Xau stared at her levelly.

“We would tell Keng ourself,

but you laid an oath on us

that we cannot break.”

The dragon flamed again.

Heat stung the two humans.

Keng jumped,

moved right beside his father.

“Very well,” said the dragon.

“Since you once rid me of a demon

that fouled my thoughts,

I will tell him.”

She turned her golden eyes to Keng.

“Princeling, your father wishes you to know

that I chew up princes and spit out kings.

Come closer.”

Keng took six steps forward,

so close he could have touched her.

He trembled, but held his head up

and looked straight at her.

“Well enough,” she said. “To clarify:

when your father dies, his steward

will send you here. If I deem you adequate,

you will become the new king.

“If not, I will eat you,

and the steward will send me

another prince to sample.

Any questions?”

“What happens,” said Keng,

“if you run out of princes?”

The anvil boomed from the rocks again.

“When the king’s sons are gone,

they send brothers, cousins, uncles.

Occasionally princesses. More questions?”

“No,” said Keng.

After a moment, he added, “Thank you.”

The dragon burped, her breath ash,

and looked back to Xau.

“Are you troubled by your past?

Are you planning to die soon?”

“Not planning on it,” said Xau.

“But death may come anyhow.”

“I asked two questions.”

Darker gold surfaced

in the dragon’s eyes.

“You answered only one.”

Xau said nothing.

“We will talk more,” said the dragon.

“First I will take your son’s oath,

then he can walk back by himself—

oh, don’t bleat at me! He’ll be fine.”

Then the dragon took Keng’s oath

and the boy went down the mountain alone.

As for what the dragon said to the king

and what he said to her

in the day and night that followed,

that is no one else’s business.

KENG

Prince Keng came down the mountain alone,

and they descended upon him:

his father’s advisors,

his father’s guards,

his own guards—

—“Where is your father?”

—“Where is the king?”

—“What happened?”

—“What happened?!”

And Keng, a boy of eight,

his head full of fire,

of the dragon he’d seen,

the dragon who’d told him

she chewed up princes and spat out kings—

Keng said, “I cannot say.”

Because he could not,

because the dragon

had stopped his tongue

from speaking of her,

but they didn’t know that

and they repeated their questions

until Keng, exhausted, worried,

said, “I cannot say. I’m sorry.

I’d say if I could. I can’t.”

A pause.

Then Captain Li nodded,

said to the others, “Let him be.”

Keng stood,

his stomach hollow,

his father still up the mountain.

With her, the dragon.

And it was all Keng’s fault,

because Papa wouldn’t have gone

up there in the first place

except for Keng’s sake—

“Prince Keng, are you hungry?”

asked Dao, one of his father’s guards,

Dao who knew more riddles than anyone,

Dao who had used one of his free days