He sank down on the ground.

“She couldn’t help,” said Peng.

“The dead can’t heal.”

Peng cleaned her hands, came over,

touched Gan briefly on his shoulder.

“The king’s young.

He may get well on his own.”

Gan said nothing.

After a time, when Peng

was picking up her things to leave,

Gan asked, “Peng, what was her name?”

“She didn’t say.”

Peng left.

Gan wet the cloths,

laid them over the king,

paced back and forth,

watching the candle creep downward,

hour by slow hour.

CURE

Not healing herb, nor dragon’s wing,

nor surgeon’s skill, nor serpent’s sting,

nor spell, nor ghost that healed the king.

But that the surgeon, tired, distraught,

still heard the mumbling woman out;

abandoned pride; considered; thought.

A hundred hook-mouthed maggots mined

the king’s fouled flesh, devoured, dined:

a feast that left no taint behind.

THE WAY OF THINGS

Tsung, captain of King Xau’s guards,

paced outside the king’s tent,

ice-sheeted snow crunching

beneath his boots,

working over the words

he wished to say—

Xau had risked himself to save Tsung,

an ill-judged, unacceptable act,

an act that had jeopardized the kingdom,

that had nearly cost Xau

his left hand—

Tsung braced himself as if for battle,

nodded to Dao, standing duty

at the tent’s entrance,

went in.

Xau sat cross-legged, haggard,

a blanket over his shoulders,

his left hand swaddled in bandages.

Li, king’s guard,

the finest warrior Tsung knew,

crouched beside the king,

shaving away the last scraps

of Xau’s straggly stubble.

“You were starting,” said Li,

“to resemble a goat.”

“A very fine goat, no doubt.”

Xau looked from Li to Tsung.

“Captain?”

“I need to talk to you

once Li is done.”

Li finished up quickly, left.

“Your Majesty,” Tsung began.

Stopped. Went to one knee.

Stared down at the snow melting

from the tip of his boot, said,

“Thank you for saving me,

but you should not have done so.

In risking yourself,

you put Meqing at risk.”

“In guarding us,” said Xau,

“you put yourself at risk.

Every day.”

“That is my duty,

yours is to safeguard Meqing.

That is the way of things—

I’ve told you that before,”

Tsung said, more harshly

than he’d meant.

“You could have died—

your hand—”

Tsung stared down at his snowy boot,

made himself repeat what Leong

had said that morning,

“You have lost the use

of two fingers.”

“We know. We know we are lucky

not to have lost the hand.

We know what we were meant to do.

We couldn’t do it, couldn’t leave you.”

Xau’s voice collapsed.

Tsung looked up at the king,

Xau dry-eyed but trembling—

Tsung should have delayed,

should not have spoken so soon,

the king worn out, weak—

“It’s all right,”

Tsung said softly, helplessly.

“It’s all right, Xau.

It’s all right.”

A while before the young king

collected himself.

IN HONOR OF THE KING

No amphitheater, no gilded concert hall,

no stage, no roof, no carpet.

Instead a stretch of downtrodden grass

on a chilly February afternoon.