Free The Legend of Sheba: Rise of a Queen by Tosca Lee

barely upon this throne,” I said one day. “Would you see me gone from it so soon that you plan for my death?”
    “Never, my queen.” The portly Abamar of Awsan bowed his head. “May you reign a hundred years.”
    “And yet,” Salban said quietly, startling me. He had remained mercifully silent on the matter to date. “You considered alliance with another clan once before. Will you not consider it now?”
    My fingers went cold.
    I had spoken my earlier intent to marry Maqar to no one but him.
    “I presume . . . that you mean my brief betrothal when I was a child,” I said, very carefully. I would not speak Sadiq’s name.
    He inclined his head—too late. The question so long put to rest that night before Maqar’s death had reared up within my heart once more.
    “Almaqah has set me upon this seat, as I have set you upon yours,” I said, looking meaningfully from one man to the next. “Almaqah will make the future known. For now, we have far more pressing matters.”
    That summer, as gum flowed in the trees of the foothills and the frankincense farmers went out to make their cuts in the papery bark, I accepted young women from the noble families of Saba and Awsan to tend my chambers, men to oversee the stables, and priests and priestesses from entire pantheons of gods to serve my household.
    I did all these things, barely reckoning the hour of the day, and the month only by the capricious moon through my window as I lay down each night.
    That autumn, as tears of white resin were gathered from the frankincense trees and the rains returned again, grief ceased its nightly visit. Duty remained in its stead. I slept rarely, and when I did it was only to dream of a body-strewn field, the ibex in the clearing. At times I thought I heard the keening of souls as I woke to the wind howling through the stone mouths of the lions beneath the palace cornices. In a sweat, I went to my table to pore over the accounts of disputes settled in my name and the temple tithes gathered for public works.
    “My queen,” Shara said, pushing up from the silk pillows of the bed where she slept beside me. “Will you not rest? The records will not have changed by tomorrow.”
    “Soon,” I said, as I did every night.
    I could not tell her that I dare not. That the office I wore like a leaden mantle had been purchased too dearly and I must wield wisely this power I resented so well. Worse, Salban’s comment had brought to barbed life the question of Maqar’s intention I had thought long buried. A thousand times I nearly sent for his father, to demand answers to questions dignity forbade me ask. It was a riddle with no answer at any rate: no confirmation of Maqar’s duplicity could ever dissuade me of his love, no denial ever put my heart to rest.
    And neither would return him to me.
    I knew only one thing for certain: I was queen now. And I knew nothing to do but labor all hours or go mad.
    “M y queen,” Wahabil said one early evening as I met with my privy council. I glanced up with a start, only then realizing that I had nodded off where I sat.
    “Forgive me,” I said. “Pray continue.”
    “We have held you hours in session. Perhaps a short recess,” he said, nodding to the scribe sitting in the corner. To my right and left, the others made to rise.
    “No,” I said sharply. And then, “Councilor Abyada is newly married. Let us finish our business and speed him to his young wife, where his mind is, no doubt, already.” Chuckles from around the table.
    “Ah,” Abyada said, with a cant of his aging head, “it is true. And yet, I am not a young man and she is vigorous for want of a child. I beg you, delay me, that I may rally my strength.”
    I smiled but said, “We will continue.”
    Farther down, Niman and Khalkarib exchanged glances. Yatha studied his folded hands.
    “Well?” I said.
    Wahabil slowly rose from his seat at the far end of the table, walked its length, and came to lean in before me, obscuring the