the wind laughed. Snow fell.

He walked half-blind; sleet kissed

his forehead. The wind said sleep.

He sang to drown it, sang hymns,

nursery songs, drinking songs,

dirges, ballads, marching tunes,

the love songs his mother had favored

(she who was bartered for peace

to a man she’d never met).

He fell, pushed himself upright,

saw a black cloud speed against the wind.

She landed beside him, her breath ash,

snow steaming from her wings.

He knelt, but did not beg,

and asked after his brothers.

“One slept. One fought. One pissed

himself. They didn’t taste like kings.”

She laughed. “And you? What will you

pay for a crown, little princeling?”

“Nothing. I don’t want it.”

She flamed, and he saw himself reflected

in her scales, a kneeling, shivering boy.

“Then why,” she asked, “are you here?”

“Because they sent me.” He stopped. “No.”

He was so tired, he couldn’t think—

“Because the kingdom needs a king.”

He struggled to his feet.

“And what will you pay for the crown,

little princeling? Gold? Men? A song?”

“My freedom!” he shouted at her.

“Well,” she said, “that’s a start.”

∗

Years later, on a spring morning,

his queen asked, greatly daring,

about the woman whose name he cried

in his sleep. “Not a woman,” he said,

his heart on the mountain

where he entered his kingship.

GUARDED

Waking, that first morning,

in the king’s bed—his bed—

dawn brightening the paper windows,

Xau saw the guard, Gan,

standing in the same position

he had been in when Xau fell asleep.

(Had he stood there all night?

Or silently paced the room?

What if he’d needed to piss?)

Xau didn’t know what to say,

but he would not say nothing.

Xau got out of bed, bowed to Gan,

poured a cup of water:

“Thank you. Are you thirsty?”

Gan stared at the boy, the king,

standing there in his pajamas

holding out a cup of water

to him, the guard.

A small thing,

but the boy’s father

had never done it.

“Thank you, Your Majesty.”

Gan bowed back,

took the cup, drank.

TRAINING: WEIGHTS

Tsung, used to masking

his reactions so opponents

did not anticipate his moves,

showed none of his disappointment

as he assessed the boy

who would be both his charge

and his student:

sixteen years old,

close to full height,

but the boy could not even lift

the medium-weight bar.

Clear then to Tsung that the boy

was not his father’s equal,

was not his brothers’ equal.

Un-muscled, overlooked

fourth son.

Now king.

The boy, Xau,

struggled to hold the lightest bar,

sheened in sweat,

arms trembling,

but at least he held it,

didn’t use his newfound rank

to demand a rest.

Small consolation

to carry away

when training was done,

when Tsung instructed the guards

who would protect the boy

for the rest of the day,

when Tsung himself returned

to his darkened room

and burned incense

for Xau’s father,

the weight of that loss

hard to lift.