of King Xau’s guards,

his silver armbands bright

in the first sun in two weeks.

“Busy? Busy?!” said Havnar,

a muscled man with a shaven scalp,

commander of King Memnor’s army.

Havnar’s disbelief plain

even through his translator.

Atun neither bowed,

nor dipped his head,

nor offered explanation.

He stood, straight-backed,

outside King Xau’s tent.

Havnar eyed Atun’s armbands,

his braided hair,

said, dismissively,

as if the task took little skill,

“You looked after the horses well, boy.”

Atun made no acknowledgement.

That Xau had entrusted Atun

with the horses, had praised him,

a great matter.

Havnar’s opinion, small.

A bearded man,

King Memnor’s surgeon,

stepped out of Xau’s tent.

Havnar’s expression shifted to concern:

“Is King Xau not yet recovered?”

“The king is... busy.”

The surgeon glanced at Atun,

who bowed low to him.

They didn’t speak the same language,

but they understood each other.

Havnar frowned. “When it suits the king,

Memnor and I wish to thank him.”

Havnar slapped his hand twice

against the sheath of his sword,

and left with the translator.

∗

Inside the tent, silent,

sitting cross-legged on the dirt,

his guards around him,

King Xau wept.

WHY THE KING WEPT

For the horse that died

by his hand, and the horses

swept down the river;

for the infants dead

before they reached the ford,

and the childless mothers,

and the wifeless men;

because he had spent

all his strength,

yet many died anyhow;

because they knelt to him

and called him valiant,

but he knew himself fallible;

because he wished his brother

had been king instead of him;

because he had not forgiven

his father, but had come

to understand him;

because he had run out

of strength to stop

from weeping.

DREAD

Memnor, King of Ritany,

gray-haired and great-hearted,

surveyed the meal,

such as it was.

Dried meat and beet soup.

“My apologies.”

“This is fine, this is good.”

His guest, King Xau,

sitting on a rug on the floor of the tent—

not even a cushion to offer him—

took a strip of dried leathery meat.

“It’s wretched,” said Havnar,

commander of Memnor’s army.

“There’ll be a feast in your honor

once we’re back at the palace.”

“That is not to be needed.

This is all we want.”

Xau’s Ritan awkward.

“This is what you want?”

Havnar brandished the leathery meat.

“This. The food is fine.

The food is not to be important.

This. The three of us, eating together.”

Havnar dipped his head to Xau,

then looked at Memnor. “You were right,

he’s not like his father.”

Xau stilled,

a slight hardening

to the lines of his face

that Memnor might have missed

except that the captain of Xau’s guards—

a lean, black-uniformed figure

on the far side of the tent—

alerted, the captain’s attention

centering on Xau.

Memnor handed Xau a cup of water.

“I knew your father quite well.

Havnar did too.”

Xau nodded. “You fought,

and then to become allies,

and then fought together.”

“Fought together,

and hunted together,