The Time Roads

Ó Dónaill’s house stood on a corner, somewhat apart from its neighbors and shielded by a high wall of bushes. Síomón paused at the edge of the property, where a brick walkway led up to the front porch. Lamplight glowed in one of the upper windows, but downstairs all was dark. He puffed out his breath in frustration and stamped his feet, suddenly aware how swiftly they’d grown numb.

A fool’s errand, he thought. Ó Dónaill might be awake, but he certainly wasn’t receiving visitors at this hour.

He turned away, thinking he ought to go directly home, but stopped when a light flared in the downstairs parlor window. A silhouette appeared before the curtains. Síomón recognized Ó Dónaill by the wispy halo of hair around his head. With a few moments, he had lit the parlor lamps.

Now a second, taller figure appeared by the window. Síomón drew a quick breath and advanced a few steps along the front walkway. Who else had chosen to rouse Ó Dónaill from his early evening? Another student? Commander Ó Deághaidh?

Too curious to resist, he dropped into a crouch and ventured closer to the parlor window. Light spilled through the glass, but he told himself that no one inside could see him in the darkness.

Luck was with him. Ó Dónaill had left the window open a crack, and he heard their voices clearly.

“Not possible,” Ó Dónaill said.

“But sir, surely you’ve read the theories—”

“And just as surely I’ve read their refutations, Mr. De Mora.”

Evan. Why had Evan come here? Ó Dónaill was not his adviser. And surely he would have remained at home, mourning Susanna’s loss.

Síomón bent over double, his head spinning from the onslaught of suspicion. Here among the dying flowers and close-clipped bushes, the air felt colder, closer than before, and the scent of moldering leaves was strong. He swallowed against the bile rising in his throat and breathed through his nose until his stomach settled. Above him, the voices continued their conversation. They were arguing—something about formulae and the properties of numbers.

“Prime numbers,” Evan said, his voice taking on that eager tone when he’d alighted upon a new and exciting idea. “You yourself wrote a paper on the subject.”

“Years ago,” Ó Dónaill said. “Others have since disproved the theory.”

“True. But remember the new research from Lîvod and Tlatelolco—”

“Incomplete—”

“Not incomplete.”

There was a heavy pause, and Síomón could picture the glower on Ó Dónaill’s face. It was a look that intimidated less confident students. Evan himself apparently required a few moments before he could continue.

“Begging your pardon and your indulgence, sir, but the evidence is not incomplete. Here are the newest papers, delivered just this week from a community of Iranian scholars. Have you read them, sir?”

“Not yet, Mr. De Mora. I was engaged in my own research.”

“As was I, sir. One very similar to your own, I would imagine.”

Ó Dónaill snorted. “Indeed.” But when he spoke again, his voice was oddly formal. “Mr. Madóc is your intimate friend, I believe.”

“Mr. Madóc is my dear friend and a respected colleague, sir.”

A longer silence followed, then Ó Dónaill cleared his throat. “I’m glad you paid me this visit, Mr. De Mora. Come with me, we shall go to my offices tonight. I have some papers to share—”

He broke off with an exclamation. What followed next, Síomón could not quite make out. Footsteps thudding across the wooden floor, a strange soft thump, as if a knife had been driven into a pillow, a garbled cry that robbed him of strength and sense. He doubled over, hands splayed in the cold mud outside that bright and terrible house. From afar, he heard a commotion, then a second, broken-off cry.

Síomón dragged himself upright and forced himself to look into the parlor.

It was empty, as far as he could see. Empty and bright and silent.

Without thinking, he raced to the front porch and flung the door open. A silent foyer met his eye. Cautiously he stepped inside, his heart beating hard against his chest. He heard a rustling from within the parlor and laid a hand on the latch.

The metal stuck at first. He pressed harder. The latch gave way with a loud click, and the door swung open. For a moment, he could not comprehend what he saw. A branch of candles on the mantel. The hearth itself giving off a glow from its banked fire. Several chairs overturned. And then, he saw what had not been visible from the window itself—two dark shapes lying motionless upon the carpet, one with fine white hair, one with blond, bleached to silver in the lamplight.

Evan. Ó Dónaill. But that means—

He heard a scrabbling. Before he could register what that signified, a man burst from behind the couch and ran full tilt into Síomón. They both tumbled to the floor, arms and legs flailing as they wrestled. Síomón found himself pinned on his back, the stranger gripping his throat. Síomón dug his fingers into the stranger’s wrist, broke free, and rolled to his feet. The next moment the stranger had done the same.