The Time Roads

by Beth Bernobich

  I paused outside the set of double doors. Here the electric lamps flickered, as though tossed by winds beyond the natural world. My heart caught in a stitch. An old habit, I told myself. Only the past lingered inside the room before me. And yet, I came here night after night, to visit the dead.

  I signaled for my guards to remain in the corridor, and passed inside alone.

  No electric lamps burned here. There was only the faint glow from outside. By that uncertain light, I progressed through the empty spaces, which were interrupted here and there by old broken crates, a dust-covered worktable, a few crumbs of the past represented by discarded papers or other detritus left between two opposing time streams.

  Once Breandan Ó Cuilinn had demonstrated his time machine to me in this chamber. Months after the time fractures healed, stealing my memories, I had discovered the report of its workings, which he had sent into the future.

  I abandoned you.

  Not that I had any choice. No, that was not correct. I had the choice—between rescuing my beloved and leaving a dozen others dead. Even if I had undone the past, I had no assurance of mending the future.

  As though my thoughts had summoned it, a scrap of mist, like a scrap of white lace, floated downward from the ceiling. A moment passed. Another drifted toward me and joined with the first. And another. One by one, they gathered into a larger mass, which gradually took on the shape of a man, its form writhing in an invisible, intangible wind. Bits of the figure detached themselves and flickered off into nothing, but the shape never diminished in size. Indeed, the longer I watched, the larger it grew until it loomed over me.

  I tilted my head back. The figure hovered inches away above me, its face a blank mask.

  My ghost.

  As with every other encounter, the face changed as I watched. Specks and shadows and gaps whirled around until the blankness was replaced by features—features that I recognized.

  Breandan Ó Cuilinn looked down at me. His lips moved rapidly, as though he urgently wished to tell me something. But when I reached upward, the ghost vanished into a whirl of dust.

  * * *

  The early editions of the Osraighe and Londain newspapers reported in lurid detail about Thomas Austen’s execution, with altogether too many references to blood spattered over freshly fallen snow, and how the queen had fled the courtyard well before the body had been examined and wrapped in its cotton shroud. No mention of the bitter cold, or the wound Austen himself had inflicted on me. No mention of the guards who had died protecting their queen. There was one blurred and grainy photograph of a black-clad figure lying on the snow-covered ground, with soldiers stationed around. Judging by the angle and direction of the image, the photographer had been positioned on one of the surrounding rooftops, which in turn meant bribes offered and taken, and another round of investigations.

  And so my mood was already dark and irritable when my secretary admitted Lord Ó Duinn for our private interview. A few steps behind came Lord Ó Cadhla. I eyed them both narrowly. “Did you conspire together, or is your appearance here, at this hour, mere happenstance?”

  Lord Ó Duinn protested, but Lord Ó Cadhla merely shrugged. “The fault is mine, Your Majesty,” he said. “I persuaded Lord Ó Duinn to arrange this meeting.”

  “Did you persuade him to use trickery as well? Never mind. I know you did. Sit, both of you. You are too old to be so troublesome,” I added to Ó Cadhla.

  Ó Cadhla laughed, a soft wheezing laugh that reminded me of Lord Mac Gioll in his later years. “Would you rather I retired from Court and spent my days poking and prodding at my grandchildren?”

  “I would,” I said. “They would not thank me, but I hardly care for their thanks.”

  He laughed again. “I am old. And I’ve abandoned the diplomatic path for one more direct. So. Let me confess that I provoked and persuaded Lord Ó Duinn to request the interview, then to include me. Let me further state that you must meet with the Anglian delegation, no matter how much you dislike the idea.”

  A conspiracy of virtue, I thought bitterly.

  We took our seats around the fireplace, which the servants had built fresh. Outside the skies were gray and sleet speckled the windows. My steward served us with coffee and tea and a selection of fresh pastries. I accepted a cup of strong coffee and waited while the others were served. Once we were alone, I nodded at Ó Duinn to speak.

  “You knew I had already refused this delegation’s demands. And you knew my reasons for doing so. Now you advise me to ignore my instincts in the matter.”

  “Not at all,” he said. “We only suggest you might find another meeting instructive.”

  “How so? I’ve heard their petition before. What else can they demand?”

  “It’s not the specifics of what they demand,” Ó Cadhla said. “It’s a matter of hearing the intent behind their words.”

  A mystery, then. Ó Cadhla knew I disliked mysteries. I especially disliked being maneuvered and manipulated. If this had been any other minister …

  But it was not. Once more I reminded myself of Lord Ó Cadhla’s long service to my father and to me. He wished me to grant this interview, and he wished me to draw my own conclusions. His reasons would be good, at least by his lights.

  So I quietly drank my coffee, while I considered their advice. I set aside my own prejudices as well as I could, even as I remembered past interviews and past petitions from the Anglians, all of which had ended in impossible demands. While I considered Aidrean Ó Deághaidh’s words of the night before.

  I have no love for Thomas Austen, but there is some truth in what he and his followers say.

  “Very well,” I said at last. “I shall do as you ask.”

  And let us hope I do not regret it.

  * * *

  The audience was set for three o’clock that afternoon, in the largest of my audience halls. It would be conducted with strict attention to protocol, I had told my chamberlain. If these Anglians and their fellow representatives wished me to acknowledge their status, they would certainly be reminded of mine. And so I dressed with particular care, choosing the most formal of my gowns and the crown I wore only for state occasions. Between the heavy cloth and the weight of my jewels, I felt like a stuffed doll, but one stuffed with purpose, at least.

  As I entered the hall, the chamberlain pounded his staff on the tiled floor. “Her Majesty, Queen of Éire and all her Dependencies.”

  The size of the hall was enormous, the audience, less so. The delegation itself consisted of two dozen men, six from each District. Beyond them, standing in the alcoves to either side, or seated in the nearest rows of benches, were the usual courtiers, gossips and curiosity seekers. No doubt there would be reporters from the various newspapers, as well. After yesterday’s execution of a famous Anglian dissident, today’s unexpected audience with that same dissident’s followers was an unexpected treat. But between the short notice and echoing expanse, their number appeared far smaller.

  I took the throne and settled my gown, while the chamberlain called out the names and titles of the delegation and ordered them to come forward and make their obeisance to their queen.

  “We have no queen,” a voice called out.

  I glanced up sharply. Silence fell over the hall at once.

  So, a challenge.

  I scanned the faces before me, trying to pick out who had spoken. One of the delegation, obviously. They were the usual motley collection of elderly dissidents, angry young recruits to the cause, and others who clearly had no other occupation. The chamberlain was shouting for order, but I silenced him with a gesture. “I am Queen of Éire. Do you dispute that?”

  “No. But Éire is not Anglia. Nor Wight, nor Manx, nor Cymru. We are not children, nor are we unthinking beasts. You have no right to govern any of us.”

  Thomas Austen’s words, in a tract he had published a week before he attempted to murder me. Silently, I cursed Lord Ó Cadhla and Lord Ó Duinn for persuading me into this useless audience. Out loud, I
said, “Those are borrowed words, spoken with a coward’s tongue. Show yourself, whoever you are.”

  “We are not cowards,” said another voice.

  A young man stepped from the midst of his fellow delegates. He was younger than the rest, his clothing of good quality, though plain in design. He was dark complected, like many Anglians from the port cities, with thick springy hair, cut close to his head. His expression was far more contained than that of his colleagues.

  “Your Majesty of Éire,” he said. “We are none of us cowards, whatever you believe. We are here to give voice to our people. Will you listen to us?”

  Delicately and honestly spoken.

  “Very well,” I said. “What is your name?”

  “My name is Michael Okoye.”

  Now I remembered the report from my secretary. Michael Okoye was the descendent of a wealthy Nri house in West Africa. Okoye’s great-grandfather, Ikem Okoye, had sent three of his sons abroad to Frankonia, Anglia, and the Western Continent to oversee their growing trade concerns. I wondered how his descendant had come to join the Anglian cause.

  “Tell me your petition, Mister Okoye.”

  Before he could answer, however, one of the older men shouldered his colleagues aside and came to the front of the crowd. “We have more than a simple petition to present,” he said. “We’ve come with an ultimatum.”

  My secretary bent to whisper a reminder in my ear. This was Peter Godwin, the senior member of this delegation. I had encountered him once before, when he demanded Thomas Austen’s pardon. The breath fled my body for a moment, in astonishment at his audacity. A rush of whispers echoed through the chamber.

  “Tell me this ultimatum,” I said softly.

  “That we be given representation at this Union of Nations—a seat for each District.”

  Meaning, a declaration of their status as independent states.

  “And if I do not grant this request?”

  “Then we will ask again,” he said.

  “And again,” said another.

  “And again,” Michael Okoye said. “We will continue to ask, until you admit yourself wrong to keep us as bonded servants to your empire.”

  “And if I never do?”

  “Then we shall do more than ask,” said Peter Godwin.

  * * *

  “They have declared war,” I said to Lord Ó Duinn. “War. And you advised me to listen.”

  “It was necessary for you to see and hear for yourself, Your Majesty,” he replied. “To understand that we cannot ignore the Anglian question any longer.”

  We spoke in quiet undertones, our faces fixed in expressions of polite interest as we watched the bare dirt field where the Éireann war department would present its newest aeroplanes for the queen’s inspection. Ships and armies and the occasional balloon fleet had served to defend us for many years, but Lord Ó Tíghearnaigh had introduced these new machines, saying that Éire faced a new century and new enemies. If our Union of Nations did not succeed, we would need new weapons to defend ourselves.

  “Now I have heard this petition, what do you advise?” I said.

  Despite my effort to speak softly, my anger leaked into my voice. Lord Ó Duinn, however, did not balk. “Invite the delegation to stay,” he said. “Grant them a second interview, in private, to discuss their request—”

  “I cannot consider—”

  “No,” he said firmly. “You cannot. But I suspect Peter Godwin does not wish you to. He spoke to provoke you into tyranny—to make Thomas Austen’s case for violence. If you grant them the grace of further conversation, they cannot later argue that diplomatic means had failed.”

  One of the new aeroplanes rumbled from its hangar onto the square field. Its nose was a rounded snub of iron gray, its wings little more than two thin wafers of steel on each side, connected by wires. Six other machines of like construction followed to form a short line before the royal grandstand. The first accelerated its motor, a deep-throated rumble that spoke of power kept in check.

  “You believe they have the capacity to attack?” I asked.

  “Not that. Or rather, not them alone. What I believe is—”

  A roar, like that of a hunting lion, shivered the air as the first aeroplane surged forward over the track. It bumped and jolted, then gathered speed to cast up clouds of dust, so that I only saw the upper half of the plane with its pilot and companion, and two men stationed in a second row of seats. Lord Ó Tíghearnaigh was now explaining in an excited undertone how the aeroplane was equipped with guns and bombs both.

  The first plane launched into the air. The second had begun its race down the concourse. A ground crew hurried between each of the remaining machines. Lord Ó Tíghearnaigh continued to speak of the advantages of aeroplanes over ordinary balloons. He had just begun to describe how they could work in parallel with our ground defenses when the air exploded.

  Several things happened at once. A great wind struck me in the face. I fell to the ground amidst a chaos of broken chairs. From all around came the roar of voices, then the crackle of gunfire and yet another explosion. The air stank of diesel fuel and a strange electric scent that called up old memories, old terrors. My father calling out, Áine! Run! Hide!

  Before I could regain my feet, a body landed atop me, driving the breath from my lungs. I slithered free, coughing and gasping for air. Another explosion rocked the viewing stand. I lurched forward and tried to brace myself. My hand came in contact with cold doughy flesh—Lord Ó Duinn. He lay sprawled in the wreckage, his eyes wide, his gaze fixed and unnatural.

  A third explosion echoed from the airfield, another scorching wave rolled above us. Now I caught the scent of blood and burning human flesh. Lord Ó Duinn’s body twitched. He struggled against me.

  “—Majesty—”

  I could barely hear the words—my ears felt muffled as though we were buried in dirt. When a man seized my wrists, I struggled to break free. He hauled me to my feet and I saw his face.

  “Aidrean!” I shouted. “What has happened?”

  Aidrean Ó Deághaidh shouted back, but I could not make out his words. He glanced around and signaled to someone else nearby. I was bundled away from the exhibition field and though a pair of nearby doors into a large empty building. This had to be one of the hangars for the aeroplanes. I jerked back, my thoughts tangling together the aeroplanes and explosions, but Aidrean gripped my arm tighter and half-dragged me through the doors.

  “Stop!” I said.

  He stopped.

  My knees felt watery. I placed both hands on his chest to steady myself. Fresh blood trickled over my eyes. More injuries made themselves known to me. Bruises. A myriad of cuts and scrapes, some of them inflicted by Aidrean Ó Deághaidh as he dragged me to safety. From a distance, I heard the muffled boom of a fourth explosion.

  “They promised me war,” I whispered. “I should have listened.”

  * * *

  We met in my private chambers within the hour: I, Lord Ó Duinn, Lord Ó Cadhla, Commander Ábraham of the Queen’s Constabulary, and Lord Ó Breislin. My private physician hovered in the background. I had ordered him away, but he had refused, a measure of his concern. In the end, I allowed him to stay. My ministers might require his services if I could not cure my temper.

  I drank down the concoction of opiates and strong coffee that he had prescribed, much against his will. Later, I might submit to his care, but not until I had dealt with this crisis. The opiates eased my throat, raw from the smoke and all the shouting I had not realized I had done.

  “Arrest them all,” I said to Commander Ábraham. “The entire delegation.”

  “On what charges?” Lord Ó Cadhla’s tone was deceptively mild.

  “Treason and murder, of course.”

  We had proof enough. Two planes destroyed, their crews torn into bits by the explosions. Another half dozen trampled in the ensuing panic.

  (And yet, I remembered four explosions, not two. And Lord Ó Duinn lying dead in the wreckage.) />
  A soft knock sounded at the door. Coilín Mac Liam rose from his station and admitted Aidrean Ó Deághaidh into the room.

  “Your Majesty,” he said. “I have news to report.”

  All my ministers fixed their attention on him as he took a chair, refusing a glass of whiskey and taking instead a tumbler of water. He had changed his clothes, but I caught the whiff of burning ashes about his person.

  “What have you found?” I asked.

  “A mountain of clues, but nothing conclusive.”

  “How, not conclusive?” I said.

  He held up hand. “Please, Your Majesty. Let me tell you what I know first. I’ve had but an hour to consult with the Constabulary and Lord Ó Duinn’s people. However, I can say the explosives are similar to those I’ve encountered among certain dissidents in Eastern Europe.”

  He spoke with a particular emphasis that caught my attention at once. “Indeed? Then you have found a link between them?”

  “Perhaps. Certain factions are known to work with each other. Before we make any assumptions, however, we must search for the motives behind today’s attack. Once we know those, we shall know if such a link exists.”

  I leaned back in my chair. “So. Not our own Anglians?”

  “Possibly. I cannot reason ahead of my information, Your Majesty.”

  “Nor did I ask you to.”

  “Not directly,” he said.

  I sucked in a breath. All my ministers, including Lord Ó Cadhla, went still in expectation of my forthcoming rant. Ó Deághaidh himself regarded me with a remote expression that cloaked whatever he truly thought. The same he had used in times past, when I first ordered him away from Court to investigate the Awveline murders, when I sent him to Montenegro.

  He has never betrayed me. Even though I have betrayed him.