The Time Roads

That provoked a sudden intake of breath around the table.

“What do you mean?” Lord Ó Duinn said.

“That our enemies have planted devices set to explode in future days,” Ó Deághaidh replied. “I cannot tell if those explosion are inevitable, or if we can prevent them by our actions. The only fact I can report with certainty is that they are destined to destroy.”

“Where?” Lord Ó Bruicléigh demanded.

“In Osraighe,” Ó Deághaidh said. “We have identified three sites.”

He went on to name them. The square in Osraighe, which I had visited. A marketplace frequented by more ordinary citizens. Then finally the site north of the city where I had planned to hold my first gathering for the Union of Nations.

Of course, I thought. Of course they would strike there.

Aidrean’s announcement produced a rustle throughout the chamber. Síomón Madóc straightened up in his chair, but Gwen was nodding, as though she just received confirmation of a theory. “We shall have to inspect the area, of course,” she said. “But from what you say, the effects are similar enough to what we observed in the airfield.”

More murmuring, more stares, especially among the members of Congress. Ó Duinn was shaking his head—he had disagreed on making public what we had discovered so far. Ó Cadhla had tented his fingers and continued his silent observation.

“You told us the airfield was an accident,” Ó Rothláin said. “A fuel tank…”

“We lied,” I said. “Those were my orders, my lord.”

“A matter of national security,” Ó Bruicléigh muttered.

“Just so.” I turned to Síomón Madóc. “You said the patterns of time fractures at the airfield were too regular to be a natural occurrence. You’ve seen the reports from the Constabulary’s experiments as well. Is such a thing possible—to create a disaster in the future?”

Síomón glanced at his sister, who shrugged. “We have only theories, no conclusions, Your Majesty.”

“What experiments?” Ó Tíghearnaigh demanded. “Does that mean you can send a man, or several men, properly armed, into the future?”

“No.” Gwen Madóc regarded Ó Tíghearnaigh with narrowed eyes. “No, we cannot.”

He paid her no attention, and turned to Lord Ó Cadhla. “If we could pinpoint when the next attacks would occur, we could arrest the criminals before they act.…”

“Except we would then outrage our citizens,” Lord Ó Rothláin said. “We cannot arrest a man if he’s committed no crime.”

“What if we sent our soldiers to the moment before the attack took place?” Lord Ó Tíghearnaigh said. “We would have the evidence…”

“Impossible,” Gwen said. “We cannot predict the future.”

“But you can breach the walls of time,” the war minister said.

At that, I heard a definite hesitation, before Gwen gave a noncommittal reply.

I shall have to question her and her brother later.

An argument broke out—noisy and useless—over the possibilities of time travel. Ó Tíghearnaigh demanded to know if Madóc could predict the outcome of future battles. Ó Breislin wished to learn which allies we might trust, and which we ought to take action against, before they acted against us. I allowed the debate to continue another few minutes before I lifted a hand for silence.

“Enough. We cannot take action before we know more. You,” I said to Gwen Madóc, “shall go with your brother and Commander Ábraham to inspect the sites in Loch Garman and Osraighe. And you,” I said to Aidrean, “will question our Anglian guest while I observe.”

* * *

The prison was an artifact of Éire’s earliest days, when the old kings had imprisoned their highborn enemies in Cill Cannig itself, holding

them for later ransom, or more often, execution. War and rebellion, and the passage of centuries, had altered that ancient fortress into a palace, but the original prison remained. As Aidrean and I left behind the modern corridors with their electric lights, and entered the old stone passageways lit by oil lamps, I caught a whiff and whisper of those olden days.

We passed cell after dark and empty cell. Our footsteps echoed over the worn stone, shadows from the lamps rippled over the rough walls, and the air had a stale, metallic scent. These days, the cells were seldom occupied, and then only by political prisoners of high rank. I could count only a dozen instances in the past hundred years, and only two from my own reign. Lord Alastar De Paor had waited for his trial in this one, a windowless cage of stone. He had cursed and railed against his arrest, they told me, until the final days when he crouched on the floor and wept. Six years later, Lord Nesbit had spent a single night, before his release and eventual assassination.

The senior warden waited for us at the end of the passageway, keys in hand.