The Book of Forbidden Wisdom

by Gillian Murray Kendall

  “Yes,” said Silky. “He did. It felt good at first. Sort of like living in gauze. But now I’m going to throw up.”

  I thought of the little I knew about violation: vague rumors alternating with vivid description.

  “Did he touch you?” I asked. It was no time for niceties.

  She sighed again. “No,” she said. She hesitated. “He tried to, but I pushed him away. He was very angry. He hit me.” I saw the bruises on her face.

  I fell forward some more so that my head was resting on my knees.

  “You have to pull yourself together, Silky,” I said. “You have to help me.”

  “Pull myself together,” she agreed.

  A few feet away from us, blood pumped out of the ‘Lidan’s chest. He twitched a few times, and I was afraid for a moment that he would rise and somehow take vengeance on us. My thoughts were cloudy. I could feel pain now.

  The Bard, who was road-­knowing, would never have done anything so stupid as to get shot. Not the Bard.

  Although it was Trey who had rescued me.

  The Bard. Trey. It was very confusing.

  I began to shiver.

  “Help me lie down, Silky,” I said.

  Cheerfully she obliged and eased me—­remarkably gently, given her drugged state—­down on my good side. With my right hand I tried to keep Silky’s gag pressed into the hole the bolt had made, but pain washed over me.

  “You’re cold,” said Silky. She lay down next to me and curled her body around mine, the way she had when we were children and still slept together.

  “I can see where the bolt came out,” she said. “It looks—­“

  “Don’t want to talk,” I said.

  “All right.”

  Silky held me close to her. We stayed that way for a long time, as the ‘Lidan next to us bled to death.

  Without Silky’s warmth, I would never have made it through the night. Several times she got to her feet and tottered a little way away to make good on her promise to throw up, but she always came back to me. By dawn the effects of the drug had worn off, but her natural ebullience was gone as well.

  The pain in my shoulder was agonizing. It spread down my arm and across my chest. Silky tried to wipe away the blood to see the wound, and I’m sorry to say that I fainted. When I awoke, I found she had put some crushed wild garlic in the wound. She gave me water. She unbraided my hair.

  “You make a terrible traditionalist,” she said.

  “I was rescuing you,” I said.

  “That was a rescue?” she asked.

  She sounded more herself.

  “I did all right,” I said.

  “Angel,” said Silky seriously. “You got shot.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well,” said Silky, “it’s complicated now, though, right? With you shot.” She gently touched the wound, and the world began spinning.

  I fainted.

  When I next opened my eyes, it was to find Silky sprinkling water on my forehead.

  “We need to get back to the others,” I said.

  “Yes,” said Silky. “But can you ride?”

  “If I can bind up the arm and the shoulder,” I said. “I have to try.”

  Silky began the process of binding while I was conscious and finished after I fainted again.

  She was about to look for a log for me to mount from when the other ‘Lidans arrived.

  There were three of them, and they rode up and stood at the points of a triangle. None of them were traditionalists.

  “Harlots,” said one, and spat on the ground.

  “Arcadians,” said another. “No ‘Lidan women would be out alone.”

  “They aren’t branded,” said the big man at the top of the triangle and closest to us. “And it looks like they weren’t alone.” He gestured at the dead ‘Lidan. “Perhaps they’re warriors.”

  The other two ‘Lidans laughed uneasily.

  “They come with us,” the big man said.

  What happened next was muddled, but I found myself on Jasmine. Silky was on Partin’s horse.

  “You needn’t worry,” the head ‘Lidan said to me, and his tone was gentle.

  “And yet I’m worried,” I said. “If you’re so harmless, let us go. At least let my sister go.”

  “You both need tending,” said the ‘Lidan. “Then, as you wish. I can overlook the fact that you seem to have killed one of my countrymen. He doesn’t look as if he was of high rank. But I can hardly just leave you here.”

  I was thinking toward Silky as hard as I could. Not a word about the others not a word about the others not a word about the others.

  She creased her brow, but whether she understood or not, she said no word about the others.

  We began a trot, and all went dark, and I tumbled over Jasmine’s shoulder and into a prickly bush.

  After that, we let the horses walk.

  We walked them all afternoon and early evening, until the light was beginning to go. As the ‘Lidans spoke of halting for the night, the head ‘Lidan’s horse flushed a pheasant out of the underbrush, and it took off in a flurry of bright wings. In front of me the future opened out like a path, and it beckoned, and maybe I should have felt hope. But I didn’t. Not then. The world was soaked in pain and darkness, and the twilight settled over me like a shroud. We rode on.

  Chapter Twelve

  Captives

  It was clear we were the ‘Lidans’ captives, but the head ‘Lidan insisted on treating us as if we were guests. This included the kindness of keeping the horses to a walk, despite some of the men’s impatience.

  But as we walked, my shoulder minded the jolting more and more. It wouldn’t stop bleeding, and we kept halting so that Silky and I could change the dressing. I wondered how much blood I had left in me. I watched for red fingers of infection that I feared would spread out from the wound and creep toward my heart, but they didn’t materialize. Silky had cleaned the wound thoroughly during one of my fainting episodes, and she may have saved me from sepsis. Or else the future had other things in store for me.

  Like slowly bleeding to death, drop by drop by drop.

  The head ‘Lidan, whom they addressed as Lord Garth, seemed almost as interested in the condition of the wound as Silky and I were. I let him look at it, hoping he would have some poultice or medicine that would stop the bleeding completely. There was always a lot of fuss when Lord Garth approached me. None of the other ‘Lidans were allowed near, and Silky was expected to supervise. Lord Garth always waited for Silky to cover all the bare flesh around the wound before he looked at it. Showing wounded flesh, apparently, was even more of a moral dilemma in Shibbeth than it was in Arcadia. All of Lord Garth’s preparations to protect my honor went far beyond Arcadian constraints. He treated my shoulder as if it were some kind of dangerous object of desire—­like the Woman Chalices of bardsong—­that might doom us all. Silky took the precautions very seriously, too. But once I finally came to believe Lord Garth and his companions were neither going to kill us nor violate us, I found the extra rules irritating. After treating Trey, I had come to see some of the Arcadian modesty rules impractical when it came to tending the wounded, and I wondered how many men and women had died as the result of such customs.

  As we rode, I thought a good deal about escape, but I confess that I kept coming back to the conclusion that I was just too tired and too hurt to try to get away—­and when I attempted to talk to Silky about escaping on her own, she became angry.

  The most subversive thing we did was to call Lord Garth quite simply “Garth” behind his back. A few times we forgot to add the “Lord” when speaking to his face, but he just found it amusing.

  Apparently, he did not take us seriously.

  On the third day of travel, Jasmine tripped on a rock, and I found myself once again sliding to the ground. I was a go
od horsewoman, but the pain was making me weak and feeble. Blood loss had made me dizzy. I hit the ground and fainted. Again. I was only out for a few seconds, but when I came to, Garth and Silky were already off their horses. Silky ran to me; Garth strode after her; the wound began to bleed in earnest.

  There were no finicky modesty preparations this time. Garth brushed Silky aside as if she were a summer moth, and he picked me up and put me down on the deep green moss that grew beneath the shade trees. I looked up at the pattern of leaves against the sky and wondered if it was possible to hurt more than this.

  It was.

  Garth removed the bandage, and I could see that, once again, the wound had bled through the dressing.

  “Build a fire,” Garth said to the others.

  I just lay there, under the tree, hoping the pain would subside. Jasmine, whom nobody had bothered catching, walked over to me and put her muzzle near my neck in a gesture I couldn’t help but see as apologetic for my fall.

  “Not your fault, girl,” I said. “I’m just not doing very well.” I stared up at her. She looked strange at that angle.

  Silky held my hand.

  “We have to close the wound,” said Garth.

  “Right,” I said.

  The other ‘Lidans were busying themselves by the fire. Silky was watching them, and I was watching Silky. It was interesting to see the bloom on her cheeks fade away to paper white. I wondered offhandedly what had caused the change. Then I was dizzy again, and for a little while I went away.

  When I came back, Garth was speaking to me.

  “Drink this,” said Garth. He had pulled a small bottle from among his saddlebags. “It’ll help.”

  “I don’t want it,” I said.

  “Yes,” he said, “you do.”

  I lay on my back and looked at the wind playing with the leaves.

  “I’m not going to drink some ‘Lidan brew,” I said. “Right, Silky?”

  Silky was looking nervously toward the fire. “Drink it, Angel,” she said. “I think they’re going to seal the wound.”

  “We have no choice,” said Garth. “If you want to live.”

  I glanced at the fire, too, and I saw that an iron rod was heating in the coals. I didn’t like the thought that came into my mind as to what Garth planned to do. But I did want to live.

  “I won’t let go of you,” said Silky.

  I drank the ‘Lidan potion. It was bitter and awful, and at first it made me numb all over.

  But the deep searing pain broke through whatever Garth had given me. I opened my eyes and first saw Silky, and then, as if they were actually there, Trey and the Bard. It was Trey who reached out as if to touch my face. But surely that was all wrong. I wanted the Bard.

  And then, for a moment, I was alone with my pain, and the ache of loneliness went into the very marrow of my bones.

  “Am I dead?” I asked. And I was back in the present. Silky was crying. Garth, who, I realized, had been holding me down, sat back.

  “You’re not dead,” he said. There was a new respect in his voice, and I wondered where it came from.

  From that day on, the other ‘Lidans, too, were different around me. Sometimes, after the cauterization, they forgot the formal deference owed to me as a woman, but it was as if they forgot because I was one of them. “You carry the brand of a warrior,” Garth told me after that. “It makes you different.”

  The wound stopped bleeding.

  Garth told us we were near his country house, which he preferred to his palace in Parlay.

  He was clearly Somebody. But he seemed to like it that Silky and I developed the habit of calling him “Garth.” The other ‘Lidans called him “Master” when they weren’t calling him “Lord.”

  We, of course, were Somebodies, too. But it seemed best not to dwell on that. I carefully embroidered what little I told him. After one of my particularly convoluted explanations of who we were and what we were doing there, Garth said, “You’re telling a lot of lies, aren’t you?” He didn’t seem angry.

  “I may be leaving some things out,” I said. “So, yes, I am telling some lies.”

  “You say you’re here for a wedding,” Garth said. “But you have no attendants, no provision carts.”

  “We’re traveling light.”

  “Where to?”

  “Back to Arcadia. The wedding is over, and we’re not looking for ‘Lidan grooms.”

  “What if the grooms were great Lords of Shibbeth? Wouldn’t they be good enough for you?”

  “There’s no good answer to that question.”

  “You’re still telling lies, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t suppose you know about the Montrose-­Nesson wedding?”

  “What are you talking about?” asked Silky, genuinely taken by surprise.

  “They’re looking for a Lady Angel Montrose,” said Garth. “And her companion-­sister. Word of a reward has spread.”

  “I suppose you want the reward,” said Silky.

  He laughed. “I doubt very much that the reward’s enough to tempt me. I think, if I found her, that I’d keep this Lady Angel for myself—­she sounds intriguing.”

  We were in trouble.

  Garth’s words rang true. If he found out who I was, he was going to keep me.

  As if I were a thing.

  The marriage and land laws—­in Shibbeth, in Arcadia—­were not designed for women.

  I was so wrapped up in the turn my thoughts had taken that I was almost knocked out of my saddle by a low branch.

  Garth steadied me with his hand. Then—­

  “I apologize,” he said formally.

  “What for?” I asked.

  “She was the one about to ride into a tree,” Silky added helpfully. “I don’t see what there is to be sorry for.”

  “I mean I’m sorry I touched you,” said Garth. “We don’t do that in Shibbeth. As you must know by now.”

  “You already touched her,” said Silky. “You held her down to cauterize the wound with that hot iron.”

  “So I did,” said Garth.

  “That was different,” I said, and then I held my tongue. I realized I had just defended Garth.

  Garth nodded, but he looked thoughtful.

  The next day I noticed a change in the vegetation. The rough underbrush had been cut back to reveal short stubby grass. The trees looked as if they had been trimmed of low branches like the one that had almost swept me out of the saddle.

  Someone had tidied up the wilderness.

  When I pointed this out to Garth, he simply said, “We’re on my lands now.”

  “Does that mean we’re close to our destination?”

  “Yes, Lady,” he said.

  “Too much riding,” said Silky abruptly. “My backside hurts.”

  “Silky,” I said, “that’s common.”

  “One more night of camping,” said Garth. “And I’ll be welcoming you to my House. Lady Angel. Lady Silky.”

  So he did know who we were.

  But he might not know about Trey—­and he certainly didn’t know about the Bard.

  We denied nothing about ourselves, but neither of us said a word about the others.

  They set up the tents earlier than usual that evening. Garth’s idea of camping surpassed anything I knew in Arcadia, and according to him, he was traveling quite simply after making a trading run to Caddis—­the great Shibbeth city to the south. When I asked him what he traded in—­I had quietly searched for sacks of grain or some sort of goods—­his answer was almost curt.

  “Jewels,” he said.

  Jewels. Like Partin Coss, only probably on an unimaginably grander scale. This fit with what I already knew of Garth. He was not only Somebody, he was a rich Somebody. Leth and Kalo would have been impressed by Gart
h’s style. Trey—­and certainly the Bard—­less so.

  The blue silk tents billowed out in the wind as Garth’s men erected them. Garth’s had the flag of Shibbeth sewn into the side. Ours had two lions embroidered on the door.

  “The lions will look after you,” said Garth, and he smiled. But when he said that, I was reminded of the guards he posted outside our tent at night. Garth said that these so-­called guardians would keep us safe. I was under no illusions. They were there as a subtle reminder that we weren’t voluntary guests. We had no chance of getting to the horses and heading to Parlay.

  It seemed that, after all, I had made a hash of rescuing Silky.

  That night, as we lay on our cots, under our light down coverlets and sheets of soft, finely woven yellow silk, Silky was unusually silent.

  “Tomorrow Garth’s journey’s over,” I said. “He’ll be home.”

  “Why do you say it that way?” she asked. “Our journey will be over, too.”

  “Our journey’s barely begun,” I said. “We’re going to find Trey and the Bard.”

  “Are you sure?” Silky was subdued.

  “We’ll be all right.”

  Silky sat up and put her arms around her knees. “I don’t feel as if we’ll be all right.”

  “Cover your shoulders,” I said. “It’s chilly.”

  “Are they going to brand us?”

  Her voice was soft and low so that the guards couldn’t hear us, but I could detect the fear in it. This was what was on her mind; this was why she had been so silent.

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

  “Garth and his men might tie us up and give us drugs, and there would be no way to stop them.”

  “Garth and his men will do nothing,” I said. “It’s a woman thing. The branding is done by women. They put the mark on the left cheek, and the fact that it’s women doing it is supposed to show willing submission. But when the time comes—­if the time comes—­I’ll make sure you’re all right.”

  “In Arcadia I heard some women talking. They said if you were branded, you were owned. Like a dog. Or a cow.”

  “Silky?”

  “Yes?”

  ­“People talk too much.”