“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 plain dirt 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 Councilors. Not as a weapon, but surely a way to maintain our predominance, as Lord Begley so delicately phrased it.
As I exited my private chambers, I stopped.
Adrian Dee 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 bare 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 of the Americas. When he came to me, saying that certain theories pointed toward signs of time fractures at high altitudes, I hired engineers to construct special balloons with heavy-weight 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.
“Your Majesty.”
Adrian Dee 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 Éireann. There were no more private conference, no sudden access of intimacy, on either part. We were as two strangers.
Adrian Dee 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 complete, but if I had any questions, he would make himself available.
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 Councilors and members of Congress had children studying at the University. “Who then?”
“Students—many of them well-connected, and from influential families. But that is not the difficulty. The local police have found the case difficult to solve. The city is panicking, and I fear this panic will spread into the surrounding countryside.” He paused and glanced to once side. His expression was pale and drawn. He added, “The murders were bloody and . . . peculiar.”
Whatever his own response, Adrian Dee managed to collect himself to deliver a crisp verbal report. Four graduate students 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 Anglian dissidents, or even spies from the Prussian States. All of it nonsense, of course, but panic and rumors did not always listen 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 police—someone you trust. Have him send regular reports on their progress. Let the newspapers know as well.”
Adrian Dee’s glance met mine. For just that moment, the remoteness vanished from his expression. We were friends and allies once more. Strange how my heart lifted at the sight.
But my reprieve was a short one. Within a heartbeat, his face turned blank. He nodded stiffly and turned away, saying, “Very well, your Majesty. I will carry out your orders at once.”
Even before he finished speaking, he was gone, leaving 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. Ah, so. Yes. I turned into his embrace, grateful for the warmth of this man.
“There’s been murders at Awveline University,” I said. “Several graduate students.”
“And so you sent your Commander to solve the problem.”
“Not exactly. He . . . ”
But when I glanced up, I could see that Breandan’s gaze had already turned diffuse. He was staring past me, out the window. 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 Reid 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, not a true partner.
No, I insisted. A 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 Dee’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 Councilors approved of the change. None of them had openly objected—the tradition of kings and queens taking lovers was older than Éireann itself—but now, I caught Lord Kiley nodding with approval during our Council sessions, and Lord Bierne no longer had the air of someone barely tolerating my opinion. Lord Vincent, 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 Dee . . . 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 Queen’s Constabulary about the murders in Awveline City were neither good nor bad: the murders had ceased, but the police in Awveline City suspended their inquiries for lack of evidence. Frankonia’s King died, and now the electors were locked in a room in the palace dungeons 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 barely 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 usin
g the latest technology for his experiments—a navigable balloon with an enclosed carriage and compressed oxygen contained in iron storage flasks.
“If I could fly to the stars, I would,” he told me, in one of our rare moments of intimacy.
“But would you fly back?” I murmured.
He shifted around and grasped my face with both hands. “Yes,” he breathed. “Yes, I would.”
To my shame and regret, I could not find the words to reply.
He must have read my thoughts from my face, because he smiled unhappily, gave me a brief kiss, and rose to begin his day. By the time I had bathed and dressed, he had eaten his breakfast and disappeared into his laboratory. The servants cleared away his dishes and brought me fresh coffee and warm bread, while I reviewed my schedule. But my thoughts were scattered between my obligations as Queen and those last moments with Breandan ó Cuilinn.
(He loves me. I had not expected that.)
(And you do not love him in return.)
A loud rapping at the door broke into my thoughts. Before I could speak, Adrian Dee burst into the room. He closed and locked the door. His face was so pale, so drawn, I stood and hurried toward him, thinking he needed to be helped to a chair, but he waved me away. “Your Majesty. There’s been another murder. In Awveline City. Lord Kiley’s daughter.”
I dropped into the nearest chair. “Lord Kiley’s daughter. When? How?”
“Word came just half an hour ago,” Dee went on. “By telegraph from the police. They believe it is the same murderer as before.” In a softer voice, he added, “A groundskeeper found her body at dawn, near the commons. The report is . . . ugly.”
My stomach gave a sickening lurch. I had read the detailed reports of those earlier murders. “Where is Lord Kiley?”
“In his rooms.”
With Adrian following close behind me, I ran to Lord Kiley’s rooms. Though it was a warm September day, servants had lit a fire and drawn the curtains. Only a single gaslight burned here, its pale yellow light hardly penetrating the gloom. Lord Kiley sat limply in one chair, his chin against his chest, his arms flung to either side.
Like a dead man, I thought. I knelt at Lord Kiley’s feet. A pang of relief shot through me when I saw the shallow rise and fall of his chest.
And yet, there was death in the room.
“Lord Kiley,” I said.
No response.
“Lord Kiley,” I said again. “Whatever it takes to find that murderer, I swear I shall order it done. By Christ’s mercy, by the blood I drank upon my coronation. Do you hear me? I am sending Commander Dee to lead the investigation.”
Lord Kiley raised his head slowly with an audible click. “Your Majesty,” he whispered. “Commander Dee has told me.” With an obvious effort, he lifted his gaze to Adrian Dee. “They tell me a lunatic murdered my daughter, Commander Dee,” he said in a soft eerie voice. “A madman.” Then he gave himself a shake, and I saw a shadow of his old self. His dark eyes narrowed. “Find him, Commander. Find him and bring him to justice.”
“I promise, my lord.”
Adrian Dee left at once. I canceled all my other appointments that I might stay with Lord Kiley until his wife and other children arrived from their estates. Later, my secretary and I wrote carefully worded announcements about the tragedy, making certain to emphasize that a senior officer of the Queen’s Constabulary would oversee the case until it was finished. Thereafter followed what felt like a dozen or more meetings with my other Councilors—with Lord Bierne to discuss who would handle Lord Kiley’s responsibilities in the interim, with Lord Vincent’s assistant, Lord Paor, to discuss the possibility of a terrorist connection.
Hours later, exhausted, I returned to my chambers and sank into the nearest chair. Servants had left a tray of covered dishes on the table. Bread and soup. Chilled water flavored with crushed mint. I poured a glass of water and drank it off. Though I had no appetite, I forced myself to eat. The day was not even close to ending.
More water. Then cup after cup of hot tea, until my head cleared. Only then did I notice the bells ringing noon. Odd, surely it had to be almost sunset by now. But no, the brilliant light of mid-day poured through the windows. Nothing had changed in this room—the same elegant furnishings, the same bright peaceful space I so loved—and yet, the taint of death had invaded here, as well.
I wish Adrian were here.
But he was not. He was already in Awveline City, by my command, searching for Maeve Kiley’s murderer.
My hand fumbled for the bell—I thought Breandan might spare an hour from his work, and I badly wanted his company. For once, his inattention to state matters would prove a relief. The movement dislodged an envelope left upon the table. I saw Breandan’s handwriting, my name. I snatched it up.
Áine, my love. Do not be surprised by my seeming disappearance today. If all goes well with my experiment, you will see the firmest, finest proof of my long research within the week . . .
I hardly comprehended the rest of his letter. Something about the roads of time, of braving the perils before all the other scientists. Of gratitude. Of love. I know not what else, because I dropped the letter onto the floor and raced toward the windows. Only now did I remember his talking about the appearance of new time fractures between Awveline City and Osraighe, and the last fine day of the year.
His balloon, I thought. It was large enough to carry his machine.
“Breandan!”
I flung open the windows. The golden towers and spires of Cill Cannig spread out before me, below a green garden rife with summer roses. My gaze took that all in, then snapped upward to the skies. Yes, there, between the tallest towers was an expanse of blue. And against that expanse, a bright red sphere, glorious and huge.
Already the sphere was shrinking as the balloon climbed higher into the skies. I could not move, could hardly breathe. Higher. Higher. Now the sphere was little more than a black dot. The sun was blinding me, and yet I could not look away.
Breandan, I hope—
The dot vanished. A bright flare of fire burst out, smearing my vision. I blinked.
And saw nothing more.
There is little to tell about the next few weeks—or rather, very little of those weeks remains true.
That sounds mad, I know. Let me attempt to explain.
It took several days to recover all the wreckage from Breandan’s balloon. The fall had shattered the carriage into pieces, which were scattered over the countryside. From what the Queen’s Constabulary could determine, the fire came first, then the explosion of the oxygen tanks, which caused the fire to burn even hotter. Nothing remained of Breandan’s golden octopus but a charred ruin. And of Breandan himself, nothing at all.
The Constabulary and police searched for ten days; they found no sign of body or bones.
That night I called for two bottles of wine and dismissed all my servants early. And I drank, I drank until the fire burned low and cold nipped at my skin through the layers of my woolen robes. Once, around midnight, I nearly summoned my secretary, so that he might send a telegraph to Adrian Dee. But that, I knew, would have been a terrible mistake. Adrian would refuse to abandon his murder investigation simply to comfort me. He had his pride, and his sense of duty.
As had I.
And so I left off drinking and retreated to bed, where I fell into a restless slumber. My dreams consisted of scattered images of the past five years—of my first interview with Adrian Dee, of the golden octopus and its leavings of iron dust, of Breandan’s face, illuminated with joy as he placed the miniature balloon into his new gigantic machine. Of Lord Kiley, as limp as a puppet, after hearing of his daughter’s brutal murder.
I woke just before dawn to the creaking of branches outside my window. It was a cold gray October morning. The skies wept with rain. One of the maids had left it partially open, and a dank wind blew through the room, carrying with it the scent of moldering leaves. My head aching from the wine, I stumbled toward the window to shut it. Paused and blinked
to clear my vision. Below me, Cill Cannig looked as it always did in autumn. Copper-brown leaves whirled about. The trees, stark and black against the dull gray skies. The sense of a world dying.
(Though Gaia and God both taught us that resurrection was our right.)
Now. I have attempted to describe in writing the next moments several times over. None of them fit what I remember. Though “remember” itself is a tenuous concept.
So. Let me just tell the story.
It was a cold wet October dawn. I was standing by the window, as I said. This early in the day, the world seemed empty of human life, excerpt for a few curls of smoke over the kitchen quarters. And I, I was wishing I could undo parts of the last few weeks. Or months. Or years.
Then, of a sudden, a wrenching pain took me. My vision wavered and blurred. The wine, I thought confusedly, gripping the windowsill to keep my balance.
But it was not the wine. I blinked and stared until my stomach calmed and the landscape steadied before me. It was an ordinary dawn, with smudges of saffron and indigo against the dull dark sky, the thin scarlet line running across the horizon. Yes and no. Ordinary, but unsettled, as though an earthquake shook my perception. I stared harder. There, in the distance, the clouds roiled. Again my stomach lurched, as though I stood aboard a plunging airship. The clouds narrowed into a funnel that raced toward me . . . .
Hours later, I came to, lying on the floor of my bedchamber. All I could remember was a terrible dream about the world tipping into chaos. A bruise over my left eye told me I’d fallen, but when my maid arrived, they could not remember anything of that strange dawn. Indeed, they had difficulty pinning down memories of the previous day or even the week before.
More strangeness followed. Lord Kiley appeared at mid-morning to report a strange incident. Commander Adrian Dee had collapsed in Awveline City in a fit of madness. Of course the police there had taken custody of the man, and had him sequestered at once in Aonach Sanitarium, but it was odd that neither I nor Lord Kiley could remember why I had sent him away from Court.
If I had.
Part of me remembered a terrible tragedy, but the details refused to come into focus. Another part remembered a different tragedy, but that one too eluded remembrance. As the days melted away, I stopped struggling to remember. It was enough to ensure that Commander Dee received the best care, and to plan his eventual return to the Queen’s Constabulary. (Though, to be sure, the doctors at Aonach Sanitarium were not sanguine.)
The Years Best Science Fiction & Fantasy: 2009 Page 50
