RETURNING

Through darkness,

King Xau rode with his guards,

changing horses at every way-fort—

hurrying the startled staff,

following them into the warm stables,

that smell of horse, of hay, of leather

as he helped tack up the horses—

his heart pounding as if time

were running out,

but the demon dead,

the kingdom safe.

Through freshening wind,

Xau rode with the eight men

who had shielded him

when he could not speak,

who’d woken him when nightmare wracked him,

when the demon called in his brother’s voice,

night after night—

his guards beside him,

then as now.

Under moonlight,

Xau rode, not quite himself yet,

wind drying his face.

Khyert dead.

Khyert, who should have been

riding beside him.

Xau rode,

home within reach;

his children, his wife,

the thought of them,

the need for them

driving him on.

HAN CHEN

When the king returned a full day early,

Han Chen, his steward,

did not quite run through the palace

in order to speak to him—

that would have been unseemly—

but he walked so briskly

that the boy attending him

had to run to keep up—

King Xau must have ridden

through the night—

Why such haste?

The demon dead, the war over—

Ahead, Tsung, captain of Xau’s guards,

travel-soiled, rank with sweat,

blocked the door to the king’s rooms.

Han Chen raised his eyebrows:

“Captain, is there a problem?”

“No.” Tsung paused, added,

“Unless your business is urgent,

give the king time.”

Not Tsung’s place

to come between steward and king,

not unless the matter bore

on the king’s safety,

which Tsung would have told him.

Nor, by custom, should the king

have delayed before seeing Han Chen—

the king’s father had never done so—

the running of a kingdom to discuss—

“I will see the king. Now.”

Within, two more of the king’s guards,

and the king sitting cross-legged

on the floor, disheveled, dirty,

Prince Keng on his lap.

As Han Chen entered, Prince Keng demanded,

“Papa, why are you so smelly?”

“We were in a hurry to see you.”

The king’s voice hoarse

as he hugged his son,

looked up at Han Chen.

Who bowed to him,

turned round, left the room.

He had sons of his own,

but had never gone to war,

never had to leave them

for months at a time.

The king’s father had erred.

The kingdom could wait.

RIDDLE: MAIDEN

The king hadn’t slept.

Dao, who’d had the night shift,

had watched the king’s wakefulness

from across the room,

the king still harrowed by the demon,

and by the days he’d labored

calling men, women, children

back from their dark service

to that demon.

So that morning,

taking breakfast with King Xau

and Xau’s family and Xau’s other guards,

Dao unobtrusively filled in the spaces

in the conversation,

distracted Prince Keng and little Ying:

“This tiny maiden dines on leaves,

spins and weaves so you may wear

beautiful clothes, yet wears

no clothes herself.

Who is she?”

“Mama!” shouted Ying.