The Book of Forbidden Wisdom

by Gillian Murray Kendall

  “It’s a position of great trust,” I said, and it was true. “The horses will get restless if there’s somebody out there.”

  Meanwhile, the Bard was scrutinizing me in a way I didn’t like. As if he were summing me up.

  “All right,” he said finally. “By the horses.”

  “Inside the perimeter,” I said. “That’s a real—­“

  “Compliment,” he finished. “I get it. I get the compliment part.”

  He turned his back to me and went over to the horses.

  He was a touchy bard.

  The next day, Trey’s arm was stiff, but he said he was ready to ride. I packed the wound with more garlic. I wished the Bard would do it, but his fingers really weren’t small enough to work the garlic in and around the stitches.

  I started to mount.

  “Veils,” said the Bard.

  “What do you mean?” asked Trey.

  “Lady Angel and Lady Silky need to go veiled. Otherwise it’s obvious that they aren’t branded. Which would mean they aren’t owned. Which would mean that any man we encounter might try and steal them.”

  “That’s horrible,” said Silky.

  “Which part?” asked the Bard.

  “All parts,” Trey and I said in unison, and for the first time in a long while, we laughed.

  But the Bard knew Shibbeth better than any of us, and I trusted him. Had I doubted him, we wouldn’t be roading together at all. His sleeping near the horses was to keep up appearances; I knew he was sound.

  We went through the saddlebags until we found material that would work as veiling, and after a little snipping and sewing, we tried on our handiwork.

  “Stuffy,” remarked Silky. She crinkled her nose and then pulled off the veil.

  “If they notice you don’t have a brand, you’ll cause offense,” said the Bard. “And they’re more than signs of ownership; they’re marks of beauty and status.”

  “Do you think I’d look beautiful with a brand?” Silky asked me. “It sounds painful.”

  “You’re already beautiful, and yes, it is painful,” I snapped at her. “A brand means you belong to someone.”

  According to the Bard, the ‘Lidans were also great believers in the power of blood ties, and so we would be a band of brothers and sisters, as well as wives and husbands. The Bard, who was oldest, would pretend to be married to Silky, who, as a young girl, needed the most protection.

  Silky was now in her element.

  “It’s like the wedding games we used to play,” said Silky.

  “This isn’t real, Silky,” I said. “Your supposed groom is a bard.”

  “I don’t care,” she said. “I’m a bride.”

  “Just play your role well,” said the Bard. “If the ‘Lidans aren’t convinced, if they think we’re Arcadian spies, they’ll take us into their houses as slaves. Or worse.”

  “What’s worse?” asked Silky, but the Bard wouldn’t answer.

  “I won’t let anything happen to you,” said Trey.

  “No,” said the Bard. “You’d be busy getting executed.”

  “The Bard’s gloomy,” Silky whispered to me.

  “I don’t know, Silky,” I murmured. “I think he’s just trying to protect us.”

  “Do you think he’s handsome? In a landless kind of way?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not as handsome as Trey, though.”

  “You’re partial.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  So we rode veiled.

  We were silent as we rode. I waited for Trey to speak. I thought maybe he would say something about the race to the Cairns, or his wound, or the stitches, but he didn’t. I had no idea what he was thinking.

  I drifted into reverie.

  My mother. Smoothing the page of The Book with her cool hand. Showing me how to form strange letters. Telling me The Book was going away.

  Trey spoke, and it was as if he were reading my mind.

  “Even if you get us to The Book of Forbidden Wisdom,” he said, “going back to Arcadia will be tricky. The Book isn’t going to take care of all our problems.”

  “I know.”

  “The Book won’t heal your reputation.” He spoke carefully.

  I was grateful to him for the opening.

  “We might as well be frank,” I said. “Only marriage will keep me from being shamed. And only marriage to you. They’ll all have assumed the worst.”

  “The worst?” Trey looked at me oddly.

  “You know what I mean,” I said.

  “I suppose I do.”

  “Our friendship will remain whole, Trey,” I said. “I know it—­and that’s the main thing; it’s the way I care about you. The other—­the marriage—­will be trivial by comparison.”

  “Do you think so?” I couldn’t read his tone.

  “I do. And the marriage will bring you land.” Why did I sound so snotty? “And you’re not pre-­contracted, either. So that’s all right. Under the circumstances, even my father will consent. All will be well.”

  “Of course,” he said, and now he looked me in the eye. “Of course it will. Marriage to you will be an honor.”

  “You don’t need to say it that way, Trey,” I said. “It’s just me. Angel.”

  “Of course, Angel.”

  “Our marriage will patch things up,” I said.

  There was a long silence. Trey tilted his head and looked at me until I dropped my eyes.

  “Have you ever loved anyone, Angel?” he asked.

  I thought about it.

  “I love Silky,” I said.

  I saw his face, and I knew that everything I was saying was wrong-­footed, but I couldn’t help myself.

  Of course, I had heard rumors and stories about love. I knew that some girls and boys fell in love, but they were silly and foolish to do so, because when they were finally contracted—­almost never to each other—­there were occasionally tears as they signed the Books of Marriage and Land. And those tears only marred everyone’s enjoyment of the wedding feast. After one wedding, a boy hanged himself. There was nothing romantic about it. The boy was dead; the corpse was old when it was found.

  Love was not just silly. It was stupid and reckless.

  And the best bards knew it. The famous one, the blind one, sang that love was snow under a full cold moon. I knew what that meant.

  Pain.

  I could see the pain in Trey; I had heard it when he spoke my name in his sleep.

  Perhaps there was a way I could make him learn to be heart-­whole. And then perhaps Trey and I, if we ever made it back to Arcadia, could live together as brother and sister—­and be married in name only.

  Time passed, and we encountered no one. Then, late in the afternoon, we found ourselves riding by a vast field of golden wheat. The wind had picked up, and I could hear the heavy-­headed stalks whisper against each other. In places the rows of grain were interrupted by a copse of trees or a lone bush, small oases in that golden desert.

  It was beautiful, in a way I never thought land could be. And I felt for a moment as if our journey were little more than an excursion from the house rather than a ride for our lives—­until Bran began limping. Trey dismounted and examined Bran’s right fore.

  “Swollen,” he said. “We need to camp so he can get the weight off the tendon.”

  Trey walked beside Bran, at times stroking the huge horse’s mane. The limp worsened.

  Finally we came upon a path that led into the wheat field. We followed, Bran now drooping his head. The wheat reached up to my stirrup, and I brushed the top of it with my hand. It was like stroking a wild animal.

  “It’s as if the field could think,” I said.

  “Leave that thought alone,” said the Bard. “Wheat is wheat. It doesn’t think.”


  “Superstitious?” asked Trey, his hand on Bran’s withers.

  “I’m a bard,” he said. “They pay me to be superstitious.”

  We neared a copse of apple trees: a green island rising out of the yellow sea. A spring bubbled up at the base of one tree, and I watched as it trickled down the slight rise and into the wheat. The apples looked as if they were almost ripe.

  “We’ll stop here,” said Trey.

  I was thinking about picking some of the apples when a group of figures—­men and horses—­came out from under the shadows of the trees. When we got closer, I saw that they had laden mules as well as horses. ‘Lidan traders. Some of them were traditionalists—­careful adherents to the customs and ceremonies of Shibbeth. I looked at the Bard, who had neither slowed his pace nor changed his expression.

  My heart was beating hard.

  “You talk,” Trey said to the Bard.

  “Why?”

  “You’re the Bard. ­People pay you to talk. Besides, you’ve been here before.”

  “All right.”

  There were six ‘Lidans in all. The mules, heavily laden, pricked their large ears forward as we approached. The ‘Lidan horses—­fine and sleek—­were nervy.

  “Peace be with you,” said the Bard, using one of the formal salutations.

  “You’re a long way from Arcadia,” said one of the traditionalists, ignoring our greeting. “Where are you going?” His accent was strange, and I realized that we must sound odd to him, too.

  “My contract-­brother and I,” said the Bard, “have business in the east.”

  The traditionalist took a crossbow from one of the mules and held it casually, bolt toward the ground.

  “How do the women belong to you?” he asked.

  “My wife,” the Bard indicated Silky. “My contract-­brother,” he nodded at Trey. “My sister-­in-­name—­sister to my wife,” he nodded again, this time at me. “We’re all bound.”

  The traditionalist addressed the Bard again.

  “So your wife is twice a sister?” he asked.

  “She is,” said the Bard. I, meanwhile, was thinking to Silky over and over in my head, Don’t speak don’t speak don’t speak. I wasn’t sure she could keep her story straight.

  She didn’t speak.

  “What about your papers?” asked the traditionalist. The Bard raised an eyebrow, and I wondered what on earth he was going to say, when one of the other ‘Lidan traders, the best-­dressed one, looked impatient at the words.

  “We’re two days late,” the man said. “We don’t have time for you to pick a fight over a piece of paper nobody bothers carrying.”

  “They’re not nobody,” said the traditionalist, nettled. “They’re strangers. They should have papers.”

  The Bard moved Crop Ear forward slightly so that he was closer to the traditionalist.

  “And exactly who are you,” asked the Bard, “to inquire about our papers?” I was impressed by his calm.

  Some of the other ‘Lidan traders laughed.

  “He has you there,” said the well-­dressed man, who seemed to be the leader. “Come on. The mules are rested.”

  “I want to see the papers.”

  The whole group looked exasperated, as if they had had disagreements with this traditionalist before. But finally the leader said to the Bard, “You better just show him your kin-­papers.”

  “I don’t think so,” said the Bard.

  There was a silence.

  “You have me curious now, brother,” said the leader. “Perhaps we should all see the papers.”

  “To show you the papers now is to accept imputations on the honor of our sisters,” said the Bard. “And you don’t have any authority to ask for them.”

  “Any man may ask,” said the traditionalist.

  “Arcan’s right,” said the leader. “Any man may. But I’m not going to allow this to come to a fight. We’ll settle it by contest and save everybody’s honor—­but let’s do it quickly. We’re running behind. All right, Arcan?”

  Arcan didn’t look happy, but I could see that he wasn’t ready to challenge the leader.

  “All right,” he said.

  “What do you have in mind?” said the Bard.

  The leader of the ‘Lidan traders looked exasperated. “What do you think I have in mind? If you win, we apologize and you move on,” he said. “If Arcan wins, we see your papers. So what’ll it be? Arm wrestling? Shooting? Horsemanship? You pick the contest, we pick the terms.”

  “Shooting,” said Trey quickly. The Bard gave him a look, and I could tell he wasn’t pleased. Trey, as archer, was out of commission because of his wound. And bards weren’t renowned for their handling of weapons.

  “All right,” said the ‘Lidan leader. “Now Arcan picks the target. Unless you just want to show us the papers and forget any hasty words. We don’t mean to dishonor your women.”

  “You have no reason to challenge us at all,” said the Bard. He drew himself up and looked as indignant as any Arcadian Lord from a Great House.

  “Let’s just get it done,” said the leader. “Unless you win the shooting match, Arcan’s unlikely to be satisfied until he sees those documents. Go ahead, Arcan.”

  Arcan smiled as he picked the target. “One of the apples,” he said. “The high one that’s red on one side.”

  It looked as small as a grape to me.

  I moved up to the Bard and lowered my head as if in submission to him, but under my breath I said, “Let Lady Silky shoot.”

  The Bard looked at me, startled. “She’s a child,” he said.

  “Have you made up your minds?” asked the leader.

  “Not yet,” said the Bard. He murmured to me, “Our lives depend on this.”

  “Just let her shoot.”

  Trey settled the matter. “My sister, the Lady Silky, will shoot.”

  “Women don’t carry arms,” said Arcan.

  “Let’s get on with this,” said the head ‘Lidan. He seemed to have grown bored of the challenge.

  The Bard gave Silky the crossbow reluctantly, and she put on quite a show, awkwardly putting the bolt on the bow and fumbling it in the process. Trey was clearly enjoying the little drama, and so, I could see, was Silky. The Bard looked grim. Trey seemed to take great enjoyment in saying to the Bard, “I just hope she doesn’t shoot one of our horses by mistake.”

  Everything was riding on Silky.

  Arcan took aim. Silky made some slight adjustment to her crossbow.

  There wasn’t a breath of wind. Arcan stood squarely. I saw Silky still Squab with her calves and knees. Even though she had dropped the reins to hold the crossbow steady, I knew Squab wouldn’t move. Even if he had, I doubt it would make any difference to the outcome.

  Arcan carefully lifted his crossbow.

  Then he fired. The bolt went straight through the heart of the apple.

  Almost simultaneously, Silky fired.

  Her bolt hit the apple on its way down, pinning it, with the ‘Lidan arrow already through it, to the far apple tree.

  The Bard gaped.

  “Well done.” The leader of the ‘Lidans spoke as though stunned. He was no longer bored, and some of the ‘Lidan men gasped and then gave murmurs of approval. Arcan scowled, but as I examined the apple pinned to the tree, the leader pressed goat meat and dried figs on us.

  “Magnificent,” he said. “Your wife is a prize.”

  No one was more surprised than the Bard. Trey and I, naturally, already knew of Silky’s freakish ability.

  “Thank you,” said the Bard faintly.

  “Keep your papers close,” the ‘Lidan leader said. “If you have them. I’ve never seen such shooting. Ever. Give this to the Lady.” He gave a small melon to the Bard. “You are fortunate in your wife.”

  “Indeed.” The
Bard was serious, but when I looked closely at his face, I saw a trace of humor in his eyes. He knew we had, in some sense, set him up, and he was enjoying the joke.

  I liked him. Up to that moment, he had impressed me and intrigued me and attracted me and scared me.

  Now he seemed human.

  The traders made to move on.

  “Why are you traveling so late?” asked the Bard. The sun was low in the sky. “Isn’t it time to make camp?”

  “We don’t like too many questions, either,” said the leader.

  “I apologize for the intrusion,” said the Bard quickly.

  The face of the ‘Lidan leader was serious, and I wondered what was in those mule-­packs. I knew that there was a thriving illicit trade in gemstones in Shibbeth. It was a trade for the very rich, and I glanced at the leader’s fine clothes again.

  The leader gave the Bard a piercing look. “How long have you been married?” he asked.

  “A year,” said the Bard. He could hardly claim more, given Silky’s age.

  “I would keep her close if I were you,” said the leader with a smile. “If you get into trouble, though, I’m Partin Coss. I live in Parlay, and I’m well known there. You and your wife may call on me if your way is toward Parlay. I would gladly meet again. You and your Lady wife.”

  The Bard was quick to speak.

  “You honor our whole House,” he said, retreating into formula.

  And then the traders were gone.

  “Nice work,” said Trey to Silky.

  “I take it that wasn’t a fluke shot,” the Bard said when the ‘Lidan traders were out of sight.

  Silky pulled her veil off. “ ’Fluke’? Of course not. I always win at crossbow contests,” she said. “But I didn’t get to have any fun being a bride at all.”

  “Marriage is just a contract,” said the Bard.

  “Be careful,” I said. “You make your living from weddings.”

  “And funerals. I’m unlikely to run out of custom.”

  Trey’s arm was sore, and I insisted that he rest and let me take care of Bran. When the horses were settled and I had poulticed Bran’s hock, Silky, the Bard and I went under the trees to gather wood for the evening fire. I found a large dead tree and began pulling branches from it; Silky, singing to herself, moved from place to place picking up kindling.