Daughter of Xanadu - Dori Jones Yang [93]
This Tara looked young, with a plump face of smooth jade-white skin, arched eyebrows, a slim and graceful figure. Adorned with jewelry on her ears and neck and wrists, she sat on an open lotus, holding a blue flower on a long stem. Her expression was sweet and consoling.
Tara had an extra eye, set sideways, in her forehead, and also an eye on the palm of each hand and the sole of each foot. Each one was a thick black line, but nonetheless recognizable as an eye. Seven eyes altogether. Ever vigilant, she could see all suffering in the world. Her eyes were gentle, not judging. Yet she could see right through my rough exterior, past my bold name of Emmajin and my status as a soldier, into my soul.
As her eyes locked onto mine, I felt my turmoil melt like butter in hot sun. Her compassion flowed into me, through my eyes, down my throat, into the deepest parts of my body. The amulet glowed warm in my palm.
A beam of clear thinking shone into my mind. I could not flee from the world and become a nun. It was not in my nature. I needed to go back out into the world and do whatever I could to save Christendom and Marco. To make future battles unnecessary. To build a bridge between our people, the Mongols, and those from faraway lands.
I knew this suddenly, standing before the image of Tara, born of tears, whose compassion for living beings was stronger than a mother’s love for her children. She had come back into the world to help people like me. She was in my father; she was in Princess Miaoyan. She was, from that moment, in me.
Breathing deeply, I lost track of time. In that place, I was not a warrior—not even a granddaughter of the Khan—or a princess who loved Marco Polo. The boundaries between me and the world around me faded. I was becoming something new, something I could not quite figure out, yet it filled me with calm.
The next morning, I took leave of my father. I explained that I needed time to figure out what I would do, but I doubted I could become a nun. He blessed me and sent me back into the world. The tension between us had melted away.
As I was leaving, I noticed a short, wide woman dressed in elegant silks—my grandmother Chabi. Although her moon-shaped face was not beautiful, she emanated regal dignity.
“Honored grandmother,” I said, falling to my knees to kowtow.
“No need,” she said. “You are returning to Khanbalik today? Ride with me.”
Like all the grandchildren, I was a little afraid of my grandmother. She was the highest ranking of Khubilai Khan’s four wives. She seldom spent time with us or her daughters-in-law, who also feared her. She seemed stern, and I expected a lecture from her. Become a nun. It’s your only choice, I imagined her telling me. As far as I knew, Chabi had never stepped out of the role expected of her as Empress.
To my surprise, my grandmother insisted on riding her own horse. Other royal women rode in closed carriages, suspended from poles carried on porters’ shoulders.
Chabi sat erect and confident in her wooden saddle, which was covered with gold and silver medallions. She gestured for me to ride just behind her, near the front of her traveling party, which included armed guards. I didn’t want to discuss my decision and was relieved when she kept silent as we rode together single file down the hillside.
Once we reached the flat land, the Empress gestured for me to ride next to her. “Do you see, girl, the contrast in greens?” she said. “That fresh, light green of the new leaves on the broadleaf trees against the darker color of the evergreens?”
Startled, I didn’t know what to say. She had an accent from her native tribe, the Naimans, who were once our enemies. Her marriage had sealed our alliance with them.
“Notice the dappled shadows on the road, so clear in this bright sunlight. And do you see? The blue of the sky is deeper back there, above the hills, than it is overhead. Look at the red-brown of the earth. These are the natural colors of our world.”
It was not