went, alone, from horse to horse,

speaking to them,

laying his hands on them.

Wen Xun knew every verse of the song

about wild horses coming to the king.

Witnessing such a thing himself

scared him so much he shook.

Unbroken, untamed,

nothing they claimed from him, save

the touch of his hand.

Wen Xun was still trembling

when the king came over,

set his hand on Wen Xun’s shoulder—

“I’m sorry,” said Wen Xun, mortified.

“It’s all right. Come with us.”

And the king steered him forward

until they stood amid the smell,

heat, breath of the wild horses.

And there, his king beside him,

Wen Xun’s fear lifted clear,

and he trembled not at all

though more horses galloped up.

Their promise they gave:

to come if he needed them,

no matter how far.

At dawn, the horses left.

The three men went down the hill.

Silent. The rain had stopped.

The king’s face was streaked wet.

They hung their coats to dry.

Princess Suyin, already awake,

ran out to join them.

Wen Xun heated breakfast.

The night behind them, unspoken,

as it would have remained unspoken

except that the horses returned,

a dozen times in as many weeks.

By hill and by stream,

the wild horses came hastening.

What call did they hear?

FEALTY

Word of his coming

swept across the wide grasslands

like fire on the wind:

Xau had come, Xau the Horse King,

Xau had come to the horse lords!

With bows and with blades

rode a hundred horse archers,

men stalwart and strong.

Yet reaching the king, they knelt

at his feet, eager as boys.

Oaths they did offer,

pledged their blood to protect him,

to serve as his guards.

Xau knelt in his turn, but took

only friendship, plighted the same.

SHEEP

In the fourteenth year of his reign,

burnished with legends,

weary of fame,

King Xau quit palace and city,

servant and ceremony.

In place of his retinue:

his wife at his side,

his children, their amah,

and nine guards to shield him,

closer than brothers.

No crown on his head,

no attendants to dress him.

He slept in a tent,

spent hours in the saddle

herding mutinous sheep.

The horses obeyed him,

went wheresoever he wished;

the sheep lacked respect.

Why then his gladness

watching those foolish creatures

cropping the grass?

The sheep on the surface,

woolly-headed and loud.

Beneath them,

the hills and the horses;

his guards at their ease;

his children half-wild,

scab-kneed and grubby;

and, inmost of all,

Hana, his queen,

her heart unhurt.

THE EIGHTH SON OF GANBATAAR

Once, when I was a boy of seventeen,

there came into the horse country

a scarred king

whose destiny was ordained

by dragons.

When King Xau first arrived

to summer with our tribe,

I saw his scarred hands

and pictured the two of us

battling demons side by side.

Instead the king herded sheep. Badly.

Worse, girls kept riding over to meet him,

sparing not a single glance on me,