“Is he like his father?”

Moon Swan unpinned her hair,

as Tsung had seen her do

the first night Xau’s father visited her,

years ago,

when Tsung was the youngest

of King Hao’s guards,

left to stand in a corner

not knowing whether to watch

(in case the king was attacked)

or look away—

“No, he is not like his father.”

“A weaker king?”

“A better king.”

Tsung did not elaborate.

He took another sip of tea,

set the bowl down.

He should not have come,

should have stayed near the boy—

he got to his feet,

bowed. “I must leave.”

Moon Swan stood,

placed her hand on Tsung’s jacket

over his pounding heart.

“Stay, Captain. Rest.

You will do the king poor service

if you are worn out.”

A truth there,

but he hadn’t come

seeking rest—

Moon Swan standing so close,

her hand over his heart,

her long hair unbound,

the smell of her

mingled with jasmine—

heat in Tsung’s face,

heat hard below.

He put one hand to her long hair.

∗

Later

(after he was done,

after he’d told Moon Swan

such things as men said

when they thought

themselves in love,

after she’d told him

that she loved him

and he’d smiled

thinking that she said that

to all her customers

yet liking it anyway,

after he’d fallen asleep

beside her)

Moon Swan lay awake,

breathing him in,

watching over the man

who watched over the king.

THIRTY-EIGHTH WAR BETWEEN INNIS AND MEQING
THIRD BATTLE

Before:

The retreat back to Innis

harried by enemy cavalry.

Pitching camp. Waiting.

Further back:

Brennan’s first two battles.

Fitting stones to his sling.

Unmanned each time he chose a target—

saw their face, their eyes—

so he’d slung wild, not aiming.

His captain killed.

Further back:

Herding sheep,

slinging stones at rabbits,

fancying himself a warrior.

Battle:

Chance. Fate. Luck.

Enemy cavalry neared Brennan’s position.

Men ran. Brennan stayed put:

he couldn’t aim at men,

but he could aim at horses.

No thought to it,

stone, sling, arm, body: one motion.

Hard to judge moving targets,

yet he struck horse after horse.

Ducked a javelin.

Saw, then, the enemy king,

the Horse Boy in his fine armor,

the one who’d led the charge

that killed Brennan’s captain.

No thought to it,

stone, sling, arm, body: one motion.

The slingstone struck the Horse Boy

hard on his greave

as the boy leaned over,

drove the boy’s foot clear out of the stirrup.

The Horse Boy toppled from his horse—

Brennan whooped in victory—

the boy—

a boy—

younger than Brennan’s little brother—

Brennan bent over double. Vomited.

An arrow meant for his head

passed through emptied air.

Brennan ran.

TSUNG’S BATTLE

—stopped

—each arrow halted in its flight

—the pounding of Tsung’s pulse suspended

—the boy, the king, Tsung’s charge,

toppling from his horse,

struck by a rock

—between the rock’s impact on the king

and the king’s impact on the ground

that stuttered dread

(Before, an instant earlier,

Tsung’s pulse pounded loud