Daughter of Xanadu - Dori Jones Yang [12]
“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.
The 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