The Time Roads

by Beth Bernobich

  A foolish question. I knew the answer.

  “Guards of the firing squad, take position.”

  Ten guards marched in a single line across the yard, their boots crunching over the snow. The wind had died away, and the cold pressed against me, a heavy immovable weight. I suppressed a shudder, knowing that my own actions would be noted and reported as well.

  On command, the guards halted and spun to face the prisoner.

  “Weapons ready.”

  Ten rifles swung down and around.

  “Fire on each count.”

  I heard the click of the bolt. Saw the gleam of Thomas Austen’s eyes as his gaze veered away from mine and fixed itself upon those ten rifles.

  “A haon.”

  The guns roared.

  Blood spurted from the prisoner’s chest. His head jerked back and he shouted, a short sharp cry. Though my pulse thrummed in my ears, I nevertheless distinctly heard the click of the bolts as the guards readied for the next shot.

  “A dó.”

  Austen twisted away from the bullets. No, that was a trick of my expectations. It was the gunfire tearing through his already dead body that flung him against the post. For one terrible moment, Thomas Austen seemed to stand on his feet, untouched. Then slowly, oh so slowly, he collapsed, a limp and bloody sack, held upright only by the ropes binding him.

  “A trí,” I whispered in unison with the commander’s voice.

  One last crack of rifles. One last dreadful spasm.

  A cloud of gun smoke hung in the air, obscuring the yard. An acrid stink drifted up to where I stood. Snow stung my cheeks, and now I did shiver, in spite of my thick woolen cloak and my fur-lined gloves. Behind me, Lord Minister Ó Duinn murmured to one of my attendants, but I continued to stare at the dark shadow that marked the post and Thomas Austen’s body.

  In my mind, I could still hear his last shout. And the white mist, spiraling upward to the clouds, was like the pale ghost of his breath, as though Thomas Austen continued to breathe in defiance of death. As though he continued to laugh.

  * * *

  But I am not rid of the man so easily, I thought.

  Three hours had passed since the execution. The gray afternoon was shading into an uneasy twilight. Alone in my private offices, I sifted through reports about various matters concerning Éire and its allies. In spite of the grand fire burning in the hearth, I felt a deep ache of cold inside me. Oh, to be sure, Austen was dead, but his presence would continue to plague my kingdom. I had already received early reports of unrest from the Queen’s Constabulary. Crude placards had sprouted on walls in certain public squares of Osraighe where Anglian immigrants lived. A telegraph from Londain and its outer districts spoke of clashes between protesters and the Garda. No, death had not silenced Thomas Austen. As my father said more than once, We shall not have true peace until we settle the Anglian Matter.

  I set the papers aside and pressed my hands against my eyes. Peace. It was a will-o’-the wisp we had all pursued, I and my father and our allies, not just within Éire’s borders, but throughout the world. It was for peace that I had proposed a union of nations to my ministers. We must talk. We must rule the world together, not against one another, I had told them. It was our last chance before we annihilated ourselves through ambition, and if all went as I planned, our first conference would take place this summer. But I did not doubt the Anglian Matter would intrude there as well.

  Damn you, Thomas Austen. Damn you to hell.

  I heard the tread of footsteps. My secretary appeared at the door, a sheaf of papers under one arm, and his writing case in hand. “Your Majesty—”

  “Time comes to meet with my council, yes. Thank you, Coilín.”

  He hesitated. Are you well enough? was his unspoken question.

  I suppressed the urge to snarl. No, I was not well. Austen’s bullet had not killed me, but I had bled a great deal, and the subsequent fever had left me weak. However, I had called this meeting twelve days ago, before Thomas Austen made his attempt upon my life. My physician had argued I should abstain from my duties another month, but those same duties did not allow such a luxury.

  “Are my ministers waiting for me?” I asked.

  “Waiting and anxious, Your Majesty. Just as you wished.”

  “Good. They ought to worry. And Commander Ó Deághaidh?”

  “He arrived a few hours ago, Your Majesty.”

  Even better.

  “Then I should not keep my council waiting any longer.”

  With Coilín Mac Liam trailing behind me, I set off through the halls of the Royal Enclosure. My plans for this Union of Nations had begun last September, when I announced to Éire’s Congress my intentions. It had cost me many favors, but I had at last persuaded a sufficient number of political factions to support me. Since then, Éire had issued invitations to the more influential rulers of Europe and Asia and the Western Continents. Today’s conference was ostensibly to untangle the latest demands from our guests, but there were other, less public reasons for the gathering.

  When I arrived, guards swept the doors open and announced my arrival as I passed into the conference chamber.

  “Your Majesty.” Lord Ó Cadhla was the first on his feet. The rest of my ministers, their secretaries and their underlings, were only moments behind.

  “My lords. Honored gentlemen.”

  I took my seat at the head of the table, while my secretary distributed the most recent reports from my agents abroad. Lord Ó Cadhla, as minister of state, knew their contents already. Lord Ó Breislin, chief adviser for intelligence, did as well. Others scanned through these new documents with frowns, or puzzled expressions. A few smiled, but theirs were anxious smiles. A reflection of the kingdom’s own mood, I knew.

  At the far end of the table sat Aidrean Ó Deághaidh, now my senior commander of intelligence in Eastern Europe. I nodded in his direction. He flicked his eyes down to the papers before him and made a pretense of studying them. It had been a risk, summoning Aidrean from his post in Montenegro. I did not wish to alert any conspirators of our most recent correspondence.

  (And there had been so many conspirators over the years. Madmen and opportunists. Intellectuals, such as Thomas Austen. Trusted men of my own cabinet, who proved more faithful to their ambitions than to Éire. Lord De Paor, in the Montenegro Affair, was one. And later, Lord Cleary, briefly minister of war, after Lord Mac Gioll’s death.)

  My steward poured a glass of watered wine for me. I drank it slowly and felt the ache from my shoulder ease. Coilín Mac Liam had taken his seat off to one side, his writing materials arranged and his pen filled with ink. When I judged that my audience had read enough of the reports, I set the goblet onto the table.

  The faint chime of glass against marble brought instant silence.

  “My lords,” I said. “Gentlemen. As you can see, we’ve begun to receive suggestions from allies and friends about our proposed union.”

  Edged laughter met my remark. We had been deluged with various demands over the past five months. The several Mexica kingdoms each sought more representatives than the others. Frankonia insisted we address the growing problem of violence against Judaic groups throughout Europe and the Turkish States. The Prussian Alliance furiously rejected any such measure, stating that no body had the right to overstep a nation’s border, unless that nation first acted outside justice and the law. Sahelia, Somalia, and Eritrea had lately reversed their earlier decisions and wished to attend the conference.

  For the first two hours, we dealt with each subject, turn by turn, working out compromises where possible, and dictated the results to my secretary. A short interlude followed, with more substantial refreshments. Several murmured conversations rose up over goblets of wine or stronger spirits. Lord Ó Tíghearnaigh, my newly appointed minister of war, had collected Aidrean Ó Deághaidh and several other ministers and their aides in a corner. Judging from Aidrean’s bland expression, Ó Tíghearnaigh was no doubt questioning him about his presence at t
his meeting.

  As though I needed an excuse to consult my oldest and most trusted agent.

  I summoned a servant to fill my glass with water, then took up the agenda to review the next page.

  I paused, my hand gripping my glass.

  The next topic concerned the security of our visitors, from kings and emperors to every member of their entourages. All three paragraphs were exactly as I had dictated them to my secretary, but on my copy there was a penciled notation in the margin: The matter of Anglia.

  I knew the handwriting well—Lord Ó Duinn’s. I lifted my gaze to find him watching me.

  “A new topic?” I said.

  “An old topic, Your Majesty, recently revived.”

  His voice was suitably nervous, but he did not flinch away from my stare.

  “Very recent indeed,” I said, “that you chose to introduce it to me in such a manner, and at such a time.”

  “Your Majesty, I did introduce it earlier. The Anglian delegation—”

  “Demanded Thomas Austen’s pardon. I gave them my answer with his execution.”

  “You did, Your Majesty, but the topic has altered itself somewhat.”

  His voice had risen. So had mine. Lord Ó Cadhla glanced sharply from Ó Duinn to me. Lord Ó Breislin’s attention veered in our direction as well. Slowly I exhaled. However much I disliked Ó Duinn’s trick—for a trick it was—a public quarrel would do neither of us any good.

  “We shall discuss your topic tomorrow,” I said to him. “In private.”

  “That is all I ask, Your Majesty.”

  I felt the rustle of attention settle around me, like leaves sifting into stillness after a sudden wind. Lord Ó Cadhla still watched me, as did Lord Ó Breislin. I turned my attention to the agenda and the remaining topics for the night.

  * * *

  It was not until midnight that Commander Ó Deághaidh was admitted by my steward to my offices, where I sat poring over the endless business of Éire.

  “Sit,” I told him. “I shall be done in a moment.”

  Aidrean nodded and took a seat by the fireplace. He carried a slim, leather-bound volume, and what appeared to be a motley collection of newspapers in Arabic script. Both newspapers and book were water stained, and the newspapers seemed especially ancient, with bits of paper and dust trailing behind as he crossed the room.

  I signaled to my steward. Rian vanished through the door and returned with a flask of cold white wine, and another of water. He poured a glass for Aidrean while I scanned the most recent news from Londain. All was quiet, according to my agents. No explosions or fires or looting. The protesters had dispersed shortly after nightfall, discouraged by the sleet and the many gardaí stationed in the public squares. They could not guarantee it would remain so tomorrow.

  “You are tired,” Aidrean said. “We should meet another time.”

  “I am always tired,” I said. “If I could, I would defy the dictates of science and the Church, and duplicate myself three times over.”

  He gave a rueful smile. “My domain is much smaller, and yet I often wish the same.”

  I knew what he spoke about, of course. Montenegro had recovered its independence, but Serbia continued to press for an advantage. And there was always the danger from Austria, however diminished, and the Turkish States, which were not. As senior commander for Éire’s intelligence in Eastern Europe, Aidrean Ó Deághaidh oversaw a tangled network of agents, spies, informants, and other, less official observers, even while he maintained the fiction of running Éire’s embassy for Montenegro.

  Aidrean took only a sip from his wine before he set the glass aside and leaned back in his chair, eyes closed. I continued to skim the reports, but I was aware of his presence, as I always was. I noted the way his bones lay closer to the surface, the fine, milk-white lines, running like spiderwebs over his weathered face. He was older, so obviously older, than at our last meeting. I was sorry I had not summoned him back to Court years ago. No, to be truthful, I had. And he had politely refused.

  Once I had finished, I laid a ribbon in the report to mark my place and joined Aidrean by the fire. “You mentioned troubling news.”

  “I did.” He took up the book from the table. “Though troubling is far too faint a word.”

  He ran his fingers over the embossed lettering of the title, then pressed his thumb against the spine. A distinct click sounded, and the spine swiveled open to reveal a narrow cavity between the bound pages and the outer cover.

  “The games of spies,” I murmured.

  “There is a reason for such a game,” Aidrean replied. “But you will see in a moment.”

  He took a small flask from the cavity and held it up to the electric lamp.

  The flask measured no more than the height and width of a man’s thumb, and was filled with a clear liquid.

  “A new explosive,” he said. “This tiny amount could turn all of Osraighe into dust.”

  I stiffened. “And yet you took no precautions…”

  “Not true. As a liquid, it’s harmless. But let a few drops evaporate, then strike a match, and…”

  He proceeded to give me the scientific details how the substance worked. The liquid kept the true explosive inert, he said, which made its transportation a simple matter. Chemists in Prussia had experimented with the material, thinking to make a more effective bomb. The difficulty lay in the mechanism for striking a flame at the proper moment. “From what I understand,” he said, “the substance has other, much more unusual qualities, but my sources have not proved as forthcoming on those points.”

  A new weapon, and the Prussians were already at work to exploit its capabilities. My stomach clenched in horror. “Where did you acquire this?”

  One corner of his long mouth tilted upward. “Through scraps of conversations overheard on the telephone exchange. Through visa requests from certain individuals wishing to enter Montenegro, and others wishing to depart our borders. In short, all the usual sources.”

  I had not missed that inadvertent reference to our borders. Was that an indication of shifting loyalties? Possibly. Agents abroad were often required to pretend any number of contradictory allegiances. Aidrean had lived ten years in Montenegro. His wife was a citizen of the country, formerly a dissident herself, and now a prominent member of the political community.

  I set that suspicion to one side for today. “You believe this weapon poses a danger to my union.”

  “I cannot tell. I can only report its existence. The rest is for you to say.”

  “Hardly. But Aidrean, you are the one who requested this private meeting. Do you think then I should delay the conference? Cancel it altogether?” And then, I had to know. “Do you think I am wrong?”

  It was a question spoken on impulse, borne of our former intimacy, in the early days of my reign, when I could trust almost no one except him and Lord Ó Cadhla. I did not expect him to answer, but he nodded, his expression grave and contained, as though he were truly considering a proper response.

  “You are not wrong,” he said at last. “But you will find that even certain allies will oppose you. It can be a dangerous thing, wanting justice—true justice—in a world such as ours.”

  I had to smile, though it was a painful one. “My father spoke about the trap of idealism. I was never certain if he meant to warn me or direct me.”

  We were silent a while, both of us drinking our wine slowly. When Aidrean set his empty glass on the table, I refilled it. “Stay a while longer,” I said. “As a favor to an old friend.”

  He relented, but not happily. A friend, but a troubled friend. I could accept that from him. I refilled my own glass and waited for him to speak.

  “You asked me for a prediction of the future,” he said at last. “That I cannot give you. But my instincts tell me that yes, those who oppose your union would use a weapon such as this one to gain their point.”

  Instincts. I had come to value them over the years.

  “Would more guards help?” I a
sked. “A stronger army?” My minister of war constantly urged me to increase Éire’s military. Perhaps he was right.

  Aidrean shook his head. “Possibly. Or they might create the illusion of security, while nibbling away true liberty.”

  Not an argument I had expected from him. “You sound like one of Thomas Austen’s followers.”

  He did not laugh, as I expected. But he did smile.

  “I have no love for Thomas Austen. But there is some truth in what he and his followers say.”

  * * *

  We spoke a while longer, about Cill Cannig and the changes in my cabinet, about his two daughters and his wife. Fifteen years had passed since my father died and I became queen. Aidrean Ó Deághaidh had served as my bodyguard and my friend in those early days, a gift I had not truly comprehended until I lost it. Later I had sent him to Montenegro. He had not only uncovered the treachery in my Court, he had undone a plot that might have plunged Europe into war.

  And now? Now we were friends. A gift I deeply treasured.

  And yet, I had not told him anything close to everything.

  No mention of my need for an heir, that perpetual complaint from my ministers. Nor of the contentious state of Éire’s Congress, which made each law, each debate, a matter for loud speeches and little action. It was this contentious state, I believed, that had led to the attempt to suborn my last favorite, and through him, Lord Cleary. Both had died by private assassination, a signal to others.

  Nothing at all about Breandan Ó Cuilinn, my first true favorite, who had vanished one bright autumn day while investigating the subject of time and its fractures.

  An hour later, Aidrean took his leave and departed for the suite of rooms assigned to him. Before he left, we arranged another private interview, ten days from now. He would spend the interval reacquainting himself with the Court, and conferring with the Queen’s Constabulary about this new and deadly weapon. I wanted no accidents with my conference this summer.

  I waited until I was certain Aidrean had crossed into the visitors’ wing. Only then did I set off on my own nightly excursion, one that had become increasingly necessary over the years. With my guards trailing discreetly behind, I passed from the Royal Enclosure, through the many public rooms in the central quadrant, and into the far reaches of the palace, to a series of empty, dusty rooms, never used since a certain day twelve years before.