The Time Roads

by Beth Bernobich

  “But why?” I said.

  I later said the same to Aidrean Ó Deághaidh.

  “Perhaps it was meant to frighten us,” I said.

  “Perhaps it was an experiment,” he replied.

  * * *

  The second attack came an hour past midnight, on a cold clear March night.

  My secretary roused me from sleep. Aidrean Ó Deághaidh was only a few steps behind. He delivered his report while I drank the strong tea my steward provided. “A single attack using three devices,” Aidrean was saying. “Two others we cannot confirm. You understand the difficulty.”

  “I understand.” I thrust the mug back into my steward’s hands. “More tea for us both. And water.” To Aidrean, I said, “Continue. And tell me everything, even the uncertainties.”

  The account was chilling. Three more devices had been set in the harbor district of Loch Garman, a port city on the Éireann Sea. The explosions had killed two dozen dockworkers and sailors. Several dozen more had been more gravely injured by falling debris and the fires that broke out in the warehouses, and on board the ships closest to the explosion.

  “We have also received a message,” Aidrean said.

  My heart paused, then stumbled on at a faster pace.

  “From whom?” I demanded. “The Anglians?”

  He hesitated and glanced around my bedchamber. With a gesture, I dismissed my maids and secretary and steward. Once they had gone, I repeated, “Tell me. What did the message say?”

  Aidrean blew out a breath. He was shaken—truly shaken—a thing I had believed to be impossible. “The reports are incomplete. However, this much I know. An officer discovered a letter nailed to the door of the main Garda station in Osraighe.” He paused and licked his lips. “The letter was addressed to you.”

  “Ah.” I found my own breath not so steady.

  “It accused you of tyranny. It said there could be no true Union of Nations, while you held other nations in bondage. It then said that Éire herself would pay in blood and fire and tears that night for your actions. We telegraphed all the chief stations throughout the kingdom, but we were too late.…”

  He rubbed a hand over his eyes.

  “You had no way to know,” I said.

  “I did, and I did not,” he replied. “We knew about these new devices. We had word of disaffected groups throughout Éire and all four Districts. We had spies wherever we could place them. But Áine … Your Majesty. We cannot police every citizen of Éire and its Dependencies. And to speak honestly, I should not want to hear you give such an order. I do not want to witness here what I have in Austria and the Prussian Alliance, where safety has become an excuse for tyranny.”

  He smiled, a faint and pensive smile. “Perhaps I am no longer suited for your service.”

  “You are,” I said softly. “Because you are honest with me.”

  That smile flickered into life again, only to fade just as quickly. The electric light was not kind to his features—the angles of his face seemed thinner and sharper, the shadows deeper, and the impression of the flesh worn away to bones was even stronger than before. He had come to me old; the past month had made him older still. Older and more weary.

  When have I not seen him so?

  Not since our first interview, fifteen years ago.

  This was no moment for such memories. “Tell me about these other explosions. Or rather, these ghosts of explosions. Were they failed attempts, do you think?”

  I had to wait a long moment before he answered. When he did speak at last, his tone was curiously hesitant. “I don’t know. The reports came from Osraighe. Several were quite specific—they listed the buildings destroyed, the names of the dead and wounded. Even more convincing, the reports gave details only a genuine witness would think to include. How they tried to call for help, but could hear nothing because the explosion had left them deaf and confused. The gardaí taking notes commented that their anger was most convincing. And yet, when our people dispatched forces to the site, they found no destruction, no one harmed—nothing out of the ordinary. My agents believe the reports to be deliberate mischief, an attempt by the rebels to sow further confusion.”

  “But you do not.”

  “I do not. I visited the site myself. It reminded me…” His gaze took on a diffuse quality. “It reminded me of the aftermath of that device in Montenegro. The explosion itself was terrible enough, but what truly frightened me was how I felt myself unanchored from time.”

  He did not speak of that other, even earlier episode, when his memories had wandered through a past that no longer existed. We had all become unanchored, if only temporarily, while history altered its shape as the time fractures healed.

  “There is another difficulty,” Aidrean said. “Peter Godwin has vanished. I telegraphed our agents in Londain to obtain a statement from him. He was last sighted entering a trolley car bound for the north end of the city. This was yesterday morning.”

  The anger and fright had leached away by now, and I had a clear picture of what I might do. “Arrest Michael Okoye. He must know Godwin’s plans. Put him in one of the cells in the palace, not the ordinary prison. You and I shall question him together.”

  “He might be innocent,” Aidrean said.

  “He might be.” But my thoughts were on Éire and not my unwilling guest. “Send word to my ministers and your chief agents,” I said. “We shall meet early in the morning to plan our course. Meanwhile, I must see where this phantom attack took place. Then I shall go to the hospital in Loch Garman to visit the wounded. No, do not argue, Aidrean. I cannot have the Anglians say I hid in safety while my people died.”

  I sent him away while I hurriedly dressed, but as soon as he had issued the necessary orders to his people, Aidrean returned, saying he must and would accompany me.

  “You have never given over your post as my personal guard,” I said.

  He made an impatient gesture with one hand. “It is my duty. Just as it is my duty to insist you remain at Cill Cannig, Your Majesty. It’s possible the Anglians set those devices in Osraighe as a trap. Your death would make a gift of confusion to our enemies.”

  “I must,” I repeated. “I must go, Commander.”

  He gave over arguing, but I could sense his reluctance all through the ride from Cill Cannig to Osraighe. Perhaps he knew me too well to continue his objections. Or perhaps we had once more resumed our roles as queen and minion, and not friend and friend.

  The church bells were ringing two o’clock when we arrived at our destination. A dozen guards stood watch in the square. My own took their positions around me as I walked the circuit. Our footsteps echoed from the paving stones, and the air continued to vibrate from the clangor of bells, but the night was otherwise quiet and still. The sharp cold of winter had softened with the approach of spring, and even in this city square, there came the hint of green growing things. A full moon shone overhead, casting shadows ahead of me.

  I knew the square well—it was one of the wealthier districts inhabited by the directors of Éire’s banking concerns, certain influential members of Éire’s Congress, and various heads of the great merchant and trade houses. With one terrible weapon, the Anglian rebels could destroy much of Éire’s economy and government.

  At the northern edge of the square, I paused. Why had this attack failed? Or were these reports, and even my commander’s impressions, merely the product of terror itself?

  I turned back toward Aidrean …

  … the ground underneath me tilted. I fell backward into a deep pit. My guards had vanished. Torn bodies surrounded me, the earth was soaked in their blood. I tried to scrabble upward through the mass of dead, but the flesh dissolved into a mist between my fingers …

  I staggered backward. Aidrean Ó Deághaidh caught and steadied me. My vision had blurred and it seemed the stars and moon had shifted in the sky. “Aidrean,” I whispered. “Did you see?”

  “I did. Look again, Your Majesty. Look.”

  I looked.


  And saw a quiet moonlit square untouched by violence.

  But in the air, I felt the breath and whisper of the future.

  * * *

  We proceeded to Loch Garman in the motorcar. Within a few miles of the coast, I could see the blood-red glimmer of the fires. By the time we reached the city walls, the air was thick with smoke and ashes. We passed through broad avenues lined by dark houses, then looped around King’s Street to the harbor itself. As we approached the site where the device had exploded, we passed squads of gardaí, wagons carrying away debris, and others transporting the injured to hospitals. Hundreds of lanterns illuminated the harbor walls, casting an uncanny light over the wrecked ships and shattered buildings, which continued to burn.

  Osraighe’s vision made real, I thought.

  “Have you seen enough?” Aidrean asked me.

  “Not yet,” I replied, though a heavy knot had lodged beneath my heart. “Take me to the hospital, please.”

  My visit was a brief one—long enough to walk the corridors of two wards. The light here was dim, except for a few shaded lanterns, and the nurses spoke in whispers. I paused by this bed and that one. One man lay awake and weeping. Two women, mother and daughter, lay in beds next to each other, hands clasped. The gardaí had discovered more victims in the ruined buildings, a surgeon’s aide told me in hushed tones. Fifty dead, and the morning might see more. I could not speak any words of comfort, so I said nothing at all. Throughout, Aidrean paced behind me, like a shadow in the moonlight.

  * * *

  We returned to Cill Cannig in the rising dawn. Outside the Royal Residence, we separated—he to gather the necessary reports for the Council, and I to scrub the scent of blood and ashes from my skin, while I considered how to meet this newest disaster.

  The bells were ringing seven o’clock when I sat down with the men who acted as my closest advisers. Lord Ó Duinn and Lord Ó Tíghearnaigh. Lord Ó Cadhla. Lord Ó Breislin. Commander Ábraham, Chief of the Queen’s Constabulary. To their number I had added Lord Ó Luain, minister of finance, and the leaders of the two most influential factions in Congress. Lord Ó Bruicléigh had recently been elected as chief speaker. Lord Ó Rothláin, a wealthy industrialist, represented the opposition, though there were times I thought them both more in opposition to me than each other. Indeed, I had debated whether to include them. It was only the words of my mother about secrecy that finally convinced me to do so.

  Secrecy is an insidious habit, she had told me more than once. Our Court is stitched and sewn from the cloth of intrigue. But you must learn to recognize when discretion is necessary, and when it has become a sickness.

  But I would have to act carefully. Oh so carefully. I did not wish another Lord De Paor.

  Síomón and Gwen Madóc were the next to arrive. Both wore dark, rumpled clothing, with the sleeves rolled up to their elbows, exposing curious scars, like silvery freckles, over their hands and arms. I had the impression they had worked through the night, and only reluctantly consented to break off their research at my secretary’s insistence. They circled the table to take seats at the far end.

  A murmur of surprise rippled around the room at their appearance. I caught a flash of outright eagerness on Ó Tíghearnaigh’s face—as though he had sighted an enemy and wished to engage. Ó Breislin observed them with an air of expectation. Ó Cadhla glanced in my direction. His expression was closed, but I knew he had received an early report of the crisis through the Queen’s Constabulary. The rest had heard enough rumors to be frightened and suspicious.

  They will soon be more frightened, I thought.

  Aidrean Ó Deághaidh hurried through the door, followed by three of his chief aides, each of them carrying stacks of paper. They proceeded to distribute the papers to all those present, while Aidrean took the remaining open seat at my right hand side. (Another, quite obvious signal to those who attended.)

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

  He gave a summary of the night’s events in that flat tone I had come to associate with terrible news. The number of dead. The property destroyed. The probable effect on trade and international reputation.

  “And further is the matter of future devices.”

  That provoked a sudden intake of breath around the table.

  “What do you mean?” Lord Ó Duinn said.

  “That our enemies have planted devices set to explode in future days,” Ó Deághaidh replied. “I cannot tell if those explosion are inevitable, or if we can prevent them by our actions. The only fact I can report with certainty is that they are destined to destroy.”

  “Where?” Lord Ó Bruicléigh demanded.

  “In Osraighe,” Ó Deághaidh said. “We have identified three sites.”

  He went on to name them. The square in Osraighe, which I had visited. A marketplace frequented by more ordinary citizens. Then finally the site north of the city where I had planned to hold my first gathering for the Union of Nations.

  Of course, I thought. Of course they would strike there.

  Aidrean’s announcement produced a rustle throughout the chamber. Síomón Madóc straightened up in his chair, but Gwen was nodding, as though she just received confirmation of a theory. “We shall have to inspect the area, of course,” she said. “But from what you say, the effects are similar enough to what we observed in the airfield.”

  More murmuring, more stares, especially among the members of Congress. Ó Duinn was shaking his head—he had disagreed on making public what we had discovered so far. Ó Cadhla had tented his fingers and continued his silent observation.

  “You told us the airfield was an accident,” Ó Rothláin said. “A fuel tank…”

  “We lied,” I said. “Those were my orders, my lord.”

  “A matter of national security,” Ó Bruicléigh muttered.

  “Just so.” I turned to Síomón Madóc. “You said the patterns of time fractures at the airfield were too regular to be a natural occurrence. You’ve seen the reports from the Constabulary’s experiments as well. Is such a thing possible—to create a disaster in the future?”

  Síomón glanced at his sister, who shrugged. “We have only theories, no conclusions, Your Majesty.”

  “What experiments?” Ó Tíghearnaigh demanded. “Does that mean you can send a man, or several men, properly armed, into the future?”

  “No.” Gwen Madóc regarded Ó Tíghearnaigh with narrowed eyes. “No, we cannot.”

  He paid her no attention, and turned to Lord Ó Cadhla. “If we could pinpoint when the next attacks would occur, we could arrest the criminals before they act.…”

  “Except we would then outrage our citizens,” Lord Ó Rothláin said. “We cannot arrest a man if he’s committed no crime.”

  “What if we sent our soldiers to the moment before the attack took place?” Lord Ó Tíghearnaigh said. “We would have the evidence…”

  “Impossible,” Gwen said. “We cannot predict the future.”

  “But you can breach the walls of time,” the war minister said.

  At that, I heard a definite hesitation, before Gwen gave a noncommittal reply.

  I shall have to question her and her brother later.

  An argument broke out—noisy and useless—over the possibilities of time travel. Ó Tíghearnaigh demanded to know if Madóc could predict the outcome of future battles. Ó Breislin wished to learn which allies we might trust, and which we ought to take action against, before they acted against us. I allowed the debate to continue another few minutes before I lifted a hand for silence.

  “Enough. We cannot take action before we know more. You,” I said to Gwen Madóc, “shall go with your brother and Commander Ábraham to inspect the sites in Loch Garman and Osraighe. And you,” I said to Aidrean, “will question our Anglian guest while I observe.”

  * * *

  The prison was an artifact of Éire’s earliest days, when the old kings had imprisoned their highborn enemies in Cill Cannig itself, holding
them for later ransom, or more often, execution. War and rebellion, and the passage of centuries, had altered that ancient fortress into a palace, but the original prison remained. As Aidrean and I left behind the modern corridors with their electric lights, and entered the old stone passageways lit by oil lamps, I caught a whiff and whisper of those olden days.

  We passed cell after dark and empty cell. Our footsteps echoed over the worn stone, shadows from the lamps rippled over the rough walls, and the air had a stale, metallic scent. These days, the cells were seldom occupied, and then only by political prisoners of high rank. I could count only a dozen instances in the past hundred years, and only two from my own reign. Lord Alastar De Paor had waited for his trial in this one, a windowless cage of stone. He had cursed and railed against his arrest, they told me, until the final days when he crouched on the floor and wept. Six years later, Lord Nesbit had spent a single night, before his release and eventual assassination.

  The senior warden waited for us at the end of the passageway, keys in hand.

  “Your Majesty. Commander Ó Deághaidh.”

  “How is our friend?” I asked.

  “Well enough. Curious. We’ve said nothing, as you wished.”

  The cell where they had put Michael Okoye was larger than the others, with a small vent in the outer wall to let in fresh air and sunlight, but it was nevertheless a bare bleak room, with its walls of gray stone, the dented metal washbasin, and the chamber pot tucked into one corner. The air was chilled, more like winter than spring.

  Michael Okoye sat on the cot, his gaze pinned on the vent, which was covered with a network of iron bars. Though they must have roused him from his bed, he was dressed in a fine dark suit and stiff white shirt. His manner was still and contained, his expression remote, as though he had wiped away all emotion, all expectation. He did not acknowledge our presence.

  Aidrean Ó Deághaidh spoke first. “Mister Okoye. I have come to ask you some questions.”