The Book of Forbidden Wisdom

by Gillian Murray Kendall

  Soon enough, I realized I was alone with the Bard. There was no sign of my sister—­I had been too much in my thoughts.

  “Where’s Silky?”

  “Your chaperone?”

  “No.” My tone was abrupt, but I was worried about Silky. “This isn’t a time or place to be alone.”

  “She’s right through those trees,” said the Bard. He pointed, and, sure enough, I could glimpse Silky with a small pile of branches at her feet. And then I heard her soft singing again. She was singing a song she had heard from the Bard.

  “All right,” I said.

  “She’s a good girl,” said the Bard, and he smiled, just a little bit, just enough that I knew Silky had charmed her way into his heart. Which was no surprise to me, because who could resist Silky?

  And I could tell he had no designs on her. Otherwise, I’d have had his heart for breakfast.

  I turned away from the tree and started to pick up some pieces of wood from the ground, but the Bard stopped me.

  “Leave it,” he said. “I’ll get more wood from the tree. It’s an Etchling Tree; it burns very brightly.”

  Silky’s voice was clearer now; she was moving toward us under the trees.

  “I like what Silky’s singing,” I said.

  “My sister wrote that song. She wrote it before she came to Shibbeth. There’s nothing but silence for women here.”

  “Why would a woman move to Shibbeth?”

  The Bard pulled a dead limb from the tree and cast it on the small pile I had made; he leaned back against the trunk of the Etchling.

  “Years ago,” he said, “when I was still a child, she fell in love with a ‘Lidan trader.”

  “Love.” I narrowed my eyes. I hoped he wasn’t going to start going on about love.

  “It happens.” His tone was sardonic. “They married secretly in Arcadia and then ran away to Shibbeth. But the ‘Lidans have laws, and if one lives here, one lives by ‘Lidan law.”

  It took a moment for that to sink in.

  “Oh.”

  “Yes, ‘oh.’ She carried his brand.”

  “Are you looking for her here?”

  “She died of the shuddering sickness two years ago,” the Bard said. “Word came to me this spring. I miss her. I’ll always miss her—­she was like a second mother to me. They say her husband is still alive. I don’t know where.”

  “Maybe you can find out.”

  “Maybe I can.” He turned away from me and pulled more boughs from the tree. “And maybe when I do, I’ll kill him. Love. He brought her here to be branded.”

  “Be careful,” I said.

  He just laughed.

  “You’re the one who should be careful, Angel,” said the Bard. “This place is snakebite for someone like you.”

  Once we had all returned to camp and kindled the fire, I pulled a brush from my pack and began to smooth Silky’s hair. I let my thoughts wander. I realized that, as we had gathered wood, the Bard had spoken to me without using my title.

  Silky sighed.

  “All right?” I asked.

  “It feels wonderful,” she said. “I haven’t brushed my hair in forever.”

  “Wee pig.” I started on the tangles, and then I brushed out Silky’s hair until it was a bright gush down her back, a golden waterfall. It shone in the firelight.

  And I suddenly looked closely at the fire. The flames were like pale candles; the wood was burning white. The Etchling Tree.

  “The fire,” I said. But Trey was already staring at it. Silky moved to get a better look.

  “The wood from the Etchling Tree always burns white,” said the Bard.

  He sat across from us, cross-­legged, and then he pulled his lyre from a bundle.

  The Bard sang a few fragments from ballads. His scowl disappeared when he sang, and I examined that beautiful face closely. He was as fair as Trey was dark. His eyes were deep blue again in the firelight. He had full lips and a scar on his chin that pulled on the lower lip.

  The Bard stopped singing and looked up at me. I blushed. I had no business taking inventory of his face.

  He played for a while. I asked if he could sing the story of the Lady in the Castle, a favorite of mine, but he didn’t know it well. And then I was very still, because, after a moment’s hesitation, perhaps to make up for what he didn’t know, he began the great old tale of The Taken. No hearer of that lay has ever confused the wild opening notes for anything else. Silky lay down and put her head in my lap, and I stroked her long hair. Silky was my weak point. Through Silky, I could be hurt. Otherwise, I was safe.

  We listened to The Taken, and the fire burned white. As long as my life lasts, I will never forget the white fire, the Bard’s voice, the old tale.

  Chapter Eleven

  The Taken

  When I awoke in the morning, Silky was gone.

  I had awakened because I was cold, and I was cold because Silky wasn’t sleeping with her back pressed against mine the way she had been doing the last few nights. I turned over and sleepily touched her bedding.

  No Silky.

  I felt the bedding more carefully.

  It was cold.

  I got up hurriedly and walked the perimeter. Still no Silky. She wasn’t in the camp, and she wasn’t at the place where we had dug the holes for the night earth. I was becoming increasingly uneasy, and I wanted to wake up Trey. I threw a shirt on over the top of my nightgown. The bottom half would have to pass as a skirt.

  But when it came right down to it, when I was standing by the sleeping Trey, I was paralyzed. I didn’t know how to wake him up—­I didn’t think there was any Arcadian etiquette on the matter. My desperation increased, but I couldn’t overcome my upbringing: Trey and I weren’t related. Trey was in what passed for a bed, and he was male, and who knew what he was wearing under the blankets. I needed servants or a go-­between. Even a chaperone would refuse this job.

  Finally, almost weeping with frustration, I poked his arm. It was the wrong arm: the one with stitches. Immediately, he rolled over and looked up at me.

  “Angel?” Even from Trey, I had expected, initially, embarrassment, maybe even anger, but he just seemed puzzled.

  “I can’t find Silky,” I said.

  He looked at me drowsily. “She probably needed privacy,” he said. “You know.”

  He shouldn’t have referred to it. Bodily functions were off limits in any kind of conversation at all.

  “I checked there,” I said. I poked him again when he showed signs of going back to sleep. He didn’t seem to understand the depth of my fear, or the rules I was breaking in order to get his help or how wrong everything had suddenly become.

  Abruptly, Trey pulled himself into the waking world.

  “Go to the spring we found last night,” he said. “She might be down there. I’ll wake the Bard.”

  I walked up and down the rivulet, trying not to rush, trying to be systematic in my search.

  It took me precious minutes, but I found something.

  In the marsh moss, where the footing was muddy, I saw a tangle of hoof marks. Grass and earth churned up. A single small blurred footprint and some trampled summer flowers.

  Suddenly, without warning, I could see what had happened as clearly as if I were reading it in a book, as clearly as if it were happening in front of me: Silky, sometime in the early morning, came to the spring carrying a small bouquet of summer flowers she picked from among the wheat stalks. A man on horseback rode up and pulled her onto his mount, and the flowers scattered to the ground. Silky struggled instead of screaming—­that would be like Silky. And perhaps it was for the best; perhaps the man would have hurt her badly if she had called out.

  The hoof marks, large as dinner plates, indicated a horse that could bear a large rider.

  Silky didn’t have her crossbow. I had
seen it by the side of her blankets, and without it, she wouldn’t stand a chance.

  I picked up the broken flowers: cornflowers, water daisies, the sky bluebell, Princess Columbines.

  Trey, who had been looking on the other side of the camp, found me standing there holding the flowers. The Bard was with him.

  “Look at the marks,” I said to him. “She tried to run, but the horseman plucked her up. She’s so small. He plucked her as if she were nothing.”

  “Angel,” said Trey. “We’ll get her back. I promise. It may be some kind of mistake—­these marks could be old. She might be back at camp already.”

  “Do those marks really look old to you?” I asked. “Do they?”

  “The marks are new,” said the Bard.

  “If someone’s taken her,” said Trey, “we’ll get her back. I promise.”

  He promised. But we were Arcadians. If she were with a ‘Lidan for more than twenty-­four hours would Trey really want her back with us?

  Perhaps I should have known the answer. But I didn’t.

  The Bard was looking at me speculatively. The Bard, whose sister had left Arcadia with a ‘Lidan. The Bard, whose only mission was one of revenge. But destructive as his sister’s love might have been, I knew Silky was in danger of something different, something hideous. I was not naïve.

  “We should have been together,” I said. I did not cry. I was not weak.

  “One of you would have been killed, and one of you would still have been taken,” the Bard said harshly. “Trey’s right. We’ll get the Lady Silky back.”

  “What if we’re too late?” I said in a low voice.

  “There is no ‘too late.’ While she’s alive, we’ll seek her,” said the Bard. “We’re roading together. That means something to my guild.”

  “Two don’t travel fast on one horse,” said Trey. “We’ll catch them. Before—­before much time has passed.”

  Trey had been trained as well as I—­if too much time passed, he would, he must, shun her. No matter what, he wouldn’t be able to help shrinking from her.

  I didn’t know about the ways of bards.

  “Partin Coss,” I said suddenly. “He liked Silky. Maybe too much.”

  “We need to ride now,” said Trey.

  I stood and looked at Trey. At the Bard. And I thought that Bran was lame, and Crop Ear was slow and Squab was also slow and crashed loudly through underbrush.

  “Let me take Jasmine,” said Trey. He seemed to read my mind.

  “No,” I said. “I’ll go.”

  “You won’t,” he said. I thought for a moment, and then I nodded. There was no time to argue.

  Without a word, I led Jasmine to him.

  But Jasmine wouldn’t take him. She was used to me, a ninety-­five-­pound burden who knew all her quirks and habits. She simply would not let Trey mount.

  He hit her.

  She bit him.

  “Wait here,” I said. “I’m going to get a different bridle.”

  Of course I didn’t really have an extra bridle, and if they’d had any time to think about it, they’d have known that. Back at the camp, I checked once more for Silky, and then I put on Arcadian hunting clothes. I quickly plaited my hair into a long braid that coiled down my back in the style of traditionalist male ‘Lidans. I grabbed the crossbow that I had lent to Silky and returned to the spring, where I saw that the Bard and Trey were arguing over what to do. I could see that they were at odds.

  The Bard was the first to see me. He understood all of it at once, while Trey stood, surprised, confused.

  “Don’t do it, Lady Angel,” said the Bard.

  “I’ll do as I please,” I said. “And I’ll do what needs to be done.” I put a foot in the stirrup and mounted with the crossbow still in my hands. Then I hooked it to the saddle and picked up the reins.

  But Trey wouldn’t let go.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, and I kicked Jasmine, who half-­reared and pulled herself free of Trey. “If I’m not back today, I’ll meet you outside the walls of Parlay,” I said. “In three days’ time. I’ll have Silky.”

  “What do you think you’re doing?” asked Trey in a voice of despair.

  “I’m rescuing Silky,” I said. “What do you think?”

  I was afraid to let either Trey or the Bard near me in case they tried to pull me from the saddle. I paused and looked at them. I spoke very clearly so that they would understand.

  “I’m an Arcadian Lady from a Great House,” I said. “I can do this.” I gave Jasmine the signal, and in a moment we were across the rivulet, and then we were on a narrow path to the east of the Great North Way. I signaled Jasmine to gallop. I did not turn back to the others. And then we were gone.

  After a while, I slowed to a trot. The wheat on either side of the path had given way to woodland; we were leaving the open land behind. I took Jasmine under the low-­hanging branches of sweeping trees, and I had to lean forward until my head was below Jasmine’s neck so that we could pass. As I did, I saw where the hooves of the ‘Lidan horse had churned up the earth.

  It wasn’t difficult to follow the tracks of the heavily laden horse, and I pictured Silky struggling, and Partin Coss trying to control her. I was sure it was Partin; I remembered the melon he had given the Bard for Silky.

  They only had a lead of hours, if that, and I had the advantage of speed. Still, I couldn’t ride Jasmine flat out. If she tired, I would never get to them. They would be moving slowly and steadily once he got Silky under control.

  I didn’t like to think about that.

  So I focused on catching them. I would catch them. It was only a matter of when.

  I came to a stream and let Jasmine drink. Patience was not part of my nature, but the sound of Jasmine drinking eased my mind.

  They couldn’t be far. But I had to find them before they got to Parlay, and I didn’t know how distant that was. I had to find them before Partin’s servants and friends and family and land slaves surrounded him. His protectors.

  Silky would have no protectors.

  I mounted Jasmine again.

  We jogged and rested and jogged and rested. I wondered just exactly how much of a head start Silky’s abductor had. The ride was deeply frustrating—­I would lose the trail and have to circle until I could pick it up again. I wasn’t much on broken twigs, although I could tell when a horse had pushed through undergrowth. Mostly I was following those enormous hoofprints.

  By the late afternoon, I was seeing signs where there were none, and I feared I had lost them forever.

  The birds stopped singing. The air was oppressive.

  And I saw the hoofprints again.

  This time I dismounted and examined them in the grass. They were no longer the sliding marks that indicated speed but clear, individual prints. The horse was proceeding at a walk. Within yards, I saw horse dung that was still steaming. I led Jasmine to the left, off their trail, and flipped her reins over a low-­lying branch. On foot, I made a wide circle around Partin’s trail.

  In minutes, his horse was in sight.

  It was hobbled at the base of a tree at the edge of a beautiful clearing—­rays of sun scattered through the boughs, and the yellow light dappled the green moss beneath the tree.

  I saw Partin Coss and Silky.

  His pants were down, and he was trying to pull up her skirts. At first I was shocked into inaction by his partial nudity. Nothing looked the way I had imagined it might. Then I was lost to anger—­Silky was gagged, and although I could see her trying to push him away, she was lethargic, as if she were ill, or very, very tired.

  Silky saw me, and her eyes widened. Partin Coss looked around sharply and in a moment was looking directly at me. He immediately pushed Silky to the ground and lifted his crossbow—­I had been so busy staring that I hadn’t seen it lying in the grass. I was slow
to lift my own crossbow; I was distracted and appalled by the sight of his naked flesh.

  I wished he would pull up his pants.

  He smiled at me. He had only seen me veiled, and there was no recognition on his face.

  “Out wife-­stealing, traditionalist?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I’ll take her off your hands.”

  He frowned. He yanked at his pants awkwardly, with one hand. With the other he balanced his crossbow so that it remained pointed toward me.

  “You have a strange accent for a traditionalist,” he said.

  “Just give her to me,” I said.

  He frowned again. “This woman’s my property,” he said. At that my eyes shifted to Silky. I started to speak—­

  He shot me.

  Partin and I were so close that the bolt spun me around, but not before it passed straight through my shoulder. I knew I would be in shock soon—­and useless. Partin, smiling, carefully fit another bolt into his crossbow. He had all the time in the world. Because he knew I needed time to aim. And he knew I could only use one arm.

  We both knew it.

  Silky, still looking dazed, sat up. Partin ignored her, continuing to set his crossbow. She leaned over to him, cocked her head slightly to one side and bit him in the leg.

  He yelled in pain, dropped the crossbow, and kicked Silky away, but she had given me the time I needed.

  I shot him in the chest.

  Then I fell slowly to my knees. When I touched my shoulder, my hand came away all blood. Silky got to her feet unsteadily and came over to me. She walked in a strange weaving pattern.

  When she reached me, I pulled off her gag with my good arm and then pressed the gag to my shoulder. I hoped for some brief strong bleeding both here and where the bolt had come out on the other side. Blood was a great cleanser. On this side, however, I saw that the gag was already red through. A lot more than enough blood to wash the wound.

  “You’re bleeding,” Silky observed.

  “I know,” I said. Still I didn’t feel the pain. I looked at her closely. “Did he drug you?”