Daughter of Xanadu - Dori Jones Yang [44]
“From the beginning, then, your purpose was to gather information about my homeland, so the Great Khan could decide how best to invade and conquer it.”
I looked away, watching the bushes for signs of movement. That had been the Khan’s purpose in assigning me to this task. I had succeeded. Now it felt wrong.
At what point during the summer had my feelings changed? During that elephant pavilion ride with the Khan, my choices had appeared clear and simple: Loyal without question, I had wanted to prove myself capable by gathering the information the Khan had requested. Then, gradually, meeting by meeting, in the gardens and grasslands, I had learned to see the world through Marco’s eyes. Now loyalty to one man felt like betrayal to another.
Those jade eyes bored into me, and I needed to defend myself. “It was my assignment, before I knew your name, Marco Polo. If I do well, I will be allowed to join the Khan’s army. That is my dream.” Even as I said the words, I thought, What have I done? This man had never harmed me, never tried to control me. He had trusted me. Now I had sown the seeds of the destruction of his homeland.
Marco rolled over onto his back, still clutching his ankle. “What a fool I’ve been.”
I looked again at his thick curly beard, his reddish hair, his delicate lips, his well-formed eyebrows over those deep-set eyes whose color changed in every light. How often had he made me laugh and forget my worries? Just as I had shown him the sights of Xanadu, he had introduced me to the wonders of the world beyond, painting verbal pictures. I blushed as I remembered the map he had traced on my back.
I reached to touch his shoulder. “Marco, I …”
He rolled his head in my direction, and I cringed at the deep disgust in his face. I hated the person he saw.
“Marco. I wanted to tell you. But what could I say?”
His face darkened with anger.
Marco laughed bitterly. “Ah, Emmajin Beki. My noble lady.” His sarcasm dripped like acid onto burnished metal. “We Latins are people, like you. We love our homeland as much as anyone.”
My face burned. When I had told my uncle about the strategy, I had felt torn. But I had assumed that Marco would never know of my role. Now it seemed possible, even likely, that the Khan would send me on a mission to invade Marco’s homeland. Instead of triumph, I felt shame.
Venezia was far away, and Marco was here, glaring at me. Now that I had lost his friendship, his admiration, I realized how much I cared for him. My heart felt stabbed.
Once we knew we had not been followed, Marco leaned on me and limped back to his ger. His anger and resentment weighed heavy on my shoulder.
He did not say good-bye. I was certain I would never speak to him again.
Finally, it rained in Xanadu. A heavy storm one night blew branches off trees and watered the parched grasses of the meadows. The thunder and lightning woke me. At first, it seemed a punishment by Tengri, Eternal Heaven. But no lightning struck in the valley of Xanadu, so we took it as a good sign: God’s anger was directed elsewhere.
The next morning, the grasses shone greener and the world seemed made afresh. A cool breeze softened the air, chasing away the heavy humidity.
Suren and I grabbed our swords and headed for our secret clearing in the woods. We began our daily practice, slashing cloth-wrapped sword against sword. Thunks and whaps rang out, instead of clangs of metal. The slices and blows were a wonderful way to vent my anger and confusion.
We had not been practicing long when we heard the sounds of horses crashing through the trees to our secluded site. The entourage was hidden until the last minute.
Entering our clearing was the Great Khan’s palanquin, carried by six servants. When they had pushed up the last twist of trail, they carefully lowered the carriage, draped in imperial yellow silk covered with dragons.
Suren and I froze. We had no time to run or hide the signs of our forbidden activity. We bowed low, heads to the ground, swords laid out before us in the wet grass. When we heard the