The Time Roads

He released the breath he had not realized he held. “Well, then.”

“Well, then.” She accepted his proffered arm, and pressed a hand over his. “I’m glad to see you again, Aidrean Ó Deághaidh.”

Together they walked beneath the blossoming trees, through the sweet-scented air and the ruddy light of sunset.

THE TIME ROADS

FEBRUARY 1914

The execution took place on the seventeenth of February, at one o’clock on a cold dank afternoon. Clouds masked the skies. Snow drizzled downward in fits and starts. It caught in the crevasses between the stones of the palace. It blew in runnels over the tiled yard and blurred the outer walls, so that the world appeared a smudged and dirty gray.

I stood on a balcony overlooking the yard. My senior guards flanked me. More guards lined the square, all of them dressed in long woolen cloaks and fur-lined hats, their rifles held across their chests. My minister of home affairs, whose responsibilities included the Anglian Dependencies, stood behind me. He and I and all these soldiers would bear witness to the death of Thomas Alan Austen, the man who had tried to assassinate me.

Nine days ago, Austen had fired a rifle from the rooftop overlooking the steps of Osraighe’s cathedral. Chance alone had saved me—a remark from a companion that caught my attention and caused me to turn away. The bullet had grazed my neck and shattered the wooden doors of the cathedral. Austen had fired three more bullets and killed two of my guards, before he fled. The Garda had captured him before he could escape the city.

My half-healed wounds from that attempt ached in the cold. I had not wanted to give Austen the honor of a formal execution. My ministers, and especially Lord Ó Cadhla, had advised me otherwise. Out of respect for Lord Ó Cadhla’s long service—to my father and to me—and knowing he never o

pposed me without reason, I had agreed.

The iron gate swung open, and four guards marched the prisoner into the courtyard. Thomas Austen was a small, bent man, dressed in black trousers, a black smock, and black cloth slippers, already wet from the snow. He was bound with chains at his wrists and ankles, so that he could not do more than shuffle toward his death. For a moment, I almost pitied the man.

Then he lifted his gaze to mine. His eyes narrowed. His lips parted in silent laughter, turning the air silver with his breath.

My pity vanished.

You are a bold man, Thomas Austen, to look at me that way.

A guard took hold of Austen’s arm and bent close to the man’s ear, no doubt urging him to show respect. Austen said something in reply and the guard smiled.

A dangerous man, said the reports from my Constabulary. Much loved in his homeland for his courage and his intellect. He had dedicated his life to the cause of Anglian independence.

The procession, delayed only momentarily, continued forward to the solitary wooden post at the far end of the courtyard. The post itself was a relic from my grandfather’s day, when Anglia and the other Dependencies fought more vigorously against our rule. Even then, it had been reserved for political prisoners of some importance. During my father’s reign, most convictions ended with imprisonment or exile. The last criminal whose death I witnessed here was Lord Alastar De Paor.

Austen vanished briefly as the guards crowded around to remove his shackles and bind him to the post. They did not want to take any chances with this prisoner—no unseemly struggles, no second attempt on the queen’s life. Their task accomplished, they marched back to join their comrades by the walls, and take up their weapons in a ready stance.

I stared across the distance. Austen stared back. He’d refused his blindfold, which did not surprise me. Have you not surrendered, even now? I thought. Are you plotting how to use these last moments in favor of your cause?

A foolish question. I knew the answer.

“Guards of the firing squad, take position.”

Ten guards marched in a single line across the yard, their boots crunching over the snow. The wind had died away, and the cold pressed against me, a heavy immovable weight. I suppressed a shudder, knowing that my own actions would be noted and reported as well.

On command, the guards halted and spun to face the prisoner.

“Weapons ready.”

Ten rifles swung down and around.

“Fire on each count.”

I heard the click of the bolt. Saw the gleam of Thomas Austen’s eyes as his gaze veered away from mine and fixed itself upon those ten rifles.

“A haon.”

The guns roared.

Blood spurted from the prisoner’s chest. His head jerked back and he shouted, a short sharp cry. Though my pulse thrummed in my ears, I nevertheless distinctly heard the click of the bolts as the guards readied for the next shot.