Authors: Beth Bernobich
And, as if I had not mentioned any difficulties at all, he went on to talk about his latest discoveries. He had made great progress in mapping out the time fractures. Indeed, they seemed to be multiplying, though he could not yet determine why. The largest cluster centered over Awveline City; others had appeared in the neighborhood of Osraighe and the northern provinces, and he was corresponding with scientists on the Continent to determine if they had discovered any. Whatever their origin, he said, they represented a weakness in the fabric of time. If his theories were correct, he could use them as avenues between the years.
“A road between times?” I said.
“Possibly. I cannot guarantee anything yet.”
Of course,
I thought.
There were no guarantees in science, I knew. None at all in politics. Nevertheless, I found myself reviewing Doctor Ó Cuilinn’s reports with greater eagerness than I knew was wholesome. And though I hated the necessity, I played the conciliator to Lord Ó Bruicléigh and his faction. But to what end?
Uncertainty nibbled at me. In turn, I asked each of my advisers their opinion.
“Remember your father,” Lord Mac Gioll said.
“Remember the longest road,” Lord Ó Cadhla told me.
And from my closest friend, “Remember what you wish others to remember of you.”
“Is that how you make decisions?” I asked Aidrean Ó Deághaidh.
He never answered me; I never pressed him.
By summer of the following year, I had several answers, none of which satisfied me.
“Tell me again,” I said to Breandan Ó Cuilinn, “what you have accomplished.”
We stared at one another a few moments. He disliked being questioned—I could see that at once—but then, I disliked excuses and obfuscations.
At last he bowed his head.
“We have made progress, Your Majesty.”
“How much?”
“A great deal.”
“Show me.”
Now his anger was unmistakable. “Why? Because you want a good return on your investment?”
I met his glare with one of my own. “Why not? Or are you so gifted by God and Mhuire and Gaia that I dare not to question you?”
At that he gave a snorting laugh. “I should have known.” Then, before my anger could flare hotter, he added, “Your Majesty, I have been a thankless, arrogant creature. My apologies. Let me show you what you have bought with your generosity.”
He led me from the interview chamber through a series of ever-narrower corridors into an unused wing of the palace. Nearly unused, I thought, taking in the many recent renovations. Surely my secretary had cleared all these beforehand. Or no. I remembered saying once,
Do whatever it takes.
We came into a vast, brightly lit laboratory, lined with shelves and cabinets. Several assistants sat at workbenches. At our entrance, they glanced up and made as if to stand, but I signaled them to remain at their work. Ó Cuilinn trailed me as I advanced into the room. Bins of supplies, all of them neatly labeled, took up most of the shelves, but others held books and folders, half-finished replicas of that original machine, and several strange devices I could not identify. More shelves and more cabinets crowded the far end; in front of them stood a long, broad worktable, with neatly arranged stacks of journal books and tools set out in ordered rows.
All of these paled before the machine that Ó Cuilinn wheeled out before me.
The octopus,
I thought.
But this octopus overshadowed everything else.
It was three times the size of a man, golden and polished and wrapped all around with gleaming glass tubes. A vast crate of batteries, or who knew what, crouched under the workbench, and there were other, larger cubes sheathed in lead off to one side, connected with an umbilical cord of wires. The air in the room felt close and stale and charged with electricity.
Ó Cuilinn crouched down, tugged open a drawer.
“I meant to show you this earlier, but…”
Without finishing his explanation, he extracted a small object from the drawer. It was a balloon and its basket, worked in the finest gold and silver. An artist’s rendering, a craftsman’s masterpiece. As if inspired, Ó Cuilinn picked up one of the journal books from his worktable. He pressed a button, and the octopus’s mouth stretched wide. He placed both objects inside, pressed the same button again, and took a hasty step backward.
The octopus closed its mouth.
“Wait,” he said, before I could speak.
The air went taut. A note rang through the laboratory, as though someone had plucked a gigantic string. My pulse thrummed inside me, and I felt an answering vibration from Breandan’s hand pressed against mine.
“What is that?” I whispered.
“I sent them forward in time,” he answered, just as softly.
“To when? To where?”
“Here. And twelve months from now.”
“Why so long?”
“To prove myself. To everyone. To you.”
We were both breathing fast in excitement. Afterward, I could not tell who turned first toward the other. All I remember is that our lips met in a fleeting kiss. Pressed again and did not part for an impossibly long interval. Only when we paused to breathe, I realized I did not wish to stop. Belatedly I remembered we were not alone. I did not care. My hand snaked around his neck and I pulled him into another kiss that lingered on. Time and time uninterrupted, and none of it satisfied me.
At last, he pulled back. His face was flushed, his eyes so dark, they appeared black.
“I have taken too many liberties.”
His voice was husking and low.
“Not nearly enough,” I said.
* * *
Even in my bed, in the midst of kissing me, he could not refrain from speaking about his research. “There must be a way,” he said, as he ran his fingertips along my hip. His hands were cool and raised a trail of goose bumps; the rest of him was like a winter’s fire.
“A way for what?” I asked when he did not continue.
“To send a person ahead in time, like a courier to the future.”
I noticed that he was tracing a pattern on my skin. A mathematical formula, a schematic for a new octopus, a pathway through time for his imaginary courier. Laughter fluttered in my belly. When he kissed me again, I had no doubt his attention was focused entirely upon me, and the laughter changed to a new and sharper sensation.
“What is wrong?” he whispered.
“Nothing. Nothing at all. Tell me about these couriers.”
His breath tickled my cheek. “They would be like runners in the old empire. But traveling through time instead of ordinary roads.”
“The time fractures? But what if they close?”
He paused. I could sense his attention withdraw to some secret citadel within. I waited.
“It depends on the nature of the fracture,” he said at last. “If my theories are correct, they might be stranded in the future, or past, in the wherever and whenever of their destination. But others suggest that time fractures indicate parallel histories. It’s possible my couriers would be stranded in a different
now
.”
As he spoke, he rose and absentmindedly pulled on his clothing. He paused only to kiss me, then he was gliding through the doors. I sighed. Obsession. And yet, we were much alike. Already it occurred to me that I should discuss these possibilities with my ministers. Not as a weapon, but surely a way to maintain our predominance, as Lord Ó Bruicléigh so delicately phrased it.
As I exited my private chambers, I stopped.
Aidrean Ó Deághaidh stood in the parlor outside. The hour was late, and the room lay in shadows. But I hardly needed sunlight or lamplight to read his expression, which was cold and remote, like the trees of winter.
* * *
In my memories of those days—memories blurred and splintered by later events—it seemed I did nothing but lie in bed with Breandan Ó Cuilinn, the two of us absorbed in carnal pleasure as we talked about mathematics and the properties of time. In truth, I spent the chief of my hours as I always had, doing the work of a queen, while Breandan pored over countless treatises and monographs ordered from universities throughout the civilized world, from Sweden to Iran to the Mayan Empire. When he came to me, saying that certain theories pointed toward signs of time fractures at high altitudes, I hired engineers to construct a special balloon with heavyweight baskets for Breandan’s equipment. As the months passed, Breandan studied balloons as he studied everything else. Soon others began to call him the expert.
They said he was my favorite, which was true.
I told myself he was a friend as well.
“Your Majesty.”
Aidrean Ó Deághaidh had arrived for our daily conference. Since the day I encountered him outside my private chambers, we had confined ourselves purely to the business of Court and Éire. There were no more private conferences, no sudden access of intimacy, on either part. We were as two strangers.
Aidrean Ó Deághaidh silently handed over his neatly typed report. Just as silently, I accepted it.
On every other day, he would repeat the same formula—that he hoped the report was satisfactory, but if I had any questions, I had but to ask.
Today, however, he paused. “Your Majesty…”
I waited. “Yes, Commander?”
Whatever I expected, it was not these next words.
“There has been a murder. At Awveline University.”
“A murder?” My skin went cold.
“Several,” he answered, then added quickly, “No one connected with Court.”
Only then did I remember that several of my ministers and members of Congress had children studying at the university. “Who then?”
“Four students, all of them in studies for advanced degrees, in mathematics or the sciences. The local Garda has found the case to be a difficult one. They tell me they can find no motive for these killings. The city is panicking, and I fear this panic will spread into the surrounding countryside.” He paused and glanced to one side. “The murders were bloody and … peculiar.”
In a flat voice, he recited the particulars. All four victims hacked into bloody pieces, the bodies left exposed. Rumors were already spreading. Some claimed it was the work of a gang. Some whispered about a larger conspiracy. There was talk about dissidents from Anglia or another of the Dependencies, hoping to create confusion, or even agents from abroad. All nonsense, of course, but panic and rumors did not always yield to reason.
“I want you to monitor the investigation,” I said, interrupting him. “Assign an officer from the Queen’s Constabulary to work with the local Garda—someone you trust. Have them send regular reports on their progress. Let the newspapers know as well.”
Aidrean Ó Deághaidh’s glance met mine. For just that moment, the remoteness vanished from his expression. We were friends and allies once more.
Before I could speak, however, a mask dropped over his face. He nodded stiffly and turned away, saying, “Very well, Your Majesty. I will carry out your orders at once.”
He left me startled and not a little irritated. Then I heard a rustling behind me and a hand descended on my shoulder.
“Áine.”
It was Breandan, clad in rumpled clothes from the day before, his mouth tilted in a warm smile. I turned into his embrace, grateful for the warmth of this man.
“There’ve been murders at Awveline University,” I said.
“And so you sent your commander to solve the mystery.”
“Not exactly. He…”
But when I glanced up, I could see that Breandan’s gaze had traveled past me, to an unseen point in the distance. I knew that look. Most likely a sudden insight into his machine had distracted him. I wanted to shake him, yank his attention back from that inward world to the present. But I did not. My first impression, from all those years ago, was the true one. A man like Breandan Ó Cuilinn could have only one obsession in his life. Everything else was a temporary diversion.
And you are much the same way. He is your favorite. No, not even that. A dalliance.
That is not true,
I insisted.
He is my friend.
You cannot afford to have friends.
Words recalled from a long-ago lecture from my father, the king. I had confronted him about his new favorite, an acclaimed poetess invited to Cill Cannig because of her work, and who had stayed because my father desired her company. I had been angry with him for months.
I miss him.
With a twitch, I shrugged away from Breandan’s arms. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t sleep well. And I have a great deal of work. Commander Ó Deághaidh’s report awaits me.”
“Yes,” Breandan said softly. “I believe I understand.”
Our love changed after that. Or perhaps, I saw things more clearly. Oh and sure, he kissed me just as tenderly. And sure, I invited him to my bed as often as before. But our first heedless passion had ebbed. Breandan spent longer hours in his laboratory; I buried myself in my work.
My ministers approved of the change. None of them had openly objected—the tradition of kings and queens taking lovers was older than Éire itself—but now I caught Lord Ó Cadhla nodding in agreement during our Council sessions, and Lord Ó Breislin no longer had the air of someone barely tolerating my opinion. Lord Ultach, it was true, had a perpetually dreamy manner. He took opium, and the habit had grown worse since my father’s death. Soon I would have to replace him.
As for Commander Ó Deághaidh … He remained the proper officer of the Queen’s Constabulary, but his manner eased enough that our interviews were no longer so painfully stiff.
So the summer passed. Reports from the Constabulary about the murders in Awveline City were neither good nor bad: the murders had ceased, but the Garda in Awveline City suspended their inquiries for lack of evidence. Frankonia’s king died, and now the electors were locked in a room until they voted in his successor. Another heir in the Turkish States had been assassinated. But negotiations with the Dietsch Empire were proving worthwhile, and it was possible we could create a new alliance to balance against the Prussian menace.
Meanwhile Breandan scarcely mentioned his research. It was from the official reports, and not himself, that I knew he was writing a treatise about time fractures in the upper atmosphere. He had commissioned a new balloon using the latest technology for his experiments—a navigable balloon with an enclosed carriage and compressed oxygen contained in iron storage flasks.