did Xau speak to Shazia alone.

“Why does Tahj dislike you?”

“He doesn’t. Tahj doesn’t bother himself

with either liking or disliking me.”

“We are sorry.” Xau sat on the end of the bed

and rubbed Shazia’s feet gently.

Little by little, the tautness left her face.

“They’re not all like that,” said Shazia.

“My brothers. Two were kind to me,

and one is far worse than Tahj.”

“If we meet the one worse than Tahj,

we won’t promise to behave ourself.”

“Good,” said Shazia,

and then she undid Xau’s tunic

and let her hands speak for her.

After that, too, was done,

Xau fell asleep beside her.

Shazia lay for a while

just looking at him,

his face unguarded in sleep, vulnerable,

before she blew out the lamps.

WHAT XAU REMEMBERED

Not the Ritan court,

nor the twenty-foot-tall mural

round the banquet chamber;

not the Ritan princesses dancing,

nor his own queen’s laughter;

but a glint of light,

a hand yanking his shoulder,

the bench toppling,

floor knocking the air from him,

so that he lay sideways,

dazed, unable to breathe,

staring at pastry crumbs on polished planks

before he understood

why two of his guards

were covering him with their bodies,

why a third guard—

Shang, his youngest guard—

sat on the floor,

an arrow wedged in his chest.

Not the Ritan soldiers

taking down the assassin,

nor the guests being

cleared from the room;

not the Ritan king

promising vengeance,

nor his own queen

checking him for injury;

but Tsung, the captain of his guards,

saying to Shang, “You’re dying. You did well,”

and then, nightmare sharp,

how he and Tsung knelt either side of Shang,

trying to ease him when he coughed,

but no help possible,

blood puddling on the floor,

and how the young guard’s fingers

clutched at Xau’s like a child’s

as his lips went blue.

ONE WEEK

In the long truce,

in the fifth year of his reign,

at the end of summer:

one week with his son.

One week stolen

from army, court, negotiations;

one week stolen

from queen and baby daughter.

Riding Micha,

his son in front of him—

three years old,

balance already perfect.

Damming a stream,

his son muddy and soaked,

running for more stones,

splashing him.

His son pointing

at the guards, asking

why the men were there.

—“To keep you safe.”

The boy falling asleep

by the campfire;

keeping him on his lap,

the smell of smoke.

In the long truce,

in the fifth year of his reign,

at the start of autumn:

one week with his son.

BEDTIME

Lie still and listen well.

“Yes, Mama, I know,” said Prince Keng.

Before the dragons flew to King Nariz,

before the time of demons,

Batar was the greatest horse lord

who ever rode the eastern plains,

yet he thirsted for more power.

So Batar fell upon the towns.

The lines of his horse archers

stretched a mile wide, six men deep,

and the towns bowed down to Batar