of the horse country,

and Atun, twelve years old,

prostrated himself on the ground;

the leader of the horse lords

bowing so low to Xau

his braid brushed the dirt;

the greatest day of Atun’s life,

though he did nothing

but watch.

Not as it was at dawn:

the Ritan commander eyeing

Atun’s braid, Atun’s silver armbands

as though Atun were a savage.

The Ritan cavalry, Xau’s guards

trying to persuade horses

into the ford’s foaming fury.

Failing.

Nor as it was at noon:

supports shearing, splitting, splintering,

the army’s attempt to build

a wooden bridge over the river.

Failed.

Perhaps this, an hour after dawn:

sixty horses followed the king

into the churning water;

stood, stoic, one in front of another

—a chain across the ford—

people wading along that chain to safety.

And then, repeated all day into night:

Xau leading spent horses from the river

into Atun’s care (the horses exhausted, cold)

while others tended the king (exhausted, cold)

before Xau led fresh horses into the river,

staying with them, speaking to them.

Over and over, six times over,

and each time the king put his hand

on Atun’s shoulder and thanked him,

and Atun (weary, shivering, rain running

down his braid, down his back)

filled then with pride.

But not like this,

it wasn’t meant to be like this:

rain, wind, water, night

when the king staggered out

beside the torn horse.

Only the stricken horse

and the two of them then,

all else shadows, torchlight, wind.

Shadows that shouted

that there were other horses,

that the king must rest,

that did not understand;

what the horses had given must be honored.

Atun inspected the horse’s leg,

shook his head,

offered his sword to the king.

The shadows shouted,

the king swayed on his feet,

but Atun steadied him

so Xau could raise the sword.

The horse’s neck divided on the blade.

Shadows. Water. Wind. Blood.

SURFACING

A sound.

A sound that disturbed.

A sound that disturbed him.

(Tired, too tired to stir.)

“Xau! King Xau!”

Xau. His name.

The sound a voice,

a voice he knew.

He climbed up from a great depth,

forced his eyes open. “L-Leong?”

His teeth rattled.

A weight on top of him.

A blanket covered with stones.

Hot. Hot stones over him.

Yet he shook, freezing.

(Too tired to sort it out.)

“Drink,” said Leong, raising Xau’s head.

A honeyed warmth.

A bearded man beside Leong,

a man he’d seen before,

a man who laid his fingers

against Xau’s wrist, nodded.

“Drink all of it,” said Leong.

He drank.

The hot stones shook in time

with his shivering.

Tired. The man,

the bearded man,

was King Memnor’s surgeon—

King Memnor—the flood—

the chain of horses—

he had to get up—had to help—

“Lie still!” said Leong.

Hands on his shoulders,

holding him in place.

The honeyed warmth,

the weight of stones,

the heat

conspired against him,

pushed him back down into sleep.

BUSY

“The king is busy,” said Atun,

the least and most junior