The Time Roads

His smile, edged by firelight, caused the last of my bad temper to leach away. “It shall be exactly as you wish, Your Majesty.”

It was.

Telegraphs went out the next morning to all the nations of Europe and beyond. Within a day the first balloons arrived—scarlet, silver, the royal blue and purple of the Austrian Empire, the golden lilies of Frankonia, the red lion of Alba, and pale blue dragons of Denmark. More and more filled the skies over the next ten days, from as far away as the Mexica States and the Japanese Empire, as though my guests had anticipated my plans and only awaited a word to set off for our shores.

My coronation was set for the second Monday in February—a cold bleak day, the skies mottled with cinder-black clouds that spat snow and frozen rain over the bare fields. Once more I rose at dawn and gave myself over to the maids and ladies of the Court. Once more I donned the layers of silk and cloth-of-gold—all new stitched because the old gown was burnt and stained. My shoulder ached in memory of that other day, but then Aidrean Ó Deághaidh appeared at my side to escort me to the waiting carriage.

I rode alone in my carriage through the gates, my guards on horseback at points ahead and behind. It was like an echo of that previous journey—the same and yet so different. My nerves felt raw and exposed. The ticking of sleet against the cobblestones sounded loud. And my heart, my heart danced fast and light. I thought I could feel an answering pulse from Aidrean Ó Deághaidh’s hand as he assisted me from the carriage, even through all the layers of cloth. I paused, just as before, and listened to Lord Mac Gioll’s studied speech. I gazed over the crowds of onlookers. I felt so removed from my surroundings, from the event itself, that it was not until I stepped into the cathedral’s shadowed entryway it struck me fully I was to be queen.

I paused a moment to recover myself. Then, with a signal to my guards, I continued forward into the pale yellow light of the cathedral’s vast body. Step, step, step, my guards keeping time with me. Then they too fell away and I walked alone the last distance, there to kneel before the archbishop.

She stood upon the steps leading up to the nave of the church. Her silver crown flared like a circle of flames around her seamed face, reminding me of ancient portraits of the saints.

“May the blood of our mothers and fathers bless you,” she said.

“May the flesh of our Lord and our ancestors guard us,” I replied.

So we continued, giving challenge and response. Behind me, I heard the low chant of the priests, smelled the rich rank scent of blood in the air. When the acolytes approached, one bearing a bowl and one a silver flagon, the archbishop dipped her fingers into the bowl and smeared the lamb’s blood over my brow.

“Let this symbolize our dedication to the mother and the father, to oak and stream and the Lamb of God.”

She offered me the silver flagon, also filled with blood. I drank it all.

Thereafter, memories scattered into fragments. I remembered the clouds of incense, impossibly thick, rising toward the ceiling with its portraits of saints and gods. The archbishop’s fingers brushing my temples as she set the crown upon my head. The warmth and weight of gold pressing against my forehead, like the weight of centuries. The ritual words intoned in Latin and old Éireann and the chants from the choir. Then a bell rang out, and I felt a pang within my heart.

I was Queen of Éire.

The archbishop offered me a flagon of cold water to wash the taste of blood from my mouth. More rituals and rites followed, first in the cathedral and then upon my return to Cill Cannig. A stream of festivities crowded every moment through the rest of the morning and into evening. My maids kept busy, helping me from one formal gown to the next. That night I dined with visiting kings and queens and ambassadors.

On and on and on. Until at last I sat in my rooms, swathed in a warm robe and drinking a soothing infusion of tea. It was past midnight. Outside, I heard the crackle and boom of fireworks. The skies were clear and spangled with stars. Aidrean Ó Deághaidh lingered by the windows, though both of us knew he had no official reason to be here.

“Did you know my father?” I asked him.

He paused, longer perhaps than the question warranted. “Only from afar.” Then he answered the true question, the one I had not dared to ask. “I thought him a good king. I believe you will make a good queen.”

“Ah.” I smiled, more pleased by his good opinion than I had expected.

A log broke. Aidrean turned toward the fire, alert. The shower of sparks sent up a spray of golden light that limned his profile. I don’t know how long we stayed thus—just a heartbeat—but it seemed I had all the time to study his face. The lines running in angles, the shadow black of his hair edging his dark face, the curve of his lips. His expression was pensive, as though he were searching the fire’s red-gold heart for answers.

Then he chanced to look around. My glance caught his. There, no mistake, a flash of ardor in those warm brown eyes.

My cheeks burned. I turned away.

Aidrean—Commander Ó Deághaidh—did nothing. How could he? He was my servant. I was his queen. It was all fraught with impossibility.

Later, much later, I lay in bed, sifting through my emotions. Oh, and sure, I was the queen. Oh, and sure, my predecessors, almost all of them, had taken favorites. But I was young, newly come to my throne, and my authority not yet proved. I could not follow my desires as I wished.

With a sigh, I closed my eyes and felt the beat of my pulse against my eyelids.

Surely, if I reached out now, my hands would meet the bars around me.

* * *

He effaced himself after that.

Of course. He thinks you wanted a dalliance.

I paused in reading correspondence and pressed my hands against my eyes. Luckily, I was alone. My secretary was occupied in the outer offices, sorting through invitations and handling the many impromptu visitors from Court. Aidrean—You must not think of him that way, I told myself—Commander Ó Deághaidh spent less time in the Royal Enclosure than before. These days, he oversaw the entire branch of the Queen’s Constabulary assigned to Cill Cannig. We met each morning, but these interviews consisted of mostly perfunctory exchanges. Commander Ó Deághaidh handed me a detailed written report, including his current assessment of security, as well as summaries of the most important reports from the Queen’s Constabulary. If I had questions, I might ask, but he had made them so thorough and complete that I never needed to.