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ill health preventing her from carrying out her court duties; it is Gilles Lamiz, her one-time apprentice, who has assumed her mantle. He is gifted, Messire Lamiz-he was the first poet ever to dedicate an epic to me, and I am grateful for it-but the world does not stop and hold its breath when he recites his work. Although she always maintained my lord Delaunay was the superior poet, Thelesis de Mornay had that quality.
    Shoanete of Debeho had it, too.
    I know, for I spent many hours in that village seated at her feet while she recited tales of the Melehakim, the descendants of Saba, of Shalomon and Makeda and their son, Melek al’ Hakim, who was anointed Melek-Zadok. And each one held me spellbound.
    ’Twas my interest, I will own, that made the subject so compelling; but this did not hold true for the children-yes, and the adults-of Debeho, who gathered round to hear her, listening to her cracked voice give forth the ancient tales. And cracked or no, there was somewhat in it... a resonance, a power, that brought her words to life.
    “Here,” she said, tracing an area along the Ahram Sea on Ras Lijasu’s map. “Here is ancient Saba, Saba-that-was. And here is the route along which King Khemosh-Zadok, the falsely anointed, led his people in retreat, weeping and beating their breasts, all the way to the Lake of Tears.” Her gnarled finger circled the vast inland lake the Ras had indicated. “It is the source of the Nahar itself, formed by the tears wept by the goddess Isis as she searched for the dismembered body of her beloved husband Osiris.”
    “And now it is the heart of Saba?” I asked.
    “It is,” Shoanete said. “The Melehakim hold a secret stolen from their own god, a secret so powerful He would take it back if He could find it. But Isis’ tears blind His eyes, and He cannot see it.”
    My heart beat faster and the small hairs at the back of my neck prickled. “If... if it is so powerful, how is it that the Melehakim were defeated?”
    “Ah, that.” The old woman smiled, deep creases forming in her wrinkled face. “That is the story of King Khemosh-Zadok, the falsely anointed, and how he broke the Covenant of Wisdom. For Queen Makeda herself, you see, was wisdom personified, and her fairness and great learning were renowned throughout the land. It came to her ears that a king far to the north, Shalomon of the Habiru, was similarly lauded for the virtue of his judgement. And so it came to Makeda that she wished to meet this king, and she journeyed with a mighty retinue, presenting him with gifts of gold and ivory and spices, that she might question him.”
    “So it says in the Tanakh!” I said, excited. “And he answered her questions aright.”
    “Indeed.” Shoanete nodded, unperturbed by my interruption. “And then Makeda told him much he did not know, and King Shalomon bowed down before her wisdom, and gave her the ring from his finger in tribute. And Makeda was moved by his fine form and his grace, and chose to lie with him. ‘Because thy wisdom has ceded to mine,’ she said to him, ‘we have made a covenant between us this night, man and woman. Of it shall come a son. I shall raise him with my teachings, and then I shall send him to thee to be anointed in thine. By thy ring shall thou know him.’ ”
    “Melek al’Hakim,” I mused. “So that was the Covenant of Wisdom?”
    “It was,” she said. “As equals did they meet, man and woman, King and Queen, and the lesser wisdom did cede to the greater. And thus it was, for many generations. Melek al’Hakim did not steal the Treasures of Shalomon. He was anointed, and they were his by right; his, and the descendants of Khiram the architect and his people, who fled the sacking Akkadians.”
    “The Tribe of Dân,” I said.
    Shoanete paused. “It may be,” she allowed. “Their name was not known to me. I will add it to the story, little one. Know then that for many generations the Melehakim ruled Saba, a King and Queen ruling together, joined in the Covenant of Wisdom. Mother and son, husband and wife, brother and sister ... King Tarkhet, it is said, was guided by his daughter, but that is another story. And the shadow they cast over Jebe-Barkal was vast, and all nations and tribes answered to wise and mighty Saba. Until the reign of King Khemosh.”
    With that she paused, clearing her throat, and one of the listening children leapt up to fetch a cup of honey-mead. Shoanete sipped it and continued.
    “There was trouble in