The Book of Forbidden Wisdom (9 page)

“What do you want?” I asked him as mildly as I could.

“Yes,” said Silky. “What do
you
want
? I saw you touch the Lady Angel's hand.” Her tone wasn't mild.

“Trey needs stitches,” the Bard said. “Small stitches made by small fingers. Lady Angel's will do. I never met a Great Lady who couldn't do needlework.”

“Oh.”

It all made sense now.

I gave way. Silky was better with a needle, but my reputation was already in tatters. No need to involve her in any immoral close contact stitching.

Besides, Trey needed me.

The Bard built the fire and boiled the needle and thread he carried in his pack. In the same pack, he found some healing powder for the wound and a length of clean bandage. Trey lay down by the fire and put his arm on a length of cloth I had prepared. He didn't say much, but his forehead was creased with pain. After that, as the others watched closely—­to ask for privacy would have been lewd indeed—­I held the lips of the ragged wound together with one hand. With the other hand, I made small, delicate stitches. The work required total concentration.

Only once did Trey break my focus. He moved as my needle accidentally slipped off the skin and into the gash, and I looked at his face sharply for any signs of shock. My mother had taught me about shock.

“Angel,” Trey said.

I knew then. It was all in his voice, all that I had really known for years but had kept carefully buried. Yet there was nothing I could say or do. I hadn't learned to swim, and I hadn't—­I felt it sorely now—­learned to love.

“Sorry,” I said. “I'm almost done.”

Those were all the words I could manage.

My cold hard heart.

When it was finished, I sat back and examined my handiwork. Silky looked closely but was very careful not to touch.

“That's astonishing, Angel,” she said. “Your needlework's usually
awful
. I wish Madam Ogilvy could see.”

“She'd drop dead on the spot,” I said.

Trey quickly fell into a healing sleep. Once he called out “Angel,” and I was embarrassed. Men do not dream about modest Ladies of Great Houses. The Bard, who was near, pretended he hadn't heard; he showed delicacy. He turned away.

L
ater, when Trey woke up, the Bard tended him. Silky, who wanted to speak, walked with me to the edge of the camp.

“Angel?” she asked, and I feared her question. I had just set her terrible examples of modesty, chastity and discretion. I noticed I still had some of Trey's blood on the back of my hands.

“Yes?”

“I have a question.”

“What's your question?”

“What's a
whore
?”

This was not the question I had expected. I thought for a moment.

“A small breed of horse,” I said.

There was silence as Silky took in the information.

“Angel?” she asked.

“Yes?”

“Why did Leth call you a small breed of horse?”

“He wasn't calling me that,” I explained. “He was calling out because he wished he had that small breed of horse. They're very fast over short distances. If he'd had a whore, he might have caught us.”

“Oh,” said Silky. “It makes a lot more sense when you use it in a sentence.”

Later I left the three of them and went up the road so that I could see sunset and moonrise. The sun seemed to pour liquid gold along the horizon as it went down, and, at the end, I saw a flash of green light. Seeing the flash was considered lucky. The moon rose, ghostly and huge. I saw the West Star hanging against the rising night like a bright coin in a jackdaw's nest.

“The moon's sailing full,” I said when I went back to the others. “Come on, Silky. You can see better away from the fire.”

“I'll go with you,” said Trey.

I looked down at Trey and opened my mouth to speak, when the Bard broke in.

“It's not a good idea to leave the camp, Lady Angel,” he said. “There're worse things out there than your brother and your almost-­husband.”

I met his eye.

“Doubt it,” I said.

And yet the beauty of the enormous moon and the low West Star had an ominous quality; it was so very fragile and ethereal, the sort of beauty that tears one's heart out. The sort of beauty that doesn't last. I didn't stray after all.

 

B
efore I readied for sleep, I examined Trey's wound again—­with Silky close by my side. The wound had grown red, and I packed wild garlic around the stitches. I tried doing it with a spoon, but it proved awkward. Surely there was a purpose to having small and nimble fingers.

My morals were slipping.

I turned away and narrowly missed colliding with the Bard.

“That's good work,” he said.

We needed to speak.

He had dumped his pack and saddle by the fire, and he had given no hint as to where he intended to sleep. It was one thing to have Trey near the fire—­especially now that he was wounded. It would be quite another to allow a bard, a landless man, so close to Silky and to me at the vulnerable time of sleep. The Bard's beautiful face might edge its way into my dreams, where chaperones, no matter how much they might be needed, were in short supply.

I looked up at him. He was quite a bit taller than I.

“I wanted to tell you,” I said, “that you can sleep inside the perimeter. Over by the horses.”

“Lady Angel?” he said. He looked at me quizzically.

“By the horses. You can sleep there.” I was getting a kink in my neck looking at him.

“Yes, Lady Angel,” he said. “I understand the words that are coming out of your mouth.”

“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.

T
he 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.”