Naamah's Curse (17 page)

P
ull!”

I eased the bowstring back—gently, gently. The sturdy yew-wood bow my uncle Mabon had made for me bent obligingly. The fletching of the arrow I had nocked tickled my earlobe—vulture feathers, from one of the arrows borrowed from the members of Batu’s tribe.

I eyed the distant target, gauging my angle. I did my best to ignore the fact that my heart was hammering inside my chest.

“Loose!”

I loosed the bowstring.

A puff of errant wind blew as my arrow arced into the sky—mine, and six others. Against all odds, I had shot well enough to reach the penultimate round.

Now, I sucked in my breath.

Six arrows thudded into six leather targets stuffed with wool. I winced, seeing I had missed the crudely painted red circle on mine. I had misjudged the wind and the angle.

Two had pierced the circle, one dead-center, the other slightly off. Three others had missed by a wider margin than I had.

The watching crowd of Tatars murmured. The judges conferred.

“You, and you.” An officious fellow serving as the judges’ liaison pointed at the two men who had shot best. When he came to me, his mouth tightened. “And you. Now, you will shoot one by one. Ten paces!”

I breathed a sigh of relief.

Ah, gods! If it hadn’t been for the sense of calm I’d found yesterday, I was quite sure my nerves would have undone me. The riding archery contest had taken place earlier. I’d watched the competitors shoot from the saddle at a row of dangling rings while they raced at a flat-out gallop. They were incredibly accurate, and I resigned myself to the fact that there was no way I could truly compete against the best of the best here.

But so long as I had the knowledge that Bao and I could escape into the twilight, that I could hold it long enough to keep us both safe, it didn’t matter.

As a result, I had shot fearlessly and well in the early rounds of the standing archery contest. Over a hundred men took part, shooting in groups of a dozen at a time. For each group to partake, half passed on to the next round and half were eliminated. With each successive round, we retreated ten paces from the targets.

Again and again, I found myself placing within the top half of my group. It wasn’t until the number of competitors had dwindled to a mere dozen that I’d begun to wonder if I
could
win, and my anxiety returned in full force.

That was also when my opponents began to grumble and mutter about magic, and the officious liaison had come to inspect my bow.

Was it charmed? I truly had no idea. Mayhap my uncle Mabon had whispered some arcane charm into the very wood and sinew. I did not know the extent of the small gifts of magic the Maghuin Dhonn possessed. Mayhap there was some secret in the way he had seasoned the wood. Mayhap the secret lay in the powerful resilience of the wood itself, or the sinews or the glue.

Whatever the truth, Bao was right. It didn’t look remarkable and there was nothing for the official to find. After testing my bow for himself and finding that it shot no more true than the archer’s skill, he shrugged and handed it back to me.

Now…

Now there were only three of us, and I had begun to sweat. Oh aye, if I lost, there was still the twilight. But now that victory was actually within reach, I could not help but think how much better it would be if the Great Khan were forced to grant my boon, and let Bao and me go freely.

The steppe was a vast expanse of open land to traverse. I had no doubt that there were skilled trackers among the Khan’s men. Even having discovered that I could ward Bao as easily as myself, it could be a long, long time to hold the twilight. And there would be no room for error.

The first of my remaining two opponents stepped up to the mark. He nocked an arrow and drew with the unique Tatar grip, using a ring on his thumb to pull the bowstring, the muscles of his heavy shoulders bunching. He was a strong, burly fellow, and if the contest were to be decided on distance alone, I had no doubt that he would prevail.

It wasn’t, though. Accuracy counted.

With a grunt, he loosed the bowstring. His arrow sank into the distant target, landing on the outer rim of the red circle. His supporters cheered and shouted.

It was the second fellow who worried me the most. He was lean and taciturn, and he shot with great accuracy and ferocious concentration. It was he whose last shot had been dead-center. He took his place at the mark, drawing his bow with fluid precision.

Another gust of wind blew as he loosed his arrow, more lively than the first. Even so, his arrow pierced very close to the center of the target. My last opponent gave a little sigh, and an unexpected, courteous bow in my direction.

Holding my bow loosely, I toed the mark. The onlookers had grown quiet. I didn’t dare look at them, not even my few supporters, fearful of losing my own concentration.

I had missed the circle on my last shot. This one could mean the difference between safe passage, no matter how reluctantly granted, and deadly pursuit.

I chose the straightest shaft in my quiver, the one I had left for the end, nocking it carefully. Gently, gently, I hooked my forefingers around the bowstring and drew it back beyond my ear.

My heart thudded in my chest, and my extended left arm trembled, my knuckles pale where I clutched my bow’s grip. Beneath the thick Tatar coat I wore, trickles of nervous sweat trailed down my skin. A fitful breeze rose and fell, tugging at my hair.

I fixed my gaze on the distant target. Gods, it looked far away and small!

There were no official commands to be given in this final round. A handful of spectators took it on themselves to remedy the situation.

“Loose!” someone shouted; and scores of other voices took up the chant, seeking to unnerve me. “Loose, loose, loose!”

I ignored them.

I breathed the Breath of Wind’s Sigh, drawing it up behind my eyes, remembering all that Master Lo Feng had taught me. I meditated on the calm I had found in the twilight. I willed my body to be still and quiet. I willed the
world
to be still and quiet.

The fitful wind died, and I loosed the bowstring.

My arrow arced into the blue, blue sky. Too high, I thought for the space of a heartbeat, my chest constricting. Once again, I had misjudged the angle.

And then my arrow completed its arc with consummate grace, falling to pierce the very heart of the red circle on my target.

I stood staring in disbelief.

The Tatar beside me, the taciturn fellow I’d reckoned my worst competition, clapped me on the shoulder. “Well shot, lady.”

I swallowed. “I didn’t… the wind. I was lucky.”

He shrugged. “There is always luck. The gods favored you today, and you deserved it.”

“Thank you,” I whispered.

The others were not so gracious. There were jeers and boos, and cries of sorcery. But it was done. The judges confirmed it and the official announced their decision. For the first time since I’d reached the final dozen, I dared to glance in the Great Khan’s direction.

Although the Great Khan Naram was a short, stocky fellow with bowed legs, he had a commanding presence nonetheless. His broad face was impassive, but his body language radiated disapproval, his bowed legs planted, his arms folded over his chest as he stood amongst his wives and children, watching the contest. Even as I wondered if I should approach him, he beckoned to one of his warriors and spoke to the man.

The warrior nodded and trotted over to me. “The Great Khan wishes to confer with his shamans,” he said. “He will send for you tomorrow.”

Given no choice in the matter, I bowed. “I await his summons.”

The Great Khan clapped his hands, turning to depart. Bao left his entourage and came over to congratulate me. He halted some feet away from me, and I felt the familiar-strange sensation of intimacy as our
diadh-anams
intertwined. Although Bao was taking care not to gloat, his eyes shone with pride.

“Gods, that was well done, Moirin,” he said in a low, fierce voice.

The victory didn’t feel as sweet as I would have reckoned. “Why does the Khan want to confer with his shamans?”

Bao shrugged. “He knows what boon you will ask. I suppose he wants to talk to them about releasing me from my marriage vows.”

“Oh.” I relaxed a little.

“You should go celebrate with your tribe.” He nodded toward Batu and the others. “They are nearly bursting with pride.” He gave me a smile filled with rare, genuine tenderness. “I feel the same way, but I will wait until the Great Khan’s boon is granted to show it.”

I smiled back at him. “Tomorrow, I hope.”

“I hope so, too,” he agreed.

Due to the amount of resentment in the camp, our celebration was muted, but it was heartfelt nonetheless. Many, many bowls of
airag
were consumed, the frothy, fermented mare’s milk all Tatars loved.

In the late hours of the night, Batu gave me a drunken, fatherly embrace. “If all goes well tomorrow, I hope you will be happy with your young man.”

“Thank you, Batu.” This time, I did plant a kiss on his cheek. “You have stood as a father to me, and I will always be grateful for it.”

It had been a long time since I’d drunk spirits of any kind; and too, I’d been too nervous to eat much that day. Although I did my best to keep up with my adopted Tatar tribe, the celebration was still under way when I gave up and staggered to my pallet, my head swimming with
airag
.

I felt dizzy, drunk, and more than a little nauseated; but I felt good, too. The warmth of the tribe’s response had let me savor my victory. As soon as the walls of the
ger
ceased the semblance of spinning around me, I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

It seemed as though only a few hours had passed when one of the tribeswomen shook me awake—Solongo, her name was. I propped myself up on one elbow and squinted at her through the haze filling my head.

“The Great Khan Naram sends for you, Moirin,” she whispered. “He wishes to see you
now
.”

“Oh.” The inside of my mouth felt foul. I licked my dry lips and swallowed against a sudden surge of nausea.

Solongo shook her head. “You may shoot like a man, but you cannot hold your drink like one,” she said, not unkindly. “I will bring you tea.”

The hot, rich tea helped. I drank it down in gulps, willing it to settle my stomach. The
ger
was filled with snoring, slumbering men sleeping off the aftereffects of too much
airag
. Not wanting to disturb anyone, I washed my face in a bucket of clean water and went to answer the Great Khan’s summons.

He had sent an escort of ten warriors. They greeted me with nods of acknowledgment, and we set off through the campsite. It
was
early. The sun had not yet cleared the horizon. In the east, faint streaks of gold lit the sky, but it was still dark in the west. The Khan’s men set a brisk pace, and I stumbled as I tried to keep up with them. I felt disheveled, disoriented, and out of sorts, and irritated at the Great Khan for exacting such a petty revenge.

Inside a spacious
ger
with a splendidly painted door, the Great Khan Naram was waiting for me, flanked by a pair of somber, bearded Vralian men with gold chains around their necks, heavy medallions dangling.

I blinked, perplexed. The Khan’s men crowded into the room behind me.

“Moirin mac Fainche.” Like General Arslan before him, the Khan pronounced my name with care. There was no expression I could read on his face. “These fine men from Vralia wish to meet you.”

Both of them inclined their heads.

I supposed they were among those few who had stayed out of idle curiosity. I couldn’t imagine why they cared about the outcome of a Tatar archery contest, or why they wanted to meet me, but I inclined my head in polite reply. When one of them stepped forward and extended his hand toward mine, I gave it to him.

Instantaneously, his fingers tightened around mine in a crushing grip. His other hand came from behind his back, trailing a rattling chain. Before I could react, he had clamped a cuff of silver metal around my wrist.

I pulled back sharply, drawing breath to shout.

A hard hand covered my mouth from behind—one of the Khan’s men. He twisted my head, wrenching it backward and sideways until my neck bones strained in agony.

Terror flooded through me.

Now the Great Khan’s face came alive with righteous fury. “Struggle, and he will snap your neck,” he hissed at me. “Do you understand?” Behind the warrior’s hand, I made a faint, terrified sound of assent. “Good.” He gestured at the Vralians to continue.

One of them produced a key, locking the silver cuff in place around my right wrist. I felt the beginning sensation of my spirit being suffocated, the way I still felt sometimes in man-made places. Panicked, I breathed hard through my nose.

Chains jangled. A second cuff was clamped on my left wrist, and then a larger circlet around my neck. The Tatar holding my head wrenched sideways moved considerately to make room for the Vralians, who worked gravely and dispassionately.

With each shackle, the sense of suffocation intensified—and my awareness of Bao’s
diadh-anam
faded.