The Time Roads

Ó Deághaidh’s vision cleared and he recognized Lord Ó Cadhla. But a cold dread washed over him as he took in Lord Ó Cadhla’s pale face, the marks of tension and great weariness—so exactly like that other interview, in that other time, when Ó Cadhla’s daughter had died. Ó Deághaidh felt a tremor of the old vertigo, wondering which present and past he had tumbled into.

“What happened?” he whispered. “Where am I?”

“In a hospital. In Cetinje.”

“In Cetinje. Then that means…”

His voice trailed away, and he tried to decide what that meant.

“They found you outside the city,” Lord Ó Cadhla said. “You’ve been unconscious for three weeks.” To Ó Deághaidh’s questioning frown, he added, “The official report is that the country hereabouts suffered an earthquake. Their river has vanished underground, and a dozen or so buildings collapsed. Sixty people died, several hundred injured. But far, far fewer than if that madman had succeeded. The queen congratulates you on your success.”

Ó Deághaidh closed his eyes and let his breath trickle out. Death and disaster were hardly a success. But he understood. There would have been a war otherwise, with millions dead and a continent left in ashes. “What about Lord De Paor?” he whispered.

“Arrested and awaiting trial. Madame Delchev gave me the evidence you uncovered.”

“She was here, then.”

“Every day, watching over you, or so they tell me. The doctors said you were babbling numbers and names constantly. They thought the explosion had deranged your mind, but Madame Delchev knew better. It was she who deciphered your gibberish and sent a telegram to the queen.”

Ó Cadhla went on to tell Ó Deághaidh about a monstrous scandal exposed, involving Montenegrin collaborators and Austrian agents. The prince retained his throne, apparently, but there would be an interim council to oversee the drafting of a new constitution.

“Our queen has issued a statement of support,” Ó Cadhla said. “As did Frankonia and Alba. We have all sent representatives to oversee the new elections and the transition of government.” He smiled. “Though I must add I and the others are here only temporarily. Your Madame Delchev was quite firm in expressing her convictions. She and her colleagues are grateful for Éire’s assistance, but they insisted on formal treaties that our presence will not be permanent. The queen agreed. I’m not certain she had much choice. It was an interesting experience, negotiating between two very strong women.”

It was all too much to absorb in a few moments. Valerija. Alive and well. And overseeing the founding of a new government, just as she wished.

“As for you,” Ó Cadhla said. “Madame Delchev proved both intelligent and discreet, and in the subsequent chaos, no one has thought to question your identity. For all they know, you are a migrant laborer, who had the misfortune to be on the highway when the explosion, or rather, the earthquake, took place. The queen suggests, and I agree, that you should return to Éire as soon as you are fully recovered.”

“Of course.”

A great weariness came over him. He would return home, his honor and reputation recovered. But he found himself strangely indifferent to his success. He probed the reasons behind that indifference, but flinched away, unwilling to explore it farther. Perhaps later, when his strength had returned. He was tired. That was all.

A warm hand pressed upon his. Lord Ó Cadhla’s. “Commander Ó Deághaidh … We shall talk later, when you are well. But please accept my thanks for preserving this future out of so many others.”

Ó Deághaidh glanced up. Ó Cadhla gave a tiny nod.

* * *

Within the week, Ó Cadhla arranged for his transfer to the local embassy, accomplished late at night under the cover of a moonless sky. The embassy chief explained that he would return to Éire as soon as his health allowed so that he might give his evidence to the queen and her ministers.

Ó Deághaidh nodded, but something in his newly subdued manner must have worried the embassy officer who reported to Ó Cadhla, because they did not hurry him on his way. He rested another week in seclusion before he set off for Éire in easy stages—by motorcar to Budva, by ship to the little-used port of Youghal, then by train to Osraighe, where a private coach carried him to Cill Cannig. There were watchers and guards for every stage, some invisible but many more making their presence known, which told Ó Deághaidh that matters were not yet settled to the queen’s satisfaction.

The queen. He had no grasp of his emotions when he thought of her. He dreamed of her from time to time, but no longer as a man dreams of a woman. Instead the images were ones of state and rank, the symbolism thick enough, if he cared to examine them.

Coming home to Éire helped somewhat. He met for hours with the queen and her ministers, delivering his formal report of what transpired in Montenegro, and answering their many questions. At night, he slept with the aid of wine and a great weariness he could not shed.

A lull followed, which he did not mistake for tranquility. Then came the trials.

His own part ended the first day with his testimony, but Ó Deághaidh watched throughout the following weeks as the court conducted its meticulous examination of witnesses and evidence. This would be no private interrogation, followed by an execution or assassination in secret. Áine had apparently decided to give a clear signal to her enemies that she would punish any rebellion swift

ly and without mercy.

Oh my Queen. I see the why behind what you do. But do you see the cost to yourself? To Éire in the future?

His memories of the trials themselves were fragmentary. Lord De Paor rambling on in the witness box, offering excuses and justifications. The queen’s face as still as sculpted ice. The lord advocate passing sentence. Further sessions with the queen and her ministers to discuss the public’s mood after De Paor’s execution, and the sentencing of certain members of his staff, as more details of his activities came to light.

There would be no war, not for this generation. Or so the ministers proclaimed.

I should rejoice, Ó Deághaidh thought. I will, later, when I recover my sense of what I have achieved, and what I have lost.