I was in my weather worn tent pitched upon the flank of a great dune one ripple among the countless sands when a voice in the wind called me by a name I had not heard in many years. "Nimran, awake, for death drifts now through the palaces of Sheba." At first I thought imagination had run wild; my breast has long harbored strange visions where yesterday's voices tangle with the secrets of tomorrow. Yet when I raised my gaze to the sky, I found the stars inlaying the night like carvings on an ancient stone tablet, whispering a counsel reserved for those who shun the clamor of cities.
In that moment I knew al Haddad had yielded his spirit and that Sheba would turn a page to begin another. I remember him as a small boy, braids coiled about his head, knocking at my tent to ask what the wind foretold for this world. He was a lad of blazing curiosity, reading the lines of my palm as though they were a map determined to reveal every secret. That day I saw in his eyes a glow like solar fire kindled in the heart's darkness and knew he would one day become a mighty king; never did I suppose fate would claim him before dawn broke upon his daughter's reign upon a throne many sheikhs still doubt can rest in a woman's hand.
On the night of his passing, I heard the sands answer with weeping, grains shattering down the dune's slope as though warning of a fracture to come upon Sheba. Memories unfurled: the boy seated before me, scratching my simple wisdom onto wooden slats, asking about the mysteries of the stars, whether one soul could truly gather all tribes beneath a single banner. Now that child is gone, a past we commemorate, leaving behind his greatest treasure Balqis, whom I do not know in the flesh yet hear of in the wind's cry and the sand's call.
At dawn after that vision, I let my old camel to a deep wadi's rim and scanned the horizon for signs of departure, but in the desert one finds only echoes and secrets dangling from palm fronds. Suddenly the dune spoke again, in a voice almost familiar: "Nimran, al Haddad's daughter sits the throne; about her a wily counsellor, and sheikhs driven by doubt or greed. Judge them wisely and speak the truth the wind scripts upon the mountain faces."
I have ever known that "the sands speak" is no mere poetic trope; it is a wisdom sensed by those whose paths with men are severed and who retreat to silence. Thus, I understood Balqis was the continuation of an ancient flame running in al Haddad's veins, and that conspirators cloaked in shadow around her do not grasp that stars may forgive the stumbler who wakes, but the desert never forgives a traitor to the sun's light.
For three days more I sat beneath the open sky, awaiting another sign. I saw a comet streak the horizon like the signature of destiny, proclaiming that a new age would dawn thorn clad and steep with trials. Certainty took root that I must break my solitude, if only briefly, to behold Sheba's turmoil from its core, not its fringes. Since I had recited verses of wisdom before al Haddad the child, I had never set foot within his splendid walls. Now I bound my meager gear for a long trek across the sands toward the capital, confiding my plan to no one for when the desert keeps you company, you are alone with the sovereigns of fate.
Near the caravan tracks, travelers stared at an old, heavy bearded man leading a weary camel and bearing nothing but empty jars. One merchant asked my purpose and I said, "I wander with the wind wherever it wills," and he shook his head, laughing to himself. He did not know I knew full well my destination: the palace of Sheba, whose nightly groans I had heard beneath the weight of brewing strife. One caravan told me of a man called "Khazabla," who seldom sleeps, who looks into men's eyes as though he knows the hidden tremors of their souls. Others warned me of a sheikh named Hamdan, stirring doubts so deep they might unseat al Haddad's daughter.
It was not suspicion of a woman that most alarmed me, but greed masked in faith and custom an ancient plague that has gnawed countless thrones. I recalled a day when young al Haddad spoke with me of it. We were atop a dune and he asked, "Master, can a man twist the gods' words to justify his hunger?" I laughed and answered, "He who finds no warrant in his own heart searches the sacred texts or the legends, to buttress a throne already tottering." Even then the boy sensed truth hides not in varnished words feigning sanctity.
When I reached Sheba's walls, I found them silent like a tree afraid of stirring in the wind. Some say a city's hush roars louder than a tribe's upheaval, for it conceals its darkest thoughts in the stillness of shuttered homes. At the lofty gates guards bearing sun banners none knew my face. The captain asked my name and I answered, "Nimran." His eyes widened and he made way. When a soldier asked him, "Who is this Nimran you let pass?" he replied, "Nimran, sage of the desert who taught al Haddad in his youth." The sentry wavered between believing me and deeming me mad, but after a breath he trusted, sensing perhaps that my features carried the dust of forgotten ages.
It soon became clear that the city groaned beneath the void al Haddad had left, and that Balqis strove with his very blood to mend the crack. I saw common faces taut with worry and wonder, heard many whispers of plots fermenting in certain sheikhs' minds. None here is ignorant of the temple tale where the queen bore her torch with mastery, nor does anyone deny that Khazabla holds threads unseen even by the guard captains themselves.
That evening, I stood upon a low rise near the palace wall, watching the sky of Sheba as the sun edged toward its grave. I remembered how, decades ago, al Haddad trembled at sunsets, saying the sight carried a sign that chilled feeble hearts. I recalled his childhood prayer to the sun we then adored as our greatest deity: "O Sun of the Ancestors, grant me strength to bear the reins of this kingdom." And here he has passed, bequeathing those reins to his daughter, who today wages a battle where immovable custom collides with new wings yearning to soar toward an unseen horizon.
I thought to enter the palace at dawn and request an audience with Balqis, reminding her of an old lesson I once taught al Haddad: "The sun rises only for him who waits atop the dune's crest, not at its foot." I know that in these harrowing days she needs a voice steeped in desert wisdom one that stands apart from courtly intrigues and casts upon her a light unseen in palace corridors. Should she heed it, I could warn her of the chinks that open in cunning hearts and plant in her resolve those seeds of confidence that sprout only in the spirits of true monarchs.