The Time Roads

He listened quietly as I recounted everything from the past day. About Breandan Ó Cuilinn, dead and alive. About my strange journey into the future, the book of history that foretold Éire’s destruction and the rise of the Prussian dictatorship. The actions we had taken to undo that future. To everyone else I had lied, but to Aidrean Ó Deághaidh I could do nothing but tell him the truth.

“They shall demand you open the time roads,” he said, when I described the outcome of my conference with Congress and Council. “Ó Tíghearnaigh…”

“Ó Tíghearnaigh and Ó Rothláin are aware I shall keep a watch on them. No one except you and I and Gwen Madóc know about Doctor Ó Cuilinn’s book—not even Lord Ó Cadhla. For all they can tell, I have my own company of secret spies.”

Aidrean laughed softly. “My Queen, you are…”

“Incomparable,” I said with a smile. “But I promised to keep this visit to a quarter hour, and I must ask you now my great favor.” I hesitated. “What I ask is not fair, but I have never treated you fairly.”

His fingers curled around my hands. “We are both servants of Éire. What is this favor?”

I gave myself a few moments, considering how to best phrase my thoughts. “The surgeons tell me your leg is badly injured, and you will need many months to recover. That is one thing. Another is that we have evaded immediate disaster, but we must be vigilant. We have not cured the sickness and hatred and violence, we have only temporarily bandaged the wounds. So. I want you to return to Cetinje and your family. Let a few months pass, then apply to me to relinquish your post as chief of the embassy. You will remain in Cetinje, however. You have friends there already. From time to time, you might visit other cities to consult physicians about your health. Along the way, you will make new friends.”

“A spy, then?”

I heard the faint edge to his words. I smiled. “I told you this was a great favor. No, I don’t want a spy, but I do want you to be my trusted eyes and ears. Listen to what people say in the markets and cafés and in the streets. Watch for the danger signals. I shall never have a book from the future again. Will you do this for me? For Éire?”

He sighed and stared upward at the ceiling. I waited patiently as the clock ticked onward through the minutes. “I will do as you ask,” he said at last. “I … I’ve grown accustomed to the sunlight in Montenegro. And I would like to spend more time with Valerija and my daughters.” The tension in his mouth eased into an almost smile. “I might even take up mathematics again.”

* * *

The sun was slanting behind the rooftops of Cill Cannig when I returned. My secretary waited for me with a sheaf of papers, wrapped in a leather case and tied with ribbons. “The proclamation and the transcripts you requested, Your Majesty.”

“Thank you, Coilín.” I took the papers from his hands. “Where is Mister Okoye?”

“In the south orchard. The Constabulary made a search before he entered the grounds. He is safe, Your Majesty.”

I nodded and continued around the palace, down the flight of flagstone steps and through a wrought iron gate. Beyond the formal gardens, past the newly greening lawns, another gate brought me into the orchard my great-great-grandmother had commissioned, when she first assumed the throne. Apple trees stood in rows, their bare branches like stiff gray brushstrokes, but I could see the knobs where leaves would bloom within the next month.

I picked my way down the stone path between the trees. Okoye was not in sight, but I suspected where he’d gone. When I came to the next fork, I took the one that curved away to the left, between the trees, and down to a pool of water bordered by flat limestone boulders from Éire’s north. Birch and pine saplings blanketed the grounds. A rich ripe scent met me as I entered the green-lit copse. Here it was nearly twilight, but high above the skies were alight with the setting sun, and the pale walls of Cill Cannig were visible through the trees.

Just as I had guessed, Michael Okoye stood at the water’s edge, gazing at the dark expanse.

“Mister Okoye.”

He spun around.

So much had transpired in the six weeks since Thomas Alan Austen had died in the snow-drifted courtyard—murder and terror and a world tipping over into chaos.

“I have news,” I said. “And a request.”

His mouth twitched into a bitter smile. “You have demanded a great deal from me already. Why should I agree to more?”

“Because it concerns your homeland. Because it concerns Peter Godwin, who is dead.”

I motioned toward a stone bench, set underneath an elderly apple tree. Michael Okoye stiffened at the mention of Godwin. When I pointed again, he sat down with obvious reluctance and clasped his hands together tightly. “When did he die?” he asked.

“Four days ago. We believe it was nationalist radicals from Prussia. They wished to implicate the Anglian cause in the attack on Osraighe. The attack is why I had you arrested. Mister Godwin’s death is why I did not release you until today.”

He laughed soundlessly. “And I should be grateful for that?”

“No.” I took the seat beside him and untied the ribbons around the leather case. “My request has nothing to do with gratitude, only with the security of our nations. Here…” I laid the proclamation out before him with all its seals and signatures. “Anglia, Manx, Wight, and Cymru will each have a seat in the Union of Nations. And with these…” I spread out the record of the morning’s session. “… my Congress has agreed that each District shall have the right to elect representatives to Éire’s Congress.”

Quite a long time passed as Michael Okoye stared at the papers.

“And what is your request?” he said at last.

“It comes in two parts. That you present my proclamation to your fellow delegates and all the Districts. Once you have done so, I would like you to return to Cill Cannig, this time as my guest—my true guest. You understand,” I added, “that each District will have its own representative, and the others are not obligated to align themselves with Anglia’s wishes.”