“This would be an excellent time

for a riddle. Please.”

“Let’s see,” said Dao.

“Man or woman, old or young,

we can all play this instrument,

but we cannot touch it,

cannot see it.

What is it?”

Princess Ying, three years old,

said, “A panda!”

Leong hid his smile behind his napkin.

All week long, Ying had guessed panda.

“Not a panda,” said Dao.

Gan sang, “One king against the fire—”

“Singing!” said Keng.

HANDS

In the dusk,

her daughter ran to her,

abandoning the other children

with their yo-yos, jump ropes, spinning tops,

straight through a bed of peonies.

“He doesn’t! He doesn’t!” wailed Ying.

“Papa doesn’t have horrible hands!”

Shazia lifted her daughter up,

kissed her small grubby fingers,

searching for a truth

measured to Ying’s need.

“Papa’s left hand was hurt

saving Captain Tsung and two soldiers.”

Ying’s face burrowed into her

and Shazia held onto her

as if that holding could shield Ying.

“His right hand was burnt fighting a demon.

His hands are ugly,

but they are the bravest hands I know.”

“I wish he had nice hands,” said Ying.

Then Ying wriggled free

and ran—straight through the peonies—

back toward the other children.

Shazia stood, arms empty,

watching her daughter run.

SHADE

His years of duty ended,

still the captain stood watch

over his king,

night after night.

Hung in honor on the wall,

the iron-forged blade

the captain once wielded

in the king’s defense.

In the captain’s hands

that blade’s twinned shadow,

both sword and man reduced

to air and captured moonlight.

LIPOH

Seven years since Atun

lay prostrate on the dirt

beside his mother and sisters,

face sideways so he could peek at the horses,

hundreds upon hundreds of wild horses,

and the boy-king they followed.

The greatest day of Atun’s life,

though he had done nothing

but watch.

Now, seven years later,

Atun sat astride his favorite horse,

his silver armbands bright-polished,

his hair braided with crimson ribbons,

his three spare mounts alongside him

on the East Bridge into Lipoh,

the Ringed City, capital of Meqing.

Lipoh’s massive walls loomed before him,

taller than any building he’d ever seen,

taller than any building he’d ever imagined,

five times the height of Atun astride his horse,

but their hugeness left him undaunted.

He was Atun, son of Anikha,

a warrior of the horse tribes,

and he had come to serve King Xau.

Had known seven years ago

that he wanted to follow King Xau

even as the wild horses had done,

even though it would mean

leaving the horse country,

leaving his kin.

Atun gazed down at the deep moat,

gazed round at the other travelers,

gazed at the marble dragons

lining the bridge,

well-pleased by all he saw.

Seven years and seven hundred miles

behind him,

the city and the king just ahead.

Eight soldiers armed

with sword and bow and ji

guarded the far end of the bridge,

their helmets bright as Atun’s armbands.

The old woman in front of him