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“Tell me, Emmajin,” said my grandmother. “You wanted to join the army and fight a battle, and now you have succeeded. Will you remain in the army?”

I squirmed in my saddle. “The Khan honored me when he allowed me to join the army. I understand that.”

“But now,” she continued, “what do you want most in your life?”

“My father wants me to enter the nunnery.”

“But you wish to return to the world, to do good, like Tara.”

If I had said these words, it would have been presumptuous. But when Chabi said them, they seemed right. “Yes. I would like to do something different, somehow. To make a difference.”

She smiled. It was a tiny smile in the broad expanse of her face. “Women do not usually make a difference in the world.”

I looked at her. She was a woman who made a difference, through her influence on her husband. “I can try.”

She smiled and nodded approval. “I hope you can become a messenger of peace.”

Peace. The word sounded different when spoken by a Mongol empress. After the terrors of battle, I found it appealing.

“Attention! Stand by for the entrance of the defeated!”

The Khan’s small audience hall, filled with joyful chatter, went silent. We all turned to the front door, where the sunlight silhouetted three small figures. The deposed Chinese emperor—a little boy—entered the Khan’s hall with his mother and grandmother. They walked in soundlessly, on slippered feet. Both women hobbled with tiny steps, because their feet had been broken and bound when they were children—a Chinese aristocratic custom that Mongolian women regarded with disgust.

I had quietly entered the hall through the back entrance to witness this historic moment. The Khan had invited all his sons and grandsons and his highest officials. My father was not present, but Chimkin stood near the Khan, as did Temur. I stood behind them, out of sight. The Khan, with his massive bulk, high on his wide throne, was ready to receive obeisance from a small boy whose bow would acknowledge Khubilai Khan as Emperor of all China.

Together they stood before the Great Khan. I craned my neck to see their faces, which were grave. The grandmother, once known as the Empress Dowager, had been the real power behind the throne in southern China. Her face was lined with defeat. Her back was hunched and she leaned on a cane. Next to her stood a beautiful young woman, not much older than twenty, willowy and graceful, looking devastated. Beside her, no longer holding her hand, stood the boy, who was six. Until recently, he had been called the Emperor of China, a title he had inherited at four, when his father had died. He looked frightened but did not fidget. The historical might of China had come down to these three frail figures.

All three wore robes of silk, but not their imperial robes. In China, by tradition, only the emperor wears robes embroidered with dragons, and only empresses wear robes with the symbol of the phoenix. That day, the Great Khan’s yellow robe was covered with imperial dragons, showing that he was now Emperor of all China, north and south. Seated next to him, Chabi wore a robe covered with phoenixes.

The Great Khan had returned early from his hunting trip, to welcome General Bayan after his victory in the South. General Bayan had entered the city in a victory parade, with large cheering crowds. Temur had ridden in that parade. I had stayed in my room, not wishing to witness the glory heaped on General Bayan and his men. The victory feast would be held a few days later, at the Khan’s hunting camp.

Now, the day after the parade, the Great Khan had called all forty-seven of his sons, from all his wives and concubines, to witness his treatment of the deposed imperial family of China. I was not invited but no one stopped me at the rear door.

I had heard rumors that despite Chabi’s pleas, the Khan planned to execute them. Far too many of our great Mongol warriors had died because the Chinese had resisted for nearly twenty years. To let these former monarchs live would