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

my kinsmen there, their skin a bare shade darker than my own.
    “She is the queen,” I said at last, reaching for my wine.
    “And beloved by her people.”
    “They love me for what I might do for them,” I said. “Because they want land and trade tariffs and disputes decided in their favor.” I glanced up and he gave a slight shrug of acquiescence. “So, I think sometimes, must the gods say of us as we intone prayers of supplication. The barren woman for children, the sick for health, the farmer for rain, and the merchant for fair weather and safety.”
    “The queen, for the favor already evident upon her.”
    I was silent a moment before I said: “I did not know favor came at such cost.”
    The priest said quietly, “There is always a price. Do you yourself not reserve your best favor for those who prove their devotion through the costliest ways? Those who send men to march for your throne even though they may die . . . who go at your bidding to build your garrisons and offer routes through their land with the best terms at their oases?”
    “If what you say is true, then our worship is nothing but the brokering of deals. No man who comes into my hall does so without hope of some gain. And neither do we offer devotion except for hope of what we want. No wonder the gods scorn our attempts to control them with our piety. No wonder they strike us when we least expect it, if only to prove that we cannot,” I said bitterly.
    “Do you truly think the gods so petty?”
    “It is the only thing that makes sense to me,” I said. “That they act out because we have never given them what they truly want.”
    “And what is that?”
    I shrugged. “We do not ask about the hearts of gods, whether they care to be known. We spill blood in their names, which we make fearsome. But we do not seek to know them. We do not offer love. Not truly. I understand something of that now,” I said, gazing dispassionately at the alabaster burner on the table, the thin tendrils of incense disappearing before my eyes, going nowhere.
    “And I think they must be the loneliest of beings,” I said softly. “Or perhaps, being gods, they have no desire to be known, and mine is an entirely human affliction.” Outside, the rain had stopped.
    When he said nothing, I glanced at the priest and found him staring at me with strange amazement.
    “How is it that you ponder such thoughts, that you enter the mind of the gods?” he said.
    I blinked. “I think them always! These thoughts are with me day and night! But surely you have thought these things yourself and can speak to this. Speak then. Tell me how the gods rid themselves of the desire to be known and accept our transactions instead—how I may go one hour without crying out to them: Why? Why did Almaqah take Maqar from me? Why, when I might bear it that no one truly knows me as long as he does!”
    Though my affection for Maqar had been no secret to him, I was mortified hearing the echo of those words from my lips. “And yet I know what you will say—that then I would love Almaqah only because he gave me what I wanted. And that is true. And that is no love. I am as guilty as anyone in bemoaning the lack of what I will not myself give!”
    Asm said nothing as my heart thudded between us in the silence.
    “Isn’t it true?” I demanded.
    He gave a faint shake of his head. “The gods are unknowable. As intercessors, we are tasked only with predicting and placating the whim of Almaqah—”
    “Yes, with statues and feasts and blood on the altar. Yes, yes, I know,” I said, setting down my wine, untouched all this time. “But why? What need do they have for all our striving? Is it arrogance that demands our dread adoration? Or is it fear that if we do not sing and praise and build countless temples in their names, they will cease to exist? Whatever the reason, I wonder now if they take from us that which we love so we must seek them, if only to scavenge for meaning in this existence.