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muttered to himself, putting some more fuel on the fire and pulling his coat
     more tightly around his body. But in spite of the climate, MacLeod knew he did not want to be in Scotland.
    With thoughts of home, the floodgates of memories opened and refused to be shut again. If he could not stop the memories,
     he could at least control them, he thought grimly, fixing with determination on the happier times of his life. He saw again
     the faces of his mother and father, of the clan in which he had been raised—of Debra Campbell, the girl he had loved and once
     hoped to marry. It was all so long ago, and they were all dead now. He had seen so much death.
    It was true he had been raised to be a warrior, in the Highland clan where fighting was as much a part of life as eating,
     sleeping, or making love. He’d had a sword in his hand almost from the time he could walk, the wooden ones of childhood soon
     enough replaced by blades of forged steel. Highland weapons were not weapons of grace or style, but of power, and Duncan MacLeod’s
     strong arms had quickly learned to wield them well.
    Like the other Highland clans, the MacLeods were a proud people, fierce in their independence. They fought each other in duels
     of honor; they fought other clans out of blood-feuds or for the lands and possessions needed to survive; and sometimes, if
     the cause was great enough, the clans put aside their differences and fought against the common foe—the English.
    Though the Scots, as a people, fought most fiercely to keep their dreams alive, Duncan had no such illusions. In truth, he
     had few illusions anymore. He tried to fight only when he must and to choose his battles carefully, but too few other Immortals
     lived by the same code. When they came, he had to take their heads to survive. He was nearing his two hundredth birthday,
     and it felt as if killing and death were all his life held anymore.
    That was the Game, and he was tired of it. He was sick of being Immortal. He wanted peace.
    Enough
, Duncan thought.
Enough—I’ll remember no more
. Other names, other faces, a hundred different times and places still clamored for attention.
    Mortal man was not meant to have so many memories
, Duncan thought, then he shook his head in the darkness. He was not mortal; he was Immortal, and the burden of memories was
     one of the costs he carried.
    It’s all this bloody silence
, his thoughts continued.
It might serve for monks or hermits, but not for me
.
    This thought, too, brought a wave of memories—of BrotherPaul and his monastery, Holy Ground where Immortals could rest. Duncan had stayed there for a time and had quickly realized
     he would never be called to the religious life.
    Even the monastery had not been as silent as the mountains of Tibet. Along with the inevitable noise humans made, there had
     been music, beautiful, glorious music. Duncan knew that a singing voice was not among his strongest attributes but a song,
     even from him, would banish the silence for a time and, he hoped, quiet the memories.
    He began to sing, lifting his voice in old folk tunes he had learned as a child.
    “As I gaed doon by Strichen toon,
    I heard a fair maid mournin’
    And she was making sair complaint
    for her true love ne’er returnin’
.
    Sae fare ye weel, ye Mormond Braes,
    where oft-times I’ve been cheery;
    O fare ye weel, ye Mormond Braes,
    for it’s there I lost my dearie….
”
    A few feet away, the horses blew and stomped nervously at the sudden noise. Duncan chuckled.
    “It’s not as bad as all that,” he told them as he rose from his seat by the fire and went to reassure them. The songs had
     done their trick, however, and Duncan felt once more in control of his thoughts. Still humming, more quietly now, he banked
     the fire and crawled inside his tent, ready to welcome the mini-oblivion of sleep.
    Two more days of riding down mountain trails and Duncan was heartily sick of the sound of his own voice. He talked to the