took six arrows from his quiver,

handed them to her.

“The sisters and brothers quarreled,

and the tiger ate them all up.”

Suyin gave Xau one arrow.

“Break it, Papa.”

Xau snapped the arrow in two,

remembering the one other time

he’d heard this story:

how startled Suyin had been

when Queen Hana gave her an arrow—

a real arrow—

to break.

“Yes!” said Suyin. “Like that!

The tiger ate them up, like that!

Then the tiger met five more

sisters and brothers,

only they didn’t quarrel.

They fought side by side

and killed the tiger!”

Suyin used her sash to tie

the other five arrows into a bundle.

“Break them, Papa.”

Xau took the five arrows

and tried—not too vigorously—

to break them.

“Papa, may I try?” said Ying.

She took the bundle of arrows

and strained and strained

without success.

“Let me,” said Keng, Xau’s eldest.

Keng stood up,

placed his boot on one end

of the bundle of arrows,

yanked the other end up,

snapped two arrows.

“No! Keng! Stop!” yelled Suyin.

“The sisters and brothers

are stronger together!”

“I’m sorry,” said Keng,

looking more smug than sorry.

Suyin gave Keng a ferocious scowl

before scrambling into Xau’s lap.

“Papa, what did you think?”

“It’s a very fine story,” said Xau,

his arms around her, his heart full.

“But if you keep telling it,

Atun will run out of arrows.”

Suyin giggled.

Amid the smell of wild thyme,

far from the palace where his hours

were measured in meetings,

the king with his children.

KINGSHIP

Before King Xau slew a demon,

before the wild horses came to him,

before he was crowned,

before his sword was forged,

before the palace foundations were laid,

before his kingdom had a name,

before the dragon who ordained his destiny

hatched from out her shell,

before those things:

this tree,

this silver apricot tree

whose autumn leaves

Xau helps his youngest heap

into a pile of gold.

GAN

Stroke and counterstroke,

the clink of practice blades

echoed across the palace courtyard.

No heat to it, closer to a dance.

The king sparred with his guard

on a cold fall evening,

the courtyard lit by lanterns,

Captain Li watching them.

King Xau’s sword pressed

the sleeve of Gan’s jacket;

Gan’s sword touched

the king’s left thigh.

Both men careful to a fault

not to hurt the other.

Stroke and counterstroke.

Protracted. Pensive.

Until king and guard

looked full at each other

and sheathed their swords.

No victory gained or sought.

Tomorrow, Gan would assume

the position of armsmaster

to the young princes. An honor,

but not the equal of this.

This honor of being a king’s guard

that Gan now renounced,

his strength, his speed

not what they once were.

They bowed to each other.

King Xau thanked Gan

for his long service,

gripped Gan’s shoulder.

No words to thank him back.

Gan beset by a memory of the king,

then a boy, offering him water,

fifteen, sixteen years ago.

A small thing, but the boy’s father