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against the bowstring. Using my thumb, I pulled back on the string and loosed the arrow just at the right angle and moment as Baatar raced past the first target.
    My first arrow hit, and the judges indicated a perfect shot.
    By then, my arm was circling back for the second arrow, fitting it against the bow, pulling back the bowstring, releasing. I had done this so many times I could do it blindfolded.
    My second arrow hit with a thud. Another perfect shot.
    My mind turned off, and my body took over, going through the familiar motions.
    Suddenly, for no reason, an image appeared in my mind’s eye: that young foreigner’s bearded face and his huge round eyes. My hands shook, and my right hand did not catch hold of the arrow soon enough. I had to grasp a second time to get an arrow. By the time I followed through and made my shot, I had ridden past the target. My arrow landed so embarrassingly far from the target that the judges, jumping with excitement, held their hands as wide apart as possible, indicating that the arrow was nowhere near the center of the target.
    As if sensing that something had gone wrong, Baatar flinched, tripping slightly before regaining his footing. Off balance, holding my large, heavy bow and not the reins, I feltthe top part of my body lunge forward. My face struck the back of Baatar’s neck, hard.
    With my free right hand I pulled myself back up, just as Baatar was slowing, and grabbed the reins. A horrific pain ripped through me, from my nose through my head and whole body. Bright red blood stained Baatar’s creamy mane, then his saddle, then my clothing. Blood spurted out of my nose as if from a demonic spring. A woman screamed, and the boys jumped up and down, pointing at me and shouting.
    Somehow I returned my bow to the leather holster hanging from my belt. With my left hand, I touched my nose, to see if I had broken the bridge.
    Such humiliation! No experienced rider should have a careless accident. And so many had witnessed it. My ears rang and my vision blurred. The pain was agonizing.
    Baatar slowed down and someone grabbed his reins from the side. It was my father. He had been watching after all.
    When Baatar came to a stop, I slid down his side to the ground. My father’s arm went around me, and he used his sleeve to sop up my blood. He gently covered my nose, to stanch the bleeding. Even that gentle touch sent another surge of pain through me, and I nearly screamed. I pushed his hand away and lightly held my own sleeve over my nose. Blood drained into my throat, making me gasp for air. I could barely see.
    Father led me to the side of the courtyard. My head was bowed, but I heard comments from people around me. “She lost on purpose,” one man said.
    “To make them look good,” another added.
    But I had not lost on purpose. My hand had slipped, for no good reason. I meant to win. I always competed to win.
    “How fine of her,” someone said. “She gave face to her cousin, the man who may one day be Great Khan.”
    I was not used to hearing people talk about Suren that way. No one dared talk openly about who might lead in our generation. But now I realized that others, besides me, understood the deeper implications of the younger brother’s very public victory. But at least Suren had not come in last.
    The blood kept flowing, soaking through the sleeve and front of my del . The only way I could get it out of my throat was to spit in a most unladylike way.
    My disgrace was extreme. I had made a fool of myself in public. What chance had I now of convincing the Khan I should join his army? My bravado in making that request now seemed laughable.
    In my head, behind that gushing nose, I blamed the foreigner. Sitting on a stool near the side wall of the courtyard, behind the protective bulk of my father’s body, I felt besieged, confused, pained, angry.
    Suddenly, my father moved slightly, and I could see standing just beyond him, not two feet away, that same bearded young foreigner