Wisdom's Daughter: A Novel of Solomon and Sheba (31 page)

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Authors: India Edghill

BOOK: Wisdom's Daughter: A Novel of Solomon and Sheba
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Now I blessed my mother’s long, careful schooling that had fitted me to take my place within a royal household. But I knew I still had much to learn, and so I studied Queen Michal. She ruled the women’s palace, knew everything that passed within its gates. Nor did she waste her
strength in foolish struggles. Kings will always have many women; a woman who refuses to acknowledge that will break her own heart and destroy the happiness of all the court. Queen Michal knew this well, and never did I see her look upon any of King David’s other women with anything but serene acceptance.
I vowed I would do the same, when I was queen. For that was the path to keeping both peace and my husband’s heart. Although it was not easy, Queen Abishag kept the vow the maiden Abishag had made. And I was right to do so.
For however many women King Solomon possessed, he always, until the end, came back to me.
That night changed something deep within me, altered the way I saw my world. Some veil seemed to have slipped away and I no longer looked upon life with a child’s eyes.
I had always been my father’s favorite child, had accepted that status as my right. For was I not his only daughter, his only bond to his beloved, my mother Abishag? Now I began to study that bond, to see how a king’s favor served as a trap for the unwary. For Solomon was not only my father but my king—and a king’s lightest glance carries the weight of stones.
Only when that royal glance lifted, only when his eyes turned upon the Sheban queen, only then did I even know I had labored under such a burden.
Of course I had known my brother Rehoboam loathed me. But Rehoboam was born covetous; lay all the world in his hands and still he would grasp for more. Others of my brothers looked upon me as a pet, or as a pestilence, depending upon their age and their character. To those brothers younger than I, I was another playmate; I can at least lay in the scales to my credit that I never shirked my duty to my little brothers.
Now I saw that even those of my brothers who regarded me with tolerant eyes resented the lion’s share of our father’s love that he bestowed upon me. I could do nothing to lessen that regard, nor did I think it my fault. But that resentment, hidden as smoldering coals are hidden beneath ash, awaited only new tinder to flare into malice. In a crisis, my brothers would not stand for me; I would find no champions among them.
Nor would I find supporters among my father’s many wives. To my stepmothers, too, I remained a pampered doll—the king’s beloved daughter,
who drew to herself the favor they wished for their own children. Had I been blessed with sisters, perhaps they would have carried some of the burden that now pressed upon me alone. But King Solomon’s wives bred sons; most would call him the most fortunate of men. A king must have sons, of course—but too many princes bred trouble both within and without the household. Even though Rehoboam had been hailed as crown prince at his birth, destined from the moment he first drew breath as king to come after Solomon, his half-brothers looked on him with cool assessing eyes. And his stepmothers studied him, avid and covetous for their own sons’ futures. One misstep, and the pack would tear Prince Rehoboam down into the dust.
That knowledge tormented Queen Naamah; she had long years to walk before her son placed the crown of Israel and Judah upon his brow. She must wonder all the hours of each day and each night if Rehoboam would safely walk the blade-edged path that lay between him and his promised throne.
Now I acknowledged a truth my heart already knew: that peace was not to be snared within halls of ivory, love not to be bound even with chains of gold and gemstones.
And that contentment fled before ambition as swiftly as swallows before a storm.
 
 
I said as much to the Sheban queen, one day when I rode with her out to the plains beyond Jerusalem’s hills. “And I fear I am too ambitious to be happy; I have become”—I struggled for the right word, and settled upon—“restless. I know other girls desire only to marry and bear children-but I want more than that.”
“What more?”
“I do not know; what is there? I wish—I wish I had been born a boy; I would make a better king than Rehoboam!” I had not intended to say so much; the words burst from me, and the queen laughed.
“Yes, you would, child. Do not look so troubled—you would be a fool not to know your own worth, and even ambition prospers in its proper season. As for your restless heart—your childhood lies in ashes now; soon you will be a woman. We all emulate the phoenix, we women.”
She saw that I did not understand and said, “What, you do not know the phoenix, the bird of fire?”
I shook my head, and the queen smiled. “The bird of fire is a fabulous creature formed of sunlight and of clouds; her crystal eyes see the past and the future. The phoenix lives a thousand years, and when she grows old, she builds herself a bed of spices, a pyre of frankincense and sandalwood and cedar. There the phoenix burns to ash, and from those ashes is reborn to live another thousand years.”
“She?”
“Yes, for what else could the bird of fire be? She is her own mother and her own daughter, never and always changing.”
“Like the moon.”
“Yes, although the phoenix is the sun’s creature. Ah, look, the hounds have sighted game. Come!” And she set her horse into a gallop, leaving me to follow or not, as I chose.
 
 
Though I did not then know why, the Sheban queen’s tale of the bird of fire caught my mind and my heart. That night I dreamed of fiery birth.
I stood upon sand, sand so hot and clear it might be glass. Above me the night sky arched, and across it poured a river of stars, stars that blazed like gems in firelight. The falling stars drew me up after them, embraced me as if I too were a burning star. We flowed across the midnight sky, down into the rising dawnlight. The stars fell and fell, gathering in a great ball if fire, and at last I knew that burning lodestone was the morning sun and that I feared to follow the stars into its light.
Something flashed by me; a bird, its fire-bright feathers streaming stars. As it soared past it turned its head and I looked deep into crystal eyes. I reached out my hand and the bird slowed, curving back to land upon my wrist.
Its scaled feet were gold and its claws silver; the bird’s feet circled my wrist and I felt its pain and knew that pain could consume me. And I knew, too, that the bird summoned me, demanded I dare the fire.
As I hesitated, the bird spread its burning wings and soared into the cascading stars. I watched it fly, watched it fall, watched it vanish into the rising sun.
The stars were nearly gone; my time to choose was nearly gone. I took a deep breath and flung myself after the last stars, following them into the sun’s fire.
I burned; pain demanded I surrender, disappear within the endless flame. Surrender
would be
easy—but
there was a prize beyond kingdoms to be won if I could claim it. I , fought pain’s dark power, seeking beyond
sorrow to fire’s
heart.
Peace glowed there; eternity bound
in flames. I could rest
here, forever unchanging. But
before me another
pyre burned with
clear pure light, and I knew
I had one last choice to make. This time I did not falter.
Within that secret flame I died and was reborn, reshaped for new tomorrows. Glorious, I spread my wings and flew into bright morning … .
When I woke, my skin seemed to glow hot, as if little flames clung to it still. But the dream-heat faded quickly. The phoenix was gone, banished by harsh day. I closed my eyes hard against sharp tears. But the temptation to weep soon passed; I told myself that I must not weep for a bird seen only in dreams.
But I did not forget the firebird and its crystal eyes. Something in that fiery image ensnared me; I would not give it up. Somehow I must keep faith with the phoenix, if only in my dreams.
 
 
To remind me of this private vow, I decided I should have a seal ring to wear; my own token, carved to my desire. I knew who I would have work the seal: Yahalom, a widow whose husband had once carved seal rings for the court. Now Yahalom worked at the trade he had taught her, forming signets for those who cared more for a good price and good workmanship than for whether a man’s hands or a woman’s created the object.
I might have gone to her shop, dealt with her there. I was often in the marketplace, after all. But after a moment’s thought, I played the princess and sent one of my maids to summon Yahalom to the palace. When the woman arrived in my garden courtyard, she bowed to me, and I smiled and thanked her for coming to show her wares.
“It was no trouble, Princess,” she said; I knew she would have said the same words had she walked barefoot across hot coals to come to me.
I smiled and bade her sit. “I am glad; I thought it would do you no harm to have it known your talent is demanded by the king’s household.”
She smiled then. “What does the princess desire? For I can create whatever you wish—”
“A seal ring,” I said. “You carve them yourself, do you not?”
“Yes. And I do it well; few know this, but long before my husband died,
his hands stiffened and would not obey his will, and it was I who carved the seals for those who came to him.” Yahalom began to undo the bundle she carried. She spread the cloth smooth before my feet and set varied gemstones upon its surface.
“No one guessed?” I asked, and she shook her head.
“Indeed, some said his work had improved.” She finished arranging the precious stones she had brought and then looked at me. “A seal ring, you said? What jewel do you favor? Is there a stone that brings you good fortune, or luck in matters of the heart?”
Shaking my head, I stared down at the gemstones laid out in neat rows upon the dark cloth. The jewels gleamed in the sunlight; Yahalom had brought her finest wares to the king’s palace. I knelt, studying my choices. Turquoise rich as sky; crystal clear as rain. Cat’s-eyes and jasper; onyx and jade.
“It is hard to choose, is it not?” Yahalom murmured. “Perhaps—a favored color?” She watched my face closely, shifted a stone forward. “I see fire colors draw your eye. Look upon this one, Princess; hold it in your hand and note the fine hue.”
I picked up the stone: a sardius, its color warm and true as honey in the sun.
“That is a fine stone, without flaw. It can be shaped into whatever design you desire.”
Sardius, stone of concord and peace. Yes, that would do. I nodded. “I will have the carnelian, then. It will do well.”
“And the seal itself? Does the princess know what she would have carved upon the stone?”
“Yes,” I said. “The seal is to be a phoenix. A phoenix rising from a bed of flame.”
 
 
As if the phoenix ring I wore upon my finger possessed a charm to unseal my blind eyes, I now saw all my world clear as a pure winter’s day. And what I saw angered me; how had I ever borne such servitude? Ever caressed such chains?
For now I knew what I had valued as comfort and as treasure to be bondage and dross metal. Each gem my father had set upon my brow was
but another burden I must carry. Each wall he had set between me and the world was but another bar between me and true life.
The palace was but a prison, my rich robes and splendid jewels but chains to bind me. How was it I had been blind until now?
Myself now freed of blind content, I could not understand how the other women of the king’s palace could endure their gilded captivity.
Perhaps they do not
, I told myself
Perhaps they, too, burn.
But if others suffered as I did, I saw no sign of it; not yet.
 
 
Restive, I paced the harem courts, silent and critical as a cat. How could I ever have dwelt content within this pretty prison? How could my father’s wives endure their lives, trapped by walls, by custom, by fear?
I paused in the gateway to the courtyard before me. Within its confines the Lady Melasadne sat, laughing as a dozen tiny dogs white as cloud capered about her. Their eyes shone obsidian-bright, their tongues flickered at her hands like small pink snakes. One of Melasadne’s sons crawled through the pack of dogs, intent upon a gilded leather ball near his mother’s feet. When he came close enough to the toy, he smacked it hard with his hand; all the little dogs ran about the ball as it rolled across the courtyard’s smooth stones, barking in high little yaps. My half-brother crawled after the dogs; he, too, uttered high-pitched yelps, as if he too were a little dog.
Laughing, Melasadne rose and scooped up the gilded ball. Her dogs swarmed about her ankles, danced upon their hind legs; her son sat up and waved his hands. About to toss the ball for them, Melasadne glanced towards the gate and saw me watching; she paused and smiled.
“Come in, Princess, and join our play.”
But I could not bear to surrender my solitude. I shook my head and backed into the shadows beneath the roof. Behind me a woman’s laughter mingled with shrill barks and delighted shrieks; the cheerful noise echoed from the sun-warm stone walls of the Lady Melasadne’s courtyard.
Little dogs and babies. How can she be content with so meager a portion?
All that long day I spied upon my father’s wives. I told myself I sought knowledge, yearned to understand how a woman might endure a lifetime spent in bondage, never once daring to see her bounded world as the cage it truly was.
But the truth was less worthy. Anger drove me; anger at the women I knew, whose happiness mocked my misery. And anger at myself, that for so long I had dwelt content in a paradise created for fools.

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