the name of his child

to a menial servant like Tian

a month before the naming ceremony.

She cleared her throat,

said brusquely,

not wanting the guards to see

how much his trust meant to her:

“After that stableboy

who died years back?”

Xau nodded.

“A good choice,” said Tian.

She touched the king’s hand.

“Thank you for telling me.”

The baby squirmed in Xau’s arms,

and the king started softly singing

one of those foreign lullabies

his first wife had taught him.

Tian finished up with the bed.

She tidied. She dusted.

She set out fresh water,

the pickled cucumber

that Xau favored;

folded a paper horse,

placed it by the cucumber;

lingered a little while,

listening to Xau sing.

MONSTER: SISTER

Six-eyed, six-mouthed, within his caves

the monster sported with his slaves.

Like puppets dancing on a string,

their limbs obeyed the monster king.

His mind to theirs, he forged a chain

that bound his pleasure to their pain.

The knife, the whip, the red-hot brand

equipped his lair below the sand.

No prison bars, no guards, no rope,

his mind the leash that deadened hope.

Far from the caves he sent his spies

to be his soldiers and his eyes.

And thus he learned of one like him

with servants dancing to her whim.

(An elder sister of his breed

corrupted merely by her greed.)

He might have seen her as a friend,

beseeched her help his ways to mend.

But he grasped a hidden danger:

she knew more than any stranger.

His sister’s death the only cure

his future safety to ensure.

DRAGON MOUNTAIN

Then to the dragon mountain

rode the scarred king

with nine guards to shield him,

closer than brothers.

“What is this? Meat?”

Li, captain of King Xau’s guards,

chewed on a hardened lump

from the way-fort

where they’d changed horses.

“Diseased pig,” said Leong.

“Old dog,” said Atun.

“Dog food,” said Gan.

“Lunch,” said King Xau.

And so they rode.

Sixteen, seventeen hours a day,

setting out before dawn,

eating in the saddle;

Captain Li careful to keep

at least two guards

riding ahead of the king,

two behind, two flanking him;

every traveler, every tree

measured for threat.

Yet, dried dog food or not,

the journey itself a joy to Li,

to ride at Xau’s side

past farmers tilling fields,

a scattering of sheep.

On the fourth day

an undulation on the horizon,

a hazy blue-gray unevenness

that formed into foothills,

a ridge of rock and ice and snow,

the dragon mountain itself,

where kings were chosen,

where Xau’s brothers’ bones lay,

where Xau, then only a boy,

had claimed a throne.

Li’s third time at the mountain,

his first to accompany the king

to the heights.

Leaving the others behind

at the mountain fastness,

Li and Xau set off

in the middle afternoon.

No weapons. No armor. No horses.

Li looked up at the mass

of sharp-edged rock and ice,

holding back questions.

Three miles. Four miles.

The way steepened.