SUCCESSION

One king dead, a new one crowned.

The royal court seething with rumors,

fibs, fears, fancies, phantasms, fictions.

Gossip for innkeepers, beer drinkers,

wine merchants, vintners, sots, soldiers,

servants, slatterns, strumpets.

Mothers name their sons for the new king;

little girls name toys after him;

little boys crown themselves with twigs.

The royal bees in the royal hives

huddle in clusters, shivering,

waiting for spring, ignorant of kings.

GRIEF

The new king to his steward:

Is it required that we visit

our father’s grave?

Then we choose not to.

To the guild master:

We may be young,

but we are old enough to count.

Where are the missing barrels?

To his tailor:

Take it in an inch.

To the palace barber:

For such little stubble as we have,

we prefer to shave ourself.

To the captain of his guard late at night:

Secure the stables.

Let Khyert—the boy who sleeps there—

let him be.

Thank you.

To Khyert the stableboy:

It’s all right. Stay.

We are no different than we were

a month ago when you helped us

muck out Micha’s stall.

To his generals:

How many cavalry at that outpost?

To his senior advisor:

We will fight for them,

if necessary, die for them,

but we will not weep for their approval.

To the captain of his guard, another night:

Check the stables. Let Khyert stay.

Thank you.

To Khyert the stableboy:

You’re welcome. Your old blankets

were more holes than blanket.

Good.

Her near front fetlock?

Micha likes the snow.

To his generals:

If they attack, what options remain?

To his senior advisor:

We will fight for them, die for them.

It appears we will even consider

marrying for them.

On being shown the portraits of his dead brothers:

Give them to our sister.

To Khyert the stableboy:

Let us help you with that.

To a visiting envoy:

Perhaps. We are of an age to marry.

To his tutor:

War looms. Lessons are done.

To Khyert the stableboy:

We are angry, not sad—

our father should have warned them.

No.

We are fine. We will be fine.

No.

We... miss our brothers.

To his tailor:

Take it in again. We were too fat before.

To Khyert, four years later:

We never thanked you for your kindness.

Thank you.

MAP

Vast forests here

diminished to a

handful of trees.

Above the name

of every city:

three tiny houses.

Down the eastern edge

ink horses gallop

over ink rivers.

Beyond their hooves

a reddened swath

of hostile lands.

To the west,

lines of arrowheads

mark the kingdom’s

mountain border,

flecked by flame

where dragons dwell.

The northern seas

a wash of blue,

dotted by islands

where stirs an evil

unguessed by those

who drew the map.

NOT SO

An hour till dawn,

Princess Mei sat on her bed,

zither on her lap,

playing her tangled thoughts

into the notes.

Two months since her father died,

since the steward took away her brothers

to select the new king.

Mei, not considered—