The Time Roads

He was being unreasonable, he knew. Loisg was an expert in disorders of the mind. More important, Loisg had treated Ó Deághaidh since the beginning of his illness, when nightmares had consumed his life, and they had needed restraints and strong sedatives to conduct these sessions. Loisg did not repeat these questions from mere curiosity.

And so Ó Deághaidh dutifully answered him. Yes, the nightmares had stopped entirely. No more violent, bloody images broke his sleep, and he was no longer plagued by a sense of vertigo, as though reality had shifted beneath his feet. Throughout, the clock ticked on, dividing time into miniscule bits that dropped away into the past.

The clock’s machinery whirred; chimes sounded the hour. Loisg finished off a last note and smiled. “Once more, we are at the end of our session, Commander Ó Deághaidh. Until next week?”

Ó Deághaidh stood and smoothed out his frock coat. “Until next week, certainly.”

There must have been something amiss in his tone, because Loisg glanced up sharply. “And yet you do not sound so certain yourself. Is something wrong, Commander?”

Careful, Ó Deághaidh thought. He is a clever man. “Nothing, Doctor Loisg. Why?”

The doctor’s pale eyes narrowed. He appeared about to ask him more, but then shook his head. “We can talk about it later,” he said, half to himself. Ó Deághaidh did not disabuse him of the idea.

Outside, it was a brisk, cold day, and gusts of wind carried along the scents of wet earth and melting snow. A tall hedge screened the house and its gardens from the boulevard. A walkway led off to one side to a private lane, also sheltered from view. It was all very discreet, but then Doctor Loisg treated many wealthy patients in Awveline City.

Ó Deághaidh glanced at his pocket watch—ten o’clock. Over an hour remained until his train departed. He decided to walk to the station. As he emerged from the lane onto Tulach Mhór Street, his eye caught on Aonach Sanitarium, a high, handsome building, which stood on a rise overlooking the boulevard. Ó Deághaidh shuddered, remembering its stark corridors, the terror no amount of drugs or electricity could banish.

That was one set of memories. He also remembered the sanitarium from a different perspective, as a representative of the Queen’s Constabulary seeking clues to a murder.

Both were true. Both were subject to time’s distortions.

Why did I lie to Loisg? he wondered.

A profitless question. One might as well ask why he remembered a past that did not exist.

He crossed the boulevard, threading his way between the automobiles and horse-drawn carriages, to a pathway that led through a pleasant green park and down to the Blackwater River. It was against Loisg’s warnings about indulging in false memories—it was against his own instincts—to walk beside that river.

I’ve changed, he thought, as he turned into the park.

* * *

Once more, he stood in the examining room. Once more, all the details were wrong. He clearly remembered the telegraph had come shortly after sunrise. He could not have arrived in Awveline City before midmorning, and yet before him lay a room washed in moonlight, all colors faded to black and gray.

A stark, silent room, bereft of scent and movement and life.

In the center of this emptiness stood a single, raised pallet, draped in a coarse white sheet. Ó Deághaidh drew the cloth back and felt an involuntary shock, like a fist thrust into his gut, even though he had known what to expect. The assailant had strangled his victim first, then slashed her face with a knife. The indentation of the man’s fingers around her throat stood out livid against the young woman’s gray skin.

“Her name was Maeve Ní Cadhla,” the medical examiner said. “Lord Ó Cadhla’s youngest daughter.”

* * *

The concierge knocked on the compartment door. “Ten minutes to Osraighe Station, sir.”

Ó Deághaidh drank down the last of his tea

and glanced over the papers in his lap—reports from the Queen’s Constabulary, which had arrived by royal courier the day before. They were incomplete, which piqued his curiosity. Or rather, they were carefully edited summaries of what had to be longer, more detailed accounts from agents in the field. Still, they proved a good introduction to the current situation throughout Europe, western Asia, and the Mediterranean colonies.

… Frankonia’s king facing opposition within his council from those who favor a partnership with the Prussian Alliance …

… sources from the Turkish States confirm the official heir’s recent death was the latest in a series of assassinations conducted between Koptic and Muslim factions …

… Serbia appears to be maneuvering to take control over the Balkan States. Austria still maintains its sovereignty over Hungary, Slovakia, and portions of Croatia, but we have reports of Serbian militia units engaging with Austrian troops in the eastern provinces, while Montenegro’s Prince Danilo II continues to press for kingship …

Delicate times, Ó Deághaidh thought. Especially for a prominent nation like Éire, which had to negotiate a careful path between these many conflicts. He stowed the reports in the case at his feet, then touched a hand to his coat to reassure himself, once more, that the envelope was there. The queen’s personal courier had delivered the packet and letter to Ó Deághaidh late the night before.

Do not fail me, Aidrean, she had added at the end.

But I have failed you before, he thought. Or had he?