If Tahj believed Cyrus

had attempted to kill Xau,

then Tahj might, in brotherly mercy,

merely execute Cyrus’s family.

This clearly the better option.

The boy, Xau’s eldest son,

battled not to show his horror.

Failed.

Too late for Xau to shield his son,

but he stood beside him,

his hand on the boy’s shoulder.

So Cyrus must appear to attack Xau.

If Tahj thought that Cyrus

had survived this attack

he would suspect a trick.

Therefore they must fake Cyrus’s death

at the hands of Xau’s guards.

Hiding Cyrus afterward

would be the easier part.

Producing persuasive proof

of his death near impossible.

A grim discussion followed.

Artoch the one to propose

cutting off Cyrus’s hands

to send to Tahj.

That the only time

Cyrus raised his head.

He looked at Xau, said,

“No. Kill me.”

Xau said nothing, only bowed,

and Xau’s guards

and Artoch and Siak

bowed after him.

The details still to be decided.

Cyrus weaponless;

his clothes, his person

searched five times over.

Xau known to be well guarded—

lacking all credibility

for Cyrus to choke him

or to disarm a guard.

(If desperate,

if no better opportunity

had presented itself,

Cyrus might have tried

to break Xau’s neck barehanded

or to shove him down a staircase,

but such possibilities hard to stage

without risking Xau in truth.)

One point in their favor:

Tahj would not expect them

either to sacrifice Cyrus

or to injure Xau.

The cost high, but perhaps

sufficient to trick Tahj.

In the end,

they settled on simplicity.

They would break a tea bowl,

stage an attack with a sharp shard.

They broke the bowl.

They bade the boy

turn his back,

that he did not have to watch

what happened next.

BLOODSHED

To kill a man who might

have been his friend—

King Xau took Li’s sword. Gripped it.

The bloodshed would be named to Li,

but Xau would not let Li

carry its weight.

The fault Xau’s.

Who should have found

some better way.

Xau bowed to Cyrus.

Took a breath. Thrust.

∗

To injure the king

who was also his friend—

Leong lifted the sharp shard,

considered the anatomy of the neck.

The bloodshed to be named to Cyrus,

Cyrus who lay dead by Xau’s hand,

Xau who looked at him,

said, “Make it convincing.”

Leong took a breath.

Willed his hand steady.

WOUNDED

Less than his legend,

the king beside her in the bed.

Pale. In pain. Silent.

Nothing he could say,

neither what he’d done, nor why.

His fault, his failure.

His deeds bright-burnished.

The man himself mortal, frangible,

reeking of ointment, of injury.

No reassurance to offer her.

He might not return.

Might not win.

She reached for him,

said the words she hadn’t said

last time he left for war.

Those words as gold to him,

her love the strength

that girded him.

DAUNTED

Cold. Wet. Worn out.

King Xau floundered after Li,

the snow waist-high in places,

the wound on his neck

itching furiously,