For a long time after my father closed the ebony gate behind him, I sat upon the carved bench beside the pale smooth fountain and watched the singing water fall from basin to basin until it reached the lowest point and bubbled up to begin again. The water-song was soothing, like a mother’s lullaby; while the water sang, I need think of nothing. The endlessly falling water washed away all thought. Or so it had always done, when I had come here with some childish distress.
But in this hour, in the clear light of rising dawn, my mind was too troubled for the fountain to work its magic. Nothing could soothe away this disaster.
Too restless in my bones to sit any longer, I sought out my other talismans. I brought my mother’s ivory box out to my garden courtyard and sat again beside the fountain, counting over her treasures. Always before, they had quieted my mind, invoked peace.
This time, I could not summon what I sought. My fingers caressed the coral beads and pearls of my mother’s necklace, but the smooth gems remained cool, refusing comfort. I set the necklace aside and took up the ancient Asherah. The honeyed ivory also failed me; the little goddess lay unyielding in my hand.
The perfume vial still smelled of cinnamon, faint and fading. But when I closed my eyes, no dream-memories danced for me. The vial held a dying fragrance, and that was all.
At last I curled my fingers into the brass and crystal bracelet; that shabby bauble that seemed so out of place among a queen’s dearest treasures. But had it not been dear to my mother’s heart, the trinket would not have been
cherished in the ivory casket. The bracelet’s tarnished metal did not glitter; the river crystals barely caught the light.
In the hour I most needed its aid, my mother’s legacy had failed me.
Oh, that is the easy path. It is you who have failed; do not blame memories and ghosts.
I forced myself to face that honestly, to accept the pain my thoughts brought. For all I could think of was the greatness of my failure. My clever design had brought nothing but disaster.
I had failed the Sheban queen, and the Lady Helike, and all those unknown men and women waiting in the Land Beyond Morning. I had failed my mother’s memory. I had failed my father.
And I had failed myself.
This last bit sharpest; I forced myself to look upon my prideful folly straight and clear. For I had not acted with wisdom and courage and honor. My cold fingers clenched, and pain jabbed my flesh. I looked down and saw that a rough crystal had sliced my skin; a little hurt, but enough to sting.
Punishment for folly, and far less than you deserve.
Staring at the tiny bead of blood upon my finger, I told over my faults.
I had not acted with wisdom. My father had spoken truly when he said I had acted with deadly folly. I had assigned Ahijah a role that I had no assurance he would play. I had set in motion events I could not rule.
I had not acted with courage. To dare heedless of the true price is folly twice over. I had seen only my own part in my spinning—but whatever I spun pulled others into my thread. Had I not been stopped at my own gate, I would have dragged others into my disgrace. From the guards at the palace gates to the priestesses of the Grove, not one would have been untouched.
I had not acted with honor. For I had schemed like Delilah, seeking to obtain my desire by deceit.
And you sought to be a true queen!
My own scorn burned my throat, sour as bile. Rather than acting as a great queen, I had behaved like a spoiled, willful child. Not once had I thought of the risk my plan brought to others, or of the pain. I had thought only of walking my own path without hindrance.
Worst of all, I had told myself I acted for the sake of others. For the queen, and for Helike, and for the people of Sheba. That was a lie.
I had done it for myself.
Tears pressed sharp and hot behind my eyes; I held my eyes wide open,
refused to let fall easy tears.
No, look well upon what you have done. Think well upon what you have done. And then?
I laid the brass-and-crystal bracelet back in the ivory treasure box. I stared at the blood that shone like a tiny ruby upon my finger.
And then begin again.
But how? The question tormented me; I thought upon it all the rest of that long day, and far into the night. I sat and stared out my window over the roofs of Jerusalem until the dying moon set. Then I sighed and set the problem from me, telling myself I would think better in the morning. I would try to sleep, and hope to dream.
Sleep came swiftly; I slid easily into its quiet darkness. But I could not summon dreams. Tonight the ghosts I desired would not come to me, and even in lonely sleep I understood that whatever I did now I must achieve with my own efforts, relying upon no one but myself.
And when I awoke, I knew at last what I must do.
My grand and glorious scheme to achieve my own way had been the dream of a child heedless of anything other than her own desires. And worse, my success required others to collude in my plans—plans of which they were ignorant. I had thought to dance them like puppets to tunes only I could hear.
I must achieve my goals by my own will.
I could not rely upon any other man or woman to achieve my goals for me. My ambitions were my own; only I could summon my victories.
My intrigue to force my father to grant my petition had deserved to fail.
When I asked, and he denied, I should have simply walked out the palace gate and followed the queen barefoot to Sheba if I must. Anything, rather than attempt to trick consent from my father’s lips.
But I had thought only of my wishes, of my freedom. Never had I thought of what my actions might bring to others, what good or ill I might do.
You saw yourself as queen of the world, doing as you willed without thought, without payment.
As if the Spice Queen had hazarded all she treasured only to give a girl heedless freedom.
Heat flooded me; my face burned as if with fever. Never had I known such shame—and that I alone knew of my selfish folly was little consolation. Now I knew what Amyntor had meant the day I had asked him to
help me deceive my father, when he had looked at me and said,
“I
will know.”
It did not matter if all the world thought me a paragon of royal virtues, for I knew what a selfish fool I had been. I no longer thought well of myself And so guilt burned like slow fire in my bones.
Do not give yourself airs, child.
The inner voice chided me, echo of words of guidance spoken long ago, almost forgotten. I did not mistake their message.
For remorse, too, could serve as a kind of self-glory; I reminded myself that my sin was one of thoughtless omission. I had not borne false witness, nor done murder, nor even failed to honor my father. I had merely thought only of my own desires.
Well, that would change. If I saw in Sheba’s offer only a glorious life for myself, I was not worthy of the prize offered to
me. “A true king thinks first of the future, next of his people, and last of himself.”
I knew my father lived by the iron rule of honor. I could do no less.
So I must begin again, facing my father openly and fearlessly—just as any other of his subjects might. For did King Solomon not hold open court one day in seven so that any man or woman who sought the king’s justice might come freely before him, and ask him to judge rightly?
Any man or woman. Even a harlot. Even a queen.
Even his own willful daughter.
The queen heard the tale while she still lay abed; Khurrami padded in just as dawn flowed pale and pure over the Judean hills. Sensing the presence of another, Bilqis woke to find her handmaiden kneeling beside the bed.
“What is wrong?” She did not waste words on lesser questions. Khurrami would not have woken her at this hour for any light reason.
“The Princess Baalit,” Khurrami began, and Bilqis sat up, fear sinking fangs into her belly. But she kept silent, letting Khurrami tell the tale as she would.
And it was not an easy thing to hold her tongue and allow Khurrami to speak freely. “The Princess Baalit came to me,” Khurrami said, “and begged my aid. She wished to visit the Grove of the Morning Star, but dared not go alone. So she asked me to accompany her, and I agreed.”
But something had gone wrong. Baalit had been stopped before she set her feet even a pace beyond her own courtyard gate. “The king’s general Benaiah prevented the princess from leaving—he and Nikaulis.”
Thank Mother Ilat that Nikaulis has sense, even if Khurrami does not!
Slow anger crawled through Sheba’s bones. Only long training permitted her to control her voice.
“So the Princess Baalit asked you to accompany her to the Grove—and this you did not choose to tell me?” Her voice remained smooth; good. Moving with care, lest her anger overrule her will, she pushed back her blanket and rose to her feet. “No, do not explain; I have no time for that now. Find out where King Solomon is, and bring me back word. Hurry.”
Without a word, Khurrami bowed and ran out. Refusing to succumb to the trap of rushing into heedless action, Sheba stretched slowly and then rang the branch of silver bells to summon her maids.
As soon as Khurrami returns, I shall go to Solomon.
It did not take a serpent’s wisdom to grasp Princess Baalit’s intention.
A bold plan, little princess, but also a rash one.
The girl had wit and will and courage—
But she is still too young to know how to shape tomorrow to her own ends.
For today, someone must unknot this tangled cord, and she would not leave Solomon to face the task alone.
As her maids combed out her hair, Bilqis weighed her choices: appear before Solomon as queen or as woman. Before she had decided, Khurrami returned, plainly bearing unwelcome news.
“Forgive me, O Queen, but no one knows where the king is. At daybreak he went to the Princess Baalit’s courtyard. But since he left its gate again, no man has seen him.”
“And has no woman seen him either?” she asked coolly. “If that is how you speak now, Khurrami, it is past time we returned home to Sheba.”
No man has seen him—
She smiled and shook out her hair, letting it ripple over her shoulders.
I know where you are, Solomon my love. And I know how I must come to you.
She only hoped that Mother Ilat would tell her what she then must say.
She found him where she had known he must be, alone in the tower garden where they had shared joy. Solomon stood at the roof ’s edge, his hands
resting upon the wall between him and the air below. Even as she entered the garden, she saw that he held his body stiff, as if he feared to move, lest movement release more pain.
And she knew, as well, that he sensed her presence—
And fears that I, too, have come to cause him pain. And so I have, but I do only what must be done.
Silent, she walked across the tower roof until she stood beside him. He did not speak, nor did she; for a time they watched doves circle the dust-gold roofs below, swallows soar in the blue air above. At last she said, “What will you do, beloved?”
Solomon hesitated, staring out over the rooftops of King David’s City. “I will do nothing unjust.”
“No. You never will do anything unjust, Solomon.” She moved, slowly, and laid her fingers gently upon his hand. “My love, it is not a matter of all or nothing. You marry the daughters of other lands to wed their interests to your own. How much more—”
“If my own daughter rules? Do you think me a fool, that I have not thought of that?”
“No, I do not think you a fool. But Solomon, my heart—do not think your daughter a fool either. She is not; she is only young. So young.”
Solomon turned his hand, twined his fingers through hers. “Too young. Were we ever that young, dove of my heart? That arrogant? That sure of ourselves?”
“Yes, my love, we were. But that was long ago. Now it is your daughter’s turn to dance. Do not shackle her to your own fears, Solomon. Do not sacrifice her to the past.”
“I will not sacrifice her at all. Let Ahijah rave. I am king. I can protect my own daughter.”
“In the face of that madman’s denunciations?” Bilqis shook her head. “Perhaps now, when you are strong. But what of later? Life is uncertain, a king’s life more uncertain than a peasant’s. When you are weak, or dead—then what becomes of her?”
Solomon stood silent, and she pressed on. “There is only one safety for a woman in your land, Solomon—you must marry her to a husband strong enough to stand against her enemies. And that means—”
“That I must marry her far away from me.” The words came slow and hard; Solomon stared at nothing. His fingers slipped from hers, and she let
him go. “That I must give her to a king in a foreign land, send her to dwell among strangers. And so lose her forever.”
“Yes.” She longed to caress his hand again, to stroke his cheek, convey comfort from her flesh. But she did not. This battle Solomon must fight alone, or he would forever regret yielding.
“I had hoped to wed her to a good man of Jerusalem, one whose house was close by.” Solomon’s beautiful mouth twisted in a wry smile. “I had hoped to keep her my child forever.”
“She will always be your daughter, Solomon. But she must live her own life.”
Silent, Solomon bowed his head. Then he said, “Where does wisdom lie now? In my heart, or in yours?”
“In both, my love. And in neither.” She longed to beg him, to plead for what she so desired. But in the end, she said nothing at all.
For their fates rested now on Solomon’s wisdom, and his love.
Please, Bright One, let him make the right choice. For his own sake, as well as for mine—and hers.