Those last three words chilled Alfredo from the inside out. How many times had he used that phrase to travelers? His eyes locked with Gabriel’s and he felt they were reflecting on the same idea: every last man or woman who had been charged with attempting to pervert the timeline was sentenced to death, and every one of those sentences had been handed down by Alfredo himself.
“Gabriel,” Alfredo whispered to his one-time protégé. “She will destroy everything you have ever loved. I am begging you, let this go. Please don’t be my Judas.”
His hurt mixed with anger as Gabriel gave a disgusted snort, shaking his head violently.
“You betrayed us, Alfredo. Over and over again. Whoever this is,” he jerked his head at Shannan, who was staring off into space. “She isn’t your concern any longer.” He gave one forceful blink, then slid his eyes over his shoulder. “Lock him in a cell, Comandante, with four guards posted outside.”
A flurry of hands pawed at Alfredo, clamping down on his arms, shoving him forward, pushing him out into the hall. As he struggled against them, Alfredo turned his neck as far as it would go, trying to look back into the cell. He only got a glimpse, one fleeting look, of Gabriel Ruiz standing alone in the cell with Shannan—the girl who knew everything about him, the one who could bring this whole world crashing down. The girl he had just injected with infallible truth serum.
***
Over the years, Gabriel had become well-acquainted with the flaws in Alfredo’s personality. He was arrogant of course, self-righteous, more than a little hypocritical. But as he looked at the tawny-haired girl in the chair, specifically the mottled purpling finger-shaped bruises around her neck, he was ashamed he had never seen a capacity for violence in his leader. Former leader.
“Miss?” He maintained his position at the far end of the room, not wanting to frighten her out of her daze. “My name is Gabriel Ruiz, and I am acting president of Jaramillo-Diaz Travel and Compliance. I am going to remove the ties around your wrists.”
He spoke softly and in English to help put her at ease. Seated as she was, the inmate smock that was obviously several sizes too small barely covered her essentials, and she sat in an awkward, embarrassed pose. As he slowly approached her, he could see that she was shaking slightly and had goose bumps all over her legs and arms. His immediate instinct was to comfort her, to assure her everything would be all right, perhaps wrap his arms around her, warming the trembles away. But Alfredo’s warning, self-serving though it was, gave him pause. She was certainly young, and her freckles gave the impression of innocence, but it would remain to be seen whether she was dangerous.
Gabriel pulled a Leatherman out of his pocket and snapped out the cutting tool. Kneeling down in front of the girl, he reached over to cut the flex-cuffs from around her wrist. Her shaking increased and she turned her face away from him.
“It’s all right. You’re safe with me; I’m just going to remove your restraints. Are you in pain?”
“No, I’m just embarrassed because of this outfit and you’re so handsome.”
Her forthright answer caused his brow to lower in confusion. Such blunt honesty generally did not accompany embarrassment. Had Alfredo…? No, surely he wouldn’t.
Placing the Leatherman on the girl’s lap, Gabriel reached out with his right hand and gently, tenderly, turned the girl’s face back towards him, displaying the small puncture wound in her neck and a thin trickle of blood half dried onto her skin. Damnit.
“Alfredo gave you an injection?”
“Yes. I think it was truth serum.” Her voice took on a resigned tone.
He sighed, casting his eyes downward in utter annoyance at his gullibility. He gave her Tell-All. It was the only explanation. Alfredo wasn’t keeping this girl sequestered out of some danger she posed; it was because she had information he wanted. So many lies…
“What is your name?” he asked softly as he picked up the Leatherman from her legs, cutting the flex cuffs from both her wrists.
“Shannan Fitzroy.”
He nodded, careful to maintain eye contact, rather than letting his gaze drift down to her bare legs. “From what year have you come?”
“2073.”
He nodded, folding the Leatherman back into his pocket. So she was really a front-jumper. That much at least had been the truth. The full effects of Tell-All generally lasted about an hour, but it was not the drug in her veins that pressed Gabriel for time. In all likelihood, he had less than twenty minutes before the rest of the council arrived at the depot gates, and he needed incontrovertible evidence of the need to permanently remove Alfredo from office before then.
The video and sensor readings would only be enough for a temporary suspension of presidential duties for Alfredo. To relieve him all together, to concur with Gabriel’s unusual step of sealing the depot and locking the council president in a cell, the council members must be convinced Alfredo’s continued leadership posed a danger to the Agency itself. In order to prove that, Gabriel needed to scour this girl’s knowledge about Alfredo; what did she know that scared Alfredo so badly?
“Why did you come to 2114?”
“Because Alfredo changed the timeline. I had to use Isabella’s retrieval device instead of my own; otherwise I wouldn’t exist outside of time anymore and then I would be just as screwed as everyone else, living in the wrong timeline with no way to fix—”
“Wait– stop!” Gabriel shouted at her, holding up his hand in front of her face as if he were a traffic cop. Whatever damning information he had been expecting, the confusing spill of information that had just come out of the girl’s mouth superseded any of his expectations. His mind screamed that what she said must be wrong. But she had been injected with Tell-All, so what she said could not be anything but true.
“Shannan, answer my question with a simple yes or no. Do you know for certain that Alfredo has done something to permanently alter the true timeline?”
“Yes.”
Absolute clarity descended upon Gabriel, and small pieces of information congealed in his mind, bringing forth a picture of the events that roused him from sleep. A woman in her early twenties in dark ages clothing…
“Did you acquire this knowledge by encountering Isabella Jaramillo at some point in the past?”
“Yes.”
The bruises around her neck, the secretive way in which she had been locked in the cell, Alfredo’s hysteria at having been interrupted from his interrogation; this is a personal matter…
“Did Alfredo inject you with truth serum to find out where and when you encountered Isabella?”
“Yes.”
“Did you come here with the intention of correcting the timeline alteration?”
She will destroy everything you have ever loved.
“Yes I did.”
She said the words so calmly, as if admitting to being late for a meeting or going a tad over the speed limit. Was it the drug that flattened her affect, or did the young girl really not understand the magnitude of what she had just said to him—the implications of what she had come here to do?
Through most of his adult life, he had recited the seven rules of the Agency to guest travelers, requiring verbal confirmation of understanding and a signature from each traveler he escorted over the years. When he recited the seventh rule to his travelers, he always made sure they understood how seriously he took it: At all costs, the timeline must be preserved. Instead of just asking them if they understood, Gabriel went one step further. Before you sign, he would say to them, make sure you understand the full implication of the phrase ‘at all costs.’ Sometimes, those who disobeyed—those who had been charged with attempting to pervert the timeline—had lost their lives. The words Shannan had so casually tossed out branded the timeline he had killed to protect as a lie.
“All right, now listen very carefully, Shannan.” Swallowing hard, Gabriel rubbed his eyes with hands, trying to wipe the faces of those he sentenced to death from his memory. “I want you to tell me exactly what ha
ppened from the moment you departed from 2073 until I walked into the cell. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Gabriel,” she smiled at him as she spoke. “I understand.”
Forty-two minutes later, the door to Gabriel’s office flew open with a bang, the top-most hinge splintering out of the wood from the force of the kick. Gabriel did not flinch at the noise. He remained slumped in his desk chair, holding a picture of Reyna in his hands.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Councilman Carlo DiMarco’s bald pate gleamed with sweat, and even across the room, Gabriel could smell every exhaled waft of uncleansed morning breath from his portly colleague.
“The sirens alerted the press! They’re parked outside the main campus wanting to know—” His eyes flicked over to the couch, where Shannan was sitting awkwardly in her loaned Agency uniform. “What the fuck is this?” He pointed to Shannan while stepping closer to Gabriel. “What the fuck is going on?”
“Carlo—”
“I’ve got a council president locked in a cell surrounded by armed guards and a parking lot full of press demanding to know if we found Isabella. So help me Christ, Gabriel, if you don’t give me some good news—”
“I know where Isabella is.”
Gabriel’s mumbled affirmation silenced Carlo’s rage. He took in some ragged breaths, as if that would somehow help his out-of-control blood pressure.
“Well that’s great. But that doesn’t explain why Alfredo fucking Jaramillo is—”
“I’ll explain everything, Carlo. Gather the council in the main chamber. We’re having a closed-door session and it may take a while, so if you need a snack, get it now.”
Carlo had never been terribly interested in anyone but himself, but he and Gabriel had known each other since university. After his last sentence, it seemed Carlo finally realized something was terribly wrong, and the big man’s face sagged, taking on a sober expression that Gabriel was sure matched his own.
“Gabe, what’s happened?” He swallowed hard, looking back and forth from Shannan’s face to Gabriel’s. “Is Isabella dead?” he whispered.
“This is bigger than Isabella.” Gabriel raised his eyes to Shannan, his eyes growing wet as he gripped the picture of Reyna tighter. “This is bigger than all of us.”
21
“Master Wyrtgeorn!” Thorstein shouted across the paddock. “Remove yourself from there at once!”
The unexpected sight of his lord’s first-born son standing ankle-deep in the mud of the horse paddock—a bewildered sadness shadowing his face—effectively jolted Thorstein out of the steady rhythm of his chores. The winter days ended so early and he still had much to do in preparation for tomorrow’s hunt. His lengthy list of tasks yet undone buzzed through his head, but there was no way he could ignore the boy balanced so precariously on his crutch in the middle of the swampy horse paddock.
I don’t have time for this. What is he doing in there?
“All of the horses are still out with their riders, Thorstein; there is no danger. I am not an invalid.” Tears choked his voice, and Thorstein regretted calling to him so loudly.
The bitter wind flung massive snowflakes into his face as he climbed the rails of the fence, moving quickly towards Wyrtgeorn. Being in the paddock was dangerous for the boy; one wrong move in the slippery and uneven mud could reopen the break in his leg, or possibly give him a new injury if he fell. As he approached Wyrtgeorn, reaching a hand out to steady the boy, his blotchy and swollen face made plain he had been crying in that paddock for quite some while.
“Young master, let us return—”
“My father says I can’t go on the hunt,” he blurted out, lowering his face in shame. “All the men are going, even the ones who will not go to battle. But I will stay here with the women.” He gave a pitiful laugh. “I have no horse to ride anyway.”
The horse. At last Thorstein understood what had drawn the boy into the paddock. That beautiful colt had been a gift from Cædda, a symbol of his son’s emergence into manhood. Now Wyrtgeorn stood almost exactly on the spot where the carcass of the animal had been stomped into the earth.
The shame on Wyrtgeorn’s face renewed the ache Thorstein had felt when he heard Einar speak Norse. Distant though the memory was, he remembered how it felt to be a nobleman’s heir—the pressure of living up to your father’s expectations, the need for his love and approval. The slaves and his fellow free servants knew nothing of that world and they did not know the hardship Wyrtgeorn now faced. It was not only about being banned from the hunt—his whole future was at stake.
If Wyrtgeorn could not walk properly, how could he lead the fyrd into battle? If he could not obey his father in the simple matter of staying in the city, could he be trusted with larger responsibilities? For Cædda’s son to be seen weeping in the middle of the horse paddock while the other men rode out to hunt would only make his position in the city—and with his father—worse. Thinking too well of the boy to allow him any further shame, and having no authority to order the young lord out of the paddock, Thorstein resorted to the only trick he had in reserve—bribery.
“Master Wyrtgeorn,” he said with a smile. “If you return with me to the Great Hall, I will show you something amazing tomorrow morning after the hunters have ridden out.”
“You just want to deliver me to Hilde,” he sniffed, trying to fold his arms over his chest, but failing because of the crutch wedged in his arm pit.
“No, not at all. Tomorrow I want you to meet me at the stockade; but it must be kept secret.” Thorstein suppressed a smile at Wyrtgeorn’s intrigued face.
“To look at that Dane?” Wyrtgeorn’s eyes lit up. “Father wouldn’t let me.”
Doubt gnawed at his stomach as Thorstein considered his possible punishment if Lord Cædda discovered his actions, but he forced it away. He’ll never find out.
“There is something else at the stockade I think you will enjoy, but we can look at the prisoner while we’re there. He’s to be executed soon, so there’s no harm.”
Above all things, Wyrtgeorn needed his confidence restored, and Thorstein knew that the gift the Lord and Lady had hidden away in the jailer’s pens would be just the thing to raise his spirits. It was a happy coincidence that Thorstein planned to spend his day at the jail anyway.
Grinning with excitement, Wyrtgeorn turned as gracefully as he could through the muck and began to limp towards the paddock gate, seemingly trying to use the crutch as little as possible. “What is it you want to show me?”
“Patience, Young master. We can meet when the hunters have gone and I promise you, what you see will make you happy.”
Thorstein reached out and gave him a firm slap on the back, just as Redwald had done for him in his hour of need. Delighted to help the boy feel better, Thorstein trotted as best he could through the mud clinging to his feet and opened the gate for Wyrtgeorn to walk through, the darkening twilight reminding him of his lack of time.
“You’re a good man, Thorstein,” Wyrtgeorn smiled at him as he passed through the open gate. “Deorca was stupid not to marry you.”
The unlordly tactlessness wiped the smile from his face and there was an audible click as his jaw clamped shut. The boy meant no harm, but it still took several moments to exhale the angry tightness from his chest.
“It was not the right time to ask her. She had just returned from a terrible ordeal and was facing your father’s punishment. I will ask again when the moment is right,” he forced his mouth into an assuring smile. “And then she will say yes.”
Wyrtgeorn shook his head. “No, Father is sending her home before the new year. I heard him talking about it with Selwyn.”
The layers of slippery mud beneath Thorstein’s feet gave way as he skidded to a halt, causing his arms to flail wildly for a moment as he grappled for his balance. “Home? What do you mean? Her family cast her off! This is her home now.”
A nervous smile fluttering on his lips, Wyrtgeorn shrugged his shoulders slightly as he stopped his ow
n slow trek. “Father asked Selwyn to arrange for a ransom.”
Why would Lord Cædda agree to ransom her after explicitly stating he would not give her up, even to Redwald?
“Does your mother know?” Thorstein’s voice trembled slightly as he fought to keep a respectful tone of voice.
At the mention of his mother, Wyrtgeorn’s smile twisted into a scowl—a wounded, venomous look that startled Thorstein into taking another step back.
“My mother is injured and shouldn’t be bothered with such t– trivial matters!” Spinning clumsily on his able leg, Wyrtgeorn turned away from Thorstein and hobbled as quickly as he could back towards the hall, not even giving a wave as a farewell.
The boy’s stutter on the last words did not go unnoticed, and as Thorstein watched him retreat towards the hall, he knew something must have happened. Given Annis’ atrocious behavior that morning with Deorca, he could only imagine the holy terror she had unleashed on those closest to her. He felt better than ever about showing Wyrtgeorn his present tomorrow morning.
Was Annis the reason Lord Cædda planned to send Deorca away? Perhaps he is only making inquiries. Perhaps he has not fully decided. With a sinking heart, he recalled the lord’s whispered comment to Sigbert this morning, “It would be best to be done with before it gets too cold...”
But if Deorca and I were engaged, he couldn’t send her back.
An icy gust of wind jolted Thorstein out of his reverie. He still had work to do—quite a lot of it—and he could just as well think of ways to woo Deorca while he made preparations for the hunt. Bending his legs to bring feeling back into his toes, Thorstein closed the gate to the paddock and jogged back toward the barn, determined to be engaged to Deorca before any ransom letters could be sent.
***
Isabella watched Thorstein from her hiding spot in the corner of the goat paddock. Shielded from both Wyrtgeorn and Thorstein’s notice by the retreating winter daylight, she strained her ears to hear their every word. Balled up next to the slumbering goats and the lone dog who had wandered in after her, Isabella had held her breath, restraining herself from moving closer as she heard Wyrtgeorn announce Cædda’s plan to send her “home” soon. Could it be true?
Sunder Page 29