Through darkness,
King Xau rode with his guards,
changing horses at every way fort--
hurrying the startled staff,
following them into the warm stables,
that smell of horse, of hay, of leather
as he helped tack up the horses--
his heart pounding as if time
were running out,
but the demon dead,
the kingdom safe.
Through freshening wind,
Xau rode with the eight men
who had shielded him
when he could not speak,
who'd woken him when nightmare wracked him,
when the demon called in his brother's voice,
night after night--
his guards beside him,
then as now.
Under moonlight,
Xau rode, not quite himself yet,
wind drying his face.
Khyert dead.
Khyert, who should have been
riding beside him.
Xau rode,
home within reach;
his children, his wife,
the thought of them,
the need for them
driving him on.
(First published in The Open Mouse)
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