slowly, tenderly,

a thing she’d done a thousand times

for men of lesser worth but greater wealth,

the guards’ lives bent like a bow

to the king’s service.

She let the zither’s plucked notes

float into silence,

sang the next piece unaccompanied.

When the girl in the song proclaimed her love,

Moon Swan sang the words to Tsung.

Tsung flushed, his eyes fixed on her.

Moon Swan’s pulse leapt,

foolish and giddy and eager.

Later, when they were alone,

she would ask Tsung to stay with her,

not for one night or a handful of nights,

but every night—

The guard on sentry duty called out—

All the guards jumped to their feet

and the young king likewise—

Moon Swan sat frozen,

not knowing what was happening—

Guards drew their swords,

and the young king likewise—

An archer fitted an arrow,

targeted the far bushes—

Tsung placed himself

between the king and those bushes—

Leaves rustled. An arrow sounded—

On the dark grass,

difficult to distinguish,

a small, still, darker shadow.

A guard ran and picked it up. “A rabbit!

Leong, you saved the king from a rabbit!”

Moon Swan stared up at Tsung.

Not her whom he had leapt to defend,

but the king.

If she changed that,

if, later, when they were alone,

she asked Tsung to choose her over the king,

not for one night or a handful of nights,

but every night, and if Tsung agreed,

she would like him less for doing so,

would like herself less

for asking.

So she would not ask,

not yet,

would wait as long as Tsung needed,

would wait until he retired

from the king’s service

in his own time.

In the spill of lantern-light,

Xau bowed very low to Tsung.

“For twenty years, you have shielded

first our father, then ourself.

Thank you.” Xau bowed again.

“Thank you for teaching us

to be a better king.

We learned by watching you.”

At least the king was worthy of Tsung—

Clear as lantern-light,

yet Moon Swan hadn’t seen the difference

between Xau and his father,

the difference between a king

who honored his soldiers,

and one who had ordered her

to suck him

while his young guard

waited in the corner—

Xau grinned. “Now go away, Captain.

You’re off duty for a week.”

Tsung beside her then,

his breath warm on her skin.

“Will you come with me?”

She nodded, stood,

set her arms about his neck,

kissed him full on the lips

in the view of his king.

For now,

they had only this handful of nights.

She would not waste one single moment.

ARTOCH

“We have acquiesced to all

your other recommendations.”

King Xau spoke mildly,

which was not,

in Artoch’s experience,

an auspicious sign.

Artoch did not bow,

nor offer any apology.

The king came to him

for advice, not admiration.

Even so, Artoch hesitated.

Sixty-one years old,

over two decades counseling kings,

and still there were many days

when he doubted his aptitude.

It was one matter to assess