his will the force that held them still,

while, quick or slow, he made his kill.

His hunger vast, a brutish need,

no goal beyond six mouths to feed.

Into that dark and formless greed,

Queen Fian cast her evil seed:

her death the cost to spur in him

a taste for torture, vile and grim.

No creature safe, his touch a chain

that bound his pleasure to their pain.

TRAINING: HOSTAGE

Artoch, senior advisor to King Xau,

screamed as Gan wrenched his arm

up behind his back.

This practice session Artoch’s idea.

Perhaps, in hindsight,

not his best.

From halfway across the throne room

King Xau said sharply,

“Gan. Ease up. You’re hurting him.”

Gan’s hold relaxed fractionally,

Gan the burliest of the king’s guards,

and, right now, terrifying.

“You want him back in one piece,

come and get him,” snarled Gan,

rather too convincingly.

The hostage protocol clear.

Xau meant to head for safety.

He did not. He stood immobile.

Li, captain of Xau’s guards,

touched the king’s arm.

“You have to walk away. Now.”

Still Xau stayed put, his reluctance

part of why Artoch liked him,

but a failing in a ruler.

“Your capture,” said Artoch,

“would threaten the kingdom.

Other hostages are expendable.”

Artoch hardened himself, went on,

“Think of your children.

If you are killed—”

—The king’s children too young

to take the throne. If Xau died,

their deaths would follow—

“We know what would happen.”

Xau’s voice hollow, colorless.

“As we knew it when we rode to war.”

At last the king moved.

He walked away from Artoch,

stopped by the tall paired doors.

“Enough that we may one day

need to do this,” said Xau.

“We will not rehearse.”

He yanked a door open. Left.

ANOTHER WEEK

At the end of summer,

when Prince Keng was seven,

one week with his father.

One week of riding,

hunting, walking, climbing,

standing atop a limestone arch,

the grazing horses far below,

tiny as toys,

his father’s hand

on his shoulder.

One week without school,

without people fussing

over his clothes,

without Ying or Chye

or his baby sister,

with his father

to himself—

except for his father’s guards,

seven guards with them that week,

that almost the best part:

watching Atun shooting

from a galloping horse,

fencing with Captain Li,

helping them set up camp,

their conversations, their jokes

sometimes baffling

but never condescending.

One week of campfire suppers,

his father helping him

skin his first rabbit,

roasted pears, the smell of smoke,

Dao and Gan singing duets,

three warm nights sleeping on grass,

the patterned stars.

And the day they did nothing

but laze in a two-man fishing boat on a lake,

chatting and dozing in the heat,

jumping into the water to cool off,

the dip of the oars

rippling the still surface,

the lake’s depths undisturbed,

his father wearing a conical bamboo hat

like a rice farmer;

a memory he dipped into, later,

time and time again,

unable to recall what they’d talked about,