Daughter of Xanadu - Dori Jones Yang [10]
For years, Suren and I had organized tournaments for the boy cousins in the back courtyards of the palace. No boy had spent as many hours as I had perfecting skills in both still and mounted archery. Recently, as Suren and Temur were becoming men, their arms were getting stronger than mine, but I still could beat them, most of the time. My pride would not allow me to sit and watch them compete—with the Great Khan judging them—knowing that I could win.
Temur stood at the heart of the crowd, gesticulating and barking orders. He organized the contestants into groups. Ages ten and eleven would compete together, then twelve and thirteen, then fourteen and fifteen. This was my last day as a fifteen-year-old.
Suren saw me from a distance as I entered the crowded courtyard. His eyebrows shot up when he saw the quiver of arrows at my back. I made my way through the crowd to where they stood. When Temur noticed me, armed with my bow and arrows, he shook his head. Others stepped aside as I strode up to them. Temur began to object, but Suren cut him off.
“Emmajin will compete with us.” For once, Suren’s voice sounded decisive.
“No girls,” Temur said.
“Only Emmajin.” Suren stared him down. The two brothers engaged in a brief power struggle. As a younger brother, Temur was bound to obey, but Suren had seldom insisted. “You’re not confident you can beat her?” Suren challenged him.
Temur turned to me, his eyes burning with resentment. “It would be better for you, Elder Sister, if you did not compete.” “Elder Sister” was a term of respect, but it did not hide Temur’s anger.
His plan was suddenly clear to me: he had counted on defeating his brother in public. And Suren hoped to cling to his superior position by beating Temur. If I won, I would humiliate both brothers, before the Khan. Although I wanted to demonstrate my skills to the Khan, I certainly did not want to humiliate Suren. I hesitated a moment, feeling a flash of compassion for both Suren and Temur. But Temur’s defiant scowl justified my decision and strengthened my desire to win. I had too much at stake to turn away.
“Younger Brother,” I said to Temur, “I will compete.”
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.