Naamah's Curse - Jacqueline Carey [47]
It wasn’t, though. Accuracy counted.
With a grunt, he loosed the bowstring. His arrow sank into the distant target, landing on the outer rim of the red circle. His supporters cheered and shouted.
It was the second fellow who worried me the most. He was lean and taciturn, and he shot with great accuracy and ferocious concentration. It was he whose last shot had been dead-center. He took his place at the mark, drawing his bow with fluid precision.
Another gust of wind blew as he loosed his arrow, more lively than the first. Even so, his arrow pierced very close to the center of the target. My last opponent gave a little sigh, and an unexpected, courteous bow in my direction.
Holding my bow loosely, I toed the mark. The onlookers had grown quiet. I didn’t dare look at them, not even my few supporters, fearful of losing my own concentration.
I had missed the circle on my last shot. This one could mean the difference between safe passage, no matter how reluctantly granted, and deadly pursuit.
I chose the straightest shaft in my quiver, the one I had left for the end, nocking it carefully. Gently, gently, I hooked my forefingers around the bowstring and drew it back beyond my ear.
My heart thudded in my chest, and my extended left arm trembled, my knuckles pale where I clutched my bow’s grip. Beneath the thick Tatar coat I wore, trickles of nervous sweat trailed down my skin. A fitful breeze rose and fell, tugging at my hair.
I fixed my gaze on the distant target. Gods, it looked far away and small!
There were no official commands to be given in this final round. A handful of spectators took it on themselves to remedy the situation.
“Loose!” someone shouted; and scores of other voices took up the chant, seeking to unnerve me. “Loose, loose, loose!”
I ignored them.
I breathed the Breath of Wind’s Sigh, drawing it up behind my eyes, remembering all that Master Lo Feng had taught me. I meditated on the calm I had found in the twilight. I willed my body to be still and quiet. I willed the world to be still and quiet.
The fitful wind died, and I loosed the bowstring.
My arrow arced into the blue, blue sky. Too high, I thought for the space of a heartbeat, my chest constricting. Once again, I had misjudged the angle.
And then my arrow completed its arc with consummate grace, falling to pierce the very heart of the red circle on my target.
I stood staring in disbelief.
The Tatar beside me, the taciturn fellow I’d reckoned my worst competition, clapped me on the shoulder. “Well shot, lady.”
I swallowed. “I didn’t… the wind. I was lucky.”
He shrugged. “There is always luck. The gods favored you today, and you deserved it.”
“Thank you,” I whispered.
The others were not so gracious. There were jeers and boos, and cries of sorcery. But it was done. The judges confirmed it and the official announced their decision. For the first time since I’d reached the final dozen, I dared to glance in the Great Khan’s direction.
Although the Great Khan Naram was a short, stocky fellow with bowed legs, he had a commanding presence nonetheless. His broad face was impassive, but his body language radiated disapproval, his bowed legs planted, his arms folded over his chest as he stood amongst his wives and children, watching the contest. Even as I wondered if I should approach him, he beckoned to one of his warriors and spoke to the man.
The warrior nodded and trotted over to me. “The Great Khan wishes to confer with his shamans,” he said. “He will send for you tomorrow.”
Given no choice in the matter, I bowed. “I await his summons.”
The Great Khan clapped his hands, turning to depart. Bao left his entourage and came over to congratulate me. He halted some feet away from me, and I felt the familiar-strange sensation of intimacy as our diadh-anams intertwined. Although Bao was taking care not to gloat, his eyes shone