The Sumbrese would interpret it

as an insult—”

“The Sumbrese interpret everything

as an insult. What more does King Vihaz

expect of us? We married his daughter—”

Xau stopped.

The king stared into the fish pond,

but Artoch doubted he even noticed

the fish darting below him—

gold, silver, orange, bright as jewels.

For the first time in months,

Artoch saw grief plain

in the king’s face,

and, seeing it,

understood that it had been

there all along.

The king had never talked to him

about the death of Shazia,

Vihaz’s daughter.

Oh, Xau had done what was needed:

approved funeral arrangements and so forth.

But beyond that, nothing,

not one sentence.

Only that the king,

always tender to his children,

became even gentler.

Sunlight glinted on the water.

Tiny blue flowers, whose name Artoch

did not know, edged the pond.

Instead of continuing to discuss

the matter of Xau’s future second wife,

Artoch found himself saying,

inadequately,

“Shazia loved you.”

Xau stared at the water

for the space of two drawn breaths.

The grief had left his face

but was still in his voice

when he looked up at Artoch.

“We know. Thank you.”

Artoch bowed.

The king left.

Artoch stared into the pond

without seeing the fish.

Ripples beyond ripples

if Xau married this woman

from the horse tribes,

and very little of it

favorable for the kingdom.

HONOR

If it is true,

I will have Xau killed.

Cyrus, fourth prince of Sumbral,

stood alone on his balcony

in the hour before dawn,

his father’s words repeating,

unshakable, inescapable,

as they had repeated all night.

If it is true,

I will order my assassins

to kill Xau for scorning me.

Trumpets sounded the dawn.

Below him, Cyrus saw the servants

enter the courtyard to make obeisance.

They crossed their hands

over their chests three times:

once to honor Sumbral,

once to honor King Vihaz,

once to honor their fathers.

Alone on the balcony,

Cyrus turned and went inside.

He had offered the triple obeisance

at dawn and sunset every day since infancy.

But not today.

Either quickly, by blade or arrow,

or slowly, writhing,

poison burning his veins.

Cyrus’s father and king

one and the same man.

Unworthy. Shameful.

Cyrus sat down at his desk,

dipped his quill in ink.

How could his father

stoop to assassination?

Acts perpetrated by night,

by stealth, by trickery.

Ink blotched the paper

as Cyrus scrawled:

Renounce the horse woman

before Vihaz exacts revenge.

A single treasonous sentence.

No signature. No elaboration.

Thus Cyrus, like his father,

stooped to stealth,

rather than offering open challenge

before the eyes of men,

beneath the eye of the sun.

A man’s first duty

to honor his country;

all else second to that,

and Sumbral’s honor at stake.

He folded the note,

scrawled Xau’s name on the outside,

dripped wax on it,

set the royal seal of Sumbral into the wax.

DELAYED

Renounce the horse woman

before Vihaz exacts revenge.

A single sentence scrawled in haste,