Bao’s warm breath stirred my hair, and his arms were warm around me, strong with corded muscle.

It felt good.

I didn’t want it to end.

“Moirin,” he said at last, his voice reluctant. “We should go.”

“I know.” I forced myself to sit upright. After we donned our clothing, I took one last, deep breath of the twilight, and then let it out, releasing the magic.

The world returned in a rush. It was late-later than I had reckoned. The setting sun hovered over the horizon like a great orange orb, staining the grasslands with ruddy light, throwing our long, stark shadows before us.

For the first time in days, I felt calm.

“I can do this,” I said to Bao. “If I fail on the morrow, we can escape into the twilight. I can hold it long enough.”

He cupped my face in his hands and kissed me. “Yes, you can.”

SIXTEEN

Pull!”

I eased the bowstring back-gently, gently. The sturdy yew-wood bow my uncle Mabon had made for me bent obligingly. The fletching of the arrow I had nocked tickled my earlobe-vulture feathers, from one of the arrows borrowed from the members of Batu’s tribe.

I eyed the distant target, gauging my angle. I did my best to ignore the fact that my heart was hammering inside my chest.

“Loose!”

I loosed the bowstring.

A puff of errant wind blew as my arrow arced into the sky-mine, and six others. Against all odds, I had shot well enough to reach the penultimate round.

Now, I sucked in my breath.

Six arrows thudded into six leather targets stuffed with wool. I winced, seeing I had missed the crudely painted red circle on mine. I had misjudged the wind and the angle.

Two had pierced the circle, one dead-center, the other slightly off. Three others had missed by a wider margin than I had.

The watching crowd of Tatars murmured. The judges conferred.

“You, and you.” An officious fellow serving as the judges’ liaison pointed at the two men who had shot best. When he came to me, his mouth tightened. “And you. Now, you will shoot one by one. Ten paces!”

I breathed a sigh of relief.

Ah, gods! If it hadn’t been for the sense of calm I’d found yesterday, I was quite sure my nerves would have undone me. The riding archery contest had taken place earlier. I’d watched the competitors shoot from the saddle at a row of dangling rings while they raced at a flat-out gallop. They were incredibly accurate, and I resigned myself to the fact that there was no way I could truly compete against the best of the best here.

But so long as I had the knowledge that Bao and I could escape into the twilight, that I could hold it long enough to keep us both safe, it didn’t matter.

As a result, I had shot fearlessly and well in the early rounds of the standing archery contest. Over a hundred men took part, shooting in groups of a dozen at a time. For each group to partake, half passed on to the next round and half were eliminated. With each successive round, we retreated ten paces from the targets.

Again and again, I found myself placing within the top half of my group. It wasn’t until the number of competitors had dwindled to a mere dozen that I’d begun to wonder if I could win, and my anxiety returned in full force.

That was also when my opponents began to grumble and mutter about magic, and the officious liaison had come to inspect my bow.

Was it charmed? I truly had no idea. Mayhap my uncle Mabon had whispered some arcane charm into the very wood and sinew. I did not know the extent of the small gifts of magic the Maghuin Dhonn possessed. Mayhap there was some secret in the way he had seasoned the wood. Mayhap the secret lay in the powerful resilience of the wood itself, or the sinews or the glue.

Whatever the truth, Bao was right. It didn’t look remarkable and there was nothing for the official to find. After testing my bow for himself and finding that it shot no more true than the archer’s skill, he shrugged and handed it back to me.

Now…

Now there were only three of us, and I had begun to sweat. Oh aye, if I lost, there was still the twilight. But now that victory was actually within reach, I could not help but think how much better it would be if the Great Khan were forced to grant my boon, and let Bao and me go freely.

The steppe was a vast expanse of open land to traverse. I had no doubt that there were skilled trackers among the Khan’s men. Even having discovered that I could ward Bao as easily as myself, it could be a long, long time to hold the twilight. And there would be no room for error.

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.