stopped in a clearing bounded by oak trees,

dismounted,

watered and tethered their horses.

Tsung bowed to Xau.

“In honor of your birthday,

we will do the work for you today.

We will take turns carrying you

as if you were injured or ill—”

“We are!” Xau coughed theatrically.

“We have a cold. Our throat hurts.”

Tsung glanced at Leong,

who served double duty

as both guard and field surgeon.

“The king,” said Leong,

“has a mild cold,

hardly worth even calling it a cold,

but if he feels weak

we could return to the palace.”

“Remarkable,” said Xau,

“how much improved we feel

after Leong’s sympathy.”

“Then Leong may carry you first.”

Leong lifted the king

over his shoulders,

clasped the king’s right hand

firmly in his own right hand,

and headed round the clearing at a jog.

“Be still!” said Leong

when the king squirmed.

Xau stilled, but he said,

“Your bow keeps bumping us.”

“That’s a fine bow,” said Leong.

“Make sure not to damage it.”

“We are not damaging it.

It is too busy battering us—”

Leong clambered onto a boulder

and jumped down.

Xau grunted as they landed.

“Your shoulders are nothing but bone.”

“They are fine shoulders.

Make sure not to damage them.”

Leong scrambled awkwardly over a log,

and set off round the clearing

for a second time, panting:

Leong the least fit

of the king’s guards,

a deficiency Tsung tolerated

because Leong was both their best archer

and their only surgeon.

“We would prefer if you refrained

from banging us against the branches,”

said Xau reproachfully.

“Hardly a bang. More of a scrape.”

Leong looked over at Tsung.

“Is that far enough, Captain?

The king has evidently put on weight.”

Tsung nodded. “Dao, your turn.”

One after another

the guards carried the king

round and round the clearing,

the king voluble

(and increasingly imaginative)

in his complaints,

except at the end,

the king entirely silent

while Tsung carried him,

an inward look to his face

even when the captain jolted him.

Leong frowned,

wondering whether the king

had somehow been injured—

though Xau grumbled endlessly

about minor ailments,

the king had made almost no complaint

the one time he was seriously hurt.

Tsung set the king down.

“Now we will eat.”

“No,” said Xau.

Darkness then in the king’s eyes.

“First we will practice carrying you.”

“That is not required,” said Tsung.

“It is required,” said Xau.

He looked at each of his guards in turn,

a look that passed into Leong

and would never leave him.

Six years Leong had served Xau’s father,

had been willing to die for him,

had known himself valued,

but never equal.

Yet Xau looked at Leong

as if he had misplaced

the boundary between them,

or set it aside.

“It is required,” said Xau.

“We will not leave you behind

if you are hurt.”

A weight in Xau’s voice,

in Tsung’s face,

in Leong,

who had ridden into battle

with both of them.

A bird sang out,