The Time Roads (4 page)

“Did you know my father?” I asked him.

He paused, longer perhaps than the question warranted. “Only from afar.” Then he answered the true question, the one I had not dared to ask. “I thought him a good king. I believe you will make a good queen.”

“Ah.” I smiled, more pleased by his good opinion than I had expected.

A log broke. Aidrean turned toward the fire, alert. The shower of sparks sent up a spray of golden light that limned his profile. I don’t know how long we stayed thus—just a heartbeat—but it seemed I had all the time to study his face. The lines running in angles, the shadow black of his hair edging his dark face, the curve of his lips. His expression was pensive, as though he were searching the fire’s red-gold heart for answers.

Then he chanced to look around. My glance caught his. There, no mistake, a flash of ardor in those warm brown eyes.

My cheeks burned. I turned away.

Aidrean—Commander Ó Deághaidh—did nothing. How could he? He was my servant. I was his queen. It was all fraught with impossibility.

Later, much later, I lay in bed, sifting through my emotions. Oh, and sure, I was the queen. Oh, and sure, my predecessors, almost all of them, had taken favorites. But I was young, newly come to my throne, and my authority not yet proved. I could not follow my desires as I wished.

With a sigh, I closed my eyes and felt the beat of my pulse against my eyelids.

Surely, if I reached out now, my hands would meet the bars around me.

*   *   *

He effaced himself after that.

Of course. He thinks you wanted a dalliance.

I paused in reading correspondence and pressed my hands against my eyes. Luckily, I was alone. My secretary was occupied in the outer offices, sorting through invitations and handling the many impromptu visitors from Court. Aidrean—
You must not think of him that way,
I told myself—Commander Ó Deághaidh spent less time in the Royal Enclosure than before. These days, he oversaw the entire branch of the Queen’s Constabulary assigned to Cill Cannig. We met each morning, but these interviews consisted of mostly perfunctory exchanges. Commander Ó Deághaidh handed me a detailed written report, including his current assessment of security, as well as summaries of the most important reports from the Queen’s Constabulary. If I had questions, I might ask, but he had made them so thorough and complete that I never needed to.

And so I sat alone, weeping like a child.

Furious, I thumped a fist against my desk.
I am not a child. I am the queen.

So be one.

The words came to me in my father’s voice.

I wiped the tears from my eyes and pulled the closest stack of papers toward me. These were applications and petitions my secretary had reviewed and sorted according to their urgency. The first few I scanned automatically: a petition from a county in the north, requesting a temporary reduction in their taxes; a long rambling paper setting forth grievances between two major guilds; yet another polemic concerning Anglian liberty; demand upon demand for monies to support this or that worthy cause …

… a request from Doctor Breandan Reid Ó Cuilinn, asking for an extension to his grant.

I stopped. Flicked away the other papers and concentrated on his alone.

He was no politician, I thought, reading closely. He stated without apology or preamble that he had quit his position at Awveline University, though they had offered him a higher salary and the rank of senior professor.

… I have discovered, through painful experience, that I cannot do proper research when I am distracted by other obligations. My blessed father died the year before and left me a small inheritance—enough to live off, but not enough to afford a laboratory and materials for any substantial endeavor. Your father’s generosity enabled me to accomplish a great deal, but—and here I apologize to you, just as I did to your father, for such blatant beggary—I must have another year’s funding if I am to transform my theories into reality …

He believes in his cause,
I thought.
So do they all.

And yet, I remembered that handful of iron dust, the electric tension in the air when Ó Cuilinn’s golden octopus worked its magic.

It was not golden, but brass, I reminded myself. And he used science, not magic.

Nevertheless, I found myself transported back to that cold sunlit room, watching a shabbily dressed scientist perform a miracle before my father and his Court.

At least I can do some good here,
I thought as I called for my secretary.

*   *   *

“Doctor Ó Cuilinn.”

“Your Majesty. Thank you for inviting me to Cill Cannig.”

He had changed little in the past year and a half, but those few differences revealed much—his fine golden hair lay thin over his skull, a tracery of lines marked his pale complexion. And though his eyes were just as dark and brilliant, the gaze as direct, I thought I detected a new uncertainty in his manner. Not a good sign, for my purposes.

I gestured toward the waiting chairs. “Please. Let us be comfortable. I invited you because I wanted to discuss your research.”

There was the briefest hesitation, an even briefer glint of wariness, before he smiled and bowed and followed me to the comfortable grouping of stuffed chairs set around a low table. Beside us, tall windows overlooked one of the palace courtyards, now rife with lilies and roses and the last sweet-smelling blossoms dripping from the apple trees. Spring rains had given way to the tenuous summer sun.

Servants silently poured tea into porcelain cups etched with falling leaves. At my glance, they withdrew. Ó Cuilinn watched them throughout their work. Only when we were alone did he glance back in my direction. Expectant.

“I was not entirely truthful,” I told him. “I want you to move your laboratory here, into the palace, and—”

“You cannot purchase me,” he said abruptly. Then added, “Your Majesty.”

So he had not entirely lost his arrogance. Good.

I nodded. “I do not intend to. But you see, I believe in your work. I have ever since I observed your demonstration to my father two years ago.”

His eyes widened as I opened a drawer and withdrew a handkerchief wrapped many times around. I set the handkerchief on the table. Its contents shifted slightly. Was it only in my imagination, or could one hear the hiss of iron dust, smell the faint metallic scent, old and stale?

Breandan Ó Cuilinn stared at the handkerchief. “What is that?”

“Your metal bar,” I told him. “The one you sent forward in time, when you last were here.”

“How did you—”

“I waited.” Never mind that I had not known what to expect, or when. The essence was true. “Not long after you departed, the bar reappeared. Or rather, its remains did.”

I untied the handkerchief and carefully unfolded the cloth. There in the center lay the handful of iron dust, somewhat diminished. Ó Cuilinn stretched out a hand, plucked it back. He glanced up at me. “What do you want?”

He spoke as one equal to another, not a servant to his queen.

“I want you to continue your research,” I said. “I am willing to allot you substantial funds. However, I would find it simpler if we could eliminate the layers of letter writers and secretaries and other middlemen.”

A flush edged his cheeks. He had freckles, I noticed.

“I believe I understand. But Your Majesty, if you truly want me to continue my work—and dedicate myself to it entirely, not in piecemeal fashion as I have over the years—then I will require a great deal of equipment. And money.”

“I understand,” I said. “Please, tell me what you’ve discovered so far. And what you hope to accomplish in the future.”

My early education in the sciences allowed me to follow the shape, if not the details, of his account. In between careless sips of tea, he spoke about using carbon-free chromium objects, which resulted in less corrosion. His most recent experiments with the material had yielded larger flakes of dust, along with fragments of the bar itself. But that alone, he told me, was useless—merely a device for proving the concept. What he needed to do was reduce the effect of time travel itself. In fact—and here his gaze went diffuse, obviously following this thought along all its permutations—he ought to search for ways to shield objects inside the chamber. A combination of the two branches of research …

“What about the past?” I asked.

“What about the past?” His eyes narrowed as he regarded me with obvious suspicion. “Is this a scheme you have for some political end?”

“I do not mean that. I only mean—”

“What everyone else means,” he said bitterly.

“If you think I will make any preconditions on you, you are mistaken,” I replied, my tone equally sharp.

“No. I did not think that—”

“You did,” I said. “But never mind. I am sure we can come to some agreement. You want money. I want to continue my father’s legacy with scientific progress.”

A smile twitched at his mouth. “I see. Yes. Yes, Your Majesty, I believe we can meet both our goals.”

*   *   *

Orders, however easily spoken, were not so lightly carried out. Doctor Ó Cuilinn had no outstanding obligations to any landlord or university, but he did have an enormous quantity of records and equipment to transfer from Awveline City to Cill Cannig. A month went simply to negotiating what quarters he required for his work. Two more passed in transferring his belongings to the palace, and arranging them to his satisfaction. I had once thought his arrogance a worthy quality, but I found myself hissing whenever my steward or secretary mentioned Ó Cuilinn’s name.

That, unfortunately, was not the end of my worries.

“You say this fellow—”

“Scientist,” I said.

“This scientist holds the keys to time?”

Seven months had passed since Doctor Ó Cuilinn had taken up residence in Cill Cannig. I was breakfasting with Lord Fitzpatrick, a senior member of the Eíreann Congress and an elderly man, used to the perquisites of age and rank. Others were present, but they all deferred to him.

“He investigates them,” I said patiently.

Apparently my patience was too transparent.

“He walks the time roads,” Fitzpatrick said.

A shiver went through me, in spite of knowing he only used the terms from legends past.

“He is a scientist,” I said. “He researches possibilities.”

“At a considerable cost,” another said. I recognized him—Lord Ó Bruicléigh, newly arrived in Congress after his father’s death. An ambitious man, with a reputation for cleverness. He had attached himself to the Committee for Economic Affairs.

“Explain yourself,” I said.

The other members of Congress flinched at my tone, but Ó Bruicléigh himself was oblivious. “The monies spent on Doctor Ó Cuilinn’s research are a matter of public record, Your Majesty. The committee has studied those records. We wish merely to express our concern about spending so freely—”

“We are hardly in danger of ruin.” It took a great effort to keep my voice calm.

“No, but as you know, Your Majesty, there are troubling rumors from the Continent, echoed by troubling rumors within our own borders. We need an advantage, be it economic or political or…” Here he offered me an edged smile. “Or an advantage both scientific and concrete.”

“You mean a weapon,” I said.

He shrugged. “Whatever you wish to call it, Your Majesty.”

I studied the man before me with growing anger. His threat was plain enough—if I did not give him the assurances he wanted, he and the committee would work to undermine Ó Cuilinn’s project. Though I had established a measure of authority over the past year, I could not afford to insult or ignore these men, however badly I wished to.

You must make concessions,
my father’s voice added.
He holds a portion of influence, and has the means and determination to increase it.

That night, in a rare private conference with Aidrean Ó Deághaidh, I reopened the matter. Though he knew all about the invitation, and Ó Cuilinn himself, I recounted everything, from Ó Cuilinn’s first visit, almost three years before, to Ó Bruicléigh’s speech.

“They want reassurance,” Ó Deághaidh said.

“I know that,” I said. “I only wished to know your opinion about the matter. As a friend,” I added in an undertone.

His expression did not change, nor did he glance in my direction, but I thought that his pulse had jumped at my words, and the tension around his mouth eased momentarily—faint clues that I nearly missed, despite the ubiquitous gaslight.

“If you wish my opinion,” he said, “then I will give it. Spend the money for his research, if you believe it necessary and right for Éire. For you. But do not promise anything to your Congress. Otherwise you break the promise you made to him.”

No need to ask how he knew. He knew everything.

“Thank you,” I said.

“No need to thank me, Your Majesty.”

The odd inflection caught my attention. I started to speak—it would have been easy to breach the strangeness between us, I thought—but Aidrean Ó Deághaidh was already rising and bowing, a deep graceful bow expressing loyalty and obedience and all the qualities I loved in him.

You have spoiled me forever, Aidrean Ó Deághaidh.

Alone, I considered the problem. The difficulty was that Ó Bruicléigh did have a point. Our alliance with Frankonia, sealed with treaties and blood ties, had assured us security for decades. But now Frankonia’s king was failing, and the electors were voicing disagreement about his successor. The Turkish States were embroiled in another succession battle. Our few dependencies across the Atlantic had broken free, only to find themselves at war with the Iroquois and Delaware nations. The Prussian Alliance and Dietsch Empire pressed upon our colonial borders in Palestine and in Southeast Asia, and the Austrian Empire, failing for decades now, proved no less dangerous in its dying throes.

“I will not renege on my promises,” I told Doctor Ó Cuilinn at our next meeting.

He seemed unsurprised by the rumors I told him.

“It has always been the case,” he said. “They are politicians. They think scientists are nothing but servants to war.”