The Time Roads

“Not at all,” he said. “We only suggest you might find another meeting instructive.”

“How so? I’ve heard their petition before. What else can they demand?”

“It’s not the specifics of what they demand,” Ó Cadhla said. “It’s a matter of hearing the intent behind their words.”

A mystery, then. Ó Cadhla knew I disliked mysteries. I especially disliked being maneuvered and manipulated. If this had been any other minister …

But it was not. Once more I reminded myself of Lord Ó Cadhla’s long service to my father and to me. He wished me to grant this interview, and he wished me to draw my own conclusions. His reasons would be good, at least by his lights.

So I quietly drank my coffee, while I considered their advice. I set aside my own prejudices as well as I could, even as I remembered past interviews and past petitions from the Anglians, all of which had ended in impossible demands. While I considered Aidrean Ó Deághaidh’s words of the night before.

I have no love for Thomas Austen, but there is some truth in what he and his followers say.

“Very well,” I said at last. “I shall do as you ask.”

And let us hope I do not regret it.

* * *

The audience was set for three o’clock that afternoon, in the largest of my audience halls. It would be conducted with strict attention to protocol, I had told my chamberlain. If these Anglians and their fellow representatives wished me to acknowledge their status, they would certainly be reminded of mine. And so I dressed with particular care, choosing the most formal of my gowns and the crown I wore only for state occasions. Between the heavy cloth and the weight of my jewels, I felt like a stuffed doll, but one stuffed with purpose, at least.

As I entered the hall, the chamberlain pounded his staff on the tiled floor. “Her Majesty, Queen of Éire and all her Dependencies.”

The size of the hall was enormous, the audience, less so. The delegation itself consisted of two dozen men, six from each District. Beyond them, standing in the alcoves to either side, or seated in the nearest rows of benches, were the usual courtiers, gossips and curiosity seekers. No doubt there would be reporters from the various newspapers, as well. After yesterday’s execution of a famous Anglian dissident, today’s unexpected audience with that same dissident’s followers was an unexpected treat. But between the short notice and echoing expanse, their number appeared far smaller.

I took the throne and settled my gown, while the chamberlain called out the names and titles of the delegation and ordered them to come forward and make their obeisance to their queen.

“We have no queen,” a voice called out.

I glanced up sharply. Silence fell over the hall at once.

So, a challenge.

I scanned the faces before me, trying to pick out who had spoken. One of the delegation, obviously. They were the usual motley collection of elderly dissidents, angry young recruits to the cause, and others who clearly had no other occupation. The chamberlain was shouting for order, but I silenced him with a gesture. “I am Queen of Éire. Do you dispute that?”

“No. But Éire is not Anglia. Nor Wight, nor Manx, nor Cymru. We are not children, nor are we unthinking beasts. You have no right to govern any of us.”

Thomas Austen’s words, in a tract he had published a week before he attempted to murder me. Silently, I cursed Lord Ó Cadhla and Lord Ó Duinn for persuading me into this useless audience. Out loud, I

said, “Those are borrowed words, spoken with a coward’s tongue. Show yourself, whoever you are.”

“We are not cowards,” said another voice.

A young man stepped from the midst of his fellow delegates. He was younger than the rest, his clothing of good quality, though plain in design. He was dark complected, like many Anglians from the port cities, with thick springy hair, cut close to his head. His expression was far more contained than that of his colleagues.

“Your Majesty of Éire,” he said. “We are none of us cowards, whatever you believe. We are here to give voice to our people. Will you listen to us?”

Delicately and honestly spoken.

“Very well,” I said. “What is your name?”

“My name is Michael Okoye.”

Now I remembered the report from my secretary. Michael Okoye was the descendent of a wealthy Nri house in West Africa. Okoye’s great-grandfather, Ikem Okoye, had sent three of his sons abroad to Frankonia, Anglia, and the Western Continent to oversee their growing trade concerns. I wondered how his descendant had come to join the Anglian cause.

“Tell me your petition, Mister Okoye.”

Before he could answer, however, one of the older men shouldered his colleagues aside and came to the front of the crowd. “We have more than a simple petition to present,” he said. “We’ve come with an ultimatum.”