A bleakness in the younger king’s face

that harrowed Donal,

exhaustion in Xau’s stance,

under his eyes—“Are you hurt?”

Xau stared at Donal,

but did not answer.

Tsung, captain of Xau’s guards,

said, “The king’s burns are healing.”

“Can’t he—” Donal looked to Xau.

“Can you speak?”

Artoch, the old man,

spoke up from the doorway,

echoed by the translator,

“The king labored six days

calling men, women, children

back from the demon.

His words are spent for now.”

Xau stood in slanted light,

but shadow and darkness

between them, behind them.

Donal dipped his head to Xau.

“Thirteen nights ago,

I watched you kill that demon.

I’ll sign any treaty you give me,

but I won’t negotiate with minions.”

Xau said, haltingly,

as if he had to dig each word

from frozen ground,

“Then. Wait.”

From the doorway,

Artoch bowed to Xau, said,

“Your Majesty, I recommend

that you show King Donal

the training routine.”

Xau stared at Artoch,

made a gesture with his hand

of resignation or consent,

before bowing to the guard

with the wooden sword.

The guard lunged forward.

Xau blocked with his shield.

The guard lunged again,

his arm a fraction higher.

Then again. And again.

Move and countermove.

The clash of wood on iron.

Xau awkward, hesitant.

The guard like a dancer.

Time and again, the wooden sword

tapped Xau on wrist, knee, shin.

Tsung, the guard captain,

spoke as the two men fought,

“This is a warm-up drill.

Move and response are fixed.

King Xau has done this a thousand times.

Never as poorly.”

“Fuck.”

Move and countermove.

Xau too slow,

only the guard’s care

saving him from injury

when the wooden sword struck him.

When the two men stopped,

Donal looked at Artoch.

“Why did you have me watch that?”

“Because a treaty is worthless

without your trust.

I’m not here to play games

or to delay you without cause.”

Flame in the old man’s voice.

“I stand corrected.”

Donal bowed to the old man,

turned back to Xau.

Shadow and darkness behind them,

and a debt Donal couldn’t repay,

his kingdom saved.

He touched his hand to his heart,

offered it palm-up to Xau

in the old sign of allegiance.

“I’ll wait. As long as you need.”

Xau nodded. Wordless. Bleak.

TIRRON

In the ashy ruins of Aldford,

Tirron found and held his Linny.

Her face pressed into his shoulder;

her gulping sobs shook him.

“I thought you burnt,” she gulped.

“I thought you dead.”

He shuddered hearing her voice—

the voice the demon had borrowed,

the voice he’d served,

the voice he’d knelt to.

(Better men than he had burnt

instead of kneeling:

collapsing skeletons of fire,

scorched screams.)

He shuddered, but didn’t let go,

only clutched Linny tighter.

He’d rehearsed what to say,

but couldn’t get the words out,

couldn’t make promises,

or tell her what he’d done.

“It’s all right, Tirron,”

she said, “It’ll be all right.”

Wordless, he held onto Linny

and tried to believe her.