The Time Roads

“A dó.”

Austen twisted away from the bullets. No, that was a trick of my expectations. It was the gunfire tearing through his already dead body that flung him against the post. For one terrible moment, Thomas Austen seemed to stand on his feet, untouched. Then slowly, oh so slowly, he collapsed, a limp and bloody sack, held upright only by the ropes binding him.

“A trí,” I whispered in unison with the commander’s voice.

One last crack of rifles. One last dreadful spasm.

A cloud of gun smoke hung in the air, obscuring the yard. An acrid stink drifted up to where I stood. Snow stung my cheeks, and now I did shiver, in spite of my thick woolen cloak and my fur-lined gloves. Behind me, Lord Minister Ó Duinn murmured to one of my attendants, but I continued to stare at the dark shadow that marked the post and Thomas Austen’s body.

In my mind, I could still hear his last shout. And the white mist, spiraling upward to the clouds, was like the pale ghost of his breath, as though Thomas Austen continued to breathe in defiance of death. As though he continued to laugh.

* * *

But I am not rid of the man so easily, I thought.

Three hours had passed since the execution. The gray afternoon was shading into an uneasy twilight. Alone in my private offices, I sifted through reports about various matters concerning Éire and its allies. In spite of the grand fire burning in the hearth, I felt a deep ache of cold inside me. Oh, to be sure, Austen was dead, but his presence would continue to plague my kingdom. I had already received early reports of unrest from the Queen’s Constabulary. Crude placards had sprouted on walls in certain public squares of Osraighe where Anglian immigrants lived. A telegraph from Londain and its outer districts spoke of clashes between protesters and the Garda. No, death had not silenced Thomas Austen. As my father said more than once, We shall not have true peace until we settle the Anglian Matter.

I set the papers aside and pressed my hands against my eyes. Peace. It was a will-o’-the wisp we had all pursued, I and my father and our allies, not just within Éire’s borders, but throughout the world. It was for peace that I had proposed a union of nations to my ministers. We must talk. We must rule the world together, not against one another, I had told them. It was our last chance before we annihilated ourselves through ambition, and if all went as I planned, our first conference would take place this summer. But I did not doubt the Anglian Matter would intrude there as well.

Damn you, Thomas Austen. Damn you to hell.

I heard the tread of footsteps. My secretary appeared at the door, a sheaf of papers under one arm, and his writing case in hand. “Your Majesty—”

“Time comes to meet with my council, yes. Thank you, Coilín.”

He hesitated. Are you well enough? was his unspoken question.

I suppressed the urge to snarl. No, I was not well. Austen’s bullet had not killed me, but I had bled a great deal, and the subsequent fever had left me weak. However, I had called this meeting twelve days ago, before Thomas Austen made his attempt upon my life. My physician had argued I should abstain from my duties another month, but those same duties did not allow such a luxury.

“Are my ministers waiting for me?” I asked.

“Waiting and anxious, Your Majesty. Just as you wished.”

“Good. They ought to worry. And Commander Ó Deághaidh?”

“He arrived a few hours ago, Your Majesty.”

Even better.

“Then I should not keep my council waiting any longer.”

With Coilín Mac Liam trailing behind me, I set off through the halls of the Royal Enclosure. My plans for this Union of Nations had begun last September, when I announced to Éire’s Congress my intentions. It had cost me many favors, but I had at last persuaded a sufficient number of political factions to support me. Since then, Éire had issued invitations to the more influential rulers of Europe and Asia and the Western Continents. Today’s conference was ostensibly to untangle the latest demands from our guests, but there were other, less public reasons for the gathering.

When I arrived, guards swept the doors open and announced my arrival as I passed into the conference chamber.

“Your Majesty.” Lord Ó Cadhla was the first on his feet. The rest of my ministers, their secretaries and their underlings, were only moments behind.

“My lords. Honored gentlemen.”

I took my seat at the head of the table, while my secretary distributed the most recent reports from my agents abroad. Lord Ó Cadhla, as minister of state, knew their contents already. Lord Ó Breislin, chief adviser for intelligence, did as well. Others scanned through these new documents with frowns, or puzzled expressions. A few smiled, but theirs were anxious smiles. A reflection of the kingdom’s own mood, I knew.

At the far end of the table sat Aidrean Ó Deághaidh, now my senior commander of intelligence in Eastern Europe. I nodded in his direction. He flicked his eyes down to the papers before him and made a pretense of studying them. It had been a risk, summoning Aidrean from his post in Montenegro. I did not wish to alert any conspirators of our most recent correspondence.

(And there had been so many conspirators over the years. Madmen and opportunists. Intellectuals, such as Thomas Austen. Trusted men of my own cabinet, who proved more faithful to their ambitions than to Éire. Lord De Paor, in the Montenegro Affair, was one. And later, Lord Cleary, briefly minister of war, after Lord Mac Gioll’s death.)

My steward poured a glass of watered wine for me. I drank it slowly and felt the ache from my shoulder ease. Coilín Mac Liam had taken his seat off to one side, his writing materials arranged and his pen filled with ink. When I judged that my audience had read enough of the reports, I set the goblet onto the table.

The faint chime of glass against marble brought instant silence.