The Time Roads

As Lord Mac Gioll recited the vows of lord to queen, a part of me recalled that he had recited those same vows to my father, twenty-five years before, when he had lost his father to an attack by Anglian revolutionaries. It was important that I face the news with as much strength and composure as my father had. And so, when Lord Mac Gioll finished his speech, I held out my hands to receive his kiss upon my rings. With great difficulty (I knew better than to make any move to assist him), Lord Mac Gioll rose and gave way to the next man just entering the room.

* * *

Later, much later, I sat alone in my private chambers and laid my head upon my hands. Firelight jumped and flickered against the walls. No gas lamps burned here. Only a single candle guttered on the table. Its orange-scented perfume overlaid the wood smoke and pervasive sourness of my own fear.

I was Áine Lasairíona Devereaux, the seventeenth of my house to take the throne, the thirty-first ruler of Éire.

I do not want this, I thought.

* * *

I did not want it, but I could not turn away from my duties.

And so I let tradition carry me through the next six weeks. When I looked back upon them, I remembered nothing in particular, just a weight against my heart, a curious and lasting numbness. The funeral itself proceeded without any misstep. A hundred ambassadors passed before my father’s coffin; thousands more—from Éire, from Alba, from a dozen or more nations of Europe and beyond—paused to bow and whisper a prayer, before making way for the press of mourners behind them.

And I, I stood dry eyed upon the podium, flanked by guards.

I have no tears, I thought. No grief. Or had grief been burnt entirely away?

There was no one who could answer that question. Or at least, no one I trusted.

Afterward, I met with my father’s ministers and other members of Éire’s Congress. I held innumerable interviews with representatives from the Continent and farther abroad, those who came to express their condolences, and to reassure themselves that an alliance with Éire would continue to be to their advantage.

I also met with the royal physicians and ordered an autopsy on my father’s body. They soon reported he had died of a seizure of the heart. There were no signs of poisoning, nor that the seizure had been induced by artificial means. I thanked them for their thoroughness, wondering all the while when my grief would break free.

Ten days later came the coronation—a hurried affair, but my ministers agreed I should take control of the throne as soon as possible. Once crowned, others would find it more difficult to dislodge me. And there were those who would attempt it. I knew that from my own history.

The day began with a stuttering of snow—a typical late-January morning. The skies were flecked with clouds, and the sun, when it finally consented to rise, cast an uncertain light over Cill Cannig and the nearby city of Osraighe. Cold nipped at my skin as I darted from the palace into the waiting carriage.

The kings and queens of Éire had lived in Cill Cannig and the Royal Enclosure for six centuries. Tradition, however, proclaimed they would receive their crowns in the ancient cathedral of Osraighe. And so I rode alone in the royal carriage, shivering in my finery, in a slow, creeping procession from the palace, through intervening fields, and into the city. The clocks were just chiming ten as I arrived at the cathedral. There Lord Ó Cadhla took hold of the lead horse’s reins, while Lord Mac Gioll flung open the carriage doors to greet me with a long ceremonious speech. A cold dank wind blew against my face. I paused upon the step to listen, as the ritual required.

It was there the assassin took his chance.

A shot rang out. Fire exploded inside my shoulder, as though a white-hot spear had pierced me. I gasped and fell backward, reaching for that spear and thinking confusedly that if I could pluck the damned thing out, the agony would stop.

After that, I had difficulty remembering. Pain and more pain. The strong stink of blood. Lord Mac Gioll’s creaking shout, then Lord Ó Cadhla’s stronger voice calling for the Queen’s Guard. And me, retching all over my grand expensive gown, and weeping at last, weeping so hard and furiously that I retched more and finally collapsed onto the ground.

* * *

The wound proved painful, but not dangerous. Once

the physicians removed the ball and bandaged my shoulder, they allowed themselves to be herded away by Lords Mac Gioll and Ó Cadhla.

“Your Majesty,” said Lord Mac Gioll.

I turned my head away.

“Áine,” said Lord Ó Cadhla.

That nearly caused me to look around. I stopped myself, but not before I glimpsed a smile on Lord Ó Cadhla’s grim face.

“You are not dead,” he said quietly. “Nor so badly wounded we can put off this interview.”

He was right, of course. I sighed and waved a hand to show my assent.

That, apparently, was not good enough.

“Stop grieving for yourself,” Lord Ó Cadhla said crisply. “You have lost your father. Well, and so have I. Lord Mac Gioll here lost a brother and two sons in the last Anglian Uprising. I understand. But you must postpone your mourning for a more propitious time.”