another surprise.

By the way, I told my men

to say nothing about

how you saved us—

which guarantees all Sumbral

will know within two weeks.”

As he said this,

Cyrus wondered if Xau might be

the sole commander in the known world

whose soldiers would all

hold silence

if he asked it.

“For now, everyone’s amazed

that you brought the fire bones.

Probably explains

why no one else has attacked you—

no honor in attacking

a man who comes

for such a purpose.”

A protracted pause,

before Cyrus added,

in a sudden outburst:

“Don’t come back.

If you come back

for any lesser reason,

they’ll kill you.”

Xau raised his eyebrows, said,

“We will bear that in mind.”

The captain of Xau’s guards—

the man who’d followed Xau into fire

and brought the king back out in his arms—

said something,

and Xau laughed,

his whole face lightening.

The translator looked to Xau

for permission before saying,

“Li said that if Xau

does decide to come back,

he will kill him himself.”

Cyrus stared from Li to the king,

trying to understand what lay between them,

why the king didn’t reprimand Li,

why Li would follow Xau

into fire.

AGAIN

Li’s hand on his shoulder:

King Xau awake before he understood

that his horse wasn’t on fire,

the fire three days ago.

Overhead, the moon,

shifted across the sky

by about an hour’s distance

since he last woke.

Li and Atun both watching him,

but Heng and Leong still asleep,

and Cyrus’s men sleeping beyond them,

save for the sentries.

An effort to nod to Atun and Li,

to close his eyes,

so that his guards

could stop fretting.

Xau so tired that the ground

beneath him rolled like the sea,

but if he slept

the horses would burn again.

A long time then,

lying as if asleep

but fighting sleep,

balancing on the brink of dream.

Until the horses burnt.

REASONS

Many reasons why Xau

might have been delayed—

bad weather,

a lamed horse,

a bridge out along the route,

one of his guards down with dysentery,

Xau down with dysentery—

but Donal’s duty to dwell on one:

that Tahj had killed Xau.

If that proved true, Donal would lead

the joint armies of Innis and Meqing

against King Tahj.

Donal tested the edge of a dagger,

set it down, lifted a flail.

Spent the next half hour squinting at blades,

bowstrings, bolts, handles, spikes,

before he found an axe

with a loose wedge

at the top of its haft.

He slammed the axe down,

and the master armorer, a gray-haired man

with hardly a tooth left in his mouth,

backed up against the wall

as if afraid Donal would knock out

his remaining teeth.

“You’ve done well,” said Donal,

forcing himself to speak softly.

Not the armorer’s fault

that Xau might be dead.

He tilted the axe head,

showed the armorer the loose wedge.

“You did well. But check them all again.”

The armorer nodded vigorously.

Donal strode out,