Free The Book of Forbidden Wisdom by Gillian Murray Kendall Page A

up to the black scree. The horses could not breast their way through growth that thick—­we were stuck on the road.
    â€œI don’t hear anything,” Trey said finally, and Silky nodded her head in agreement.
    But as we walked, I heard it again. A slow-­moving horse whose hoofbeats were being masked by our own.
    I moved away from Bran, reached down and grabbed Squab’s reins, and jerked until he came to a halt. On my left, Trey pulled up Bran.
    And then the sound was clear as the morning bell on the Montrose estate.
    Clip.
    Clop.
    Clip.
    Clop .
    Then nothing.
    We stood, our horses at a halt, and looked at one another. Squab chose that moment to stretch out his neck, delicately pull off the leaves of a wick plant and eat them one by one. I had told Silky a thousand times not to let Squab eat when his bridle was on, but this didn’t seem the moment to bring it up.
    It was Trey who broke the silence.
    â€œWe keep moving until we can get off the road,” he murmured. “Then I’ll wait for the follower.”
    â€œNo, Trey,” hissed Silky. “It could be ghosts .”
    â€œSilky.”
    â€œIt could be.”
    â€œThat’s not the sound of a ghost,” he said. “That’s a solid sound.”
    â€œIt’s all right, Silky,” I said. “We’ll let Trey set an ambush.”
    â€œAngel?” Silky was taken aback.
    â€œWhat choice do we have?” I said. “Trey can handle it. And if we stay, we’ll just be in his way.”
    Silky looked skeptical. I was skeptical myself.
    It wasn’t clear to me what Trey could possibly know about ambushes.
    We began walking the horses again, looking for an opening in the undergrowth. And then, as I looked carefully at Trey, I was suddenly less unsure about the plan. I saw someone who probably could overcome a single horseman. Maybe even two. He had grown into himself, and he was tall and broad shouldered.
    Trey wasn’t a child anymore.
    The thought worried at me. For a moment I saw through Kalo’s eyes—­and Leth’s. I really was the virgin stolen away on her wedding night. This man had asked me to go with him on the night of my wedding day, and I had chosen to go. He was almost eighteen, and we had gone away together—­no chaperone in sight. Suddenly I wondered if I would ever see Violet again, my lemon drop friend, and, if I did, whether or not she would turn away.
    But I had liked the rescue.
    No—­it was more than that:
    I had liked being rescued from marriage.
    T he Echo-­horse must have come closer, because now we could all hear it clearly.
    Clip.
    Clop.
    Clip.
    Clop .
    Inexorable.
    I felt sick.
    Minutes passed, and the undergrowth on either side was as thick as ever. The Old Road took us through a copse of trees, and the branches met over our heads.
    The air was close.
    And then the way became broad, and the vegetation receded, and all at once I could see half a dozen places where we might be able to get down from the road and plenty of places where we would be hidden from view.
    â€œNow,” said Trey, and the horses scrambled down the bank.
    We didn’t have to go far; a wall of variegated vegetation soon camouflaged us. Squab immediately started munching on a string of vines.
    â€œSilky,” I whispered, annoyed.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œSquab’s eating again.”
    â€œHe’s hungry, ” she said. “As am I.”
    â€œStay here,” said Trey. “I’m moving closer. And please, I beg of you, Silky, be quiet.”
    She opened her mouth, thought better of it and closed it.
    Trey turned his head toward us for a moment before moving forward.
    â€œIf this goes badly,” he said, “get out of here.”
    â€œDon’t let it go badly,” I said. “Keep yourself safe, Trey.”
    We focused on the road. I saw nothing. I heard nothing. The only noise was the light breeze tossing the ends of the