Daughter of Xanadu - Dori Jones Yang [3]
On that day, we all wore white, the color of good luck and victory. I had borrowed a silk robe from my mother, because I had grown taller since the last big celebration. I craned my neck until I caught sight of my father, Prince Dorji. As the Great Khan’s eldest son, he stood by his side, the first in a row of many sons of the Khan’s four official wives. I felt a pang of joy. My father seldom claimed his rightful place at the Khan’s side.
Although my father was the eldest, the Khan bestowed his favor on his second son, Chimkin, Suren’s father. Chimkin had led armies, fought in battles, and won the respect of all at court. Instead of fighting, my father had run away to a Buddhist monastery. He walked with a limp, dragging one foot. Some of my cousins mocked him.
Suddenly, I felt like running. “Let’s go!” I said to Suren. I pulled back from the balustrade and pushed my way through the crowd of onlookers.
“Wait! Slow down!” Though no longer pudgy, as he had been as a boy, Suren was broad-shouldered and sturdy, not able to slip through the crowd as quickly as I could.
I headed for the steps and raced down them two by two. From the high balcony platform above the gate, the staircase curved around down the inside of a stone tower. Suren stumbled after me, his voice echoing in the empty tower. “Emmajin! Where are you going?” Unlike me, Suren never acted on impulse.
Across the courtyard and through the thick tunnel that was a front gate of the palace compound, I ran. I had always loved the most physical of activities: running fast, racing on horseback, practicing archery for hours on end until my arm muscles bulged. Even though I was a girl, I had built up my skills at all three Mongolian “manly arts”: horseracing, archery, and even wrestling, the one sport reserved for men only. I loved to compete with Suren and my other boy cousins, the young princes.
In the square in front of the Khan’s palace, crowds were jostling, and soldiers rammed them back, to keep the center of the square clear. With Suren trailing behind me, I dashed across the square toward the main avenue. Onlookers buzzed with jubilation, shouting and pointing as the horses, elephants, and soldiers advanced down the avenue toward us. Elation filled my body. I felt I could fly.
With his long legs, Suren caught up to me as I reached the parade route. “You can’t see as well from down here. We’re supposed to watch from—”
Just then a large man put his elbow in my face, pushing me back into the crowd. Out here, on the streets, royal grandchildren enjoyed no protection. I ducked my head to avoid getting a black eye. A look of consternation crossed Suren’s face.
I laughed. “Don’t you want to see the elephants close-up?”
I pressed my way south along the avenue, toward the parade. Drums and cymbals grew louder, mixing with the shouts. Guards pushed back small boys who ventured onto the street, trying to keep everyone behind a line of trees on either side. The tramp of hooves intensified. People around me began jumping, trying to get into position to see.
Finally, I found a good viewing spot, and Suren caught up. He flashed me a look of shared mischief, and I smiled. Only I could bring out the more playful side of Suren.
A single rider, richly dressed in silks and furs, led the parade, bearing a tall pole with the white horse-tail standard of the Mongols. Then two riders, and four, and finally eight riders abreast. Thousands of warriors streamed into the city.
My heart beat faster as I saw a strange bulk marching behind the horsemen. The elephant lumbered forward, gray and wrinkled, ten times the size of a horse or a camel, with legs as thick as huge tree trunks and a nose like a long snake hanging from between