by Megan Bannen
What on earth would he say now if he could see just how badly I’ve messed up everything?
“Four minutes,” Zhang calls.
“No,” Timur begs any god who will listen as I shake uncontrollably against him.
Khalaf shuts his eyes tighter, making the skin pinch in at the corners. “A ‘marble-encased rest’ is a tomb,” he says, thinking through the puzzle out loud. “What burns in battle and freezes in death?”
“Three minutes.”
The crowd grows louder, and so does Khalaf as he presses his palms against his eyes and says, “‘Ardor’ is love, but so is ‘longing.’ What runs both hot and cold with love?”
The answer could be me. I burn with regret, and I am frozen with fear, all because I was stupid enough to let myself fall in love with the prince of the Kipchak Khanate.
“Two minutes!”
Khalaf takes his hands away from his face, draws his head up, and opens his eyes. His chest heaves with life.
“Blood,” he declares, the echo of his voice ringing through the hall. “The answer is ‘blood.’ Blood is red like a flame. The heart pours blood through a man’s body as a fountain pulses water. It burns feverishly both in love and in battle, and grows cold in longing and in death. The answer is ‘blood.’”
Every head turns to the stunned scholars, who are gaping at Khalaf.
“The answer!” a man shouts from somewhere in the crowd, and someone farther away yells, “What’s the answer?” The three men in the tower shake themselves and confer with the chancellor.
“Please,” I pray, to whom I don’t know.
“‘Blood,’” Zhang concurs, not bothering to mask his disgust. “The answer is ‘blood.’ The contestant has won again.”
The audience roars with approval, almost as if Khalaf were their representative rather than Turandokht. I stare at Khalaf as if I can make him successful one last time by the sheer force of my will. While his initial successes have raised the crowd’s confidence, the second riddle seems to have had the opposite effect on him. His serenity and confidence have ebbed, replaced by tense cords of muscle along his neck.
His neck, which smells of rust and smoke and earth.
I have failed him so badly.
Zhang and the guards have a harder time silencing the crowd this time, but they do manage to get the job done. When the noise of the gathering softens to a dull roar, the chancellor shouts, “The contestant has successfully answered the second riddle. The third riddle is about to begin. The contestant will have seven minutes to answer. Do you understand, sir?”
“I do,” Khalaf says before clenching his jaw shut. His nostrils flare as the square goes quiet again.
Turandokht rises to her feet. She towers over her father. She towers over Khalaf where he stands at the bottom of the stairs. She towers over the empire.
“Who are you?” she demands, her voice sharp as a knife.
He asked me the same question. Does he remember? Can he think of anything in this moment except for his duty to the Kipchak Khanate? Or Turandokht? Or his own mortality, so close it brushes his skin?
Who are you?
The way you speak, the words you use, the things you know . . .
I wish that you didn’t feel a need to hide who you are. I wish that you would let me know you as you know me.
Who are you? Really?
How much time did I waste hiding from him? I spent nearly a year beside him crossing the wide world, and for what?
“The third riddle, please, my khatun” is all he says to Turandokht. He’s smooth as a placid lake on the surface, but I know he’s a mass of jangling nerves beneath.
“You will die today,” she assures him. “The third riddle is this:
“It is a prison of snow, a graceful cage of ice,
Though pale you burn inside its darkened heart.
Raging hot, your fire cannot suffice,
Nor can you prize its icy bars apart.
“As on the mountain’s peak, so useless is your fire
That from your flame grows colder still its ring.
Before you lies a choice: What’s your desire?
Break free and be slave? Or remain and be king?”
“Seven minutes,” calls Zhang.
Seven minutes is not enough.
I had a year to tell him everything, and I chose to tell him nothing.
Why didn’t I just tell him who I was?
Part Six
Princess
The City of Lin’an, Song Empire
Autumn 1278
26
MY FATHER’S EYES FEEL LIKE A load of bricks on my shoulders as I prepare the tea. I cut off a chunk of the pressed cake and crumble it into the wide, shallow bowl. He loves the way the black porcelain shows off a well-prepared tea to its best advantage.
The problem is that it shows off imperfectly prepared tea as well.
I point the steaming water into the cup, take up the whisk, and begin to beat the concoction into submission. With a few flicks of my wrist, I can see that I have somehow failed before I’ve really even begun. The froth is not forthcoming, and I end up placing the sad excuse for tea, yellowed and sickly against the smooth black of the bowl, before my father.
I serve my mother next, creating another spectacularly terrible beverage before I step back to kneel beside my brother, both of us in attendance on our parents. My head is bowed, but I sneak a glance at Father. His bowl remains before him, untouched, and he’s frowning into it.
Father sighs. He picks up his tea, rises from his richly lacquered chair, and dumps the contents out the window. As he sits beside my mother again, he says, “Hopefully, that won’t kill the chrysanthemums.”
“You are too particular,” Mother replies.
I bow my head and wither in shame.
“Nice going,” Weiji whispers to me out of the corner of his mouth. I guess his teasing is the only way he knows how to show solidarity with me, and I appreciate it, mortified as I am.
“I understand that her embroidery is equally dreadful,” my father continues as he makes his own tea with deft hands. “Her cooking is mediocre, and she can barely spin silk.”
“She will have servants who will do those things for her,” says Mother.
“And she must know how to do these things so that she can manage those servants. Just look at her. The poor girl doesn’t shine at all, does she?”
“She’s shy,” says Mother. “That’s all. She’s quiet and respectful. She’s dutiful and obedient. That’s what a man wants in a wife.”
“Certainly, if his wife is pretty, but this one isn’t. How old is she now? Ten? Eleven?”
I am acutely aware of my body’s failings, the way the bones of my spine form a series of bumps underneath my silk gown.
“She’s fourteen, Husband.”
“Has she had her courses yet?” Father asks.
I don’t know how to endure this humiliation. I had no idea men even knew of such matters, and the fact that my father is discussing these intimate, female subjects in front of my brother makes me wish the ground would open up and swallow me whole. Weiji makes a low, guttural sound that only I can hear to express his nausea.
“No, she hasn’t,” my mother answers.
“Well, that’s something, at least. Maybe she’ll find herself with a decent bosom when all is said and done. I doubt it, though.”
My shame deepens. When will this trial end?
“She has small feet,” my mother points out.
“No man has ever married a girl for her feet.”
I sneak another glance of my father. He’s a slight man, but from this viewpoint he looks like a giant swathed in black, his cap placed perfectly atop his head. He dabs at his tea-dampened lips with his sleeve and tells my mother, “Do something with her. She needs to marry well.”
Mother bristles. “She’s the daughter of the prince regent and a princess of the Song Dynasty. Of course she’ll marry well.”
“She’s the
fourth daughter of a second son, and she owes it to her family to be respectable. Do something with her.”
Mother’s eyes drop. “Yes, Husband.”
Being in my father’s presence is like staring into a mirror. All my faults are cataloged for me in his eyes: fat lips and beady eyes, cheeks too round for such a small frame, and wispy hair that flies loose of its elaborate coif.
“My daughters,” Father says. “Four daughters you have given me, Wife, and not one of them worth a damn: one married to a fool fifteen years ago and two dead in their graves. This last one must do better. She must strive to emulate Turandokht, who is her better a thousand times over.”
I have no idea who Turandokht is, but it seems to me that there are so many girls in the world—pretty girls, accomplished girls, elegant girls—who exist for the sole purpose of pointing out how ugly and inept and awkward I am.
“Turandokht?” my mother asks, forgetting her passivity. “You wish your daughter to comport herself like some gauche Mongol?”
“That ‘gauche Mongol,’ in addition to being unspeakably beautiful and refined, speaks five languages, studies astrology, and is learned in philosophy.”
I’ve always thought of myself as smart. Reading and learning are the only things I’ve ever been good at. But while I’ve studied some astrology and even less philosophy, I don’t speak five languages, and I’m certainly not pretty or refined. Does she have to be beautiful and brilliant? I wonder. Couldn’t she just be one or the other? Couldn’t I be one or the other at least?
“Forgive me, Husband, but what good will all that learning do her? What man would want a wife who is more learned than he is?”
“It is my dearest hope that this man will desire just such a wife.” A rare grin thins Father’s full lips as he nods at my brother.
“Me?” asks Weiji.
My father’s grin widens. The smile looks unnatural on his stern face.
“You wish me to marry Turandokht?”
“I have sent the best portraitist of our kingdom to Khanbalik to take her likeness. Her portrait will return in the hands of Chancellor Zhang, who will arrive in the flesh to make the marriage arrangements.”
Father awaits my brother’s joyful response.
He doesn’t receive it.
“But the Mongols are our enemies,” Weiji protests. “You yourself have fought against them. How can you ask me to marry one?”
Father’s smile dissipates. “Yes, I have fought them, you ingrate! And I know better than anyone how they will decimate the Song if we don’t make peace with them now. With this marriage, we will unite Zhongguo, the north and the south. Not even the Han could achieve such glory.”
I cringe and shrink under Father’s anger, and it isn’t even directed at me.
“But,” begins Weiji.
“There is no ‘but.’ You will join yourself with the most powerful empire in the world, and you will get a beautiful and virtuous wife in the bargain. You will thank me in deep obeisance for this honor, and you will prostrate yourself before our gods and our ancestors in gratitude. Do you understand?”
Weiji stares down at his knees. His shoulders quiver in his attempt to hold back his tears. “Yes,” he says weakly.
“Do you understand?” Father shouts. I feel myself growing even smaller.
“Yes,” Weiji repeats, steadily this time. He gives my father a low bow. “Yes, thank you, Father.”
My father rises and brushes out his robe. He makes his way to the door.
“And what is our son to do with such a wife?” my mother fires at his retreating backside, tears of anger evident in her voice.
Father halts. “What nonsense. You are a learned woman, Wife. You can read and write, and you know all manner of things.”
“Yes, but I do not presume to rule.”
“That is a matter of opinion,” Father comments drily. “Do something about your daughter, woman, and leave the only son you’ve given this family to me.” He leaves, heading off to do whatever it is important men do when they aren’t carrying out diplomatic missions or discussing the finer points of Confucian philosophy.
Weiji, Mother, and I are left in silence. I don’t understand how my humiliation turned into an unwanted wedding arrangement for my brother, but I feel somehow at fault. And it quickly sinks in that if my brother marries this perfect girl, this perfect girl is going to come live here with us. I’m going to have to live side by side with perfection.
At last, my brother says, “Excuse me,” gives Mother a cursory bow, and skulks off.
Mother looks at me, and her lips thin. “Come. It’s time to make an offering anyway.” Mother calls over a servant girl and orders her to fetch wine and a plate of rice cakes. I don’t even glance at the girl; she’s as much a part of the house as the walls and furniture.
When the offerings arrive, I follow Mother to the ancestral shrine, watching my little feet as I scuff along the clean-swept floor. I start to sing a few bars of “The Boat of Stars” under my breath to the rhythm of my steps before my mother admonishes me.
“Honestly, Daughter, have you never read the Classic of Filial Piety for Girls? Or Admonitions of Girls? A lady does not sing.”
I close my mouth.
“You disappoint me,” she says as we continue to walk. “Where are your priorities? You take so little interest in your appearance or in your feminine development. You’ll shame this family. You mark my words.”
“Father says I’m to be educated,” I point out hopefully. I may take little interest in my appearance—which is hopeless to begin with—but I do take great interest in learning.
“You are educated, too much so, in my estimation,” Mother snaps. I bite my lip, chastened. “Your father means that you should be accomplished and refined. A head full of words and learning does you little good without the grace to put them to good use.”
“What does it matter?” My small voice scurries like a mouse to my mother’s ears. “A man will only appreciate my father’s value, not mine.”
“Your father’s value is your primary value, just as it is mine, and you should be grateful for that. But your husband may one day come to appreciate the value that is all your own . . . if you ever get around to developing it. Heaven knows, if that little viper Turandokht can land a catch as good as your brother, there’s no telling what prize you may capture.”
We’ve arrived at the shrine, and with an impatient jerk of her head, my mother motions for me to offer my respects before the altar. I bow four times and Mother does the same. She lights incense and places it in the burner, a porcelain duck sitting atop a lotus blossom, white with a jade-green underglaze. The duck’s head is tilted back and its bill is open, leaving a little hole into which Mother places the joss stick as it burns. It looks so cheery perched there on the altar shelf, keeping our ancestors company, a reminder that death is a part of life and not something to be dreaded or feared.
Mother pours wine into cups on the altar to quench our ancestors’ thirst, and she places the cakes before their wooden tablets as an offering. She lights candles to either side of the burner.
“You need to start learning your duty,” Mother tells me when we’ve finished and we make our way back to the women’s quarters. “Someday, you will be the one making offerings to your husband’s ancestors. No man wants a woman who fumbles her way through the rituals.”
I don’t say anything. Mother gives me an austere look as I follow her across the threshold beyond the red curtain.
“You’re not pretty,” she says. “Fine. But you are not exactly ugly either, Daughter, and you are wiser and in many ways more accomplished than most girls will ever be.”
“Pretty girls don’t need to be accomplished.”
“They do, actually, and so do you.” Mother’s voice strains with frustration.
I stare longingly at the courtyard garden through the window, missing the days when I used climb a tree or hide behind the quince shrubs when I wanted to be alone with my th
oughts.
Mother makes a feral sound of frustration from the back of her throat. “You’re not listening. Go on. Off with you.”
She shoos me out of her sight and into the garden.
“Yes, Mother.” My voice is apologetic. The rest of me is filled with relief.
Freedom.
I walk to the pond. The goldfish burst through the water’s surface before my reflection has a chance to form, their mouths kissing at the air. I watch a stand of bamboo sway in the breeze, and after a while, bored, I begin to sing.
Jasmine flower
Your willowy stems clustered with sweet-smelling buds
Fragrant and white, everyone praises your beauty
Let me pluck you down
And give you to the one I love
My voice starts strong, but it trails off as I see Weiji step along the garden path to come sit beside me. Whereas I am plain and shy, my brother is handsome and glowing with self-assurance. Today, however, he burns a little less brightly as we crouch side by side watching the goldfish slip though the water below us.
When the song is over, I look at my brother, who frowns back at me.
“Older Brother?” I say with a face full of sympathy.
“Yeah?”
I shove him over into the dirt, spring to my feet, and sprint to a three-yard head start before he even knows what hit him.
“You’re it!” I whoop in triumph.
“No fair!” Weiji laughs. He chases after me, and my fine hair flies loose from my combs as I run as fast as I can.
27
MY FAMILY HAS COME INTO TOWN to meet the Yuan entourage that arrived at the palace two days ago.
I’m sitting in an old, gnarled plum tree in the imperial gardens on a branch that gently lilts in the breeze. My skirt is bunched up in an undignified manner, my knees bent up to my chest. Weiji, who is larger and heavier, sits in a crook where a thick branch meets the main trunk. The tree stands just outside the Song emperor’s audience chamber, and snatches of the conversation inside float up to us.