The Time Roads

* * *

That night, Ó Deághaidh set out the letters from the five ministers. Next to them he placed the three sheets that had appeared so mysteriously. Even if he considered a deliberate attempt to disguise their handwriting, he could find no similarities between the two sets. Ó Luain’s handwriting was straight and even, much like the compact sample, but without its cramped quality. Mac Gioll’s hand most closely resembled the sprawling segment, but he could never have managed the rest, especially those paragraphs with stiff straight lines marching across the page. De Paor’s stood out with its strong verticals and the way he crossed his Ts with a broad stroke cutting across the other letters. His hand was almost too distinctive, Ó Deághaidh thought as he compared pages. To be sure, the same problem existed for Ó Breislin and Ó Cadhla, who both used old-fashioned loops and underlines.

Someone had expected him to compare handwriting. Someone very clever.

* * *

The palace bells were ringing nine o’clock when the queen’s senior runner escorted Aidrean Ó Deághaidh into the small sunlit parlor within the Royal Residence. The queen was presently closeted with Lord Ó Cadhla, the young man informed Ó Deághaidh, but she would arrive momentarily.

A sideboard held carafes with water, and silver urns of coffee and tea. Ignoring these refreshments, Ó Deághaidh made a circuit of the room, wondering why Áine had chosen this particular location for their final interview. There was none of the usual portraits and ancient statuary found throughout the audience rooms. Instead, the walls were lined with numerous shelves, displaying mechanical curiosities. Clocks built of precious gems that rang the hour in chords. Strange devices set with lamps and mirrors and prisms that transformed plain sunlight into rainbow-colored patterns. One glass exhibit held nothing but an extraordinary complication of copper wires. A brass plate indicated a switch off to one side. When Ó Deághaidh touched it, a small red balloon—crafted from jewels and fine metals—popped from a niche in the wall to swoop along the wires, as though in flight across the skies.

… the world tipped beneath him. He glimpsed a fair-haired man, loose limbed and graceful. Breandan Reid Ó Cuilinn, renowned scientist and the queen’s favorite, who had plunged to his death from a balloon. If Ó Deághaidh had been at Court, he would have led the inquiry into the accident, but the queen had already ordered him away to a very different kind of investigation …

Ó Deághaidh closed his eyes, willing the false memories to subside. So many things that never were. They pressed upon his consciousness, like fingers around his throat. Was it his imagination, or had their presence grown more insistent, here in Cill Cannig? You are a strong-minded man, Doctor Loisg had said, during one session. But mere strength cannot cure you.

The vertigo faded, but he felt its lingering presence, and though the world froze once more beneath his feet, he could still sense the flaws and cracks below its surface.

“Commander Ó Deághaidh.”

Startled, he turned to see the queen just entering the parlor, trailed by a stream of servants bearing trays of bread and pastries. The sunlight made her dark red hair burn like copper against her milk-white skin.

“Your Majesty,” he said, more breathless than he liked.

She smiled at him, a warm smile that nevertheless woke all his instincts. Here was his last opportunity to abandon this assignment. Did he want to? He could not tell.

Áine dismissed her servants and proceeded to pour tea for them both, as though they were two intimate friends.

“So tell me,” she said. “What have you learned these past two days?”

Ó Deághaidh accepted his cup and took a seat nearest the window. He allowed himself a moment of stirring honey into his tea to collect a proper answer. An honest one. He owed her that much.

“You have given me a rather difficult task,” he said. “I find it has certain complications that might prevent an easy resolution.”

The queen smiled, pensively. “So I have deduced myself. I don’t ask for the impossible, Commander. Find the truth. Let me decide from there.” Her smile turned a shade more genuine. “Not that I can guarantee you will like my decisions, but that is my burden, not yours. For now, let us talk about your mission.”

It was easier than he expected. They spoke in matter-of-fact tones about the Balkans in general, and Montenegro in particular. The queen agreed with Lord Ó Cadhla that Ó Deághaidh should assume a new identity as soon as possible after leaving Frankonia, if not before. “You have the names of several agents throughout the region,” she said. “But approach them only if necessary.”

“Do you object to Lord Ó Cadhla’s suggestion that I contact his man in Vienna?”

She hesitated. “Lord Ó Cadhla has far greater experience in these matters than I. So do you. I would only ask that you use your best judgment.” Then she met his gaze with bright gray eyes. “But I meant what I said before. If you find yourself with questions, or with answers you cannot trust to anyone else, apply directly to me. And no, do not write down this information. Memorize it, Aidrean. Can you do that?”

So many meanings behind that simple question.

He drew a deep breath. “Yes. I can.”

She nodded. “Very good. Letters are best, but in emergencies do not hesitate to use the telegraph. Here are the name and address, and how you must word your message…”

* * *

High above Paris, the gigantic passenger balloon described a wide circle as it began its descent toward the landing fields. The air was frigid at this height, with beads of ice along the rigging, never mind the late spring season below. Pinpricks of white and golden light reflected from metal fastenings, and the massive ropes cast a web of shadows across the cabin, where Aidrean Ó Deághaidh looked down upon the city.

Lutetia, Parisii, La Ville-Lumière. A city more ancient than Awveline or Osraighe. He could tell its map by its colors—the dusky red and brown brickwork of the oldest districts. The newer structures built from gray marble. Here and there, spires of amber and gold, or bright green gardens, like tiny emeralds. And winding through the center, the silvery ribbon of the Seine.

The balloon’s great engine whirred; the rigging hummed louder as the balloon swung around for the approach, and its pilots adjusted the rudders and vanes.

And here might God, our inhuman Divine, tread light upon this world of ours and mine.

Henry Donne’s words echoed through Ó Deághaidh’s thoughts as the balloon glided downward through the clear bright air, leaving behind the immense silence to reenter the noise-filled realm of man.