Daughter of Xanadu (8 page)

Marco laughed. “It is just a city, but with its own army.”

“It belongs to a larger country?”

“Well, it is part of Christendom,” he said, using a Mongolian word meaning “Land of the Religion of Light.” “But Christendom has many countries and city-states.”

He picked up a stick and began to draw a map in the dirt.

“This is Italia.” The shape he drew looked like a boot with a strange heel. “Here is Venezia.” He made a circle near the top of the boot. “Here is Genova, our rival city. They, too, have many ships and merchants, and we compete with them for the best markets.”

I noticed that his fingers were long and thin, soft and clean. “They fight?” I asked.

“More like competing in a contest. This, you see”—he scratched the area on three sides of the boot—“is the Middle-of-the-Earth Sea. Up here is France, where the Franks live, and above that is England. Over here, Aragon.” He continued drawing and poking in the dirt, naming a confusing array of countries, each with its own king.

I frowned. There were too many foreign names to remember. It was like trying to stuff a month’s worth of dried meat into a leather pouch meant for overnight.

I stopped him. “Who is the ruler of these lands?”

He thought for a minute. “We don’t have one ruler, like your Great Khan. Some of these lands belong to the Holy Roman Empire. But many do not. They are not united.”

I shook my head.

He appeared to smile, or at least I thought so. I could not see his mouth but noticed wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. “We do have a Pope, in Roma. He is the head of our religion. When my father brought him a letter from the Great Khan, he responded, hoping for friendly relations.”

“His armies are large and well trained?”

Marco smiled as if this were a strange question. “He has troops to protect him. But he is not a military ruler. You see, all these lands are …” He kept talking.

I soon gave up trying to follow what he was saying, with so many foreign words. Behind the big beard was an earnest expression, but his eyes sparkled. His hands moved in mesmerizing gestures when he spoke. What would such a smooth hand feel like?

He had stopped talking and was regarding me intently. I was forgetting myself. I needed to ask easier questions.

“And your people …” I hesitated, wondering if I was being too direct again. “They have eyes of many colors? Red? Yellow? Blue?”

Marco laughed. “No. Only blue, green, and brown.”

“And your people’s hair?” He did not seem to mind my questions. “Also green and blue?” After all, anything other
than black hair and dark brown eyes had been beyond my imagination until I saw him.

He smiled. “Some people have yellow hair. Some red. Some brown, like mine.”

Yellow hair! I had heard that hair turned yellow only when people were starving.

“Blue eyes are not unheard of in your land, are they?” he said. “I have heard that even your Great Ancestor, Chinggis Khan, had blue eyes and reddish hair.”

This comment took me aback. But I remembered vaguely that I had heard such a thing from Old Master. It had seemed impossible, since everyone I knew in the Golden Family had dark hair and dark eyes. We all worshipped the Great Ancestor, so I had never thought of him as a flesh-and-blood person.

“Now I have a question for you, Emmajin Beki.” Marco lowered his voice. “During my long journey across the lands of the Mongol Empire, I heard that Mongols drink horses’ blood. Yet I have not seen anyone drinking blood at court. Is this true?”

I laughed out loud at the thought of horses’ blood in a goblet at dinner. Then I quickly stopped, lest he feel foolish for asking. “It is sometimes true. On very long journeys, if there is no other food, a Mongol soldier might cut a vein in his horse’s flesh. He allows the blood to spurt into his mouth, just enough to keep him alive.”

Marco’s face showed disgust.

I quickly added, “But soldiers do this only when they are starving and have no other source of food. It shows they are smart and resourceful.”

Marco shook his head, as if trying to absorb this strange fact. He seemed as relieved as I had been to know that his countrymen did not have green hair. What fears we have of foreigners and their strange ways!

He leaned a little closer. “I truly did not mean to offend you after the archery contest. I only wanted to tell you I admired your nobility.”

Conscious of my purple-yellow cheeks, I looked away. For a few moments, I had forgotten my public humiliation.

He persisted. “I have heard that you are an excellent archer.”

An excellent archer! What did he know of archery, this man who could barely ride on a Mongolian saddle? “Who told you this?” I asked harshly.

“At the contest, I heard others speak of you. People thought you would win.”

Win
. My face flushed. All the shame of the archery tournament washed over me, as if someone had tossed a bucket of cold water onto my body.

The foreigner continued. “Many praise your archery skills. Can you show me?”

I picked up my bow. After the awkwardness of conversation, it was a relief to feel its smooth surface and familiar weight.

In the sky, a golden eagle was soaring. Without a word, I stood up. I placed an arrow on my bow and pulled back the string until it was as tight as it could be. My hands held perfectly steady as I aimed at a spot just in front of the eagle. I waited until a precise moment before releasing. The arrow arched high and fast.

The eagle soared on, oblivious to my aim. Some arrows would have fallen before reaching that height, but mine did not.

It hit its target. The eagle faltered and fell in an ungainly arc.

Marco let out a breath of admiration. My chest swelled with pride.

The eagle landed with a thud on the ground. A realization pierced me. Hunting in the Khan’s private reserve without his permission was forbidden. I had just broken a rule that was strictly enforced.

I gasped as if wounded. I ran toward the fallen bird. Marco followed me.

The eagle was a beautiful, huge creature, majestic and powerful, as long as my arm. It had light brown wings, a black tail, a golden crown and nape, great curved talons, and piercing orange-brown eyes. This bird of prey was much treasured by hunters. Any man who could bring one back alive would be rewarded.

But this eagle was not alive. Its body was warm, but its heart had stopped. My arrow had broken its wing. The fall had broken its neck.

I rocked back on my heels, in shock. It was too handsome to die from my arrow. I caressed its golden feathers, sorry I had taken its life. I struggled to control my tears.

Marco’s smile had faded.

Quickly, I pulled out my dagger and began digging a hole to bury the eagle.

“It is forbidden,” I explained. I flailed as I dug. Once, I had seen the head of a decapitated man who had flouted the Khan’s hunting rules. Now I had violated not only the law
but also the hunter’s ethics, killing a fine bird for no reason other than my own pride.

Marco gingerly touched the bird’s still-warm chest. He stroked the wing and carefully plucked out one of the longest, most golden of its tail feathers.

I, too, could not help admiring the glorious creature. Even its legs were covered with feathers. I had ended the life of this magnificent bird. Why had I needed to prove my strength to this man? Why should I care what he thought of me?

Gently, I placed the eagle into the hole and covered it with dirt. When I finished, I realized that Marco was standing over me, holding the long golden feather.

My hands in the dirt—
Mongols don’t dig in the dirt
—I caught his eye. Perhaps now he would fear and respect me. But he knew about something that he could use against me. Perhaps he would blackmail me. He knew where I had buried the eagle, and he had a feather to prove it. Fear flooded me.

I stood and looked him in the eyes, as threatening as I could be. “Tell no one.”

He silently nodded.

As I turned to head toward the horses, Marco Polo lightly touched the back of my shoulder. His fingers sent a startling sensation through my body. I jumped.

He pulled back, aware of his mistake. In his hand, offered to me, was the eagle’s splendid feather.

Eyes focused on his, I closed my fingers over the feather, nodding my gratitude. His eyes, somber, sealed our secret pact. I hid the feather inside the front of my
del
.

We mounted our horses and rode back down the hill in silence. That spot on my shoulder tingled.

When we reached the valley and returned to the tethers, I told him I would show him the gardens the next day—in the afternoon.

He bowed his head slightly. “I would be honored.”

I had made the worst mistake of my life, and this foreigner knew about it. What was it about him that had distracted me from common sense? He was a mere foreign merchant, and I the granddaughter of the Khan. Now he had power over me but had offered not to wield it. I wondered if I was a fool to trust him.

T
he heavy sword wobbled as Suren raised it above his head. He could not control its weight as it crashed down. Its tip hit the ground, far from the spot he aimed to hit.

Suren was preparing to join the army, so he was finally allowed to learn to use a sword. I found him early the next morning in a glade in the Khan’s woods, practicing.

My heart fell when I saw that he was sparring with Temur, who also held a sword. I had hoped to confide in Suren about my foreigner, to get his advice. But I could not speak freely in front of his brother. Temur would not be sixteen for another year, so he should not be allowed to touch a sword till his time to join the army came.

“I thought you were supposed to start with wooden swords,” I said.

Suren grinned when he saw me. “That’s what the sword master said yesterday when we started to train with him. But we couldn’t resist.”

“Don’t tell anyone!” Temur glowered at me. As if I could not be trusted!

I ignored him. “He won’t be joining the army?” I asked Suren.

He pressed his lips, which were beginning to show a mustache. “In Ninth Moon.”

“But why?”

“The Great Khan awards winners,” Temur answered, gloating.

I clenched my fists. It wasn’t fair. After the summer ended, when military training began in Ninth Moon, both Suren and Temur would be joining the army. I would have to watch them both receive their uniforms and ride off. After all the years of outperforming them, even training them, I would have to stay at court with the women.

Suren raised his sword, grasping it with two hands, and stood, feet apart, in a ready stance. His broad shoulders were steady; his lips were firm. The girls at court whispered about how good-looking Temur was, but the girl who married Suren would be the lucky one. A princess from a distant tribe had been chosen for him but no date had been set for the marriage. I hoped she would be lively and fun, worthy of him.

Temur faced him and deflected a blow before both sword tips dropped to the ground. Fortunately, both swords were wrapped in cloth. Still, two heavy swords in the hands of untrained boys looked like trouble.

I felt wildly jealous. While all Mongol boys and girls learned archery from a young age, women were never permitted to handle swords. No one would ever train me in swordsmanship. This was my only chance. “May I try? Please?” I asked.

“No,” Suren said, heaving to catch his breath, looking embarrassed. Suren usually gave in to my pleading, but I should have known he would not do so in front of Temur.

But he was eager to show off what he had learned at his first lesson. “You need to hold it with two hands at first. You’re probably not strong enough.”

I bit my tongue to keep from responding. He needed time to gain back his dignity after losing the archery contest.

Drawing attention to himself, Temur grasped his sword with two hands, lifted it high, and plunged it straight down, into the soft earth. This was the simplest move with a sword, the easiest to control. It looked like he was killing a wounded enemy.

I laughed. “One less foreigner to fight!”

Suren laughed, too. “Don’t tell anyone, but the Khan has assigned me to get to know a foreigner, to learn about his homeland. Temur has one, too. Do you believe that?”

“Interesting,” I said. Suddenly, it seemed more of an honor, this assignment. I straightened my shoulders. “He assigned me a foreigner, too.”

Temur sucked in his breath. “That can’t be.”

Suren looked at me strangely. “He wants you to speak to a foreigner? A man?”

“A young man. At first it was supposed to be three men, but the other two did not come to Xanadu because they are sick.”

Suren cocked his head. “The Khan said that this would help us prepare to join the army. It doesn’t make sense that he would ask you to do it.”

Hope jumped up in my heart. Maybe the Khan was
preparing me to join the army, as well. “Who is your foreigner?” I asked, glad to be on equal footing with them.

Suren lay the sword down and wiped his forehead. He sat on the ground. “He looks so strange. Wears a white turban on his head, with a long tail of cloth hanging down his back. From Arabia. Big thick beard. Eyes a strange light brown.”