to take Keng carp-fishing.

Keng nodded.

Dao led him back

to the mountain fastness,

sat him down in the kitchen,

fetched a bowl of dumpling soup,

said, firmly, “Your father will be fine.”

Which Dao could not have known:

Dao who hadn’t seen the dragon,

how her flame turned snow to steam,

hadn’t smelled the ash of her breath—

the dragon who might as easily

chew up a king

as a prince—

Still, it helped, a little.

And next morning, Keng’s father

came down the mountain.

Unburnt. Unhurt.

Safe.

RIDDLE: HOUSE

A spring morning,

warm and windswept,

the tall paper windows

of the royal breakfast room closed,

but the room filled with their light,

crowded with King Xau, Queen Shazia,

their four children,

all nine of the king’s guards,

the two serving women.

Shazia, heavily pregnant,

feeling as large as an elephant,

listened as Dao, king’s guard,

asked the children a riddle.

“In his coat of scales,”

said Dao, “he lives in a house

with no doors, no windows.

To leave his home,

he must break the walls.

What is he?”

Suyin, the youngest, sucked her thumb.

Chye, almost five now,

frowned thoughtfully.

“A fish?” said Ying.

“A fish has scales,” said Dao,

“but the answer is not a fish. Keng?”

“A dragon in an egg,” said Keng promptly.

Dao bowed. “Correct.”

A kicking inside Shazia’s belly.

She reached for Xau’s hand,

laid it on her stomach,

their child nearly ready

to... hatch.

Xau’s face lit up by his smile.

STAY

In the twelfth year

of King Xau’s reign,

on a windswept spring morning,

the palace gardens littered

with peach blossom,

Queen Shazia went into labor

with their fifth child.

A day, a night, a day.

On the second night,

waiting in the hallway,

Xau heard Shazia scream. Repeatedly.

An hour after midnight,

the royal physician came out to Xau:

“Your Majesty, the baby

is facing forward, not backward.

The labor is not progressing well.”

Two drawn breaths before the man’s words

made any sense—

Xau saw the red-and-gold dragon

embroidered upon the shoulder

of the physician’s robes,

saw how the lamplight

glinted from the polished scabbards

of Xau’s watching guards—

these things, these details

unaltered, unaffected—

and then Xau’s heart thumped

like a galloping horse—

“Can you help her?”

The physician shook his head.

“I can cut the baby

from Queen Shazia’s belly,

but it would kill her.”

“No.”

“Sire, neither I nor the midwife

think your wife can be saved.

The baby might live.”

“No. Try. Try to save her.

Try everything you can.”

Clearly, concisely,

so that there might be no

misunderstanding, Xau said,

“Shazia is more important

than our child.”

The physician bowed and left.

The slow passing of the night. Dawn.

More of Xau’s guards came on duty,

gathered about him. None left.

In the early morning, the midwife came out.

“Your Majesty, your son was stillborn.”

“Shazia?”

“We can’t stop the bleeding.”

The midwife led Xau into the room.

The window open,

the scent of peach blossom,