Daughter of Xanadu (5 page)

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. “Participating 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 assured 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.

T
he 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 grassy 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 assurance 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
? 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 embarrassing 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 embarrassingly 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
. 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 nobility 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 nobility 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.

T
he 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?

Of course, I had no choice but to get ready quickly.

I had spent many of the happiest days of my childhood in Xanadu, also called Shangdu or “Upper Capital.” It was on the high plateau of Mongolia, on the other side of the hills that separated Mongolia from Cathay, or northern China. Xanadu’s pleasant weather, sprawling formal gardens, and hunting woods provided the perfect playground for the Khan’s many grandchildren. The palace there, though protected by thick walls and moats, was smaller and had a more informal atmosphere. Accompanied only by his family, his closest friends and a few invited guests, the Khan was able to relax in Xanadu.