The Time Roads

“You attended Awveline University,” Aidrean Ó Deághaidh said. “And graduated with honors, with degrees in economics and philosophy. An interesting mix.”

“A compromise,” Michael said. “My father wished me to be competent in our business, and I wished for an education beyond goods and freight and currencies. As long as I satisfied his demands, he agreed to indulge mine.”

“I can understand,” Aidrean said. “It was for that reason I studied mathematics, and for the same reason I gave over those studies.” He glanced around the cell, as though searching for a few last, almost forgotten clues, then abruptly stood. “Thank you, Mister Okoye.”

Michael Okoye blinked. “You have nothing more to ask?”

“None for today.”

“When will you release me, then?”

Aidrean Ó Deághaidh shook his head. Already the warden had appeared—I suspected the man had kept watch from a hidden alcove for just this moment—and was unlocking the cell door. Michael Okoye stood as though to insist on an answer, when his gaze snapped toward me and he stiffened, suddenly aware of my presence once more. Before he had recovered himself, Aidrean Ó Deághaidh exited the cell and the door rang shut.

* * *

“He could be innocent,” Aidrean said, once we had left the prison wing.

“Are you certain?”

“No.” He paused and glanced around. Guards were stationed behind us and at the next intersection. In a lower voice, he said, “I am not certain about him or about what we do.”

“What do you mean? They have murdered a dozen people or more.”

“They, yes. But—” He broke off. “My apologies, Your Majesty.”

“Apologies be damned, Aidrean. Do you believe I should release the man?”

He shook his head. “There is no one clear answer to that question. Is he guilty? My instincts tell me he has committed no crime. His family, too, has enough influence in the Nri Republic to cause you difficulties. And yet, my instincts also tell me that he and I might have a useful conversation or two.”

“About mathematics and philosophy?”

I meant to speak lightly, but I knew at once I had struck the wrong note. Aidrean Ó Deághaidh bowed in reply, his face now carefully blank. I drew a breath, ready to apologize, but this was too public a place. At the next intersection we parted, he to speak with Commander Ábraham and I to speak in private with Lords Ó Cadhla and Ó Duinn.

But as I passed into the Royal Enclosure, my steps turned of their own accord to the family’s chapel. Even at this late hour, a priest came to meet me as I approached the altar rail. She offered me a sip of red wine and a thin wafer, the reminder of Christ and Gaia, then withdrew to let me pray.

God and Mhuire and blessed Gaia, please give me guidance.…

The formal words of the prayer died away in my thoughts. God and Gaia would not take this burden of the Anglians from me, no matter how much I wished it. My ancestors had gone to war against these people to win our own liberty. We’d set soldiers in their land and spies in their houses, taken their freedom as payment for ours. Three thousand had died when my grandfather had put down the last rebellion, three hundred since I took the crown, in riots and battles with the Garda. My father had hoped to free the Districts. His reign had ended—abruptly—before he could see his wish made true. I had attempted to do what I could, but the times and the press of other business had prevented me.

You will be queen, my father had told me, ten days before he died. The guilt of your past, and your people, is yours.

* * *

I am convinced that none of us slept in the days that followed. At Aidrean Ó Deághaidh’s suggestion, the Queen’s Constabulary offered a reward of a million pounds for information concerning the tragedy in Loch Garman. And Ó Deághaidh himself worked with Lord Ó Duinn’s people and those from the Constabulary to review all recent reports concerning disaffected groups in the Districts and Éire itself, searching for patterns to past activities that they might predict future attacks. He and I held daily meetings with Gwen and Síomón Madóc to discuss other patterns—patterns of time and its fractures.

Late in the afternoon of the third day, Aidrean came to me requesting an immediate private interview. From his face alone, I knew at once he had difficult news.

“Peter Godwin is dead,” he said, once we were alone.

“Dead? How? When?”

“Murdered. His body was discovered

in the Thames, early this morning, by a fisherman and his son.”

I asked for more details, knowing they would be ugly.

According to the Constabulary examiner, Peter Godwin had been strangled with a rough cord, which had left burn marks around his neck. His face and arms were badly bruised, and several teeth were missing, indicating he had fought his captors. Those captors had fastened weights around Godwin’s body to prevent it from floating, but they evidently had not tied the ropes securely enough, because the body was discovered in the mud flats near the estuary. The gardaí had discovered the ropes and weights themselves further upstream.