The Book of Forbidden Wisdom (2 page)

“Leth would never hurt me,“ I said. “I thought you liked Leth. What more could he want than the dowry I'm bringing him?”

“He could want
The Book of Forbidden Wisdom,
” said my father. “He
would
want that. As do I. But I like Leth, Angel, or what little I know of him. I'm less fond of his parents. Happily, you aren't marrying them.”

It was one of the longer speeches he had made to me since my mother's death.

I left his study confused and uneasy and crossed the courtyard to rejoin Silky. She had been waiting.

“Did he ask you the question?”

“Yes,” I said.

“I bet there is no
Book of Forbidden Wisdom,
” Silky said. “I bet it was lost a long time ago. If it had really been passed down for generations in our mother's House, Mother would have passed the knowledge to you.”

“There wasn't much time.”

There was a moment's silence. We didn't allude to Mother's death.

Then Silky collected herself.

“I still bet the wisdom's long gone,” said Silky finally. “And if it's
wisdom,
why is it
forbidden
?”

“I don't know.”

The sun was beating down now, and there was little shade, but I saw, sitting under our lemon tree, a man with bundles scattered around him. He looked up as if he had known I was watching. Thick, dark hair, deep blue eyes, maybe ten years older than I was. But his face took me aback—­it was a face like that of one of the great Classical paintings. I should have looked away, or, better, put up my chin and glared at him, but I did neither. I simply looked back.

“Who is he?” I asked.

I had addressed Silky, but it was Violet, who had come up beside us, who answered.

“A bard,” she said, in a voice that conveyed she didn't think much of him. “Can't you tell?”

“He was just passing through.” Silky sounded worried. “Father told me. I'm
sorry,
Angel. I didn't want to
upset
you. But Cal sang himself hoarse at Bertin's funeral, so Father heard this one and approved him. He says the man's good at his job and has a sweet voice.”

“I see,” I said. I didn't. I was thinking of those strange eyes. Neither Violet nor Silky seemed to have noticed anything unusual about him—­but I found it hard to take my eyes away.

“So you don't mind the change?” asked Violet.

“It doesn't matter,” I said. “But Cal must be truly hoarse to miss this occasion to show off.” Cal, our village bard, had a fine voice, but he was, perhaps, a little too proud of it.

I looked over at the itinerant bard again. And now I saw what Silky and Violet saw: that the man looked travel-­stained and, oddly, angry. He was sun-­darkened—­a testament to life spent on the road enduring the vagaries of sun and rain. Landowners, on the other hand, were usually fair-­skinned. We did not, after all, work the land.

We just owned it.

The man turned to one of the bundles and pulled out a lyre. I wondered if Father had given him a low price for the wedding since he was, essentially, a vagabond and did not have to hold us to the usual rate. It was the kind of thing Father would do. The man surely looked discontented enough.

The normal wage for a wedding would have made a bard rich for half a year.

The bard raised his head and caught me looking at him. He looked right back at me, full in the face. And then he smiled—­except it wasn't a friendly sort of smile. It was patronizing. As if he knew me. As if he knew all about me.

Me. A child of the House of Montrose. Me. Lady Angel.

I could have had him turned out, of course, but there was something fascinating about him. Perhaps he was a poor castoff from a landed family. It happened. Besides, it would dismay Silky if we had no bard, and it seemed pointless to get rid of him because of one glance.

At weddings, bards were expected to give the news (keeping early guests occupied), sing the wedding songs, perform an epic and provide music at the party following the ceremony. If Father really had heard and accepted this bard, the performance wouldn't be bad.

I went back to the skin decorators, who started the final work on my hands. Suddenly the marriage ceremony seemed very near. I could touch nothing until after the wedding now. Silky would dress me. It would be her last chance to hold the wedding gown.

The bard gathered his bundles and instruments and went toward the kitchen, where I knew he would be well fed. Cook had a weakness for bards—­she liked the gossip they carried. Soon I would be part of that gossip, slipped into a recital somewhere down the road. Lady Angel Montrose married Lord Leth Nesson.

And that was that.

I had to confess to myself that I really didn't know just how happy I would be. I didn't think I'd be miserable—­far from it—­but as a married woman, I would probably never speak to Trey again, except formally. The time had finally come to cut the tie. We were adults now, sacrifices to the endless ceremonies and formulas that drowned friendships made in childhood.

“What's the matter, Angel?” asked Silky. She was good at reading my mood.

“I want this to be over,” I said.

“How can you want your wedding to be
over
?” asked Silky. “It hasn't even
started
yet.”

“I wish Trey could be here,” I said. “Father didn't have to ban him from the wedding.”

“Trey's a
boy,
” said Silky. “The bride can't invite a
boy
.”

“Then I wish Leth had,” I said.

“Right,” said Silky.

“He could have.”

“
Right
.”

We went into the house and made our way through the halls and up the staircases until we were back in my room. Silky slipped Mother's gown over my head, did up the pearl buttons and began the lengthy process of pinning and sewing me into it.

“There,” she said. “Almost done.” Her eyes brimmed with tears.

“I'm sorry about the dress,” I said. “I wish it could be yours.”

“Mine will be beautiful, too,” she said, but her eyes still glistened in the light. She finished with the pins in the back and turned me around.

“
Wow,
” she said. Her sorrow was gone.

“ 'Wow' what?”

“You're
gorgeous
.”

“We both know who the gorgeous one is,” I said. Silky just laughed and shook her head, and her white-­gold hair was a cloud around her face.

When we reached the wedding tent, where the ceremony would take place, where I would finally be able to see Leth without a chaperone at my side, I saw that Silky must have been up very early tending to all the wedding details. The path to the tent was sprinkled with rose petals, and there were flowers everywhere—­a riot of color and scent. Nothing had been left undone.

It was as if Silky could read my mind.

“I added stuff,” she said. “So there's nothing to complain about
now
.”

“Silky,” I said, “you know I wouldn't have complained.”

“I wasn't thinking about
you
.”

I laughed. “I thank you, but I'm sure what Leth's parents had was fine.”

“You'd
think
it would be, considering the dowry,” said Silky. “But they're stingy, and you know it. I'm
sure
Leth wouldn't have approved.”

It was indeed a good dowry. This marriage was the biggest real estate transaction the village had ever seen. And despite Silky's romantic enthusiasm, I was perfectly able to see the wedding as Father and the Nessons saw it—­as a good land deal. A sensible merger that would add to the power of both families.

And I got Leth in the transaction. He was a good choice. Other Ladies even accounted Leth the most handsome man they had seen, although I preferred Trey's dark looks to Leth's fair coloring. To be truthful.

Another thought came on unbidden:
Leth's not as handsome as the Bard, either
.

I laughed out loud at that. After all, the Bard was nothing more than a landless vagrant with a goodish face.

Leth was a good man and extraordinarily generous: he had agreed that Silky would live with us until her marriage. As eldest girl, I had received my mother's inheritance—­but now I could make sure Silky had a good dowry when her time came.

Silky and I went to the side tent, where I would wait until Leth and Father and the Nessons and the witnesses and guests and all the nobility father could muster were in place.

I began to fidget.

“Stop that,” said Silky. “You'll ruin the pattern on your hands.”

“Sorry.”

“At least you're
acting
like a bride.”

“I suppose I am a bride.” Perhaps I was curt. Silky didn't reply. I held my bouquet firmly in my hand while Silky put flowers in my hair. I was dark, like Trey, and for effect she wove tiny white roses into the braids coiled around my head. The scent of the roses was strong, and as I watched Silky work, I saw that she had added some wild roses to enhance the scent. And because she knew I liked them.

Violet—­who was looking more like a lemon drop than ever—­popped her head in the door.

“It's the Bard,” she said.

“Drunk?” asked Silky, concerned.

“He wants to check whether you want the traditional music,” said Violet, “or something different.”

“Traditional,” said Silky. “What else?”

“Don't I get a say?” I said.

“
No,
” said Silky. “You're just the
bride,
Angel. Traditional.”

“I'll have the servant tell him,” said Violet. She was too old, three months older than I was, for direct contact with a lower-­caste man. That meant she had to communicate with the Bard through intermediaries.

Violet returned shortly and stood behind me, ready to lift the train of the dress. Silky and I would enter together, the two scions of the House of Montrose.

“Ready?” asked Silky after giving me one more critical examination. I must have passed. She looked radiant. I wished I could look that radiant. I prepared for the traditional music.

A minute later the preliminary music began, and it was something very
un
traditional, something haunting, in a minor key, but before Silky could run out and throttle the Bard, he launched into the wedding theme.

For the first time, my stomach fluttered. And at that moment, I really wanted Trey, to whom I could talk and who would make me calm. It would have been nice, I thought, to have had an un-­chaperoned, informal parting with Trey. Because everyone knew friendships changed after marriage. For one thing, the married were much higher in status than those who were uncontracted.

But there was no precedent for a farewell to a male friend. We had been awkward in our snatched good-­byes. We had only had a moment before the chaperone descended upon me, and she had been livid, and while I hadn't cared, I knew that was the end of it.

I couldn't tell if Trey liked Leth. I rather thought not.

The music began to swell.

“Are you ready, Silky?” As if I had to ask.

“Of
course,
” she said. Her body decorations were exquisite. Dark red flowers glowed in her golden hair.

The music had almost reached the moment when I would begin my walk, Silky behind me, toward Leth. And soon the legalities of the land transaction would be over, and Leth and I would be married.

It would be a nice life. And I was sure that, after a few initial questions, he would leave alone the issue of whether or not I had knowledge of
The Book of Forbidden Wisdom
or the Spiral City. He had never once mentioned
The
Book
, but I knew he thought about it. All of Arcadia did. The St. Clares, my mother's line, had passed forward knowledge of
The Book
all the way to my mother, who had died young.

All Arcadia knew that, too.

Silky took my arm for a moment and then kissed me before taking her place again.

Then I set my foot on the narrow walk, and the servants pulled open the flaps of the tent. I smiled, but it felt forced, and the considerable weight of the dress seemed to hold me back. They were all there: Father, the Nessons, my aunts and uncles and cousins, Gurd—­the head of the village—­the minor nobility, each with distinct and colorful liveries. It seemed everyone except Father, who had dressed as always in his endless mourning, had chosen to wear something vivid. The tent was a riot of color, and a profusion of flowers lined the path. There was a shower of rose petals as I entered.

It might not have been the happiest day of my life, but I wasn't unhappy. I thought that perhaps one day I would be able to make amends to Trey.

The sky was blue. The bard was in voice. Silky was with me, and I was going to take her away from our father's dreary house of eternal mourning.

I saw Leth waiting. He looked real and solid and ready to take me as his bride. Behind Leth were his brother, Benn, and his sister-­in-­law, Lorna of the House of Tern. My father—­a head shorter, stern, rigid in his mourning—­stood next to Leth. This was a big day for my father, a triumph, really. For years he had feared that Trey had some hold on my heart. He didn't like Trey very much—­or maybe he just didn't like Trey's landlessness. It came to the same thing.

Then had come Leth, with his vast holdings, and my father almost—­
almost
—­perked up. At least enough to be almost attentive when it came to my new suitor.

On our second arranged meeting, Leth had said, “Stifling, isn't it?” And he had not meant the weather.

I began to consider that Leth might make a suitable partner.

Shortly thereafter, the Nessons approached Father, and I let him know that the merger could take place. Why not? I was almost sixteen. It was time to marry.