yelling,

bowels hanging out of him

like a giant worm.

GUL

Left behind by Tahj’s retreating army:

tents, blankets, pots;

sacks of wheat, rice, barley;

wood, waterskins, their wounded;

Gul, a boy of ten, bound by the beast.

Gul surfaced,

the monster claiming his limbs,

sitting him upright.

Men. Soldiers. Unfamiliar.

His mouth held shut by the monster,

his eyes moving where the monster chose.

Faces, armor, muddied boots.

Gul retreated, went inward

to summer, nighttime,

lying on the flat roof with his mother,

a waxing moon, warm wind,

the smell of the date palms,

his mother telling him a story

about a three-legged guard dog.

Shouts, men’s shouts,

startled Gul from his mother

into the triple grip

of rope, men, the monster’s yoke.

Gul’s gaze fixed by the monster

on a man who reached

for his forehead,

the man’s hand scarred as if burnt—

burnt—

the red-hot brand.

The monster’s malice flayed Gul,

conjured a memory of its lair,

his mother with a branding iron,

mouth open, screaming,

as she set the brand

to Gul’s stomach.

Interrupted. The lair,

his mother’s screams faded,

the monster’s attention shifted.

Gul surfaced, saw the man,

the man with the scarred hand—

hand—

the Envoy’s hand.

The monster conjured

the Imperial Envoy’s tent,

the pallet where Gul lay

pinned in place by the monster,

the Envoy’s hand squeezing his balls,

the monster forcing

Gul’s mouth open.

Interrupted.

Something, someone, interceded

between Gul and the monster,

holding back hurt.

A tenderness, a gentleness,

certain as daybreak,

sure as an anchor,

calling Gul home.

Sore, thirsty.

The monster gone. Gone.

Gul blinked, saw the man,

his scarred hand lifting away,

saw the man trembling, gasping,

saw him double over and vomit.

The man who had saved him.

PYRE

Smoke rose toward the stars

as all who could stand—

veteran or king or raw recruit,

cook or whore or smith—

each took their turn

to beat the drums.

Heaped one atop another,

the battle dead mixed up

with legs and arms fresh

from the surgeons’ saws.

TENTH LESSON

“Now sing.”

The dragon’s head tilted sideways,

one golden eye fixed on Prince Keng

as he wobbled precariously on a rock,

left leg lifted high.

“Sing?!” Keng stared at the dragon.

“What’s today’s topic?”

“Marriage and sex.”

Keng tumbled over.

The dragon laughed,

a sound like an anvil dropped on granite.

“Sit down, princeling.

Balancing wasn’t part of the lesson.

It just amused me.

Now, marriage and sex.

Marriage is the third means

to manipulate foreign relations.

And sex is something you should seek soon.”

Keng gaped at her like a fish.

The dragon burped, her breath ash.

“Were you to become king tomorrow,

I’d recommend postponing marriage

while other countries compete

for your favor.

Being young,

you’re unlikely to postpone sex.

Have you had sex?”

Keng flushed. “Not exactly.”

“Not exactly—Hah!”

She laughed again,

a booming that went on and on and on.

“Well, when having sex with other people,

don’t let them gain power over you.