The Time Roads (26 page)

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 opposed 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?

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.