Jun Xi bowed deeply, his hands trembling.

Atun had no cause to like the man,

yet the minister’s misery so evident

that he felt sorry for him.

“However,” said the king,

“we find no other fault in your actions.

You are dedicated and highly capable,

and we refuse your resignation.

Be seated.”

Jun Xi sat down,

fumbled the sash back on.

The rest of the meeting subdued.

Jun Xi waited at the end

until the other officials had filed out.

The minister bowed again to Xau.

“Your Majesty, I let you down.

I’m sorry. I—”

“It’s all right,”

the king said gently.

“We need you. We need someone

who will point out our mistakes.”

“That should keep me busy.”

Jun Xi’s words disrespectful,

the look on his face quite otherwise.

The king reached for Jun Xi’s arm,

clasped it briefly,

a history between them

that Atun could only guess at.

TRAVELING

Traveling,

day after day after day,

something unfolds

inside Shazia, quiet.

Call it gladness.

No attendants to dress her;

no one to style her hair;

no flower arrangements

at the breakfast table.

No table at all.

The guards setting up camp,

the smell of wood smoke,

eating supper with her fingers,

the horses nickering

to each other.

In the tent, Shazia touches

the scars on Xau’s hands, his shoulder,

permits herself to imagine

that he will never

be hurt again.

If it were up to her,

they would circle round and round,

never reach an end,

grow old traveling together,

day after day after day.

DISCRETION

Li, captain of King Xau’s guards,

stood thirty feet from Xau:

too far for Li’s liking,

too many people in the room,

too many entrances.

This the second day

of a state visit to Ritany,

a visit intended to further

the alliance first forged

by King Xau’s father.

Xau’s duty to represent Meqing,

to hunt, dance, dine, negotiate;

to remember names, faces,

every point of protocol.

Li’s duty to keep him alive.

Too many people at the reception:

King Memnor, the Ritan king,

gray-haired and great-hearted;

King Xau; the two queens;

much of Memnor’s court.

Only Li and Gan to guard Xau.

All nine of King Xau’s guards

had accompanied him on the journey,

but here, within the palace,

diplomacy dictated discretion.

Discretion conferred risk.

Li alert for anything awry,

motions sudden or surreptitious;

he ranked guests by proximity to Xau,

places weapons might be concealed.

He assessed the attendants

offering refreshments;

tracked the tone and timbre

of overlapping conversations

though he spoke no Ritan.

—Boots sounded in the hall.

—Running, approaching.

Li discarded discretion,

sprinted to Xau’s side

as the east door opened.

A messenger—unarmed—

uniformed in Ritan livery—

raced over to King Memnor.

Spoke. Urgent. Gulping.

Hands punctuating his words.

Li looked at Xau—

too straight, too still—

Xau who understood Ritan.

“There’s been a disaster,”

said Xau. “A huge flood.”

FORD

Rain, wind, water, mud—

men and horses slowed

so that the two-day journey

took three days,

though they set out before dawn