the king’s rashness had led,

all too conspicuously,

to success.

“Good outcomes are not proof

of good decisions,” I said.

“So you think our decision was poor?”

“Very.”

“What should we have done then?”

King Xau directed the full beaming force

of his pleasure upon me—

the lowest of his counselors,

there only as a courtesy

for having taught him

the rudiments of algebra

when he was the least and youngest

of four princes.

“Should we have killed him as Artoch wished?”

“Yes,” I said, “or ridiculed him:

cut off his braid, or spanked his bottom,

or merely laughed at him.”

“So we could make an enemy rather than a friend?”

He looked decidedly less pleased.

“So we could take his horses by force,

rather than having them come to us?”

“So you could live.”

All trace of pleasure left him.

I imagined what he would have said

had the two of us been alone—

that it wasn’t a life he wanted,

neither prudence nor diplomacy nor war.

He wore power well, but he wasn’t one

who craved it, not like his eldest brother.

In another world, he might have been

a farrier or a groom.

In this world, he stalked out of the tent.

“That turned out rather poorly,” I offered.

“Perhaps,” said Artoch, “but what you said

needed to be said.”

“Perhaps,” I said, “but he’s unlikely

to thank me for it.”

“Where do you think he went?” said Artoch.

“To his horses.”

When the king returned, a long while later,

I saw by the quietness in his face

that I had guessed correctly.

“There are lessons we do not like to learn.”

He nodded first to me, then to Artoch.

“We will... strive to be more cautious,

but we will not hide.

We will not watch from a hilltop

while our soldiers fight our battles below.”

He sat down cross-legged on the rug.

“Sit with us. Eat with us. But no more advice.

Not tonight.”

It is hard not to admire him,

but I do my best not to show it.

HORSES

They do not call him king.

They say nothing.

They smell of grass, hills, sweat.

Men call him king.

Men sing about him.

Men will die for him.

The horses say nothing,

but they came (unasked),

willing to die for him.

He has a wart on his toe.

He has shouted at men

who could not shout back.

But on horseback,

he is almost the man

he needs to be.

TRAINING: HORSE

Tsung’s duty clear,

but yet he hesitated,

watching from his hilltop vantage

as the boy—King Xau—sat ahorse,

five soldiers mounted to his left,

five to his right.

The reins trembled in the boy’s grip:

only the second time Tsung had seen

Xau’s nerves show.

Tsung did not wish to be the one

to disillusion him,

but unless he did so

the boy would likely lead them to disaster.

Tsung gave the signal

and the boy started forward,

accompanied by the ten soldiers,

the horses in good formation.