when he saw the king in the tents,

when he thought the boy might be hurt,

but the boy was well,

had returned to talk to the injured

for the second time that long day,

now night.

The boy, seeing him, came over, said,

“Thank you for your work here,

a service beyond your duties,

but much needed.”

Leong bowed. “I’m glad to help.

There are too few surgeons.”

Xau looked searchingly at Leong.

“Until the war is over,

we release you from guard duty.

You are needed here more.”

“No!” The word out before he thought.

He went to one knee.

“Forgive me, Your Majesty.

I would ride into battle beside you.”

“We know.

You have done so twice.

This is only a temporary assignment.”

The boy’s voice soft,

his hand briefly on Leong’s shoulder.

“But so long as this war lasts,

we would have you serve here.”

As if a shadow lifted.

A moment before he understood why,

before he understood

what the king had given him.

If Leong ever had children, he’d tell them

what he’d done in these tents,

not what he’d done in battle.

Leong stood and bowed to the king.

“Thank you, Your Majesty.”

Xau bowed back as deeply

as if Leong were a king,

headed back to the injured.

Leong took one slow breath,

reached for dispassion. Found it.

Returned to work.

MIDNIGHT

Tsung should not have come—

useless to pretend he came

to celebrate—

he stood in darkness

by Moon Swan’s tent.

Two battles. Two victories.

In the distance,

a soldier’s drunken laughter.

Nearer, from Moon Swan’s tent,

rustlings, the murmur of her voice,

the sound of a man

celebrating.

Tsung, captain of the king’s guards,

waited outside.

Soon enough, the man left

and Moon Swan stepped out

to hang the purple-shaded lantern

that advertised her availability,

her long hair pinned in a bun,

a faint fragrance of jasmine

as she moved.

“Captain Tsung.” She bowed.

“An unanticipated pleasure.

Seeing you after so long,

my heart lifts like the wings

of the swallows the day we met.”

Lantern still in her hand,

she led him inside.

She who’d sold her time to kings,

gestured to the bamboo mat

on the dirt floor of the tent.

(The mat, a bed roll, the lantern,

water boiling on a brazier,

a chest, a teapot, two tea bowls.

Nothing else.)

Tsung set his weapons down,

sat cross-legged on the mat.

Moon Swan poured Tsung a bowl of tea,

sat down opposite him.

“What is wrong?”

“Nothing. I am well.”

He took a sip of tea,

noticing neither the taste

nor its heat,

only Moon Swan’s face,

his own confusion.

She reached over,

laid her fingers lightly

on the pulse of his wrist.

“The young king,

is that what troubles you?”

Tsung shook his head,

though Moon Swan was correct.

Tsung’s duty to protect King Xau,

the king but a boy of seventeen,

a boy who might be killed

a hundred ways—

Tsung made himself smile.

“King Xau is well.”