The first of my remaining two opponents stepped up to the mark. He nocked an arrow and drew with the unique Tatar grip, using a ring on his thumb to pull the bowstring, the muscles of his heavy shoulders bunching. He was a strong, burly fellow, and if the contest were to be decided on distance alone, I had no doubt that he would prevail.

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 with pride.

“Gods, that was well done, Moirin,” he said in a low, fierce voice.

The victory didn’t feel as sweet as I would have reckoned. “Why does the Khan want to confer with his shamans?”

Bao shrugged. “He knows what boon you will ask. I suppose he wants to talk to them about releasing me from my marriage vows.”

“Oh.” I relaxed a little.

“You should go celebrate with your tribe.” He nodded toward Batu and the others. “They are nearly bursting with pride.” He gave me a smile filled with rare, genuine tenderness. “I feel the same way, but I will wait until the Great Khan’s boon is granted to show it.”

I smiled back at him. “Tomorrow, I hope.”

“I hope so, too,” he agreed.

Due to the amount of resentment in the camp, our celebration was muted, but it was heartfelt nonetheless. Many, many bowls of airag were consumed, the frothy, fermented mare’s milk all Tatars loved.

In the late hours of the night, Batu gave me a drunken, fatherly embrace. “If all goes well tomorrow, I hope you will be happy with your young man.”

“Thank you, Batu.” This time, I did plant a kiss on his cheek. “You have stood as a father to me, and I will always be grateful for it.”

It had been a long time since I’d drunk spirits of any kind; and too, I’d been too nervous to eat much that day. Although I did my best to keep up with my adopted Tatar tribe, the celebration was still under way when I gave up and staggered to my pallet, my head swimming with airag.

I felt dizzy, drunk, and more than a little nauseated; but I felt good, too. The warmth of the tribe’s response had let me savor my victory. As soon as the walls of the ger ceased the semblance of spinning around me, I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

It seemed as though only a few hours had passed when one of the tribeswomen shook me awake—Solongo, her name was. I propped myself up on one elbow and squinted at her through the haze filling my head.

“The Great Khan Naram sends for you, Moirin,” she whispered. “He wishes to see you now.”

“Oh.” The inside of my mouth felt foul. I licked my dry lips and swallowed against a sudden surge of nausea.

Solongo shook her head. “You may shoot like a man, but you cannot hold your drink like one,” she said, not unkindly. “I will bring you tea.”

The hot, rich tea helped. I drank it down in gulps, willing it to settle my stomach. The ger was filled with snoring, slumbering men sleeping off the aftereffects of too much airag. Not wanting to disturb anyone, I washed my face in a bucket of clean water and went to answer the Great Khan’s summons.

He had sent an escort of ten warriors. They greeted me with nods of acknowledgment, and we set off through the campsite. It was early. The sun had not yet cleared the horizon. In the east, faint streaks of gold lit the sky, but it was still dark in the west. The Khan’s men set a brisk pace, and I stumbled as I tried to keep up with them. I felt disheveled, disoriented, and out of sorts, and irritated at the Great Khan for exacting such a petty revenge.

Inside a spacious ger with a splendidly painted door, the Great Khan Naram was waiting for me, flanked by a pair of somber, bearded Vralian men with gold chains around their necks, heavy medallions dangling.

I blinked, perplexed. The Khan’s men crowded into the room behind me.

“Moirin mac Fainche.” Like General Arslan before him, the Khan pronounced my name with care. There was no expression I could read on his face. “These fine men from Vralia wish to meet you.”

Both of them inclined their heads.

I supposed they were among those few who had stayed out of idle curiosity. I couldn’t imagine why they cared about the outcome of a Tatar archery contest, or why they wanted to meet me, but I inclined my head in polite reply. When one of them stepped forward and extended his hand toward mine, I gave it to him.

Instantaneously, his fingers tightened around mine in a crushing grip. His other hand came from behind his back, trailing a rattling chain. Before I could react, he had clamped a cuff of silver metal around my wrist.

I pulled back sharply, drawing breath to shout.

A hard hand covered my mouth from behind—one of the Khan’s men. He twisted my head, wrenching it backward and sideways until my neck bones strained in agony.

Terror flooded through me.

Now the Great Khan’s face came alive with righteous fury. “Struggle, and he will snap your neck,” he hissed at me. “Do you understand?” Behind the warrior’s hand, I made a faint, terrified sound of assent. “Good.” He gestured at the Vralians to continue.

One of them produced a key, locking the silver cuff in place around my right wrist. I felt the beginning sensation of my spirit being suffocated, the way I still felt sometimes in man-made places. Panicked, I breathed hard through my nose.

Chains jangled. A second cuff was clamped on my left wrist, and then a larger circlet around my neck. The Tatar holding my head wrenched sideways moved considerately to make room for the Vralians, who worked gravely and dispassionately.

With each shackle, the sense of suffocation intensified—and my awareness of Bao’s diadh-anam faded.

And then the Vralians yanked off my thick, felt-lined boots and placed shackles and a chain on my bare ankles, and the process was complete.

My spirit was bound.

My diadh-anam was a frantic blaze inside me, beating at the walls of my chest like a caged hawk. I could no longer feel Bao’s presence in the camp. I could no longer sense the faint call of destiny in the west. I couldn’t even sense all the familiar things I took for granted, like the whisper of grass growing.

Seeing the horror written on my face, the Great Khan smiled slowly. “The witch is contained, I think. Now you will listen.” He raised one finger. “I will tell my man to release you. If you hold your tongue, I will honor my agreement with the Vralians. You will go with them, alive. If you cry out for help…..” He plucked a dagger from his belt. “I will simply kill you here and now. Will you be silent?”

I nodded as best I could.

The Khan gestured to the man holding me. He let go of my head. I fell to my knees in a rattling tangle of chains, breathing hard, my neck aching.

“You cheated yesterday.” The Great Khan stooped to grab a handful of my hair, yanking my head upright. “My shamans agree. You used witchcraft to still the wind.”

I gave my head a faint shake of denial.

“Do not lie!” Clutching a hank of my hair, he gave my head a fierce shake. My scalp burned, bringing tears to my eyes. He narrowed his gaze at me. “I will not allow you to make a mockery of me, to bring shame and dishonor upon my family.”

“Please…..” I whispered.

The Khan struck me across the face—hard enough to sting, no harder. It was only a warning. “You will be silent.” He released his grip on my hair, setting his hands on his belt and contemplating me. “Clearly, you possess magic. I think Arslan is right, and you are not so powerful as you pretend. Still, your tongue is a dangerous weapon. As much as he resents you, you charmed him to the point where he would not counsel violence against you.” He raised his brows. “Batu’s tribe is bewitched. Even my own daughter softened toward you. Should a daughter of mine accept her own humiliation?” He shook his head. “Never. I regret that she did not cut out your cursed tongue, but listened to it instead.”

I swallowed hard.

He leaned over me. “What did you say to her? That it was not her fault, that she had done nothing wrong?” With a cruel smile, he quoted my words. “It is only that the gods have decreed otherwise. Perhaps you may take comfort in those words as you find your fate is not as you had imagined.” Straightening, he nodded toward the Vralians. “It seems their gods have decreed otherwise.”

My heart was hammering in my chest, competing with my frantic diadh-anam. And yet I had to speak, even if the Great Khan struck me again. “Bao,” I whispered, flinching in anticipation. “He will know.”

“Yes.” Magnanimous in victory, the Khan withheld the blow I deserved. “I daresay he will when he wakes. Like you, he was plied with strong drink last night. If the magic of Vralia’s gods is as strong as they claim, my son-in-law will be free of the ties that bind you to him. Perhaps he will choose to stay after all.” He shrugged. “If not, for the sake of my soft-hearted daughter and my good general Arslan, I will show him mercy.”

It gave me a glimmer of hope.

The Khan Naram saw it, and crushed it with pleasure. “In time, I will relent and tell him what befell you. I have a fine tale prepared.” Another cruel smile curved his lips. “One that will send him far, far away from where you are going.”

I closed my eyes in despair.

The Great Khan gave an order.

Someone struck me hard from behind. Pain burst across my skull, and stars of spangled light burst behind my eyelids, flickering and fading.

I fell into darkness.

SEVENTEEN

I awoke in a covered cart, jolting over the plains.

At first I thought it was a bad dream, a nightmare brought on by strained nerves and too much airag, a jumbled mess of old fables and dire magic spun by my sleeping mind. But when I stirred, chains rattled.

Bound.

I was bound, well and truly bound. I remembered the shackles being clamped on to me and locked into place, the Vralians’ grave, dispassionate faces. My head ached ferociously. My diadh-anam was a faint, defeated spark inside me. I couldn’t sense Bao’s presence anywhere. I couldn’t feel a thing beyond the confines of my skin.