He hurled the box as hard as he could. It hit the water with a noisy splash and sank at once. Ó Deághaidh fell to his knees and stared at the river, his gaze fixed on the ripples marking where the box had struck. Had he destroyed the machine? Please, oh please, he prayed, as he had not since he was a child. Please dear God and Mhuire and Gaia, let me be in time.
A dull roar erupted from beneath the surface of the river. Ó Deághaidh lurched to his feet. The waters of the Cetinje were churning about, sending up gouts of spray. Then, rising up from the depths, a bubble of air broke free. With dismay, he saw it was expanding as fast as it rose. All the fields and trees beyond took on a strange distorted appearance, as though he were viewing them through a magnifying glass. He spun around and …
… the ground vanished beneath his feet. He was plummeting through a choking darkness, arms flailing but there was nothing to catch hold of, though he could still feel the cold texture of the stable’s latch pressed into his skin. He screamed, screamed until his throat closed in pain …
“Aidrean.”
Warm hands enclosed his. He turned his head and caught the scent of sandalwood. The ordinary world dropped away and he had the sensation of drowning in a dark, still pool of water. He tried to speak, but found his mouth would not obey his commands.
“Aidrean, can you hear me?”
… the images faded and so with it the panic. He stood in a pitch-black void, made darker still by the sparks cascading all around. Soft scraps pattered over his face. It was a rainfall of paper, yellowed fragments burnt around the edges, fine parchment and cheap newssheets with writing in the margin. As he walked through it, he recognized the handwriting as his, and realized these were from all the diaries he had written and destroyed. He was walking through the memories of all his different pasts. Even as he realized this, he felt a pang deep within, as his selves joined into one. Ah, but which one? Which future lay ahead?
* * *
“Commander Ó Deághaidh…”
He awoke in a room draped in white and green linens. The air smelled sharply of antiseptic, recalling another awakening, in a different hospital. A lassitude enveloped his body. His brain felt thick and unresponsive. With an effort, he turned his head and saw two figures hovering over him. One was like a shadow, thin and sharp and dressed in black. The other stood farther off—he could make out nothing but an impression of dark brown eyes and hair. The two conferred in low voices, then a door opened and shut. The scent of sandalwood lingered.
He struggled to sit up. A hand settled on his shoulder and pressed him back. “Lie still, Commander.”
Ó Deághaidh’s vision cleared and he recognized Lord Ó Cadhla. But a cold dread washed over him as he took in Lord Ó Cadhla’s pale face, the marks of tension and great weariness—so exactly like that other interview, in that other time, when Ó Cadhla’s daughter had died. Ó Deághaidh felt a tremor of the old vertigo, wondering which present and past he had tumbled into.
“What happened?” he whispered. “Where am I?”
“In a hospital. In Cetinje.”
“In Cetinje. Then that means…”
His voice trailed away, and he tried to decide what that meant.
“They found you outside the city,” Lord Ó Cadhla said. “You’ve been unconscious for three weeks.” To Ó Deághaidh’s questioning frown, he added, “The official report is that the country hereabouts suffered an earthquake. Their river has vanished underground, and a dozen or so buildings collapsed. Sixty people died, several hundred injured. But far, far fewer than if that madman had succeeded. The queen congratulates you on your success.”
Ó Deághaidh closed his eyes and let his breath trickle out. Death and disaster were hardly a success. But he understood. There would have been a war otherwise, with millions dead and a continent left in ashes. “What about Lord De Paor?” he whispered.
“Arrested and awaiting trial. Madame Delchev gave me the evidence you uncovered.”
“She was here, then.”
“Every day, watching over you, or so they tell me. The doctors said you were babbling numbers and names constantly. They thought the explosion had deranged your mind, but Madame Delchev knew better. It was she who deciphered your gibberish and sent a telegram to the queen.”
Ó Cadhla went on to tell Ó Deághaidh about a monstrous scandal exposed, involving Montenegrin collaborators and Austrian agents. The prince retained his throne, apparently, but there would be an interim council to oversee the drafting of a new constitution.
“Our queen has issued a statement of support,” Ó Cadhla said. “As did Frankonia and Alba. We have all sent representatives to oversee the new elections and the transition of government.” He smiled. “Though I must add I and the others are here only temporarily. Your Madame Delchev was quite firm in expressing her convictions. She and her colleagues are grateful for Éire’s assistance, but they insisted on formal treaties that our presence will not be permanent. The queen agreed. I’m not certain she had much choice. It was an interesting experience, negotiating between two very strong women.”
It was all too much to absorb in a few moments. Valerija. Alive and well. And overseeing the founding of a new government, just as she wished.
“As for you,” Ó Cadhla said. “Madame Delchev proved both intelligent and discreet, and in the subsequent chaos, no one has thought to question your identity. For all they know, you are a migrant laborer, who had the misfortune to be on the highway when the explosion, or rather, the earthquake, took place. The queen suggests, and I agree, that you should return to Éire as soon as you are fully recovered.”
“Of course.”
A great weariness came over him. He would return home, his honor and reputation recovered. But he found himself strangely indifferent to his success. He probed the reasons behind that indifference, but flinched away, unwilling to explore it farther. Perhaps later, when his strength had returned. He was tired. That was all.
A warm hand pressed upon his. Lord Ó Cadhla’s. “Commander Ó Deághaidh … We shall talk later, when you are well. But please accept my thanks for preserving this future out of so many others.”
Ó Deághaidh glanced up. Ó Cadhla gave a tiny nod.
* * *
Within the week, Ó Cadhla arranged for his transfer to the local embassy, accomplished late at night under the cover of a moonless sky. The embassy chief explained that he would return to Éire as soon as his health allowed so that he might give his evidence to the queen and her ministers.
Ó Deághaidh nodded, but something in his newly subdued manner must have worried the embassy officer who reported to Ó Cadhla, because they did not hurry him on his way. He rested another week in seclusion before he set off for Éire in easy stages—by motorcar to Budva, by ship to the little-used port of Youghal, then by train to Osraighe, where a private coach carried him to Cill Cannig. There were watchers and guards for every stage, some invisible but many more making their presence known, which told Ó Deághaidh that matters were not yet settled to the queen’s satisfaction.
The queen. He had no grasp of his emotions when he thought of her. He dreamed of her from time to time, but no longer as a man dreams of a woman. Instead the images were ones of state and rank, the symbolism thick enough, if he cared to examine them.
Coming home to Éire helped somewhat. He met for hours with the queen and her ministers, delivering his formal report of what transpired in Montenegro, and answering their many questions. At night, he slept with the aid of wine and a great weariness he could not shed.
A lull followed, which he did not mistake for tranquility. Then came the trials.
His own part ended the first day with his testimony, but Ó Deághaidh watched throughout the following weeks as the court conducted its meticulous examination of witnesses and evidence. This would be no private interrogation, followed by an execution or assassination in secret. Áine had apparently decided to give a clear signal to her enemies that she would punish any rebellion swift
ly and without mercy.
Oh my Queen. I see the why behind what you do. But do you see the cost to yourself? To Éire in the future?
His memories of the trials themselves were fragmentary. Lord De Paor rambling on in the witness box, offering excuses and justifications. The queen’s face as still as sculpted ice. The lord advocate passing sentence. Further sessions with the queen and her ministers to discuss the public’s mood after De Paor’s execution, and the sentencing of certain members of his staff, as more details of his activities came to light.
There would be no war, not for this generation. Or so the ministers proclaimed.
I should rejoice, Ó Deághaidh thought. I will, later, when I recover my sense of what I have achieved, and what I have lost.
For his part, he dutifully suffered through more ceremonies where the queen or various ministers awarded him medals. The queen herself spoke of other honors, from the obvious ones of higher rank, to more obliquely offered favors. He had refused them all as politely as he could.
So it was with some curiosity, and apprehension, that Aidrean Ó Deághaidh came for what the queen had named their final private interview. When he entered the small elegant chamber appointed for that meeting, she was already there, seated beside grand bay windows overlooking Cill Cannig’s grounds. The day was a day of Éire, soft and gray and damp with the promise of rain.
Áine smiled and gestured for him to take a seat opposite her. Her steward poured tea for them both before he retired.
She allowed him a few moments to sip his tea, but her gaze was sharp and her manner that of a queen with her subject.
“Are you well, Aidrean?” she said at last.
He nodded, thinking that surely she had the reports from Doctor Loisg. Thinking as well that her face had a far, far older air, as though she too was recovering from disappointments.
“Then you are ready for a new assignment?” she asked.
He shrugged. “As you command, Your Majesty.”
She smiled. It was the first smile he noticed since the days before he started for the Continent. We have both performed our duty, he thought. We have both paid our price.
“I am glad,” the queen said. “You see, I spoke with Lord Ó Cadhla about the assignment, and he agrees you are the best suited. But,” and her voice dropped to lower register, “let me describe the matter in full. Then you must tell me—honestly—if you agree with all your heart and not just from a sense of duty…”
* * *
High above Budva, the passenger balloon described a wide circle as it began its descent toward the landing fields. Below, the Adriatic glistened like blue satin in the April sunshine, with a darker shadow from the balloon skimming over the swells. Aidrean Ó Deághaidh checked his pocket watch, which he had adjusted for Montenegrin time. Half past noon. He would easily reach Cetinje before evening.
One hour to clear customs and collect his luggage. Two more hours winding north along the highway in the hired motorcar. The church bells were ringing half past four when he arrived at the hotel, an elegant building in the fashionable section of town, near the embassies and royal palace. Tomorrow he would meet with his new associates, but tonight was his to claim.
It was far too early for visits, he told himself.
Coward.
That I am. I have no reason not to be.
Still arguing with himself, he set off on a tour of the city, to see what had changed. A great deal, as he found. The old riverfront district had vanished along with the river. Now a greening trough ran through Centinje, its slopes covered in flowers and newly planted linden trees. There were gravel walks and stone pillars with posters advertising the elections next month, to be held according to a new constitution. So much accomplished since the previous summer.
When the clocks chimed six o’clock, Ó Deághaidh turned his steps toward the university district. He knew from reports that she had not changed her residence, and though almost a year had passed, he could find his way without any missteps. As he approached, his pace slowed as he took in the details, matching them with his memories. There it was—the same dark brick house. The same rose-colored curtains over the ground-floor windows. He climbed the steps to the porch and stopped, his hand hovering over the electric bell. It had come to this moment, and for once, he was shy. He retreated to the sidewalk and glanced up to the second floor. Her rooms were dark.
What did I expect? To find her waiting for me?
He had. A foolish thought, borne of the same foolish hope that led him to accept this post in Cetinje.
Enough. He would return to his hotel. Tomorrow, before meeting with his new colleagues at the embassy, he would send a proper letter to Madame Delchev. What he would say in that letter, he did not know. He foresaw a night spent in useless edits and revisions and second thoughts.
He turned away from the apartment building, already occupied with how to explain his presence in the city, when he saw Valerija Delchev walking toward him.
She looked just as she had a year ago, when he first sighted her in the university quarter. She had the same abstracted air. She carried the same woven basket filled with books, with more tucked beneath her arm. The only difference was that she wore dark blue, not black, and a shawl patterned in roses. Her head was bare.
Valerija had almost reached the steps, when she happened to look up. She stopped. The abstracted air vanished at once and color edged her cheeks. “Aidrean. I mean, Commander Ó Deághaidh. Good evening.”
“Madame Delchev.” He had to clear his throat before he could speak properly. “I … I came to ask if you would dine with me.”
She gave a breathless laugh. “All the way from Éire?”
He ran a hand over his hair to cover his embarrassment. “In a manner, yes. I’ve taken a new post here with the embassy.”
It took her a moment to absorb that. Then, “Are you—Is this a temporary one, or perhaps more permanent?”
“I don’t know yet. I would need time to prove myself, I think.”
Curiosity. A flicker of anxious doubt, which strangely reflected his own. Then her expression cleared, and she ventured a smile. “I see. Well, I would be glad to share a supper with you.”
He released the breath he had not realized he held. “Well, then.”
“Well, then.” She accepted his proffered arm, and pressed a hand over his. “I’m glad to see you again, Aidrean Ó Deághaidh.”
Together they walked beneath the blossoming trees, through the sweet-scented air and the ruddy light of sunset.
THE TIME ROADS
FEBRUARY 1914
The execution took place on the seventeenth of February, at one o’clock on a cold dank afternoon. Clouds masked the skies. Snow drizzled downward in fits and starts. It caught in the crevasses between the stones of the palace. It blew in runnels over the tiled yard and blurred the outer walls, so that the world appeared a smudged and dirty gray.
I stood on a balcony overlooking the yard. My senior guards flanked me. More guards lined the square, all of them dressed in long woolen cloaks and fur-lined hats, their rifles held across their chests. My minister of home affairs, whose responsibilities included the Anglian Dependencies, stood behind me. He and I and all these soldiers would bear witness to the death of Thomas Alan Austen, the man who had tried to assassinate me.
Nine days ago, Austen had fired a rifle from the rooftop overlooking the steps of Osraighe’s cathedral. Chance alone had saved me—a remark from a companion that caught my attention and caused me to turn away. The bullet had grazed my neck and shattered the wooden doors of the cathedral. Austen had fired three more bullets and killed two of my guards, before he fled. The Garda had captured him before he could escape the city.
My half-healed wounds from that attempt ached in the cold. I had not wanted to give Austen the honor of a formal execution. My ministers, and especially Lord Ó Cadhla, had advised me otherwise. Out of respect for Lord Ó Cadhla’s long service—to my father and to me—and knowing he never o
pposed me without reason, I had agreed.
The iron gate swung open, and four guards marched the prisoner into the courtyard. Thomas Austen was a small, bent man, dressed in black trousers, a black smock, and black cloth slippers, already wet from the snow. He was bound with chains at his wrists and ankles, so that he could not do more than shuffle toward his death. For a moment, I almost pitied the man.
Then he lifted his gaze to mine. His eyes narrowed. His lips parted in silent laughter, turning the air silver with his breath.
My pity vanished.
You are a bold man, Thomas Austen, to look at me that way.
A guard took hold of Austen’s arm and bent close to the man’s ear, no doubt urging him to show respect. Austen said something in reply and the guard smiled.
A dangerous man, said the reports from my Constabulary. Much loved in his homeland for his courage and his intellect. He had dedicated his life to the cause of Anglian independence.
The procession, delayed only momentarily, continued forward to the solitary wooden post at the far end of the courtyard. The post itself was a relic from my grandfather’s day, when Anglia and the other Dependencies fought more vigorously against our rule. Even then, it had been reserved for political prisoners of some importance. During my father’s reign, most convictions ended with imprisonment or exile. The last criminal whose death I witnessed here was Lord Alastar De Paor.
Austen vanished briefly as the guards crowded around to remove his shackles and bind him to the post. They did not want to take any chances with this prisoner—no unseemly struggles, no second attempt on the queen’s life. Their task accomplished, they marched back to join their comrades by the walls, and take up their weapons in a ready stance.
I stared across the distance. Austen stared back. He’d refused his blindfold, which did not surprise me. Have you not surrendered, even now? I thought. Are you plotting how to use these last moments in favor of your cause?
The Time Roads Page 20