No, no, no, no. And no.

(Xau wished to see a tiger,

but not as a pretext for meeting

the five Ulixian princesses.)

Not yet thirty, widowed so young,

a strong king, a fair king,

burnished with legends.

The most eligible man in the world.

Alas for the world,

alas for Xau’s advisors,

for all who advocated the advantages

of matrimony (political, psychological).

Xau, contrary, conversed with men

deficient in daughters; danced

with women in possession of husbands;

told tales about tigers to his children.

THE NINE

Not what Dao had expected.

King Xau had promised

his guards a surprise,

and Dao had guessed at, maybe,

new uniforms or new weapons.

Instead, seated on a stool,

a semicircle of chairs around him,

resplendent in lavender silk:

Master Enlai the minstrel.

King Xau dipped his head to Enlai,

then turned, beaming, to his guards.

“In thanks for your service,

a special performance.”

Eagerly, Dao took a seat.

He’d heard Enlai twice before—

the man massively conceited,

yet his music magnificent.

The harp’s first notes flowed

like a mountain river,

the rhythm slowly building

until Enlai began singing.

When to peril Xau rides, who rides

at his side though danger abides?

Nine men who shield him with their blood

from clashing swords, from foaming flood.

Steadfast and loyal, brave they be,

the king’s guards led by Captain Li.

Dao’s vision blurred.

He blinked, looked down.

Stupid, stupid to be overcome,

only a song.

King Xau’s right hand, valiant as he,

deadly in battle, Captain Li.

Muscled and tall, the strongest man,

speedy to help, good-hearted Gan.

Sworn to his king, true to his vow,

skillful riddler, the dauntless Dao.

The king’s gaze rested on Dao,

warm, approving, glad;

the man Dao most honored,

honoring him, honoring them.

Barefoot sprinter, fleetest of men,

father of two, daring Shuen.

Duty doubled, surgeon and guard,

Leong holds fast when times turn hard.

Peerless bowman, equaled by none,

braided his hair, handsome Atun.

After naming each guard in turn,

Enlai let the last notes die out,

sang unaccompanied,

his voice his instrument.

And with these nine, two more I’d sing,

the two who died to save their king.

Swift with a blade and swift of thought,

quiet Shang died before he ought.

The young king’s mentor, Tsung the wise,

in honor now his body lies.

Enlai silent, the harp silent,

tears running down Dao’s face,

Gan sobbing audibly,

the king’s head bowed.

Enlai strummed his harp,

launched into a glorified retelling

of the guards’ deeds,

closed with the opening couplets.

When to peril Xau rides, who rides

at his side though danger abides?

Nine men who shield him with their blood

from clashing swords, from foaming flood.

Steadfast and loyal, brave they be,

the king’s guards led by Captain Li.

Enlai finished with a flourish.

A moment before Dao collected himself,

before he joined in the applause,

clapping till his hands hurt.

∗

Dao on duty that night.

The king up late,

writing to his sister,