Daughter of Xanadu Part 4

I took a deep breath. "The Khan has asked me to host you here in Xanadu, to show you the grounds."

He grinned too broadly at this news.

I set my mouth in a firm line, and his smile faded.

"You would prefer not to?"

"I do as the Great Khan asks."

He seemed ill at ease, as if disappointed and uncertain what to do or say.

Not only was this the first time I had had a direct conversation with a foreigner, but it was also the first time I had spoken to a man not related to me without my family present. I didn't even know what to call him. Almost every man I knew was a relative, called uncle or brother. I needed to show him I was in command. "Today, we will ride in the hills."

He bowed his head, appropriately humble. "As you wish."

"Leave your dagger here," I said. He dropped his weapon just inside his tent.

Relieved to be moving, I turned and strode toward the horse pasture. The foreigner hastened to catch up to me, but I stayed one pace ahead. I had decided to take him riding, because it would be easier to keep my distance from him on horseback.

We reached a spot where several horses were tethered to a rope stretched high between two poles. I told the horse boy to saddle up my palomino stallion as well as a tawny mare for the visitor.

The Latin man stood awkwardly by my side, his breath at the level of my ears. I could smell a strange perfume of pungent cloves on his curls. It felt wrong to stand so close to a foreign man. Once I had mounted Baatar, I felt much more comfortable.

But Marco hesitated. "I've never ridden on a Mongolian saddle," he said. How strange. I looked at the wooden saddle, its familiar curved shape high in the front and back, painted red with silver medallions. What kind of primitive saddle did this man use?

He fumbled, trying to mount. I could not fathom how this man had traveled for three years from the end of the world and never learned how to ride on a proper Mongolian saddle. I had learned to ride before I could walk.

Once on the horse, he kicked her in the sides! The mare flinched. Didn't he know it was wrong to kick a horse? I reached over to his steed and steadied her with a hand on her neck. "What are you doing?" I asked.

His weird eyes registered uncertainty.

With the familiar cry of "Tchoo! Tchoo!" I urged Baatar forward across the gra.s.ses, and the tawny mare followed. Baatar and I moved fluidly together, as if he could read my thoughts. I quickly broke into a trot, then a lope, checking to see if the Latin was following. He was hanging on to the wooden saddle and smiling gamely at me. I headed for the foothills and slowed as we started up a well-known trail.

The morning's rain had left diamonds in the gra.s.s, and I brushed against wet branches that sprayed me with sparkling drops. I luxuriated in the first warm rays of sunlight on my hands and face.

As we rode, single file, mostly uphill, I silently rehea.r.s.ed the questions I would ask of this man. If I could get all the needed answers quickly, perhaps the Khan would let me return to my usual life, with hours to spend on archery and horseback. I had hoped Suren and I could begin preparing for military training that summer.

Soon we approached a clearing overlooking Xanadu from the hills just north of the walled city. I jumped off my horse and tied him to a nearby tree. Marco Polo did the same. Then I led him to the edge of the clearing for the best view.

From this vantage point, we could see the whole of Xanadu. The palace sat on a wide plain surrounded by high hills visible along the horizon. Much of the plain was forested, a semi-wild park of trees and gra.s.slands and natural streams. These woods, a hunting preserve for the Khan, contained many deer and foxes. From above, we could see how the thick outer walls of Xanadu formed a huge square. Inside was a small town for servants and guests, as well as the Khan's famous fabulous gardens. Brooks, hillocks, bridges, pavilions, twisting pathways, and artificial lakes all glistened in the intense sunlight.

I sighed. It was like a fantasyland, a place I had longed for during the cold winter.

At the heart of this square was a smaller square, formed by high stone walls topped by turrets. Inside this inner, "forbidden" city were the golden roofs of the palace, a smaller and leafier version of the ma.s.sive imperial palace in Khanbalik. The main hall, raised on an artificial hill, was pure white marble, shimmering and smooth. It faced due south, as all major doors do, toward the sun, away from us.

Other buildings inside the inner walls were pavilions of painted wood with golden roofs, set amidst tree-shaded courtyards. Each building was positioned carefully on a straight north-south, east-west axis, in the Chinese imperial style. But one large courtyard was dotted with round white tents, our distinctive Mongolian ger gers. They reminded everyone of the old days, when our ancestors were nomadic herders and warriors, traveling freely. The Khan had insisted that the floors of the palace at Xanadu be made of packed dirt, to keep him connected to the earth.

Overhead, an eagle soared. An exhilarating breeze blew my hair about my face. I hoped the magic of Xanadu would make this day go well.

The foreigner gazed at the panorama below, as if drinking in every detail. "My father told me of this place, but I could not imagine it. I thought the Mongols lived on horseback, moving their tents from place to place."

"That's true." I pushed myself to speak. "We Mongols are hunters and herdsmen, with no tradition of fixed palaces. We do not eat plants or dig in the dirt."

He turned back to me, his face radiant with joy. Those eyes looked clear and empty. I wondered if they could see more than dark eyes saw. He looked innocent, but my grandmother had hinted that he was not safe. The time had come to begin my mission.

I led him to a gra.s.sy spot and spread a goatskin on the ground. I put my bow in the middle, a clear boundary between me and the foreigner. I sat on one side, and he sat on the other. I kept the sharp-tipped arrows behind me, so he could not reach them.

I got out a leather pouch with dried milk curds in it and offered him some to eat. He tossed a milk-curd cube into the hole in his beard where his mouth was. A frown creased his forehead and he chewed as if trying to make up his mind about it.

"Very good," he said, smiling as if eager to please. He was not good at lying.

Such curds were meant to provide energy on a journey and were not particularly tasty. I ate in silence, rehearsing my first question.

"What do you hope to get from the Khan? What are your intentions?" As soon as I spoke, I knew I had been too blunt.

Marco examined my face before responding soberly. "I will be frank with you, Princess. My father and uncle handed all our precious trading commodities over to the Khan, as is required. If I can gain his favor, perhaps he will give us, in return, goods of great value to take back to our homeland." So this was the way merchants worked. Not buying and selling with coins, but taking their chances with the Khan's goodwill.

"How will you gain his favor?"

"By serving him, entertaining him in the most appealing possible way. Perhaps you can let me know if you hear any reaction to my storytelling?" It occurred to me that Marco Polo was also using me. His success depended in part on his connection with me.

His odd eyes seemed bluish green in this setting. I suspected that they could see inside my mind. It made me uncomfortable. I needed to press on.

"Tell me again," I said "What is the name of your homeland?"

"Venezia," he said.

"Way-nay-sha," I said, trying to p.r.o.nounce it. I could barely get my tongue around the strange sounds. How could I remember it? "How big and powerful is it?"

Marco laughed. "It is just a city, but with its own army."

"It belongs to a larger country?"

"Well, it is part of Christendom," he said, using a Mongolian word meaning "Land of the Religion of Light." "But Christendom has many countries and city-states."

He picked up a stick and began to draw a map in the dirt.

"This is Italia." The shape he drew looked like a boot with a strange heel. "Here is Venezia." He made a circle near the top of the boot. "Here is Genova, our rival city. They, too, have many ships and merchants, and we compete with them for the best markets."

I noticed that his fingers were long and thin, soft and clean. "They fight?" I asked.

"More like competing in a contest. This, you see"-he scratched the area on three sides of the boot-"is the Middle-of-the-Earth Sea. Up here is France, where the Franks live, and above that is England. Over here, Aragon." He continued drawing and poking in the dirt, naming a confusing array of countries, each with its own king.

I frowned. There were too many foreign names to remember. It was like trying to stuff a month's worth of dried meat into a leather pouch meant for overnight.

I stopped him. "Who is the ruler of these lands?"

He thought for a minute. "We don't have one ruler, like your Great Khan. Some of these lands belong to the Holy Roman Empire. But many do not. They are not united."

I shook my head.

He appeared to smile, or at least I thought so. I could not see his mouth but noticed wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. "We do have a Pope, in Roma. He is the head of our religion. When my father brought him a letter from the Great Khan, he responded, hoping for friendly relations."

"His armies are large and well trained?"

Marco smiled as if this were a strange question. "He has troops to protect him. But he is not a military ruler. You see, all these lands are..." He kept talking.

I soon gave up trying to follow what he was saying, with so many foreign words. Behind the big beard was an earnest expression, but his eyes sparkled. His hands moved in mesmerizing gestures when he spoke. What would such a smooth hand feel like?

He had stopped talking and was regarding me intently. I was forgetting myself. I needed to ask easier questions.

"And your people..." I hesitated, wondering if I was being too direct again. "They have eyes of many colors? Red? Yellow? Blue?"

Marco laughed. "No. Only blue, green, and brown."

"And your people's hair?" He did not seem to mind my questions. "Also green and blue?" After all, anything other than black hair and dark brown eyes had been beyond my imagination until I saw him.

He smiled. "Some people have yellow hair. Some red. Some brown, like mine."

Yellow hair! I had heard that hair turned yellow only when people were starving.

"Blue eyes are not unheard of in your land, are they?" he said. "I have heard that even your Great Ancestor, Chinggis Khan, had blue eyes and reddish hair."

This comment took me aback. But I remembered vaguely that I had heard such a thing from Old Master. It had seemed impossible, since everyone I knew in the Golden Family had dark hair and dark eyes. We all worshipped the Great Ancestor, so I had never thought of him as a flesh-and-blood person.

"Now I have a question for you, Emmajin Beki." Marco lowered his voice. "During my long journey across the lands of the Mongol Empire, I heard that Mongols drink horses' blood. Yet I have not seen anyone drinking blood at court. Is this true?"

I laughed out loud at the thought of horses' blood in a goblet at dinner. Then I quickly stopped, lest he feel foolish for asking. "It is sometimes true. On very long journeys, if there is no other food, a Mongol soldier might cut a vein in his horse's flesh. He allows the blood to spurt into his mouth, just enough to keep him alive."

Marco's face showed disgust.

I quickly added, "But soldiers do this only when they are starving and have no other source of food. It shows they are smart and resourceful."

Marco shook his head, as if trying to absorb this strange fact. He seemed as relieved as I had been to know that his countrymen did not have green hair. What fears we have of foreigners and their strange ways!

He leaned a little closer. "I truly did not mean to offend you after the archery contest. I only wanted to tell you I admired your n.o.bility."

Conscious of my purple-yellow cheeks, I looked away. For a few moments, I had forgotten my public humiliation.

He persisted. "I have heard that you are an excellent archer."

An excellent archer! What did he know of archery, this man who could barely ride on a Mongolian saddle? "Who told you this?" I asked harshly.

"At the contest, I heard others speak of you. People thought you would win."

Win. My face flushed. All the shame of the archery tournament washed over me, as if someone had tossed a bucket of cold water onto my body.

The foreigner continued. "Many praise your archery skills. Can you show me?"

I picked up my bow. After the awkwardness of conversation, it was a relief to feel its smooth surface and familiar weight.

In the sky, a golden eagle was soaring. Without a word, I stood up. I placed an arrow on my bow and pulled back the string until it was as tight as it could be. My hands held perfectly steady as I aimed at a spot just in front of the eagle. I waited until a precise moment before releasing. The arrow arched high and fast.

The eagle soared on, oblivious to my aim. Some arrows would have fallen before reaching that height, but mine did not.

It hit its target. The eagle faltered and fell in an ungainly arc.

Marco let out a breath of admiration. My chest swelled with pride.

The eagle landed with a thud on the ground. A realization pierced me. Hunting in the Khan's private reserve without his permission was forbidden. I had just broken a rule that was strictly enforced.

I gasped as if wounded. I ran toward the fallen bird. Marco followed me.

The eagle was a beautiful, huge creature, majestic and powerful, as long as my arm. It had light brown wings, a black tail, a golden crown and nape, great curved talons, and piercing orange-brown eyes. This bird of prey was much treasured by hunters. Any man who could bring one back alive would be rewarded.

But this eagle was not alive. Its body was warm, but its heart had stopped. My arrow had broken its wing. The fall had broken its neck.

I rocked back on my heels, in shock. It was too handsome to die from my arrow. I caressed its golden feathers, sorry I had taken its life. I struggled to control my tears.

Marco's smile had faded.

Quickly, I pulled out my dagger and began digging a hole to bury the eagle.

"It is forbidden," I explained. I flailed as I dug. Once, I had seen the head of a decapitated man who had flouted the Khan's hunting rules. Now I had violated not only the law but also the hunter's ethics, killing a fine bird for no reason other than my own pride.

Marco gingerly touched the bird's still-warm chest. He stroked the wing and carefully plucked out one of the longest, most golden of its tail feathers.

I, too, could not help admiring the glorious creature. Even its legs were covered with feathers. I had ended the life of this magnificent bird. Why had I needed to prove my strength to this man? Why should I care what he thought of me?

Gently, I placed the eagle into the hole and covered it with dirt. When I finished, I realized that Marco was standing over me, holding the long golden feather.

My hands in the dirt-Mongols don't dig in the dirt-I caught his eye. Perhaps now he would fear and respect me. But he knew about something that he could use against me. Perhaps he would blackmail me. He knew where I had buried the eagle, and he had a feather to prove it. Fear flooded me.

I stood and looked him in the eyes, as threatening as I could be. "Tell no one."

He silently nodded.

As I turned to head toward the horses, Marco Polo lightly touched the back of my shoulder. His fingers sent a startling sensation through my body. I jumped.

He pulled back, aware of his mistake. In his hand, offered to me, was the eagle's splendid feather.

Eyes focused on his, I closed my fingers over the feather, nodding my grat.i.tude. His eyes, somber, sealed our secret pact. I hid the feather inside the front of my del del.

We mounted our horses and rode back down the hill in silence. That spot on my shoulder tingled.

When we reached the valley and returned to the tethers, I told him I would show him the gardens the next day-in the afternoon.

He bowed his head slightly. "I would be honored."