crossed out his name

from one of the shifts,

wrote Li’s in its place—

the brush trembled in Tsung’s hand,

threatened to blot the paper.

He set the brush down,

thought of Moon Swan

with her hair unbound,

the scent of jasmine,

of how he might see her

while Li stood his shift,

of how the closing of one gate

might open another—

That questioning look on Li’s face again.

Tsung did not explain himself, said only,

“A good job, Li. You may go.”

After Li had left, Tsung sat alone.

The man was the finest warrior

Tsung had ever known,

a man who fought as if weapons

were an extension of his body,

as if he were dancing.

Tsung not quite ready to tell Li

he was seeking more, seeking someone

to replace him as captain.

Tsung not quite ready

to admit that to himself.

RIDDLE: AUSPICIOUS

Prince Keng, age five,

ran into the breakfast room,

bowed hastily to his parents,

then took the seat by Dao,

one of the king’s eight guards.

“Master Dao,” said Keng,

“I made a riddle for you,

because it’s your birthday.”

“I am honored,” said Dao,

bowing his head to Keng.

“These men are soldiers,

but aren’t in the army,

and their number is auspicious.

Who are they?”

“Hmmm. Soldiers but not in the army?”

Keng nodded. “Eight soldiers:

eight is an auspicious number.

Would you like a clue?”

“Yes, please.”

“They protect my father.”

King Xau said nothing,

but his eyes alight

as he watched Keng and Dao.

“Hmmm. Do you mean us,

the king’s guards?”

“Yes! Yes!” Keng bounced in his seat.

“Thank you, Prince Keng,” said Dao.

“No one has ever given me

a riddle for my birthday before.”

SUMMONS

Identical message carried by three separate pigeons:

From the High Honorable Lady Nya,

mother of the Ninety-Fifth King of Meqing,

may his memory be exalted:

To Xau, Ninety-Sixth King of Meqing:

Grandson, I require you to visit me.

Depart at once.

JUMBLE

Twilight.

Two men on the snow.

Tsung’s thoughts jumbled,

snow below him, above him,

branches thickened by white.

King Xau bent over him,

blood trickling from the king’s shoulder.

Red blood, white snow

as Tsung drifted in and out,

the king’s hands on his stomach—

pressure, no pain—

the king trying to hold together

what could not hold.

Little sign left of the boy

that king had been,

the boy Tsung had been given charge of,

seven years ago—

un-muscled, unassuming,

easy to underestimate.

As Tsung had done.

“Leong!” Xau’s hands on him,

the king shouting. “Leong! Help!”

But Leong not there,

none of the other guards there—

Tsung’s fault—

Sun sinking, setting,

now the colors gone

except the red trickling

from the king’s shoulder.

Hard to breathe,

to shape a word.

“Xau?”

“Don’t try to speak,” said Xau.

“Leong will come—”

“Xau. Leave me.”

“No.” Flat.

“I’m dying. Leong can’t help.”

Each word a battle.

“Xau, bind up your shoulder. Go.”

“No.”

Both of them silent, then the king: