Daughter of Xanadu - Dori Jones Yang [87]
But it felt wrong. Suren’s concern rang in my ears. A heavy weight in my heart felt as dark as the new moon. It was not the right moment for joy. As much as I had wanted Marco, for so long, my heart would not allow it now.
“I don’t know what to say,” I replied. “The sky is so dark without the moonlight.”
Marco could see I was holding back. “The stars are distant, but beautiful. I will always admire them.”
Suddenly, I wanted to cry. Nothing would ever be right in my life again. I thought of Ai-Jaruk going off to battles with her father and returning home to an empty bed. Her story had seemed happy when I had first heard it. Now it seemed tragic.
“I must go now.” I could barely choke out the words. I turned and walked quickly to my empty bed.
On the third day of the New Year, we set off from Carajan. With a heavy heart, I left with Abaji and the remaining soldiers.
Before our departure, Little Li and some men had brought the eight young dragons from their village to Da-li, carrying them in baskets suspended from poles balanced on their shoulders. In a courtyard of Nesruddin’s palace, they constructed wooden pavilions and secured them on top of the elephants. Inside were special pens to hold the juvenile dragons in shallow water. Each dragon had its own pen, to protect them from snapping at one another. It turned out to be the perfect solution to the problem of transporting the dragons over long distances. Marco was bringing back a little of the magic of Carajan.
During my two-month journey back to the capital, I kept wishing I could be with Marco, traveling through lowlands with the elephants and dragons. Night after night, I regretted my decision not to go with Marco that night of the new moon. I let my mind wander, imagining what might have happened.
I also agonized about my future. What could I ask of the Great Khan? I could not become a military commander. I no longer wanted to fight in battles, and I certainly did not want to conquer Marco’s homeland.
General Abaji, I knew, would recommend to the Khan that we attack Burma as soon as possible, to exploit the king of Burma’s weakness after his loss at Vochan. Abaji wanted to raise an army in Khanbalik and return quickly. But I would not take part in that battle. The future seemed like a blank wall that I was racing toward every day.
Shortly before we arrived in Khanbalik, early in Third Moon, a small party of horsemen headed by my cousin Temur came out to greet us.
Temur seemed older, with a deeper voice and a hint of a mustache. He wanted to hear about Suren’s death before others did. He acted sad, but Suren’s death made Temur the Khan’s eldest grandson. If his father, Chimkin, succeeded our grandfather, as expected, Temur might someday become Khan himself.
Temur nearly burst with his own news. “General, you have heard the good news? Our troops have taken Kinsay.”
This news sent a lightning bolt through my body. Kinsay was the capital of the Southern Sung dynasty, center of power for southern China.
Two soldiers who were riding close enough to hear cheered. “A victory in Kinsay! All China is ours!” Our army had been fighting in southern China for fifteen years. Now the Khan’s empire stretched to the sea in the South and the East, adding hundreds of thousands of subjects in the world’s wealthiest country. It was a huge victory, the biggest Khubilai Khan could achieve.
“I was there,” Temur said with pride, “with the army as we marched into Kinsay. It was a glorious moment.”
“Was the fighting fierce?” I asked.
Temur shook his head in dismay. “Our great general had conquered so many of their cities that the rulers of China knew it was pointless to resist. The mother of the boy emperor conceded without a battle. Our troops rode into Kinsay with no opposition.”
This news hit me hard. Suren had died in a battle that had not gained new territory for the Empire. Yet the glory would go to Temur and the army that occupied Kinsay.
We dismounted to hear the rest of