cutting Xau’s clothes free,

probing, palpating,

the king unable to mask his pain.

Distraction indicated.

Leong bowed.

“Congratulations, Your Majesty.

Your first broken bones, I believe.

Your left humerus—”

Leong indicated Xau’s arm.

“Plus at least two ribs. Here and here.

How did you manage all this?”

“We hit a rock.”

“Next time avoid rocks.”

“The king hit a rock,” clarified Li,

“saving me from drowning.”

“Next time don’t let Li swim.”

Leong splinted Xau’s arm

quickly but carefully.

“Besides, it’s cold for swimming.

Better to wait until summer.”

He handed Xau a cup. “Drink.”

“Leong, what is this?”

“A sleeping draft.”

“No,” said Xau flatly.

“Rourk died. Donal’s guard.

We will attend his wake tonight.”

“Your strength is spent. You need rest.”

“We will rest tomorrow.”

The darkness in the king’s eyes

unanswerable. Final.

WAKE

Gaer was caught between grief and fury:

Rourk dead, a good man,

a strong warrior.

Rourk dead,

and the Horse King, Xau,

who fought against them a year ago,

come to his wake.

King Donal had made peace with Xau;

Gaer not so quick to forgive.

Six guards hovered round Xau like nursemaids.

Xau thin, only lightly muscled,

his left arm in a sling.

Donal, a warrior king;

Xau, a weakling.

Gaer ground his teeth together.

Nursemaids or not, he’d have challenged Xau,

except that this was a wake.

Instead, he pushed past Xau to Rourk’s bier,

centered in the fort’s dining hall.

Grief won then.

Gaer stared long at Rourk’s smashed face,

his body hidden beneath wolf skins,

offerings heaped over the skins.

Gold rings, a bronze torc, knives, daggers.

Gaer had campaigned with Rourk, years ago,

but it wasn’t Rourk’s strength Gaer thought of,

rather how Rourk would sing on the march.

Every word heartfelt

though his voice was rough.

A warrior singing of warriors.

Gaer laid his dagger on Rourk.

Prince Connol, Donal’s brother,

put a rubied ring beside Gaer’s dagger.

“You and Fergus got the body?” asked Gaer.

Connol nodded.

“Who killed him?”

“Cowards who fled.”

Connol spat on the floor.

At midnight, the beating of drums.

King Donal raised a bronze urn.

“To Rourk,” said Donal,

tears running down his cheeks.

“Who fought at my side.

Who twice saved my life.”

Donal lifted the urn to his lips. Drank.

Passed the urn to Prince Connol.

“To Rourk,” said Connol.

“Who protected my brother like a brother.”

One by one, the soldiers toasted Rourk.

Queen Fian, the only woman present,

said, “To Rourk. A brave warrior,”

drank as deep as any man,

then left for her bed.

The Horse King

(who couldn’t even hold the urn

with his left arm in a sling),

said, “To Rourk. Defender of Innis.

Who put his king before himself.”

One of his nursemaids held the urn

while Xau drank.

Gaer stepped forward,

took the urn from Xau’s guard.

“To Rourk. Who never needed

a fucking nursemaid.”

A flicker of reaction from Xau,

so brief Gaer couldn’t name it,

then Xau nodded to him

as if unaware he’d been insulted.