Daughter of Xanadu Part 2

Temur's eyes flashed at me. "Good," he said. It sounded like a challenge.

The youngest boys competed first. They lined up close to the targets, which were small sandbags piled neatly into low stacks. The aim was to hit the highest bag in the center of the stack.

I watched from near the back of the crowd, wondering if I had made a mistake.

One little boy became so excited that he wet his pants. Some boys laughed.

I heard from just behind me a distinctive laugh, deep and resonant. As I turned to look, the man behind me had to duck to avoid being hit by the arrows on my back. He was a foreigner, with the thickest beard and largest nose I had ever seen. A fist of fear gripped my throat. I had never stood so close to a foreigner.

The man saw me staring and smiled at me-or at least appeared to. His mouth was invisible inside all that facial hair, which shone with alarming glints of red. His huge round eyes showed delight at the sight of me. They were the strangest color, green like the pond in the palace garden.

"That boy may lead an army someday," he said, pointing to the wet stain.

I was surprised I could understand him; it had not occurred to me that foreigners could speak Mongolian. His eyes looked cheerful and intelligent. But I could not get over his strange appearance. The foreigners in Old Master's stories were always menacing.

I moved away to avoid responding. Many at court said that foreigners brought bad luck.

As I watched the younger boys compete, a thought entered my mind: if I won, perhaps I could ask the Great Khan to grant a special request. I was not sure I dared ask such a bold question in public. But if I did, it could make all the difference for my future.

The sun had lowered to just above the palace walls by the time of the next-to-last contest, for fourteen- and fifteen-year-old Mongols from outside the palace. I recognized several of my former suitors and was glad they would see me compete. Jebe's arrows flew disastrously off course, and he placed last among ten contenders.

Finally, the time came for the last tournament, for the eldest of the grandchildren: Suren, Temur, and me. It would be our last contest as children, since I would be sixteen the next day and Suren would turn sixteen within a month. After that, we would be considered adults.

Temur, with his strong voice, had been calling all contestants for each tournament, and this time, he called for "all grandsons of the Great Khan, aged fourteen and fifteen."

I stepped forward and stood next to him and Suren. The crowd murmured.

Because I was a girl, I was highly visible. Both boys and girls wore the same clothing, the Mongolian del del, an outer robe with a high collar, cinched with a bright-colored sash at the waist. But I had two thick braids down my back. All the boys had the distinctive Mongolian male haircut: a bare spot shaved at the top of the head, with a fringe of hair over the forehead and the rest in two long braids pinned up in loops under the ears.

We three compet.i.tors stood in a row and bowed toward the Great Khan. Three times, we performed the kowtow on our hands and knees, touching our foreheads to the ground, showing our loyalty and obedience to the Emperor.

After the third kowtow, we waited with our heads on the cold flagstones. Everyone in the crowded courtyard fell silent.

"Rise!" The Khan's voice boomed. "I have only two grandsons this age."

I stepped forward, my head bowed.

"Speak!" the Khan commanded.

I looked up the marble stairs at my grandfather, at his round head and thin, pointed beard, his huge ears and narrow eyes. With his bulky body, he seemed grand and immovable. But I had seen a softer side of him, when he joked with the children of the court in less formal settings, and I knew he symbolized all that was good and wise in the Empire.

I willed myself to speak as boldly as possible. "As the eldest granddaughter of the Khan of all Khans, as one named after the Great Ancestor himself, I beg your permission to compete in this tournament."

My voice sounded thin and high compared to Temur's strong tones. The Khan regarded me in silence. I gathered my courage to continue.

"If my archery pleases you, I beg you to consider allowing me to join your army."

A collective gasp rose around me, and Suren shot me a warning look.

The Khan stared at me for what seemed an eternity. As the most powerful ruler the world had ever known, he reigned over the largest empire in history. What I asked for was far-fetched but not impossible. Had I overstepped my bounds?

Finally, the Khan spoke. "Win or lose, come to see me tomorrow. I make no promises today." His voice sounded deep and ominous.

But to me, "win or lose" meant I could compete. And the next day, on my birthday, I could make my case to the Khan. What a gift. I smiled at him to convey my grat.i.tude.

We three contestants took our positions, lined up, bows in hand. My bow, like all great Mongol bows, curved in a large arc, then curled back at each end. I ran my fingers over its smooth layers of bone and sinew and horn. Its fine horsehair string was so tight that it took great strength to pull it back. My arrows were made of supple bamboo, with vulture feathers and sharp metal tips that could rip deep into human flesh.

As the youngest, Temur went first. He drew an arrow and fit it onto his bow.

"Wait!" shouted the Khan.

We all froze.

"Mounted archery," he said.

The three of us looked at one another in surprise. Temur lowered his bow. Two men left to fetch horses for us, and several others reset the targets farther apart. Mounted archery involved shooting at still targets while galloping past. I felt even more confident about my ability in mounted archery, but my nerves were screeching.

"It's her fault," said Temur.

"It makes sense," I said. "Mounted archery is what matters in war."

"You will never go to war." Temur spit out the words.

"Maybe you will get to go sooner if you perform well today," I told him. Most princes joined the army the year they turned sixteen.

"Emmajin," Suren said. "Partic.i.p.ating should be victory enough for you."

I understood. He was asking me to let him win. I had spent more hours than either of them practicing mounted archery. Suren had a powerful arm but often overshot the target. Temur was capable of hitting the center of the target, but not consistently. In recent months, though, both had greatly improved their skills.

I was better, but it was far from a.s.sured that I would win. Every contest was different, and I had never competed in a public setting, before the Khan and a large crowd. The delay gave me time to dwell on what might happen if I lost. Or won.

5 Final Round

The horses were led in, and I smiled when I saw that someone had found my horse, Baatar, a golden palomino stallion with a pure white mane. The courtyard full of noisy people made him skittish and uncertain. Normally, I rode him on an open plain outside the north city gate.

I took his reins and put my hand on his warm shoulder. His body was quivering. I stood near his head and looked into one of his large brown eyes, which were the same height as my eyes. "Baatar," I said. His name meant "hero." "Be calm."

We had little time, but he seemed to relax at my touch and voice. I stroked his shoulder. After two years of riding him, helping train him from his youngest days, I loved this horse. I tightened his cinch and straightened his traditional Mongolian wooden saddle, curved high in the front and back. The leather of his bridle, the gra.s.sy smell of his skin, the metal of his stirrups, the rough felt blanket under his saddle, all calmed me.

With Baatar here, I could win.

"Mount!" a voice shouted. Suddenly, I realized that Suren and Temur had already mounted and were looking at me with impatience.

I quickly tossed my leg over Baatar's back, and the contest began.

In this type of race, each rider took a turn riding past three targets in a row. In one smooth motion, we were to pull an arrow from our quiver, fit it to the bow, and shoot as quickly and accurately as possible.

Temur went first, starting with a war cry. Riding on a handsome dappled gray stallion, Temur raised his bow and smoothly reached behind him for his first arrow with perfect form. I remembered teaching him that skill, back when he was much younger and looked to me for advice.

His first arrow sank into the top sandbag. The judges were standing close to the target with the a.s.surance that he would hit it and not them. They held out their hands to show the distance between the arrow and the center of the target. All three showed, with hands touching, that his arrow had hit the target.

Temur's next arrow, released just moments later, hit the second target about a hand's width away from the center, an excellent shot.

Inconsistent, I thought, willing him to miss the final shot, the hardest.

But Temur's third arrow struck the third target squarely. The judges' hands came together, and Temur let out a whoop-more like a boy than the sophisticated archer he wanted to be. He acted too young to be a soldier.

Baatar snorted, as if eager to get moving. I flexed my bow, to ready it, making sure my best arrows were easily accessible.

But Suren was next. He looked nervous, mounted on his bay horse with reddish brown sides and black points. Although an excellent horseman, Suren had only recently begun riding this steed.

With a deep breath and then a yell, Suren started. He reached smoothly for the first arrow, and it seemed to fly straight, but it hit wide of the mark, by about the length of an arm to the elbow. His second arrow struck dead-on, and his third was wide by a hand's width. He had failed to outperform Temur.

As he circled back on his bay mare, Suren shot me a sharp look. I could read his thoughts as clearly as the tracks of a fox in the snow. As the eldest grandson, and possible heir to the throne someday, Suren always had a weight on his shoulders that I could only dimly comprehend. Now his younger brother, Temur, had bested him publicly, in front of the Khan, showing his superiority in the all-important skill of mounted archery. If I did well, Suren might come in third, losing not just to his brother but to a girl. I had everything to gain, and he had everything to lose.

A feeling of guilt crept up my gullet. I craved a win. But should I lose on purpose, to show loyalty to Suren, my anda anda? Prince Suren could not-should not-come in last.

Everyone was looking at me-even, I knew, the Khan, although I did not dare to glance in his direction. Baatar pranced slightly, eager to go, but I held him back for a moment, trying to think straight.

To whom did I owe my loyalty? We had learned from the time we were born that we were all loyal to the Great Khan, of course. I was certainly not loyal to Temur. I wanted to beat him, to put him in his place for embarra.s.sing Suren. But by losing I could not make Suren the winner. With so many strangers watching, could I do my best?

I had waited too long already. I shouted and leaned forward, and Baatar surged ahead. In one smooth arc, my right hand reached back for the first arrow and placed it perfectly against the bowstring. Using my thumb, I pulled back on the string and loosed the arrow just at the right angle and moment as Baatar raced past the first target.

My first arrow hit, and the judges indicated a perfect shot.

By then, my arm was circling back for the second arrow, fitting it against the bow, pulling back the bowstring, releasing. I had done this so many times I could do it blindfolded.

My second arrow hit with a thud. Another perfect shot.

My mind turned off, and my body took over, going through the familiar motions.

Suddenly, for no reason, an image appeared in my mind's eye: that young foreigner's bearded face and his huge round eyes. My hands shook, and my right hand did not catch hold of the arrow soon enough. I had to grasp a second time to get an arrow. By the time I followed through and made my shot, I had ridden past the target. My arrow landed so embarra.s.singly far from the target that the judges, jumping with excitement, held their hands as wide apart as possible, indicating that the arrow was nowhere near the center of the target.

As if sensing that something had gone wrong, Baatar flinched, tripping slightly before regaining his footing. Off balance, holding my large, heavy bow and not the reins, I felt the top part of my body lunge forward. My face struck the back of Baatar's neck, hard.

With my free right hand I pulled myself back up, just as Baatar was slowing, and grabbed the reins. A horrific pain ripped through me, from my nose through my head and whole body. Bright red blood stained Baatar's creamy mane, then his saddle, then my clothing. Blood spurted out of my nose as if from a demonic spring. A woman screamed, and the boys jumped up and down, pointing at me and shouting.

Somehow I returned my bow to the leather holster hanging from my belt. With my left hand, I touched my nose, to see if I had broken the bridge.

Such humiliation! No experienced rider should have a careless accident. And so many had witnessed it. My ears rang and my vision blurred. The pain was agonizing.

Baatar slowed down and someone grabbed his reins from the side. It was my father. He had been watching after all.

When Baatar came to a stop, I slid down his side to the ground. My father's arm went around me, and he used his sleeve to sop up my blood. He gently covered my nose, to stanch the bleeding. Even that gentle touch sent another surge of pain through me, and I nearly screamed. I pushed his hand away and lightly held my own sleeve over my nose. Blood drained into my throat, making me gasp for air. I could barely see.

Father led me to the side of the courtyard. My head was bowed, but I heard comments from people around me. "She lost on purpose," one man said.

"To make them look good," another added.

But I had not lost on purpose. My hand had slipped, for no good reason. I meant to win. I always competed to win.

"How fine of her," someone said. "She gave face to her cousin, the man who may one day be Great Khan."

I was not used to hearing people talk about Suren that way. No one dared talk openly about who might lead in our generation. But now I realized that others, besides me, understood the deeper implications of the younger brother's very public victory. But at least Suren had not come in last.

The blood kept flowing, soaking through the sleeve and front of my del del. The only way I could get it out of my throat was to spit in a most unladylike way.

My disgrace was extreme. I had made a fool of myself in public. What chance had I now of convincing the Khan I should join his army? My bravado in making that request now seemed laughable.

In my head, behind that gushing nose, I blamed the foreigner. Sitting on a stool near the side wall of the courtyard, behind the protective bulk of my father's body, I felt besieged, confused, pained, angry.

Suddenly, my father moved slightly, and I could see standing just beyond him, not two feet away, that same bearded young foreigner staring at me. "My lady showed true n.o.bility of spirit today," he said in his odd, accented Mongolian.

His arms were covered with hair, and his beard was so thick I could imagine food sticking in it. This creature was subhuman, I thought. Such beasts should not be permitted to enter the palace, let alone to comment on the n.o.bility of royal family members.

The pressure of the day broke over me. I needed someone to blame. I looked him right in his hairy face. "You're the dregs," I said. It was the worst insult that came to my mind.

He pulled back, clearly confused and chastened. If the Khan allowed me to join the army, I thought, I would one day kill men like him.

I spit at his feet, a big glob of blood. He jumped back in horror.

I would come to regret my gesture.

6 Elephant Ride

The next day, my mother woke me early. My head was pounding. All night I had relived every excruciating detail of the contest, trying to figure out how I could have lost control in such a disastrous way. My future seemed bleak.

"Oh! You can't leave looking like this!" Mama said in an agitated voice when she saw my face.

I felt my nose. It seemed straight, and the small wound at the top had long ago stopped bleeding. But my cheeks under each eye felt puffy and sore.

Drolma grimaced. "It looks like someone punched you in both eyes."

"I'll put white powder on it," Mama said. "Get up at once."

I rolled to face the wall, holding my aching head. "I don't want to get up." Today was the fifth day of Fifth Moon. On this day every year, the Khan, his court, and most of the Golden Family left the capital for the summer palace at Xanadu. This day was also my sixteenth birthday. I was entering adulthood with a bruised face and pains in my head.

"You must," Mama said. "The Great Khan sent word that you will ride with him to Xanadu. He expects you shortly."

Disaster upon disaster. Normally, such an honor would be a thrill, an opportunity to present my case. Men would pay fortunes for the privilege of spending time with the Khan. But my black eyes and swollen cheeks took away all my dignity. Why on earth would the Khan want me to ride with him after I had failed miserably?