Xau and Li ride toward fire.

Xau sights Tahj’s horses,

close ahead,

bright-lit by crackling trees,

the horses snorting and rearing,

tethered, frantic;

Tahj’s soldiers, equally frantic,

try to saddle the rearing horses.

Xau gallops over,

takes a slow breath,

pictures the river—

deep and cold and quenching—

the horses shudder to a halt,

quieting,

looking to Xau,

then sidelong into flame,

then back to Xau,

who holds the river

inside him,

deep and cool.

Heat on Xau’s forehead,

cheeks, hands, throat.

He drops from Narson,

takes his dagger

and starts cutting horses free,

Li at his side.

Two soldiers shout and run at Xau,

but others—

seeing the horses stilled, silent—

step between the oncoming men and Li

(who is bristling with sword in one hand,

dagger in the other)

and help cut more horses free.

Men scramble on horses,

and Xau lets each horse

head for the river (deep, cold, quenching)

as soon as it has a rider,

but the horses’ fear

is hot and quick as fire,

and it is hard to hold separate

the horses that may leave

from those that must stay;

hard to slow those that leave

from headlong gallop;

hard to maintain

the image of the river;

hard and harder to breathe.

He doubles over,

coughing,

his eyes tearing, smoke-filled.

Li helps him upright.

Only ten or twenty men

left unmounted,

but many horses still tethered.

More horses than men, of course,

Xau thinks slowly, painstakingly:

spare mounts, packhorses.

Golden firelight flickers

on Li’s black hair,

on the stand of trees

just beyond them.

Xau works to cut more horses free,

the air scorching,

his skin hotter than fever,

his fingers trembling,

the image of the river

trembling.

Xau tries to ask Li

if all the soldiers are mounted,

but he can’t speak for coughing,

can’t see any man left but Li

who has one hand on Narson’s mane.

A treetop bursts into flame.

Acrid smoke pours down.

Xau stumbles,

falls flat onto dirt,

cooler,

air clearer,

his thoughts clearer,

enough to know

they have no more time.

He stands up, unsteady, dizzy,

and Li is there,

always there,

on Narson.

Li hauls Xau up in front of him,

the wall of fire

right beside them

as Narson turns

and gallops away.

Xau gulps cool air

as they outrun the fire;

he strokes Narson’s neck

until the horse slows;

he looks back over Li’s shoulder

and sees the fire retreat

into a darkness

that enfolds him.

CYRUS

As the last riders crossed the bridge,

Prince Cyrus, commander of Tahj’s cavalry,

stood, peering into darkness:

dirt road, trees, night sky.

Of King Xau, no sign.

King Xau who had—how?—

calmed the horses

despite the leaping flames,

so that Cyrus’s men could mount them

and outride the fire,

Xau who must have stayed too long

and burnt—

which might, after all, be best,

the peace between their countries tenuous

and Xau a formidable opponent.

Cyrus spat into the river

to turn that thought aside.

His brother, King Tahj, despised Xau,