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The nun poured some boiled water into a bowl and handed it to me to drink. She sat near the wall, watching like a chaperone.

“I hear you fought in a battle,” my father began. “I’m glad to see you alive.”

“But Suren,” I began. I choked, unable to continue.

He shook his head in sorrow. I was glad I would not have to explain. “Such a fine young man. You two were so close.”

I didn’t know what to say, and my words tumbled out. “I just wish I could … The battle wasn’t what I expected. Bodies everywhere. Even horses killed! And Suren … I saw … I never thought … I was so angry. I wanted revenge. Once I killed an enemy soldier, I couldn’t stop killing.”

A flash of pain surged across my father’s face, but he waited for me to finish.

“It all seems so pointless now,” I continued. “How can I go on without Suren?”

I had thought he might be angry or say I told you so, but he seemed sad. “Suffering is a part of life. I am sorry you had to learn this so young.”

He began to speak in a calm, flowing voice. He told me that he had been a soldier, too, when he was my age. I had not known this. My father had joined the army at the age of sixteen, as the eldest son of Khubilai, who was then a minor prince of the Golden Family. In the army, he had come down with a terrible disease. He could not move and could barely breathe. Many others died of this disease, but he recovered. He had had to learn to use his arms and legs again, which was why he limped.

As he spoke, the tension in my shoulders began to ease. “I was told you fell from a horse,” I said. Such a fall is the ultimate shame for a Mongol.

His lips formed a grim line. “I did, later. I tried to ride too soon, before my legs had regained full strength. That fall made it harder to learn to walk again.”

My heart filled with sympathy.

“For years, I hunted for answers. I wanted to know why I had suffered from this disease. Why I could not lead a normal life like my younger brothers. My mother, the Empress Chabi, was the only one who seemed to understand.”

My mother, in a moment of bitterness, had once blamed the Empress for taking my father away from her. Now I knew why. My father would never have become a Buddhist if not for his mother. But she had helped him in a moment of turmoil.

“And what of the family you left behind?” I asked him.

“I knew you would be well cared for at court.”

I looked away. It was not a sufficient answer. Growing up, I had felt fatherless. Suren’s father, Prince Chimkin, was always nearby, but he did not take my father’s place.

My father continued. “I tried to quiet my heart, to put aside the difficulties at court. But I see now that I also lost much joy. The joy of watching you grow up.”

My heart lurched. The sorrow in his face had deepened.

“You lost Suren,” he said. “I lost you.”

I watched as his eyes teared up. His loss, unlike mine, had been by choice. We sat in silence a few moments. My bitterness softened.

“So Buddhism does not have all the answers,” I said at last.

He tilted his head, giving my comment serious consideration. “No one has all the answers. But it’s important to keep searching. There is much wisdom in these sutras. Back when I was at court, my heart was in distress. I did not see the world the way other men did. Fighting wars cannot make the world a better place.”

He stopped to check my eyes, as if to see whether I was truly listening. I nodded.

“Every life is worthwhile. Every sentient being, including animals. Even those of the enemy soldiers you killed on the battlefield.”

I looked away, remembering. Some of the dead horses had had frozen expressions of fear. Some of those Burmese faces had looked like Little Li. At the time, I had hated them all. Did any of them have cousins, like me, who were mourning their deaths?

“The Burmese attacked us,” I said, only half convinced. “They sent a huge army, with elephants, over the border. This battle was their fault.”

He shook his head. “Someone always gives a good reason for war. Sometimes it even has a positive outcome.