Instead of translating what Xau said,

the gray-bearded man substituted

a pleasantry about the weather

to which Shazia’s brother nodded.

For the space of two drawn breaths,

Shazia thought of agreeing.

She pictured herself alone in a room,

reading in late afternoon light:

a quiet and inconsequential life,

nothing save her marriage of any import.

“No,” she said. “Without sex—”

she used the word deliberately

“—there can be no children. Without children,

I would have half a life, a paper life.

And the peace between our countries

would be a paper peace, easily torn.”

∗

Three months later,

the night before Xau rode to war,

he gave Shazia a black kitten,

a purring softness.

“We found her in the stables,” said Xau,

“half-starved, but fierce, determined.

She reminds us of you. If you don’t want her,

our sister has offered to take her.”

“No! She’s mine. I won’t let her go.”

She didn’t weep, didn’t beg Xau to stay.

She raised her chin and said,

“Come back safe to me.”

WEDDING GIFTS

Bows, breastplates, broadswords,

spears, scabbards, shields,

helmets, horses, harnesses.

Salt, saffron, cinnamon,

incense, silver, silk,

ivory, jade, a dragon’s egg.

Bowls, bottles, bells,

masks, mirrors, music.

One treaty, long-sought.

TRAINING: SPARRING

Queen Shazia should not have come—

useless to pretend she came

for her husband’s sake—

Each day King Xau’s guards

took turns attacking him.

With fist, foot, knee, elbow;

with dagger, sword, spear.

Swift, serious, silent:

slashing, stabbing, strangling.

(Did all skill possess grace?

The guards like dancers.)

She should not have come—

a single time, perhaps,

not over and over—

Moves too fast for her to follow,

but even in such swiftness

skill steered strength,

softened the final strike:

Xau bruised, not bloodied

by bare hands, wooden weapons.

The guards’ skill mortal

but contained, constrained.

Each attack reenacted

until Xau could counter it.

She should not have come—

but useless to dissemble:

this the apex of her day—

That first time Xau lunged

swifter than his guard:

the guard on his back,

grinning like a fool,

like Shazia, unable to

stop herself from clapping.

WOLF MOON

The first full moon of summer,

beneath the ancient stone arch:

Donal the Red King, red-haired,

red-handed in war, and his queen.

His bare back against cold stone;

Queen Fian’s breath, her moist mouth,

her pale hair unbound, gleaming,

moonlit, under the dark arch.

Her hands warm, Donal hard as iron:

Fian screamed in the old language,

the words unknown to him,

surging through him like blood.

Fian knelt, licked him clean,

said, in plain Innish,

“Kill him. Kill Xau the Usurper.

Take back my country for me.”

Then from the hills a yowling,

older than language,

as a hundred wolves

raised their heads in answer—

He woke an hour past dawn,

naked, no memory of the night

save Fian’s pale hair gleaming.

He must have drunk too much.

Donal pissed against the arch.

He had a mind to go to war,

to kill the fucking Horse Boy

before the year was out.