sorry for the words spoken quickly in anger one afternoon and regretted for the next seven years. "Come in, Roland, oh, please come in."

And he did.

"Are you hungry?" she asked, bringing him a stool.

He nodded, a wolfish grin crossing his face quickly. "I'm always hungry."

It had been a foolish question; she could see how thin he was. She placed cheese and grapes in front of him, then hurried to cut some bread and pour him some water. She sat down across from him and wondered what to say. He had obviously been traveling for some time, and had not done very well for himself. She finally settled for, "I'm glad you are home, Roland."

He looked up at her and nodded. "I'm glad, too," he said, and glanced away again.

He must be embarrassed, she thought. It was not easy to come back and admit to a mistake. She was glad he was not yet Immortal. She would tell him of that soon.

"Is there meat?" he asked. "Or beer?"

"No," she said, "I'm sorry. I can get you some, if you would like, tomorrow at the market?"

He nodded and tore off another hunk of cheese. "That would be good," he said. "I have missed the way you cook." He looked around the room and commented, "Things haven't changed much." They had moved three times since she had adopted him, but the small mud-brick houses were much the same. There was still the long table covered with many painted pots, the potter's wheel in the corner, the baskets hanging from the ceiling. "That's a lot of pots," he observed.

"The festival of Ishtar is in two days," she said. "I'll be going to the market to sell them then."

"That will be good." He smiled at her then for the first time. "Can I help paint them?"

She smiled back and reached across the table to hold his hand. "Yes, Roland, of course."

~~~~~

During the next two days she cooked for him and cleaned for him and combed out his hair and mended his clothes. He was quiet and withdrawn, but she thought nothing of it. He had always been proud and reserved, and she knew it had not been easy for him to come home. But he was home. Her son had come home.

The music from the festival was still playing loudly when Cassandra came home late that night. It had been a good day, and all of her pots had sold. She even had orders for more. The long rows of unfinished pottery sat neatly on the table. She and Roland could start painting them tomorrow, but tonight she was very tired. Roland was still at the festival, but he would be home soon. Cassandra went to sleep.

~~~~~

Cassandra blinked and tried to open her eyes, but a voice whispered urgently, gently, in her ear, and she closed them again. It was only later when the voice spoke again that she opened her eyes. "Roland?"

He was standing very close to her now, right next to her bed, and she could smell the oil he had rubbed on his torso and the yeasty scent of beer on his breath. "Yes, Cassandra?"

Cassandra went cold at the sound of her name.

"Or should I call you Mother?" His voice twisted viciously on the last word.

Cassandra tried to sit up, but his hand slammed against her chest just under her throat and knocked her back.

"Where's the money? The money from the pots you sold?"

"Roland," she whispered, shaking her head.

"Where's the money?" he demanded, using the Voice to command.

Dazed with sleep and surprise, Cassandra answered immediately, "In the large pot under the long table."

"Good." Then he was on her, straddling her, his hands around her wrists, quickly tying her hands together, lashing her to the bed. She started to struggle, and he slapped her hard across the face.

Cassandra tasted blood and swallowed. "Stop this!" she commanded, using the Voice.

Roland froze for a moment, then laughed. "Oh, no, Mother," he said mockingly. "We know each other too well to use the Voice on each other very often. But still..." He hit her again, hard enough to stun her, and then he quickly gagged her with another strip of cloth. "I know how persuasive you can be." He tied her legs as well, then sat back and admired his work. "I was surprised to find you alone tonight, Mother. Maybe your lover is coming later?"

He smiled at her lazily and said, "I hope so. Perhaps he'd like to watch. Or maybe some of my friends would like to watch." His smile disappeared. "You never liked my friends, did you, Mother? But I've made a new friend." Roland reached out and gently lifted a strand of her hair away from her face. "He said he was a friend of yours as well. He suggested I pay you a visit, and he asked me to mention him to you." The smile came again, gloating, sickening. "His name is Methos. Though he said you might remember him better as Death."

Cassandra closed her eyes at the sound of that name, the sound of her enemy's name on her son's lips. She would never be free of Death. He had taken her and used her; he had taken her life over and over again, and now he had taken her son as well. Cassandra shook her head and felt the tears leak from underneath her closed eyelids.

"Look at me!" demanded Roland, and he hit her again, a vicious slap that brought tears of pain to replace the tears of sorrow and dread. He smiled when she opened her eyes. "I see you do remember him." His eyes raked up and down her body. "He told me a few other things you might remember, too. But first, I believe you said the money was in a pot."

He got off the bed and walked over to the table. He hefted a small pot in his hands. "But which one? There are so many." He smashed it to the floor. "No, no money in there. How about this one?" He smashed that one, too, and he made his way down the line.

Cassandra watched as he smashed every single pot she had made. He did not stop when he found the money; he merely placed it on the table and continued. When he had finished with the pots, he stepped over the broken shards of pottery. Cassandra could see the gleam of his eyes in the moonlight as he picked up the jars of paint and flung them against the wall over her head. The darkness of the paint spattered over her and dripped down the whitewashed wall.

He walked towards her then, and he smiled.

__________________________________________________

1 June 1996
The MacLeod Farm
___________________________________________________

"Or I thought he was happy," Cassandra said. "After he beat me and raped me and strangled me to death, I ran. He chased me that night, but I escaped. He almost caught me a hundred years later, but I escaped from him and went back to the Temple on Lesbos, seeking sanctuary. He followed me there, and he set fire to the Temple and killed many of the priestesses, my sisters. He took the Lady's head. I had led him to them, led him to my sisters. After the sisterhood banished me, I ran again and went to Troy. He followed me there, and joined the Greek army.

"Have you heard of Troy, Connor? Have you heard what happened?" Cassandra remembered well the images from the ancient play which described the even more ancient horror. "Have you heard how a cry of death rang along the town and filled the homes of Troy, and little babes clung in terror about their mothers' skirts? How the groves stood forsaken and the temples of the gods ran down with Trojan blood? How the children were peeled from their mothers' arms, and tossed from high atop the battlements? Have you heard?" She was speaking slowly and distinctly, making sure he heard every word.

"That was the first time I tried to kill him, the first time I broke my oath to the Mother. But I failed, and he took me prisoner." Cassandra stood very calmly, making sure the sword did not waver.

"Roland made me watch. I watched as they tore my foster-daughter Cassandra from the altar where she sought sanctuary and raped her there on Holy Ground. I watched as the unburied corpses of the slain were piled by the Temple for vultures. I watched as the city burned, its towering walls one sheet of flame, the smoke soaring on wings to heaven. The city sank to the ground before the spear. The river's banks re-echoed long and loud with the screams of captive women. The men--young, old--lay dead upon the field of battle or butchered in their beds."

Connor sat where she had told him to, his eyes staring straight ahead, looking at his sword, listening to her words with no expression on his face.

"Listen well, Connor. I hope you aren't bored yet. Because there is more. There is much more." She went on.

"After everyone was dead, after he tired of me, he sold me as a slave. He told me he would not kill me because he enjoyed chasing me; it gave him something to do. After I managed to become free, I ran. He found me a few centuries later, and I tried to kill him again. I broke my vow again. That was only a small village, perhaps a hundred people. You haven't heard of that, I suppose." Her voice grew even more detached. "It is one thing to see soldiers rape and kill and burn. You have seen that, have you not, Connor?"

He nodded slightly, and she said, "Of course, you have. We all have." She spoke very slowly now. "It is another thing to watch families rape and kill and burn each other."

Connor closed his eyes again.

She held the sword steady in her right hand and reached out with her left hand to wind her fingers in his hair. His hair was as soft as she remembered, but much shorter; there was not even enough to grab. She pulled on what she could and tilted his head back. She said with the Voice, "Open your eyes. I want you to look at me."

He obeyed her, revealing the fear coiling behind the blankness in his eyes.

She stared at him a moment, wondering if she should be feeling some compassion for him. She felt nothing but a cool sense of satisfaction and control, and she liked it. She liked it very much indeed. The power whispered to her, its siren song calling her name. But she knew where that power could lead, and the story was not over. Cassandra blinked and continued.

"Roland had a few companions with him, enough to keep a village in control. And he had his sword, of course, and the Voice, the Voice I had taught him. And he used the Voice, used what I had given him, Connor, used it to make them ..." She stopped, unable for a moment to speak. She took a deep breath and calmed herself. "I already told you about the infants, didn't I, Connor? Maybe you are willing to trust me on this now. You don't want to know what else he did."

Her commands would wear off eventually, she knew, but she still held his sword in front of his neck, and he would remain where he was until she was finished. She let go of his hair, but he continued to look up at her.

"At first, they begged me to stop him, to help them. But there was nothing I could do." Except listen to their screams and watch them die.

"Roland told the villagers that I had brought this punishment on them. He told them that that the gods were angry with them for giving shelter to an oath-breaker. Me." She nodded slowly to herself. Roland could punish her, but she had not meant to bring the punishment to others.

"After that, they stopped asking me for help. They started cursing me instead." The curses had been almost harder to listen to than the screams.

"It was almost a year until everyone was dead. He sold me again, and eventually I escaped again. Every few hundred years he would find me, and destroy those around me. So I ran more often, and I had no friends, no family. And I never tried to kill him again."

She knelt beside Connor and spoke softly in his ear. "That's the story you were so impatient to hear, Connor. That's why I won't fight him. That's what the Voice can do." She laid the katana on the ground in front of Connor, and as she stood she was surprised to see that her hands were shaking. She said quietly, "I release you."

She did not wait to see what he would do, but walked over to the corner of the garden. She knelt down on the ground, leaned over, and vomited.

~ ~ ~

Connor heard her retching, but he could not bring himself to look at her. He felt like retching himself. He swallowed hard and took several deep breaths, willing his body to calmness. He stayed on the ground, kneeling in the dirt, remembering her standing over him with a sword--his sword!--in her hand. If she had decided to take his head, there would have been absolutely nothing he could have done to stop her.

A shudder tore through him. He had not felt this powerless since he had watched the Immortal Kane kidnap his son John two years before. He took in three more breaths: slow, even, deep. He eased out the impotent rage and helplessness with each exhalation. A final cleansing breath.

He stood, his legs his own once again, and looked over at her. She was kneeling now, in much the same position he had been in, but no one was holding a sword to her neck. At least, no one he could see. If what she had told him were true, then Roland had been holding the threat of a sword to her neck--and to her families' necks--for over three thousand years. And sometimes it had been more than a threat. He could only begin to imagine the rage and frustration she carried within her. He almost felt sorry for her.

Connor picked up his sword and wiped it clean, both handle and blade, then strode to the house. He laid his sword next to hers on the step and went into the kitchen to get a bottle of whisky and two glasses. He came back into the garden and walked over to her. She did not move at his approach, but remained with her head down, her hair hanging about her face. He squatted close behind her and poured whisky into a glass, then waited.

After a long while she sat back on her heels and wiped at her mouth, then scrubbed her hands on the grass.

"Here," he said, holding out the glass.

She reached out a trembling hand and took the glass from him. She wrinkled her nose in distaste and shook her head. "I don't like Scotch."

"That explains a lot," Connor said dryly. So did her choice of words. No Scot would have called the drink Scotch; it was called simply whisky. And what he was offering her was The Macallan whisky. It was one of the finest whiskies he'd had since he had returned to the Highlands, and he hoped it wouldn't be wasted on her. "Drink. You need it."

She did not drink, but held the glass loosely in her hand, staring into it. "I suppose you hate me even more now," she said dully.

Connor considered her for a long moment before he said, as he had said so many years before, "I don't hate you, Cassandra." He touched his neck gingerly, feeling the still raw edges of the wound, the warmth of his blood on his fingertips, and looked down at the dirt stains on his knees. "But I'd feel safer around you if you were gagged."

Cassandra made a painful sound that was meant to be laughter. "That's what Roland used to say. He would leave me gagged all day. All day, until every night when..."

Her hands were shaking again, he saw. He set down the bottle of whisky and the other glass he was holding, and he reached out to hold her glass steady before she spilled the liquor. "When what, Cassandra?" he asked quietly.

She shook her head, not wanting to remember, not able to forget.

Connor wasn't sure he wanted to hear it, but he knew she needed to say it. "When what?" he repeated.

Cassandra closed her eyes. "When he strangled me. He took the gag out then so he could listen to the noises I made. He usually raped me first. Or during. He liked that. Or sometimes after." She opened her eyes and shuddered. "It is not a pleasant way to revive."

Connor remembered that she had said that Roland had kept her captive for over a year on many different occasions. "Every night?"

"Every night," she repeated. "Every time." Her voice was still dull.

Connor swallowed hard, remembering that night long ago in Donan Woods, remembering the feel of her neck between his hands and what had happened between them in bed afterwards. If he had deliberately set out to awaken her most horrific nightmare, he could not have made a better choice. But she had been the one to choose that particular nightmare; she was the one who had made him do those things to her. What the hell kind of woman would do that?

"I can't decide what I hate most about being an Immortal," she said slowly, more to herself than to Connor. "The loneliness, or the endless pointless years, or that there's no limit to the pain. And you can't kill yourself, no matter how hard you try." Her hands started shaking again.

He lifted her glass to her lips. "Drink," he repeated, and poured some of it down her throat.

She coughed and spluttered, the alcohol burning raw in her irritated throat, but she swallowed it and held tightly to her glass.

When he saw her push her hair out of her face and lift her glass for another drink, Connor gave a small, satisfied smile and poured himself a glassful as well. They sat there quietly on the soft green grass, under the spreading branches of the old apple tree, sipping whisky and watching the clouds across the valley.

When her glass was almost empty, he poured her some more and finally asked, "Where does Duncan fit in?"

She closed her eyes briefly and then stared into her glass. "The whole story," she said wearily.

"The whole story," he agreed, making sure there was only calm watchfulness on his face, wanting to reassure her enough so that she would talk to him.

She took another drink and looked out over the wall. "I told you that I was forbidden to kill Roland." She looked at him quickly, then looked away. "But there was a prophecy made at that time, that another Immortal would come to challenge the Voice of Death."

"Prophecy? Voice of Death?" This was getting stranger and stranger.

"Yes. Roland was called the Voice of Death; he rather liked the name."

He wondered why she had chosen to answer his second question first. "And the prophecy?"

She tossed her hair back from her face. "Prophecy was one of the arts of the Sisterhood." She shrugged. "It was common enough at the time."

He saw her stare into her glass again, and he remembered what she had said of seeing the ripples of the future. "Did you make the prophecy?"

"No. The Lady and Kalia and I listened while Marit spoke. They were priestesses, too," she explained. She took another sip, then continued. "The Prophecy told of a Highland child, a foundling, born on the Winter Solstice, who would see both Darkness and Light, and challenge the Voice of Death."

"Duncan." Connor said the name grimly, seeing at last the connection, the reasons behind her actions. He looked at the clouds; they were gathering across the loch, a darkness there that heralded rain.

"Duncan," she agreed.

Connor took a large swallow of his drink. "So, where do you come in?"

Cassandra said, "I am not allowed to kill Roland, but it is my task to help the Highland Foundling."

He swallowed the last of his whisky and set the glass down, then stood up abruptly. He walked back and forth across the lawn, then stopped in front of her. "This is stupid."

Cassandra left her whisky on the grass and scrambled to her feet. "Stupid?" Her voice was shrill. "Stupid?"

"Stupid," he repeated firmly. "Why does it have to be Duncan? Why not another Immortal? Why not me? I was a Highland foundling."

"But you were not born on the Winter Solstice."

"So? What's ten days?"

She shook her head. "He must go through Darkness into Light."

Connor shrugged. "I've seen darkness, and I'm still one of the good guys." He was pretty sure about that. Most of the time anyway.

She was still shaking her head obstinately. "It's not that simple, Connor. The prophecy was made over three thousand years ago, and it--"

"You've waited three thousand years for Duncan to show up and be ready?" This was incredible. "Why didn't you just pick another Immortal and help him defeat Roland?"

"And if I had? If I had asked you, and you had lost? Roland wouldn't have just taken your head, Connor. If he beat you and killed you, then he would have kept you prisoner, and he would have tortured you to death. Over and over and over again." Her voice became quiet. "And he would have made me watch." She closed her eyes briefly and shook her head. "I went against the prophecy twice before. I will not take the chance of doing so again. The Prophecy says--"

"'The prophecy says,'" he mimicked. "Does that prophecy rule your life?" he demanded.

She said nothing, merely stared at him, and he realized with shock that it did, that she had done nothing for the last three thousand years without considering the prophecy. He had lived with his apprehension about the Kurgan for over four hundred years, but it hadn't controlled his entire life. He peered at her closely. "You really believe in this stuff, don't you?"

"It's real," she insisted, "whether you think so or not. It's as real as the Game or the Prize."

She had a point there. There were other strange things out there, too, Connor thought, remembering the cave of the sorcerer Nakano and the illusions of Kane.

Cassandra continued, "And I'm not the only one to believe in the prophecy. Roland does, too."

"Roland knows about the prophecy? Didn't your Sisterhood keep the prophecies secret, just like the Voice?" She looked away at that, and he nodded slowly. "So. Just like the Voice. You told him about the prophecy, too."

She flushed at the disdain in his voice, but did not try to explain.

Connor still didn't think the ancient words had that much power; Roland had simply been brutal enough the first two times that Cassandra was too scared even to try again. But she believed it, and apparently Roland did, too. Those words had controlled her life for over three thousand years. What a waste. He turned to her suddenly. "Then it was Roland who was asking questions about me in Portugal; he was the Immortal I wrote to you about."

"Yes. That was Roland," Cassandra admitted. "He came to the Highlands the next summer, looking for the foundling child."

Roland obviously hadn't found Duncan, but Connor wanted to know more. He waited.

Cassandra continued, "It was a good thing you sent me that letter. I knew Roland was coming, so I hid Duncan. He came into Donan Woods, and I took him to the cottage."

She did not seem inclined to say more, so Connor prompted, "And?"

"He went swimming in the pool, we ate and talked and played chess, then he fell asleep. The next morning Roland had gone, so I sent him home."

There was more to it than that, Connor was sure. "He spent the night?"

"Yes." At his continued level stare, Cassandra glared at him. "On a chair, in front of the fire. He was thirteen years old, Connor."

His son John was nearly thirteen, and certainly old enough to be interested. But judging from Duncan's success with women, he had suffered no lasting harm from the encounter, whatever had happened. Well, it had been a long time ago, and it wasn't important now. Other things were. Connor rubbed his hand over his face and said, "So, the prophecy is why Roland is going after Duncan."

"Yes."

A distant rumble echoed across the glen, and the rain moved swiftly towards them. "Inside," he said and motioned to the door with a jerk of his head.

"I'll get the oranges." She went to get the bag near the garden wall.

Connor picked up the bottle and the two glasses and met her at the house. Their swords lay side by side in front of the door. "Mind where you step," he said and watched as she carefully stepped over the blades and walked through the small coat-room into the kitchen. He placed the bottle and the glasses on the floor inside the door and picked up both swords.

Cassandra set the bag of oranges down on the long wooden table, then turned. When she saw him entering the room with two naked blades in his hands she went very still.

"Wouldn't want them to get rusty," he said, coming into the kitchen.

"No," she agreed, not taking her eyes off him, "that would never do."

He laid her sword down on the table next to the oranges. His own blade he kept casually in his hand. "Are you ready?" he asked. Connor kept his face expressionless as he saw her glance quickly to the hilt of her sword, saw how she balanced lightly on the balls of her feet. Good. She was nervous.

She asked quietly, "Ready?"

"To slice the oranges," he said blandly, and hid his feeling of satisfaction when he saw her relax a little. "The knives are over on the counter, and there's some bread in the cupboard."

Cassandra smiled a little, but it was not a happy smile. "Bread, is it?"

"Bread," he agreed. "Hungry?"

"Not really. Are you?"

"Nah." He gave a quick jerk of his head toward her sword. Time to make her nervous again. "Pick it up and come with me." Might be a challenge, might not. You decide, Cassandra. It's your turn to wonder if you can trust me.

Her smile disappeared. "Pick it up and go where?"

"The new part of the house," Connor responded with an air of surprise. "It was built over a century ago. We can watch the rain from there." He smiled just a little when he saw her exhale slowly in relief.

She reached carefully for her sword, and they walked side by side through the wood-paneled hall to the new part of the house.

~~~~~

Cassandra looked about her, wondering how old the "old part" was if this "new part" had been built a century ago. The new part of the house was a single large room, with a view of the valley to the south and bookshelves lining the entire north wall. A grand piano stood in front of the bookshelves. A couch and two chairs were in front of the large fireplace, and a computer occupied the far corner.

They laid their swords on the low table near the door, and Connor built a fire, for the air was growing chill as evening approached. Cassandra wandered about the room, looking at the various antiques and reading the book titles. She finally went to stand in front of the large window.

The sun would not set for at least another hour, but the clouds made it quite dark. She took a deep breath as she stared at the coming storm. At least Connor wasn't trying to kill her. Not right now, anyway.

She had not realized how hard it would be to tell Connor this story. She had told Connor the Prophecy was as real as the Game or the Prize, but she had said that only to convince him. The Prize was imaginary; the Prophecy was real. It had ruled her life for over three thousand years.

Cassandra closed her eyes briefly as an intense wave of grief swept over her, as she remembered. It had taken Roland four days to break Kalia so that she would tell him the full story of the Prophecy and everything else he wanted to know. It had taken him another ten days to finish killing her, and Cassandra had sat beside her every single one of those days. Then she had watched while Roland took Kalia's head. At least Marit and the Lady had died quickly. She had not spoken of Roland, either, in all that time, save to mention him briefly to Connor when they had said good-bye in Donan Woods, and again in Aberdeen. She still had not spoken of the Horsemen to Connor, but she did not think she needed to. That was yet another story, and since Roland had told her in Aberdeen that his teacher Kronos was dead, it was complete. The other Horsemen had died centuries before that; Roland had been happy to tell her about how he had killed her "old teachers and friends." He did not usually challenge older Immortals, but he had made an exception for those four. They had been his teachers, too.

She had not spoken of these things, and she had tried very hard not to think of them, either. She did not want to remember what had happened over the centuries; she did not want to remember all the deaths she had caused.

The raindrops spattered against the side of the house, and Connor joined her in front of the window. They stood there for a moment watching the storm, then Cassandra turned to him and spoke urgently. "I know you told me to stay away from Duncan, Connor, but I must go to him now. I must help him, prepare him for the Voice."

"Prepare him how?" Connor asked, turning his head slightly to look at her.

She knew it was not idle curiosity on his part; he would not soon forget the feel of his own sword against his neck. "There are techniques I can teach him to resist the Voice, but they take practice. I do not know how long it will be until Roland finds him."

"Can you teach me?"

She looked at him, seeing the small dark stains of blood on his sweater, the thin red line across his throat, the determination never to be so powerless again. But she had not enjoyed his little game in the kitchen, and he wasn't the only one who could play. "I told you long ago that no one ever teaches a student everything."

His eyes narrowed and he turned to face her, his whole body going very still.

It was harder than she had thought it would be to remain unmoved under that stare, but it was good to see him unsettled. But she didn't want him angry again, and the time for these games was over. "In your case, however, I will make an exception. I will teach you." She saw some of the coldness leave his eyes, and she breathed quietly in relief. "But, first, I must go to Duncan. Roland is hunting him now."

Connor nodded, accepting that. "You may go to Duncan," he said, giving her permission. He gave his short dry laugh. "Duncan may not need much teaching. He never listens to anyone but himself, anyway."

Cassandra nodded a little at that, then asked, "What's he like, Connor? What is Duncan like?"

A fleeting expression of pride and tenderness crossed Connor's face, and Cassandra saw then a glimpse of what he looked like when he smiled. Yes, she thought, remembering, wishing he would smile that way at her, once again.

Connor snorted and shook his head. "He's stubborn and pig-headed. Loyal and brave, and too honest for his own good."

"Sounds as if you two are well-matched."

He shrugged. "He's a good man. A good friend."

"I'm glad, Connor," she said. "I'm glad you two are friends."

He swung around to look straight at her. "Still think I should have killed him?" he challenged her, his voice angry.

"No." She turned to look out the window again, remembering when she had killed Connor and the look on his face afterwards. All three times. She pushed away the regret and the ache of loneliness and returned to her task. "I'll need to leave right away to find Duncan. The time of the Prophecy is now."

"Why now?" Connor asked.

She looked at him curiously. Did he not know? She had thought Duncan would have told him by now. She had heard of the Dark Quickening only three days ago, when she had asked her own Watcher about Duncan. The group of people that Death had organized over three thousand years ago had out-lived its founder and grown into a world-wide organization. The Watchers had their own traditions now, their own oaths and purpose. Their own history, too, though not the real one. Cassandra had questioned several Watchers over the years, and they all told the same story. Death had concocted a story of Gilgamesh and magic and sorcery to entice his first recruits, and the Watchers of today believed it just as readily as the Watchers of the past.

Cassandra found the Watchers very useful, especially since the convents and nunneries had lost their influence several centuries ago. In the last hundred years she had also started using detective agencies, not wanting to rely on the Watchers too much. She knew that Roland used the Watchers, too, and had influenced several of them. The records they had about him wrong, making him much younger than he really was. She didn't want to know what her records said about her. She had needed to ask a Watcher about Duncan, though; no detective agency would have known of or understood a Dark Quickening.

But the Watchers knew. When she had flown into Madrid from Borneo three days ago, Cassandra had spotted her Watcher Melanie Hind at the airport. She had taken the opportunity to get information; she had used the Voice to control Melanie, then to make her forget. When Melanie had spoken of the Dark Quickening and told her what Duncan had done, Cassandra had known the time of the prophecy was at hand.

She had wanted to talk to Connor first, before she went to Duncan, before she faced Roland, before she died. It had taken her two days to work up the courage to come to the Highlands. Now she was here, but Connor apparently did not know what had happened to Duncan, what Duncan had done. She asked cautiously, "When was the last time you talked to Duncan?"

Connor thought about it and shrugged. "January. He called here to wish me a happy birthday and a happy New Year."

"And you haven't spoken to him since then?"

"No."

Cassandra turned away. She did not want to be the one to tell him this about his student, his friend, the one man he trusted with his life.

Connor reached across and laid his hand on her shoulder, turning her to face him.

She looked at him with cold menace in her eyes, and she was very pleased when he quickly removed his hand. He had not forgotten the power she had.

He had let go of her, but his voice was still cold. "What happened, Cassandra?"

It was bad enough to have to tell him her story; now she had to tell him Duncan's as well. "Duncan took a Dark Quickening in February. He was--not himself for some time."

"What the hell does that mean?"

She knew he would not like this. "It means that Duncan took into himself the evil that he had killed, and it overwhelmed him. He became evil, Connor."

Connor was shaking his head. "No. Not Duncan," he said positively.

"Yes. Duncan."

Connor said flatly, "I don't believe it."

"He killed Sean Burns, Connor."

"No." It was a whispered plea.

Cassandra saw how much that bothered him, and she almost felt sorry for him. She knew from her contacts with the Watchers that Sean and Connor had been friends since the French Revolution. Sean and Duncan had been friends, too.

"Why? How?" Connor demanded.

"I don't know," she admitted. "I heard about it only recently." She realized Connor was waiting for her to continue, and she made her voice reassuring. "I heard that Duncan is back to himself now." Melanie had been annoyingly vague, but at least she had known that much. "Somehow he managed to fight off the evil, the darkness."

"Darkness into Light," Connor said, repeating the words of the Prophecy.

"Darkness into Light," she agreed. "The time of the Prophecy is now." His face was pale, and she went to the cabinet near the fireplace and selected a bottle with a diamond label. She poured them each a drink, then walked back to him and handed him a glass. "Here." He looked like he could use it.

He took it promptly, but not eagerly, and swallowed a large portion. He took another swallow and stared out at the falling rain. "I don't understand why he didn't come to me," he said softly.

Cassandra realized with surprise that he sounded hurt. She took a step toward him, wanting to touch him, to comfort him. But she knew her touch would no longer bring Connor any comfort. She had destroyed that as well. She dropped her hand and said, "Perhaps he was afraid that he might try to kill you, or that you would be forced to kill him."

He shook his head, more to clear it than in denial. "When did this happen? When did Sean die?"

"I'm not sure. March, I think." Cassandra took a sip, vaguely aware of the smoothness of the drink. It was sweeter than the other whisky had been, but left a taste of smoke in her mouth after she swallowed.

"Three months." Connor tossed back the rest of his drink. "Three months, and not a word from him."

She was not surprised that Duncan had not spoken to Connor. He was not an easy man to admit mistakes to, she thought, as she raised her glass again.

He turned his head to look at her. "How do you know about this?" His eyes narrowed. "I told you not to go near Duncan."

"I haven't," she protested.

"And why should I believe that?"

Certainly not just because she said so. "Because I wouldn't want to lead Roland to him, and Roland is always watching me."

"And is Roland watching you now?" he asked, setting his empty glass down carefully.

Cassandra paused, realizing what Connor meant. She had been careful not to endanger Duncan, but she might have just endangered Connor. And his family. "I think Roland's in Africa."

"You think?" he said harshly, the anger beginning to show. "That is reassuring."

"Connor, the time of the Prophecy is now," she said earnestly. "Roland is focusing all of his attention on Duncan. And me. He hasn't time for anything else."

"Not even for a quick rape and murder?" he asked brutally. "How long does it take him to do that?"

Not very long. Or sometimes a very long time indeed. There was nothing she could say or do to change this. "Connor, I didn't--"

"Don't you think that Roland knows where you are?"

She started to answer, then looked away. Of course, Roland did. She stared at the floor helplessly.

Connor cursed viciously under his breath, and he said bitterly, "And you had to come here now."

"Now?" she asked, confused. Connor's jaw tightened and he stared out the window. Cassandra saw that his hands were clenching and unclenching slowly, and she took a small step backwards. The anger that he had shown outside seemed insignificant now in the face of this frozen immense fury. "Connor?" she said hesitantly. "What ...?"

He turned to her then and stepped closer, abolishing the distance she had put between them. He said coldly and distinctly, "Alex is pregnant."

"Pregnant?" Cassandra whispered, shocked. "But ..." Obviously it could not be Connor's baby, but just as obviously it was. In some fashion at least. It was the twentieth century after all. Connor could share with his wife Alex something he had never been able to share with his wife Heather, something he would certainly never share with her. Cassandra would never dare to be a mother again, in any fashion. Roland had taken that from her, too.

Connor was still very angry, and very very cold. "Alex wanted a baby. We went to the clinic in April."

Cassandra closed her eyes, remembering what she had told Connor about mothers dipping their infants into boiling water, remembering when she had told him she could make him slice his wife into bloody pieces. And that would, of course, include his own unborn child. She swallowed hard, and took another drink to try to erase the foul taste in her mouth. Apparently she had learned a lot from Roland over the centuries. She opened her eyes and stared out of the window into the darkness, her face calm and her eyes steady once again.

~ ~ ~

Connor watched her, amazed and irritated once again by her seeming indifference. He would have been furious with her for it, but he had been watching her carefully, and he had seen the way she had closed her eyes in pain. He had seen her convulsive swallow, the way her hands clutched the glass when she drank. She was not all cool and collected. It was hard to remember sometimes, for she almost always acted as though she did not care.

But he knew she did care. All her attempts at having a family had ended in disaster, and she had tried to convince him that he could never have a family either. He knew now how alone she was, how much she really did want a family, how much she grieved over her son Roland. He knew how much the news of Alex's pregnancy had hurt her, and he was glad of it.

She turned to him then, her face impassive, her voice smooth. "Connor," she began, "I didn't mean to lead him ..."

Connor turned his back on her. He did not want to discuss this with her; he wished now he hadn't told her. He hadn't even told Duncan yet. It had been foolish to tell her, but then Cassandra had always been able to make him angry enough to do foolish things.

"Forget it, Cassandra," he said harshly. There was nothing either of them could do about it now. He would protect his family, as he always did. As he always tried to do, he corrected himself scrupulously, feeling again the familiar surge of helpless sickening rage as he remembered the Kurgan's words.

His wife Heather had never told him that the Kurgan had raped her. She had hidden it from him, lied to him to protect him. She had told him her tears in the night were only for their murdered friend Ramirez. It had been the Kurgan who had told him, centuries after Heather's death. The Kurgan had gloated over it, mocked his ignorance, taunted him. "She was your woman, and she never told you. I wonder why. Maybe I gave her something you never could, and secretly she yearned for my return." But, of course, that could not be true.

The Kurgan was dead now, Connor thought with cold satisfaction, but so was Heather. He would never have the chance to comfort her over this, never be able to hold her in his arms and brush away her tears.

But he would take care of his family now. He would be even more careful--paranoid, Alex would call it--until he knew that Roland was dead. Alex and John would have to go somewhere, anywhere, away from here, away from him. Someplace he didn't even know. He knew what Roland was capable of, and he didn't trust Cassandra. Now he couldn't even trust himself. Wonderful.

He took a deep breath and willed himself to some semblance of calmness, while he tried frantically to think of some way to protect his wife and his children. After a few moments of consideration, he looked at Cassandra and observed, "You have people watching Roland."

"Yes," Cassandra replied. "We keep watch on each other. I need to know what he is doing."

"And you have people watching Duncan."

"Yes," she admitted.

"And people watching me?" He could tell she did not want to answer that, so the answer must be yes. He let his breath out in a controlled hiss and stared out the window.

Cassandra said placatingly, "All I have been doing is keeping track of where you were, Connor. Nothing more. I didn't even know you had a family until the lady in the village told me today. But you are important to me, too, Connor."

He swung around to face her, remembering the last time she had tried to make him believe that. "Why?" he snarled. "Because we like each other so much?"

She blinked once, then opened her mouth, only to shut it again. She took a deep breath and said, "I needed to know where you were, so that when the time came I could talk to you about Duncan."

Connor nodded once. Of course. It was always Duncan, had always been Duncan. "That's why you're here, that's why you've had people watching me?" he said. "You just want my permission to talk to Duncan?"

"Yes," she said, and then went very still, watching him.

He knew what that stillness meant. She was lying. Again. "What else do you want from me?" he demanded. He caught her by the wrist and pulled her closer. He didn't care about the Voice now. "The whole story, Cassandra, remember?"

"I just wanted to talk to you."

"Just talk? To me?"

"Yes, just talk! To you." She wrenched her wrist away from him. "Is that so hard to believe?"

"Yes." Connor regarded her steadily. "You never 'just talk.' You always want something from people, Cassandra. You use them. The way you used me. The way you probably used Ramirez, too. The way you want to use Duncan."

Cassandra flared at him, "You don't understand! I am forbidden to do anything by myself to fulfill the prophecy! I have no choice. I have to make people help me."

"You don't have to make people help you, Cassandra. You could ask them to help you."

Her mouth opened and then snapped shut, and she turned away from him.

"Oh, but, that wouldn't work for you, would it? I forgot." He stood behind her and spoke softly in her ear. "You don't like to ask. You take."

She walked away from him, not wanting to hear.

He followed her. "You don't ask because you don't want to admit you need help, to admit all the things you've done wrong."

She stopped in front of the fire and carefully put her drink down on the end-table. She placed her hand on the side of the couch and turned to face him. "I've paid for what I've done!"

"Have you?" he countered. "Or have you paid for what Roland has done?"

She stared at him, confused. "What are you talking about?"

"You're not the one who killed all those people in Troy, Cassandra. Or the people in the village."

"No, I didn't. But if I hadn't.... If Roland had been ..."

He shook his head. "Helen's face didn't launch a thousand ships, Cassandra, and neither did yours. That war was fought over trade routes and money, like every other war that has ever been fought."

"If I hadn't taught Roland the Voice--"

"Then he would have found some other way to hurt people. He didn't need the Voice to be a murdering bastard. He was like that without it. He was probably like that from the beginning."

"Not from the beginning," she whispered. "He was a just a child." She hugged her arms close around herself. "And he needed me. And I wasn't there." She said very softly, "It's my fault."

"It's not your fault," Connor said. "Roland is the one who hurt you."

She shook her head. "What he did to me doesn't matter."

"Doesn't matter?" Connor was dumbfounded. Roland had raped her, brutalized her, strangled her, tortured and killed her families in front of her, and sold her into slavery over and over again, and it didn't matter?

Cassandra's voice was quiet and dull. "I promised to take care of him, and I didn't. I failed him. He has a right to be angry with me. He has a right to punish me."

And Connor saw then the source of her guilt, the source of her shame. She believed that she deserved to be punished, that she had failed as a mother. Roland had certainly failed as a son. What a mess, Connor thought wearily. No wonder she's got so many problems. He rubbed his hand through his hair and closed his eyes for a moment.

"Sit down," he said and gave her a gentle shove into the couch. He handed her drink to her and then sat down in the chair next to her. He waited until she had taken several sips before saying, "You don't deserve to be punished like that, Cassandra."

She shook her head carefully, and Connor realized that she was more than half-drunk and very tired. Maybe he shouldn't have handed her the drink after all.

"I do deserve it," she said. "He told me when he hurt me, he told me that he was just doing to me what had been done to him, so it was only fair."

Connor shook his head.

She saw his denial and grew incensed. "He told me!" she insisted. "He told me over and over again, every night when ..." Even drunk, she did not want to mention that. "He told me," she repeated, "and he told me that when I admitted to him that I deserved it, then he wouldn't hurt me so much anymore." She took another swallow, a large one, and whispered so softly he could barely hear her, "And you told me, too. You told me it was my fault that you killed me. You told me I deserved it." She clutched her glass tightly, her hands trembling.

"Cassandra ...," Connor began, shaken at what he had just heard.

She shook her head and did not look at him. "You told me."

And he had. That night in Donan Woods, she had wanted him to punish her; she had goaded him until he had killed her. She believed she deserved it. And he had killed her; he had enjoyed killing her; he had even wanted to kill her again. Then she had submitted to him, had offered herself to him, in the very bed where he had just killed her. She believed she deserved that, too. He had taken her body, as he had taken her life, in anger and lust and revenge. Then he had told her that it was her fault he had killed her, that she was the one who had made him into a killer, that it was her fault he had used her that way. And she had agreed with him.

Connor wiped his hand over his mouth, feeling distinctly unclean. He understood now why she had thrown up; he felt a cold sickness deep within himself as well. He did not want to see any resemblance between himself and Roland, yet he could not deny the similarities. It had been different. He was different. Yet they were all too much the same.

It was not his fault. She was the one who had goaded him, who had asked for it. She deserved it.

Connor stood up abruptly and walked over to the window, staring into the gathering darkness. He could see all too clearly where he was going, where Roland had gone, where Cassandra had been taken.

He had heard of victims who believed that they were to blame for what abusers did to them, but he had not realized that the abusers believed that they were justified in what they did to their victims. He wondered how long it had taken Roland to convince Cassandra of her guilt, how much pain he had inflicted before she gave in. Roland had used mental rape as well as physical rape, violations that devastated both body and soul. She was buried alive under layers upon layers of pain.

He turned away from the window and looked at her. She sat huddled on the couch, her head down, the glass of whisky clutched tightly in her hand. This woman, he thought, is seriously fucked up.

He wondered how much of this she believed when she was sober. She had said she didn't like whisky; maybe this was why. Connor closed his eyes again. No matter what she had done to him, no matter how she had used him, he didn't believe she deserved centuries of this kind of abuse.

He came back to the couch and took her glass out of her hand and set it on the end-table. She didn't need anything else to drink.

He sat down beside her, then pulled her closer. She would not go to him at first, but Connor persisted, and finally she relaxed against him and buried her face in his chest. He whispered, "Hush, Cassandra," and gently stroked her hair. He held her in his arms like a father holds his child, while she cried herself to sleep, and he listened to the falling of the rain.

~~~~~

When Cassandra awoke it was full dark outside, and the only light came from the flames of the fire. She blinked slowly, trying to focus, trying to remember where she was. She was in the Highlands. With Connor. Drinking whisky ...

Cassandra sat bolt upright and moved back, rubbing at the marks left on her cheek from the pattern in Connor's sweater. He sat watching her, his arms resting on the back of the couch. Cassandra moved back farther on the couch and sat very straight.

"You fell asleep," he said blandly.

That was not all she had done. She had gotten sloppy drunk and cried all over him. She silently cursed the completeness of Immortal memory and turned away from him to look at the fire, hearing the steady patter of the rain. She couldn't forget even when she was drunk. It just got worse. She stood up abruptly. "Where's the bathroom?"

He stood up too and casually stretched, easing the muscles that had cramped while she slept on his lap, then answered her. "It's through the kitchen."

Cassandra didn't want to think about why he needed to stretch. She turned from him to hide her flush of embarrassment and headed quickly towards the kitchen. She walked though the paneled hall and the kitchen and then went through the small coat-room into the bathroom, an old pantry converted to modern use. There was a shower stall in one corner, a good idea for a farm house, especially one with an active boy. She blinked as her eyes adjusted to the bright electric lights. She splashed cold water on her face, rinsed out her mouth, and eagerly drank some water. Then she leaned over the sink for a long time with her head in her hands.

Finally, she looked in the mirror. Her hair was a mess, and there were circles under her eyes, but other than that she looked the same as always. Of course. She never changed. Nothing ever changed. She combed out her hair quickly, yanking through the tangles, and then tried to smooth out the wrinkles in her gown. Normally she preferred jeans, but the gown was a reminder of times past. She would wear a gown when she went to see Duncan, too.

She took a last look in the mirror. She was pale, but presentable. Not that Connor noticed. Or cared. There had been times when he had cared, but she had stabbed him in the heart each time, with a knife and with her words. With her lies. In all her three thousand years of a wasted wretched life there was nothing she regretted more. Now he could barely stand to be in the same room with her. "Connor," she whispered, remembering the feel of his arms about her, the tenderness of his touch, the smile on his face, and the warmth in his eyes when he had looked at her, all those years ago.

It was a long time before she felt ready to leave the bathroom.

~~~~~

Connor looked up from slicing the oranges when she came out of the bathroom. She looked pale and drawn, but better than she had. He was glad she had fallen asleep earlier; she had needed it, and he had been able to use his cell phone to take care of some business without waking her.

He had called Donna, one of Alex's friends who worked with security systems and computers. He had asked her to set up something, he didn't want to know what, on the Internet. If Donna didn't get a phone call from him every day, four times a day, then she was to post a message to Alex and John. The message would tell his family that he was dead, and they were not to come back to the Highlands. Ever.

He had wired money to Alex in Inverness, then spoken to her and told her about the message on the Internet. She and John were to leave the hotel they were staying at and go somewhere else. Tonight. Using cash. Tomorrow she was to take John on a vacation, anywhere they liked. They were not to come home or tell him where they were. Or call. Or write. They could check the Internet to see when it was safe to come home.

It might not be enough, but he couldn't think of what else he could do. He hated to admit it, but his family was safer away from him than they were with him.

But Cassandra was still here, standing near the door. "I need to leave," she said. "I ought to get to the airport."

Connor did not respond to that. "Hungry?" he asked. At her nod, he pointed with the knife to the sliced brown bread on a tray. "Make yourself a sandwich."

Cassandra hesitated, then walked to the counter and picked up the tray and carried the bread over to a large platter of sliced ham and cheese on the table. Her sword lay on one side of the platter; his lay on the other. She stared at the weapons with loathing and looked up.

Connor came over with the bowl of sliced oranges and set them on the table. "You forgot your sword." He did not need to say anything else. He had been surprised--shocked--that she hadn't picked up her sword on her way to the bathroom. Maybe she was still drunk.

Cassandra reached out slowly to touch the blade, then pulled her hand back. "I'm tired of it."

He did not look at her while he piled the ham and cheese high and made a sandwich. "Then you are tired of living."

"Yes," she admitted. "I am."

Connor looked at her with annoyance and almost told her that he was tired of her self-pity before he realized that she was swaying on her feet. What was wrong with her? This was not the Cassandra he remembered. "Sit down," he commanded. When she had done so he asked, "When did you eat last?"

"Eat?" Cassandra blinked. "Lunch, I think. Yesterday."

Connor handed her the sandwich he had just made. "Here." He poured coffee for them both, then sat down across from her and made another sandwich for himself.

She took a few bites of her sandwich and sipped at her coffee, then reached for an orange section. "Bread and oranges," she observed. "It's getting to be a tradition."

"Yeah. They're what we eat when we try to kill each other."

Her hand stopped, and she looked up at him, stricken.

"It was a joke, Cassandra." He handed her the orange section and took one for himself. "You know, you don't have much of a sense of humor."

"I suppose not. Things haven't seemed very funny lately."

Connor really did not want to discuss that now, especially while he was eating. He took a large bite of his sandwich and washed it down with coffee.

Cassandra looked around the kitchen and suddenly realized that they were still alone. "Where are Alex and John?"

Connor did not want to discuss that either. "Away."

"Do you have pictures of them?" she asked.

He gave a noncommittal grunt and reached for another orange slice. If Roland caught Cassandra, Connor knew she would not be able to hold out against him. And Connor definitely did not want Roland knowing anything about his family.

Cassandra set her sandwich on her plate and stared at the floor. Finally, she looked up and said tentatively, "I truly am glad you have a family, Connor. I'm glad that you and Alex are going to ..."

Connor paused in his chewing and looked at her with absolutely no expression on his face. It was a look that froze the words on her tongue and reminded her of the danger she had put his family in. He did not want her to be glad. She was silent after that.

They both ate hungrily, listening to rain beating on the window panes. They were almost done with their second sandwiches when the lights flickered.  Connor went to light the candle on the windowsill. As he sat back down, he said, "It usually does that when it rains this hard." A few moments later the electric lights went out. They stared at each other across the table in the dim light of the candle flame.

"I ought to go," she repeated, but her voice carried no conviction.

Connor shrugged and poured them some more coffee. He knew she was in no condition to drive, especially on these roads and in this weather. "You can go in the morning; planes won't be flying out tonight."

"Thank you," she said softly.

He thought she was going to say something more, but she was silent again. He tucked his sword under his arm and picked up his coffee and the candle. "Coming?"

Cassandra stood with her cup in her hand. Connor waited, watching her as she looked at her sword for a long moment before reaching for it. They walked to the new part of the house and put their swords on the table again. Connor placed the candle next to the swords, then sat on the rug in front of the fire and leaned back against a chair.

She sat down on the floor facing him. "This brings back memories," she commented, her face outlined by firelight.

Connor laughed softly, but not happily. "Doesn't everything?"

"Yes," she agreed, after a moment. "Everything does. But this is a happy memory."

His mouth twitched. "Is it?"

"Yes," she said, staring straight at him. "It is for me. One of the happiest memories I have." When he did not respond, she blinked quickly. "Things weren't all bad between us," she said softly, in a plea for reassurance.

Connor only looked at her. The good times between them had been lies. Her lies.

Cassandra looked away from him then, and set her cup down on the hearth. She stared at the pattern on the rug, her fingers pleating and unpleating the fabric of her dress.

He shifted position and set his cup down on the hearth. "Donan Woods are gone now, you know."

"All of them?" she asked in surprise. At his nod, she exhaled slowly. "Is the spring gone, too?"

"I couldn't find it when I looked." Her eyes were dark in the firelight, and he suddenly remembered the time they had been in the spring, remembered the feel of her joined with him, naked and wet in his arms, her head thrown back, her long hair trailing in the water, snowflakes sparkling on her breasts. He stood up quickly and added a log to the fire, then sat down in the chair farthest from her.

Cassandra hugged her knees to her chest, then put her forehead to her knees so that her face was hidden from him.

Connor wondered what was bothering her so much that she could not rely on her usual mask of composure. He said abruptly, "Tell me about the Voice, Cassandra."

She lifted her head slowly. "What about it?"

He had seen how it worked, and he did not want another demonstration. He wanted to know what she had done with it, who else she had used. "Did you ever use it on Ramirez?"

"No." Her voice was flat and toneless.

"Have you used it on me before?" he demanded.

She shifted to a kneeling position on the floor in front of him, sitting back on her heels. "No."

He made himself ask the next question, needing to know. "Not when we went to bed together? The first time?"

She shook her head. "No."

"Or later?" he persisted.

"No, Connor." She looked up at him and shook her head again. "I have never used the Voice on you before today."

Connor nodded slowly to himself. She probably hadn't used the Voice. She hadn't needed to. She had other ways to get him to do what she wanted. Except, perhaps ...? "Not even when I killed you?"

She smiled bitterly. "No."

Connor looked away from her, still unwilling to believe that he could strangle a woman, that he could enjoy it, that he could be like Roland in this. Then again, she had lied to him before. Many times. He stared at her intently. "Why should I believe you?"

Cassandra took a breath, then stared at the fire. "Because it's the truth. Because the Voice is secret. Because there are other ways to influence people, the same ways that you know and use." She looked into his eyes again. "Because to use the Voice is to feel such power, such control, that you can lose yourself in it, and the beast can come forth and destroy you. And I am frightened of that beast in me, Connor. I dare not let it loose." She looked down at her hands and flexed her fingers.

"Roland," Connor said.

"Roland," she agreed wearily. "The power of the Voice is seductive, addictive, compelling. To know you can make others do whatever you wish them to ..." Her hands held tight to each other. "Roland could not resist such power. There was nothing to stop the beast in him." She shook her head. "I should never have taught him. It destroyed him."

Connor leaned over and reached for his coffee on the hearth. "Don't start that again."

She looked up sharply. "Start what?"

"Start the 'It's all my fault' bit. How could you have known that Roland couldn't handle it? Learning the Voice didn't destroy you." Roland had done that. Or almost done that. He wasn't quite sure.

"I should have," she started, "I should have seen ..."

"Grow up, Cassandra," he said, trying to keep the exasperation out of his voice. "And let Roland grow up, too."

She turned her head slowly to look at him, her irritation betrayed by her studied movement. "What do you mean 'Grow up'? You are not even five hundred years old; who do you think you are?"

"Someone who knows a guilt trip when he sees one." She really didn't see it. Roland had done a very thorough job on her. And I helped, Connor thought ruefully. The coffee had grown cold; he set it down on the small table between the chairs. "You didn't make him do those things. Roland decided to do what he did, just like you decided to do what you did."

"I didn't decide. I had no choice," she insisted.

"Yes, you did, Cassandra. You just won't admit it. The things you do, for whatever reason you do them, prophecy or no prophecy, are the things you choose to do."

"No." She did not believe him.

Connor stood up and poured himself another whisky. He wasn't good at this sort of thing, and she needed a lot more help than he could give. If only Sean Burns.... He shook himself and sat down on the floor once more, closer to her. "Cassandra, you have been using people and lying to people for so long that you don't even realize when you're lying to yourself."

"I don't--"

"Yes, you do," Connor insisted. "You use people and you lie to them. And you know it. How did you make Ian take Duncan and banish Margaret? What did you say to Ramirez to make him go to Scotland with you? What about Aileen becoming the witch of Donan Woods? And I'm sure there are more."

Cassandra thought back. "I didn't mean to hurt them," she said finally, staring at the rug again.

"No," Connor allowed grudgingly. "And you may not have used the Voice, but you used them." He set the glass down on the hearth and continued, wanting her to see, wanting her to admit what she had done. "Just as you used me." He reached out and took her by the chin, making her look at him. "Why did you take me as a student?" He paused, but he forced himself to ask the next question. "As a lover?"

Cassandra started to speak, then stopped and looked down.

Connor breathed out slowly and let go of her, then rubbed his hand on his leg. So it was true. He had sometimes wondered, when he was very drunk or very tired, if maybe some of their time together hadn't been a lie. He had thought of the way she had looked at him sometimes, the way she had smiled at him and listened to him, the way she had touched him, had made love to him, had sung to him. He hadn't wanted to believe that she could have lied to him so thoroughly, that he could have been such a fool. But she had lied, and he had been a fool. Connor shook his head in annoyance. It had been a long time ago, and he was past it now. At least, he finally knew why she had been so interested in Duncan, why she had pretended to be interested in him.

"You use people, Cassandra," he repeated coldly. "You use them, and you lie to them." He looked straight at her, careful to keep his face calm and expressionless. "And you do hurt them. Can you not see that?"

He could tell she didn't want to see it, that she didn't want to see him. She turned her head away and said, "But it isn't my fault."

Connor heroically resisted the urge to knock her silly head against a wall. "Cassandra." He waited until she looked at him again. "Grow--up." He took the candle with him and left her sitting there by the fire.

~~~~~

Cassandra did not look up when she heard him return over an hour later. She sat by the fire, her head down. She felt very tired. She saw Connor sit down on the rug once more and lean back against the chair, but she ignored him and rubbed at her cheeks with her hands, wiping away the marks of her tears.

"What did you want to talk to me about, Cassandra?"

She looked up at the sound of his voice. His feet were bare, and he wore a gray sweat-suit instead of the blood-stained shirt and sweater and dirty pants. Cassandra realized he must have showered, too; his hair was damp and stood straight up, as if he had rubbed it dry with a towel, and he smelled of soap instead of horse and blood. She looked down again. "Talk?" Her voice was brittle.

"You said you came here to talk to me. So talk."

Not the most gracious invitation, but at least he was listening. "I wanted ... I wanted to see you, to talk to you, to tell you ..." Cassandra stopped, unnerved by his steady gaze. She knew she deserved his mistrust. She knew she deserved his anger and his hate. She had lied to him and used him, and she knew she had hurt him. He had been too angry to listen to her in Aberdeen, but she hoped he would listen now. She had to try.

She took a deep breath. "You asked me earlier tonight why I took you on as a student. There were--several reasons." Connor was still looking at her steadily, waiting. She continued, "It was partly because of Ramirez; I knew he had planned on staying with you for a few years, and I felt I owed it to him to finish your training." She paused briefly, looking down at the rug. Ramirez would have been a better teacher than she had been. "Also, I didn't want you to leave so soon. I had been alone in the cottage for a very long time." And alone even longer before that.

She looked straight at Connor now. This last reason wasn't easy to admit. "And, finally, I needed you to teach Duncan, and I knew that if you had been my student, then it would be easier for me to convince you to teach him. And, when the time came, it would be easier for me to convince Duncan to help me."

Connor sat silent for a moment, thinking, then asked, "Why didn't you want to be Duncan's teacher?"

She did not want to answer that, but she must. "I'm not ..." She looked at the rug again and shook her head. "I'm not ... a very good teacher. I didn't want ... to ruin him, the way I ruined Roland and ... and Celia." She glanced at him briefly, then interlaced her fingers tightly and stared at her empty hands. Her voice was soft. "The way I almost ruined you."

Connor did not respond to that.

She clasped her hands together and looked at him again. This part was even harder. "And you asked me--why I took you as a lover."

His face has been calm and composed before, but now it was very still, and very watchful.

She spoke slowly, choosing her words with care. "We were both so lonely, Connor." She knew he understood that better now. "I thought we could be together, for a time at least. And, at the beginning, I was fond of you. Later, it was more than just fondness. I did care for you. And," she allowed her gaze to travel over him quickly before looking in his eyes again, "I did want you." She smiled briefly, remembering. "It was hard for me to wait as long as I did." She spoke seriously now, knowing he needed to hear this. "You were--and you are--a very attractive man, Connor."

Connor shrugged impatiently. His voice was sarcastic. "And ...?"

Cassandra ignored his reaction. "I did want you," she repeated, "and what was between us wasn't just because of Duncan." Under his unwavering cold stare, she flushed and admitted, "Yes, I wanted you to be Duncan's teacher. And, yes, I lied to you to get you to do that." He was still staring at her. Cassandra knew that was not all. She had admitted it to herself; she had to admit it to him. "And, yes, I knew that if we were lovers, it would be easier for me to convince you to teach him."

"Why didn't you tell me this before, when I asked you earlier tonight?" He seemed almost angry now.

"I ..." She stopped and said slowly, "Because you were right. Even though I cared for you, even though I didn't mean to ..." She blinked rapidly, then shook her head and looked at him again. "You were right. I lied to you, I used you, and I hurt you." She whispered, "And I'm sorry."

Connor showed no satisfaction at her admission, no change of expression.

Cassandra swallowed painfully and went on, "And I had taught you not to trust me, so you didn't believe me in Aberdeen when I told you that I cared about you." She looked at him sadly, wishing with all her heart she had not taught him that way, knowing there was nothing she could do to change it. But maybe she could change this. "But I wasn't lying then, Connor. I wasn't just using you; I was fond of you; I did care for you." And I still do, she thought, but she did not dare say it. She did not want him to think that she was trying to come between him and his wife. She looked away from him and twisted her hands together nervously in her lap.

She finally gathered the courage to look at him again. He was gazing at the fire, and she saw the remembered pain in his eyes. Finally, he shook his head and ran his hand through his hair, then looked over at her. She deliberately let her feelings show, hard though it was to take off the mask. She allowed all of her sadness and desperate hope to show in her eyes, knowing this was her last chance to reach him.

Connor stared at her for a moment, then gave her a short single nod.

Cassandra closed her eyes and felt some of the tension drain away. She felt no relief and no joy, but at least he believed her. Maybe now she could ask him; maybe now he might forgive her.

Connor's voice was impatient. "Was there anything else you wanted to tell me, Cassandra?"

There was, but she was afraid to ask. Her hands were trembling and she pressed them together in her lap.

He asked her suspiciously, "Is Roland chasing you?"

She gave a small laugh. "No more than usual."

"Then what are you frightened of?" She did not answer, and he leaned forward and looked at her closely. "When was the last time you slept?"

She glanced involuntarily at the couch and flushed.

"I mean really slept," Connor said.

"I don't sleep well when I travel," she said. "I don't know, maybe Thursday." She suddenly realized that it was Saturday night, and she hadn't really eaten or slept in two days. No wonder she had gotten so drunk.

Connor was still watching her. "If Roland isn't after you right now, what are you frightened of?"

She still couldn't bring herself to ask him. Not yet. "It's just that ... I've waited so long, Connor. If Duncan should lose ..."

"Duncan's good," Connor said reassuringly.

"Yes, but Roland can.... If the prophecy turns out that way ..." She shrugged hopelessly. "There will be nothing to stop Roland." She had survived this long only because she knew that it might someday be over.

"I'll stop him." Connor's voice was coldly determined. "If he kills Duncan, I will be more than happy to kill him. You teach me to resist the Voice, and I will go after Roland."

She nodded, but did not take her eyes off him.

"What else are you frightened of?" Connor repeated, his voice showing irritation.

She couldn't put it off any longer. She said simply, "You."

Connor leaned back and nodded slightly.

She could tell he liked to hear her say that. He liked having power over her, especially now he knew she had the power of the Voice over him. "I came here partly to ask you to let me go to Duncan."

He nodded again, and she continued, "And I came because I didn't ... I don't want to die with you still angry with me. I wanted you ... I wanted ..." She closed her eyes briefly and took a deep breath, then said, "I wanted to ask you to forgive me."

Connor said nothing, merely waited.

Cassandra took another deep breath. He wasn't going to make it easy for her, was he? She tucked her legs under her and knelt back on her heels, turning toward him. Her hands lay open on the tops of her thighs, empty, waiting. She bowed her head formally, adopting the posture of supplication. For one brief hysterical moment she thought of starting with the words of the confessional, "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned," but she didn't think Connor would appreciate that very much.

She looked up at him, forcing herself to meet his eyes. "Connor, I am sorry for ... for what I have done." She took another breath and tried to force her voice to smoothness. She failed. "I am sorry for the things I did to you, for the way I used you, for all the times I lied to you." That covered a lot of ground, but she didn't think going into details would help. "I am sorry for hurting you." She knew she had, even if he would never admit it to her. She swallowed hard, and she could not bring herself to look at him anymore. "I am asking you to forgive me."
 
 

Connor watched her carefully. This was definitely not the Cassandra he remembered. He didn't trust the old Cassandra, and he didn't trust this new Cassandra, either. What game was she playing now? What was she looking to gain by this show of remorse? He had already told her she could go to Duncan, and he had said that he would kill Roland if Duncan didn't. He had told her that he believed her when she said she had cared for him. What else could she want from him? How was she trying to use him this time?

She was still kneeling before him, her head down, her only movement the slight rise and fall of her breasts and the trembling of her hair. Connor remembered her kneeling on the ground in the garden earlier that day, retching into the grass. That had not been an act. And neither had her tears when she cried herself to sleep in his arms. She had fooled him long ago, but he had had a great deal of experience in judging people since then. She hadn't been lying earlier today. In aqua vitae, veritas, Connor thought wryly.

And she hadn't been lying a few minutes before when she had told him that she had cared for him. He had watched her closely then for the signs of lying he knew so well, and he had seen none of them. She hadn't looked away from him before she started talking. She hadn't watched him after she spoke, waiting to see if he believed her. She hadn't been calm and composed. She wasn't lying to him tonight, and she hadn't lied to him in Aberdeen. She had cared about him a little, in her own warped convoluted way, even if what she had really wanted had been Duncan.

He looked away from her and stared at the fire, feeling nothing but weariness. He felt no satisfaction, no relief, no lessening of pain in that very old wound. The scars were still there. The walls were still there. Connor's mouth tightened in annoyance, and he shook his head.

When he turned back to her, she was still kneeling, still waiting. Definitely not the old Cassandra. The old Cassandra hadn't waited for him like this. The old Cassandra lied. The old Cassandra never revealed anything; she always kept her feelings and her thoughts carefully hidden and controlled. Except for that time in Aberdeen, he realized, and that night in Donan Woods. She had lost her control then. In Aberdeen she had shown him some of the simmering rage she carried within her, and in Donan Woods she had let her guilt control her.

He had seen the reasons for that rage and that guilt today, and her reasons for using him. He had seen a lot of things he had never seen before. This new Cassandra had opened her soul to him, and she had told him the truth. Perhaps his forgiveness was truly the only thing she wanted from him.

But he would not give it to her. He could still feel her claw marks on his soul where she had ripped all trust away from him. He knew that no matter how much he loved Alex and John, or even Duncan, he would never fully, completely trust them. There would always be a part of him that was walled off, hidden and untouchable. Cassandra had scarred his heart, and it would never heal.

But she had been wounded, too, and her wounds were open and bleeding, ulcerated and festering. He had wanted power over her, and she had given it to him. She had given him her sword, then she had given him her story, the shameful terrible story she had kept close inside her all these years. She had given him her soul, and he had no doubt that if he gave the slightest hint that he wanted it, she would give him her body as well. And now she was giving him the chance to destroy her. He knew he could flay her soul the way she had flayed his. He could hurt her in a way that would finish the work that Roland had begun. He could have her weeping at his feet, the way he had wanted to do in Donan Woods so many years ago.

He looked at her as she knelt on the floor in front of him. Her breathing was slow, her eyes focused on her empty open hands in her lap. She was waiting for him.

Connor stood up, then moved silently to kneel in front of her. Her eyes were closed now, and her hands were clenched. He realized with a sudden pang that she had thought he was leaving when he had stood up. She thought she was waiting, silent and alone, for something that would never come. He laid his hands on top of hers, feeling her start in surprise as her eyes snapped open. He gently opened her fists and took her cold hands in his.

"I accept your apology, Cassandra," he said softly, and he smiled at her, allowing the smile to reach his eyes. Connor didn't want to be like Roland in any way, and he didn't want to hurt Cassandra more. At least, not right now. He still had that power over her, and he could use it later if he chose.

He gripped her hands strongly now, and Cassandra returned the pressure to the point of pain. She blinked back tears and tried to smile.

"Still scared?" he asked.

She started to shake her head, then stopped and admitted, "A little." She let go of his hands and shrugged. "But there's nothing to be done about that." An enormous yawn came over her.

Connor sat back a little and said, "The couch folds out into a bed. Do you want to sleep here?"

"I suppose," Cassandra said, "but I can sleep on the floor, in front of the fire." She tried again to smile. "A happy memory."

He nodded and started to rise, but her voice stopped him.

"Connor ...?"

He paused, easing into a comfortable squatting position next to her.

"I don't ... I don't want to be alone." She looked at him quickly, desperately. "I've been alone so long. Can I ... can I ask you to stay with me tonight?" He could see the word did not come easily to her, but she managed it. "Please?"

Connor regarded her evenly, seeing in her and knowing in himself the immense loneliness of Immortality.

She added simply, "I would like you to stay with me, Connor."

She was asking for him now, was she? That was a change. But she wasn't wearing her usual mask of composure, and Connor saw and heard--and remembered--her pain. He nodded shortly. "I'll stay." He stood up and lit another candle from the one on the table. "I brought your bag in from your car. It's in the kitchen."

"Thank you," she said, her voice surprised and a little uncertain.

He nodded once, then stood and left the room, the candle in his hand.
 
 

Cassandra watched him go into the hallway and listened to his footsteps on the stairs. She looked at the fire for a moment, remembering his words. He hadn't forgiven her, but he had accepted her apology. Perhaps he didn't hate her so completely anymore.

She sighed and rubbed her face with her hands, then carried her sword and the candle and walked to the bathroom. She showered and washed her hair quickly, then put on leggings and an oversize sweatshirt and braided her still-wet hair. She didn't want Connor to misinterpret her request for him to stay with her. She knew he would be totally faithful to Alex, as he had been faithful to Heather. Connor was a man of his word.

When she got back to the new part of the house, Connor was making up a bed with pillows and a pallet of blankets on the floor in front of the fire. His sword was one of the chairs; she placed her sword on the other chair and knelt down on the floor.

Connor glanced at her, then blew out his candle and moved to the side of the pallet farthest from the fire. He looked at the other side of the pallet and then at her, a silent invitation.

Cassandra blinked in surprise. She had thought he would sleep on the couch while she slept on the floor. She blew out her candle and eased into position next to him, being careful not to touch him. She pulled a blanket up over her, for the air was chill. "Thank you, Connor."

He shrugged and lay down on his back, his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. He did not reach for a blanket.

Cassandra stared at him in the flickering light. He looked so sullen in repose, so unapproachable. So alone. The other expressions she had seen on his face today were polite disinterest, watchfulness, cold anger, and a fierce predatory elation. It was only when his face and his eyes lightened with one of his very rare smiles that his warmth and humor and caring showed at all. That was the real Connor, the Connor she remembered.

But nothing in the Highlands was as she remembered. When he had told her the Donan Woods were gone, she had hidden her face from him, unwilling to look at him, unwilling to see just what else she had lost, for Connor was gone from her, too. She had been such a fool, to squander the reality of the man in Connor for the promise of a champion in Duncan. It had not been worth it.

And now she saw, with sudden agonized realization, that she wasn't the only one who had lost Connor; he had lost himself. The real Connor was the Connor who laughed and loved and cared, and that was the Connor she had used and lied to and killed and almost destroyed.

But he had a family now. He had people he loved and trusted, a wife and a son, and he would soon be a father again. She hadn't destroyed him completely. She clung to that. He hadn't listened to her earlier tonight when they were eating, but maybe he would listen to her now. "Connor?" she asked softly.

He turned his head slightly and looked at her.

"I truly am glad that you have a family now, that you have people you trust."

He turned away from her and stared at the ceiling again.

Cassandra tried again. "I didn't know..., I didn't mean to ..." She said in desperate explanation, "I only did what I thought was necessary to teach you to survive."

"Survive," he said, in a low voice, "but not live."

"But, by surviving, you can have a chance to live again." As she remembered the Lady's words to her from so long ago, Cassandra felt the tears well up again. She turned away from him in frustration and embarrassment. Not more tears. She was tired of tears, and she knew that Connor was tired of them, too. She was tired of it all, but she couldn't stop now.

She dashed the tears away with her hand and turned back to Connor. "I am--so very sorry, Connor. I never meant for you to be so alone."

After a moment, he turned on his side and propped his head up on his hand. "You said it was a hard life, Cassandra, and it is. If you hadn't taught me, someone else would have. As someone taught you." He shrugged. "It's not all your fault."

She nodded slowly, relieved to hear him say it. Then, greatly daring, she reached over to him and took his hand in her own and held it. "Thank you," she said again.

He returned the pressure of her hand and lay back down and closed his eyes, but did not try to remove his hand.

Cassandra fell asleep quickly then, comforted by the warmth of his hand on hers.

~~~~~

She woke in the morning by the ashes of the dead fire. Connor was not there. She folded the blankets and put them on the couch, then picked up her sword from the chair.

She stopped at the doorway of the kitchen and actually looked at the room for the first time. The far wall had a modern refrigerator, stove, and sink, but the floor was of flagstone and there were smoke-darkened beams in the ceiling. A large stone fireplace was to her right. The yellow paint on the walls and the shining copper pans hanging above the stove were probably Alex's touch. The muddy sneakers and the baseball glove on the floor in the corner were definitely John's.

Connor was at the stove, stirring something with a wooden spoon. He was still in his sweat-suit, and he wore white running shoes. He nodded when he saw her, but did not speak.

She set her sword next to his on the kitchen table and sniffed the air. "Porridge for breakfast?" she asked.

Connor gave his quick grin. "Och, weel, ye are in the Highlands."

It was good to see him smile, even if it was only about porridge. She tried to smile back, then made coffee. While it was brewing, Cassandra excused herself to brush her hair and change. She knew she would be traveling today, so instead of a dress she put on black jeans and a midnight-blue sweater embroidered with an intricate pattern of silver thread. She unbraided her hair; it flowed down her back in rippling waves.

Connor was watering some plants on the windowsill. He glanced up as she entered the room. "Did you make that?" he asked, nodding towards her sweater.

"I don't make clothes," she said flatly, then went to pour them both coffee. She hadn't made anything since that day in Aberdeen. She could tell that Connor was surprised at her response, but he said nothing, merely finished watering the flowers and put breakfast on the table.

Cassandra put his coffee in front of him and sat down on the other side of the table, then looked at the bowl. She was not fond of porridge, but it did not matter. All food tasted the same. She poured milk in her bowl and started to eat.

Connor salted his porridge and took a few bites, then set his spoon down and asked abruptly, "What else can you tell me about Roland?"

Cassandra did not bother to look up. She spoke in an even voice. "He's vicious and vain, arrogant and impatient." He was also insanely jealous, but that was not something Cassandra wanted to talk about. "He likes power, being in control." She glanced up and saw Connor nod at that, and her mouth twisted. Many people, like Roland and the Four Horsemen and even Connor, saw power as a pinnacle to be scaled, but Cassandra knew power was a pit where you could drown yourself in blood. The Voice was unusually powerful, and its path into the pit was very steep. Roland had walked into that pit long ago.

Cassandra took a drink of coffee, grimacing at the bitter taste, but welcoming it all the same. "He can't use the Voice and fight very well at the same time. He's a coward; he avoids fighting Immortals, at least experienced ones. He will go after young ones. And students." She paused briefly. "He hates children and animals, and he likes to inflict pain." She closed her eyes for a moment, trying not to remember, then looked straight at Connor. "He smiles when he hurts you."

Connor was not smiling at all.

Cassandra sipped at her coffee again, then continued. "He likes to make his victims wait, wondering what he will do next." She pressed her lips together. "He sends me letters from time to time, letting me know that he knows where I am. Lately, this century, he started using the telephone, or sending pictures."

Connor did not ask what the pictures were. "So, he's been tracking you closely these last few centuries."

"Yes. It's gotten easier to track people, with the better communication and travel. And credit cards and computers. I've stayed on Holy Ground, and I've moved around a lot since World War II--the Philippines, Australia, Borneo." She stared at the pasty brownish porridge in her bowl. "He must not realize that I know who the Highland Foundling is, or he wouldn't just be sending me letters when he finds me."

Connor reached over to touch her hand briefly, making her look at him. "Would you have gone to Duncan, Cassandra, if I hadn't told you not to?"

She blinked. "I might have." She thought about it for a moment. "I would have," she admitted.

Connor said nothing, but regarded her with a steady even stare, one eyebrow raised inquiringly.

Cassandra thought about it, then nodded to herself slowly. "And then Roland would have followed me, and found Duncan before he was ready. And Roland would have killed him." She stared at her porridge again, not wanting to see the self-satisfied expression she suspected was on Connor's face. Oh, yes, she would have gone to Duncan. She would not have been able to stop herself. She almost had gone to him, several times, and only the memory of Connor's words had stopped her. The Goddess truly works in mysterious ways, she thought wryly.

Connor asked, "When was the last time you saw Roland?"

"The last time?" She looked out the window into the garden. Last night's rain had battered the plants outside. "It was in Aberdeen." She looked at him again. "About an hour after the last time I saw you." She stirred her coffee absently. "When I sensed another Immortal, I thought it was you, coming back." She set down her spoon carefully and precisely next to her cup.

"It wasn't." She had lifted her sword to defend herself, but defense alone doesn't work very well for very long. He had disarmed her, then started using his hands. His first blow had broken her wrist; his second had broken her nose.

Connor had nothing to say to that.

"It wasn't too bad that time," Cassandra continued in a light brittle tone. That was the truth, wasn't it? Compared to some of the other times, it really hadn't been that bad. "I managed to escape after three days, and he didn't kill anybody else in front of me." Just the kitten.

But Connor had wanted the whole story, hadn't he? He had insisted on the whole story. Fine. He could hear it. She stared into Connor's eyes, wanting him to see her. "Roland only had time to strangle me three times, and to beat me to death once." Beating an Immortal to death took skill. The blows needed to come often enough and hard enough so that healing could not keep up with the pace of the blows. Roland had mastered that technique over the centuries. He had also destroyed every plant in the garden, smashed the harp, and burned the painting of Loch Shiel. "He raped me four times." She continued staring at Connor. "Or was it five? Funny, I can't quite remember."

But that was a lie. She could remember, very well. She could remember the feel of the wrinkled sheets beneath her, where her scent had mingled with Connor's, and then with Roland's. She could remember the savage gentleness of Roland's whisper in her ear as he broke all of her fingers while he asked about her lover who had just left. She could remember the precise feel of his fingertips on her thighs, the stench of singed fur, the color of his shirt, the rasping sound of his knife as he hacked off her hair, and the taste of her blood. And she had said she wasn't going to lie to Connor anymore. "No, I do remember. It was five."

It was his turn to look away. She knew he had not really wanted to hear.

After a few moments, she asked casually, "So, what have you been doing these last few centuries?"

"Don't you know?" he asked sardonically.

"Not really, Connor. Do you know how much surveillance costs?" She shook her head ruefully. "It's a good thing that this part has lasted only four hundred years." A very good thing. She didn't think she could have lasted much longer, and her money was almost gone. Cassandra continued, "I know you were at sea, and then I lost track of you for a time. You were in France, and you spent most of the last century in New York City."

He shrugged slightly and took another bite.

"So--what have you been doing?" she repeated.

"Surviving."

Obviously. But she needed to know more. "Have you--met the Kurgan?" she asked cautiously.

He nodded slowly.

She let out a small sigh of relief; so her vision had not foretold his death. "It seems the outcome of that fight is obvious," she said lightly.

He snorted. "Now." At her continued silence, Connor looked up from his bowl of porridge. "What?" he demanded, tilting his head and narrowing his eyes.

Her lips tightened and then she said, "I saw you, in the flames. You were on the ground before him, weaponless." She raised her eyes to him then, questioning.

He stared back at her, remembering that brutal fight. "I was."

"So." She picked up her coffee. "I did not see how you could survive. I thought it meant your death."

"It should have," he said shortly. "There was a friend there." Then his eyes narrowed again as he realized what Cassandra had said. "You saw it in the flames," he repeated.

Her mouth tightened, and she looked down at the table. "Yes."

"In Donan Woods."

"Yes."

"And you told me you saw nothing."

"Yes," she admitted, looking at him now, knowing he was angry again. "I lied to you. But would you have wanted to know? Would you have wanted to carry that image with you? Waiting, wondering when it would happen? Knowing, and believing, that you would die at his hand?" She shook her head. "Would you really have wanted such a vision from the witch of Donan Woods to haunt you so?" she asked, using the title to remind him of those days of whispered legends and curses, of his own beliefs and superstitions.

He was not willing to admit she had a valid point. "Did you ever tell me the truth about anything?" he said curtly.

Cassandra took a deep breath. Many things had been the truth between them. Just not all of the truth. "When we were in the pool, I said I wished things could be different between us. And it was the truth." And it was still the truth, and it was too late. She watched as Connor set down his coffee cup very gently, and she knew by his careful control that he was angry at her once again. She knew he had thought then that she had been referring to their Immortality, to the lack of trust in their lives. She had meant something much different than that. Before Duncan had even been born.

He looked straight at her. "And it was a lie when I said it wasn't your fault."

That hurt, but it was true. She nodded slowly, accepting the responsibility. "You're right, Connor. It is my fault. And I'm sorry for it." More sorry than she had ever thought she would be.

After a long moment, Connor said quietly, "So am I."

They finished breakfast in silence, and she prepared to leave.

Connor picked up his sword, and they went out the back door of the house. The air was rain-washed and cool, the sky gray and cloudy. Cassandra walked quickly, stepping over the twigs and branches that littered the path. Connor had stopped to look at some plant, and she waited impatiently for him by the gate in the wall.

They walked to the car together. Cassandra put her bag and her sword in the car and turned to him. "I would ask something else of you, Connor."

Connor waited, his face politely indifferent.

"If ... if Roland wins against Duncan, then after I teach you to resist the Voice, before you challenge him ...," she paused, then finished quickly before she lost her nerve, "I want you to take my head." She saw his start of surprise; he had obviously not been expecting her to ask for that.

He looked her up and down, then asked calmly, "Why?"

"If you were to lose, too, I would rather be dead by your hand than alive with Roland." She shuddered. "And he would find me eventually. I know that." She glanced at the katana, tucked close by his side, and bowed. "I ask you to be my second in this, to ensure that I die with honor." She stood very straight in front of him, trying not to let her fear show.

Connor shook his head.

Her voice dropped to a tortured whisper. "Please."

"No." Connor looked at her compassionately but firmly. "If you die, then no one would know how to stop Roland. Your death has no honor if your task is not completed."

Cassandra stood rigid. He was right, but he had just condemned her to a living never-ending hell. No, she corrected herself despairingly, she had condemned herself. Long ago.

Cassandra closed her eyes in bitter acceptance. In the long lonely centuries, she had not dared to look beyond the fulfillment of the prophecy. If Roland survived ... She opened her eyes and looked across the loch at the white-tipped peaks. They were barren and cold and very far away. She said in tired resignation, "'Death and life are not the same; the one is annihilation, the other keeps a place for hope.'"

"Euripides," Connor said, identifying the author. "You know that play well."

She shook her head and blinked back tears. "I lived that play." And she had kept no place for hope in her life. But it was her fault; it was her responsibility. It was her choice. She took a deep breath and bowed again.

Connor returned the bow formally. As she got in the car, he said, "Don't worry, Cassandra. Duncan will win."

"I hope so." Cassandra started the engine, then looked at him with ancient eyes. "I truly hope so."