Daughter of Xanadu - Dori Jones Yang [13]
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.