collapsed.

Horses charged toward them.

“Retreat!” yelled the captain.

Men ran past Brennan

as he helped Diarmid stand.

Diarmid took one step, swayed.

Brennan looked at the oncoming horses,

dropped his shield,

hoisted Diarmid over his shoulder,

staggered away,

expecting a crossbolt in his back

with each slowed step he took.

ROSE

Rose heard the horn call,

one drawn-out note

carried on the wind:

King Donal had lost the battle.

Two months she’d been the king’s woman,

had heard all the stories about Donal,

the Red King—red-haired, red-handed in war,

who gutted enemies and left them to die.

He had never hit Rose,

but she hadn’t seen him

lose a battle before.

She should run—

she grabbed her coat, two jeweled rings,

lifted the tent flap, let it drop. No.

She would not go back to being nobody,

a whore’s unwanted daughter.

She paced the tent,

rebraided her hair,

checked she had linen for bandages,

boiling water, wine, cold meats,

the honey cakes Donal favored.

When Donal came at last,

he shouted at his guards to keep out,

grabbed the cup of wine, drank half,

tipped the rest on the ground:

“Get rid of the fucking wine.”

Hastily, Rose put the flagon outside the tent.

“A boy. A fucking boy.”

Donal sat down on the bed.

“A fucking boy and his fucking horses.

I’ve never seen cavalry like that.”

Mutely, Rose offered the honey cakes,

the plate trembling in her hands.

“My boots,” said Donal.

Rose knelt down,

but her hands shook so much

she couldn’t unlace his boots.

“Stop shaking. I won’t hurt you.”

He kissed her, gently, on her forehead.

He was not usually a gentle man,

and she didn’t know how to respond.

Tentatively, she kissed him back,

opening her mouth.

“Later, Rose. I want you to listen.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“I won’t hurt you.

I’ve hurt men, hurt my enemies,

but I’ve never hurt a woman.

And when I’m done with you,

if I’m ever done with you”—

he loosed her hair from its braid,

and tangled his fingers in it—

“I’ll buy you a small house,

and you can grow old telling tall tales

about King Donal. All right?”

Rose nodded. She couldn’t speak.

In all the tales about Donal,

no one had ever warned her

that he could be kind.

KHYERT

Outside: six soldiers, trained,

deadly, guarded King Xau’s tent.

Inside: Khyert.

Khyert, lately a stableboy,

stood as generals, advisors, lords

met with the king.

Stood, quiet, after they left,

while the king cleaned his sword,

over and over and over.

“Horses,” said the king,

wiping his sword, “lay in the mud,

legs broken.

“But we fought. We left them lying.

We did not stop. After the battle,

we killed them.”

The king hung up his sword.

“Men were dying too.

We cannot think about them.”

He sat on the edge of the bed

and started unlacing his jacket.

Khyert came over.

He helped the king undress,

turned down the wick in the lantern,