Daughter of Xanadu - Dori Jones Yang [107]
“Aaaah!” Their approval was touching, though for something I had not done.
“The king redirected his sword to her horse, and she, too, fell to the ground. Full of rage, the king set upon her with his heavy sword. He would have killed her in an instant. But Prince Suren deflected the blow. The king’s sword hit the ground just inches from Emmajin’s head. Suren stepped in to protect her. The king raised his sword and sliced the young prince’s neck. The gallant prince dropped to his knees, grabbing his wound, trying to staunch the gush of blood. Prince Suren, beloved grandson of the great Khubilai Khan, sixteen years old, fell in battle, under the sword of a mighty king that fateful day.”
Marco paused, his eyes cast down, as if in tribute. The men went silent, too, stunned and horrified. Prince Chimkin looked stricken. A tear glistened in Temur’s eye.
“The king was about to plunge his sword into the prince’s gut. But Princess Emmajin, full of rage, plunged her dagger deep into his back, just below the rib cage. The king staggered and fell to one knee. His sword clattered uselessly to the ground. Emmajin wielded her dagger, ready to slash the king’s throat, as well. But his men crowded in to protect their wounded king. She turned to help her cousin. But it was too late. With a sigh, Suren breathed his last. She knelt by his side, weeping inexhaustible tears.”
Hundreds of men sat in silence. Mongol soldiers all, they were moved beyond speech. Tears rolled down my cheeks. The facts were false, but the spirit was true. Listening to his words, I had watched the battle happen just as he described it, and so had all the men. I took a jagged breath, remembering the look on Suren’s face as he had died.
Temur reached over and put his hand on top of mine. His face was contorted in grief. As much as they had competed against each other, the brothers had been close.
I was glad Marco did not go on to tell how I had slain dozens of enemies in revenge. Perhaps Marco knew that I did not want the men celebrating that.
“Here she is, soldiers of the Khan: your heroine, victor of the battle of Vochan, granddaughter of the Khan of all Khans, first woman to serve in the Mongol army, warrior of legend, your own princess Emmajin!”
Marco gestured at me, and I stood. All eyes were on me, and the men’s cheers sounded like thunder. I took a moment to compose myself. Marco reached his hand to me. I climbed up onto the table and stood next to him. He held my hand high and stood a half step behind me, allowing me full glory.
The Khan’s wide face glowed with pride, as if he had believed in me from the beginning. His open approval meant the world to me.
My heart nearly burst. Marco’s hand was warm, as if pulsing from the exertion of the battle, and its strength leaped into mine. I felt as though I had lived my life for this moment, for this feeling of pride and recognition, these shouts and whistles of admiration. The cheers lifted me and carried me above the scene so that I was looking down on throngs of valiant Mongol men. They were yelling as if their lungs would burst, raising their fists to the sky, declaring to the universe the endless glory of the Mongol race.
I had not known as a child exactly what I was aiming for all those years, racing on horseback and practicing archery, or even as a soldier, riding across the farmlands and mountains of the great Mongol Empire. But at that moment, I knew.
Thanks to Marco and his skill at storytelling, I had become a legend.
The feeling was wonderful. But I knew that the story was false, as perhaps all true heroes do. These men needed a hero, but I no longer needed to be one.
Slowly, I pulled at the thong around my neck, till my fingers touched the dragon’s tooth that had meant so much to Suren. I slipped it over my head and held it high so that even the men in the back could see it.
The men quieted. I showed it first to the Khan, then to Chimkin, Temur, and the