Daughter of Xanadu - Dori Jones Yang [82]
I nearly gagged. To Marco, the battle was nothing more than a story. He would gather the facts and prepare a good tale for the entertainment of the Great Khan. The battle of Vochan would go down in history, and his would be the official version.
A surge of anger flared through me. Marco had not fought. He had stood to the side and observed. He had done nothing to ensure the victory, yet the Khan and his men would shout, “Good! Good!” as if he himself had laid his life on the line. Suren was dead, and Marco wanted details, like a vulture picking at carrion.
“Emmajin Beki?” He could see the shadow covering my face. I pulled away from his touch. “I loved him, too, you know,” he said.
I looked away, remembering how Marco and Suren had seemed like brothers just a few days earlier, sharing the excitement of dragon hunting. I had never seen Suren so happy.
“You fought well,” Marco said, as if to soothe me. “There is much to celebrate.”
I whipped around and stared into those green eyes, which seemed empty again. “No. Suren lies dead. And you did nothing.” Suddenly, this man, dear to me a moment before, seemed like a court fool.
He dropped his arms to his sides, looking at me sadly.
“You just watched from a hillside as we fought.” I spoke with venom in my voice. “Or were you in your tent, writing?”
Marco looked stricken.
Abaji lumbered over to us. “Emmajin.” He, too, tried to touch me but I pulled away. “Emmajin. You have not heard.”
“What!” My voice cut like a saber across a man’s throat.
“It was Marco’s idea. He has no military training, but his idea helped us win.”
“What idea?” Whatever it was, I cared not.
“He brought the fire medicine to use against the elephants. Those explosions.”
I looked hard at Abaji and then at Marco.
“We owe him thanks. We could not have won otherwise.”
The explosions that had frightened the elephants. The fire rats and the powder Marco had collected in the dragon village. Yet I could not believe that Abaji was giving credit to Marco for our victory. We did the fighting and killing.
Seeing my anger, grief, and disbelief, Marco looked at his hands.
“But you, Emmajin Beki!” Abaji continued. “I hear you killed one hundred enemy soldiers.” One hundred. I had never said that number. Later stories expanded it to one thousand. But it was not valor or glory that had driven me. It was anger and retribution. Ugly actions driven by ugly motives.
“You must be hungry.” Abaji seemed eager to soothe me. “Have some meat.”
I could not eat. Blood and mud caked on my hands. I went to the stream and washed. My hands came clean, but the stains of battle were embedded in my clothing and my heart. I went to my ger and sat a long time. Suren was dead. Marco and I were alive. I had proved I could fight like a man. But there was no thrill in it.
I did not dream of the horrors of battle that night, although I have many times since. But halfway through the night, I heard Suren calling my name. I woke up saying, “Yes? What is it?” thinking he was sleeping next to me, as he had during our latest journey. Even in the darkness, though, I could sense that he wasn’t there.
Images from the battle flashed through my mind. I tried to shut them out and remember Suren’s face at peace. “What shall I tell your father and the Khan?” I pleaded, ever more desperate to hear him answer. “Suren!” I nearly shouted. My heart was barren and my eyes were dry. I could feel his spirit there with me. I knew well that angry ghosts often haunted those they had quarreled with, but I had never quarreled with Suren. I wanted to tell his unsettled spirit to leave and find peace, but I didn’t have the heart to.
The next morning, at first light, we buried Suren’s body. This far from home, we could not wait for the lamas to declare an auspicious day. As a prince of the Golden Family, he was placed in a coffin, with his sword by his side, a rock under his head, and Marco’s blue scarf around his neck. His grave was unmarked, but I tried to remember the spot—the slope of the hill and a large rock nearby.