“Yes,” she said. “I knew you would ask me that sooner or later. What happened was that Eric contacted me the day after it occurred — from Amber, via my Trump.”
She glanced at me again, obviously to see how I was taking it, to study my reactions. I remained expressionless.
“He told me you had been in a bad accident the previous evening, and that you were hospitalized. He told me to have you transferred to a private place, one where I could have more say as to the course of your treatment.”
“In other words, he wanted me to stay a vegetable.”
“He wanted them to keep you sedated.”
“Did he or did he not admit to being responsible for the accident?”
“He did not say that he had had someone shoot out your tire, but he did know that that was what had happened. How else could he have known? When I learned later that he was planning to take the throne, I assumed that he had finally decided it was best to remove you entirely. When the attempt failed, it seemed logical that he would do the next most effective thing: see that you were kept out of the way until after the coronation.”
“I was not aware that the tire had been shot out,” I said.
Her face changed. She recovered.
“You told me that you knew it was not an accident — that someone had tried to kill you. I assumed you were aware of the specifics.”
I was treading on slightly mucky ground again for the first time in a long while. I still had a bit of amnesia, and I had decided I probably always would. My memories of the few days prior to the accident were still spotty. The Pattern had restored the lost memories of my entire life up until then, but the trauma appeared to have destroyed recollection of some of the events immediately preceding it. Not an uncommon occurrence. Organic damage rather than simple functional distress, most likely. I was happy enough to have all the rest back, so those did not seem especially lamentable. As to the accident itself, and my feelings that it had been more than an accident, I did recall the gunshots. There had been two of them. I might even have glimpsed the figure with the rifle — fleetingly, too late. Or maybe that was pure fantasy. It seemed that I had, though. I had had something like that in mind when I had headed out for Westchester. Even at this late time, though, when I held the power in Amber, I was loath to admit this single deficiency. I had faked my way with Flora before with a lot less to go on. I decided to stick with a winning combination.
“I was in no position to get out and see what had been hit,” I said. “I heard the shots. I lost control. I had assumed that it was a tire, but I never knew for sure. The only reason I raised the question was because I was curious as to how you knew it was a tire.”
“I already told you that Eric told me about it.”
“It was the way that you said it that bothered me. You made it sound as if you already knew all the details before he contacted you.”
She shook her head.
“Then pardon my syntax,” she said. “That sometimes happens when you look at things after the fact. I am going to have to deny what you are implying. I had nothing to do with it and I had no prior knowledge that it had occurred.”
“Since Eric is no longer around to confirm or deny anything, we will simply have to let it go,” I said, “for now,” and I said it to make her look even harder to her defense, to direct her attention away from any possible slip, either in word or expression, from which she might infer the small flaw which still existed in my memory.
“Did you later become aware of the identity of the person with the gun?” I asked.
“Never,” she said. “Most likely some hired thug. I don’t know.”
“Have you any idea how long I was unconscious before someone found me, took me to a hospital?”
She shook her head again.
Something was bothering me and I could not quite put my finger on it.
“Did Eric say what time I had been taken into the hospital?”
“No.”
“When I was with you, why did you try walking back to Amber rather than using Eric’s Trump?”
“I couldn’t raise him.”
“You could have called someone else to bring you through,” I said. “Flora, I think you are lying to me.”
It was really only a test, to observe her reaction. Why not?
“About what?” she asked. “I couldn’t raise anyone else. They were all otherwise occupied. Is that what you mean?”
She studied me.
I raised my arm and pointed at her and the lightning flashed at my back, just outside the window. I felt a tingle, a mild jolt. The thunderclap was also impressive. “You sin by omission,” I tried.
She covered her face with her hands and began to weep.
“I don’t know what you mean!” she said. “I answered all your questions! What do you want? I don’t know where you were going or who shot at you or what time it occurred! I just know the facts I’ve given you, damn it!”
She was either sincere or unbreakable by these means, I decided. Whichever, I was wasting my time and could get nothing more this way. Also, I had better switch us away from the accident before she began thinking too much about its importance to me. If there was something there that I was missing, I wanted to find it first.
“Come with me,” I said.
“Where are we going?”
“I have something I want you to identify. I will tell you why after you see it.”
She rose and followed me. I took her up the hall to see the body before I gave her the story on Caine. She regarded the corpse quite dispassionately. She nodded.
“Yes,” she said, and, “Even if I did not know it I would be glad to say that I did, for you.”
I grunted a noncommittal. Family loyalty always touches me, somewhere. I could not tell whether she believed what I had said about Caine. But things sort of canal — to equal things sort of being equal to each other. It didn’t much seem to matter. I did not tell her anything about Brand and she did not seem to possess any new information concerning him. Her only other comment when everything I’d had to say was said, was, “You wear the jewel well. What about the headpiece?”
“It is too soon to talk of such things,” I told her.
“Whatever my support may be worth…”
“I know,” I said. “I know.”
My tomb is a quiet place. It stands alone in a rocky declivity, shielded on three sides against the elements, surrounded by transported soil wherein a pair of scrubby trees, miscellaneous shrubs, weeds, and great ropes of mountain ivy are rooted, about two miles down, in back of the crest of Kolvir. It is a long, low building with two benches in front, and the ivy has contrived to cover it to a great extent, mercifully masking most of a bombastic statement graven on its face beneath my name. It is, understandably, vacant most of the time.
That evening, however, Ganelon and I repaired thither, accompanied by a good supply of wine and some loaves and cold cuts.
“You weren’t joking!” he said, having dismounted, crossed over, and parted the ivy, able to read by the moon’s light the words that were rendered there.
“Of course not,” I said, climbing down and taking charge of the horses. “It’s mine all right.”
Tethering our mounts to a nearby shrub, I unslung our bags of provisions and carried them to the nearest bench. Ganelon joined me as I opened the first bottle and poured us a dark, deep pair.
“I still don’t understand,” he said, accepting his.
“What’s there to understand? I’m dead and buried there,” I said. “It’s my cenotaph, is what it is — the monument that gets set up when the body has not been recovered. I only just learned about mine recently. It was raised several centuries ago, when it was decided I wasn’t coming back.”
“Kind of spooky,” he said. “What’s inside then?”