The grey stone of Tiananmen Square was swallowed by a thousand colorful yurts, a sprawling canvas city belonging to the four Khanic Appendages. Delegation after delegation ascended the White Marble steps to the Palace of Earthly Tranquility for the annual Khuriltai. Beyond the festivities—the parades of silks and curious inventions, the display of fine porcelain, the theater performances—there was important business at hand. Delegations had to be presented, gifts exchanged, trade talks scheduled, and agreements finalized.

  Looking down from the terrace of the Grand Plaza, the four Great Khans waved at the tribal lords that had accompanied them from their capitals to Xina to celebrate the Khuriltai that bound them together as warriors of the Great Khan.

  Ariq, the eldest and the laziest, had taken the ancestral court of Kharakhorin. With him came his entourage and his traditionalist tribesmen.

  Hulagu, the sadistic and violent brother, had long controlled the Iranian plateau. He had reconstructed parts of the ruins of Persepolis and Baghdad, ruling with an iron fist.

  M?ngke had always been somewhat ascetic, possessing a natural affinity for animals. Genghis Khan had assigned his kindest son to the frozen north. His tribesmen were few, but fearsome.

  And finally, Genghis Khan had assigned Khubilai to conquer Manchuria and Xina, the Middle Kingdom, because he knew Khubilai was a thinker.

  As the Emperor Khan, ruler of the entire Middle Kingdom, met the rising sun, he led his brothers in prayer on the Golden Terrace, declaring a new day. The tribesmen cheered, a sound so massive the earth shook. The brothers, looking down at the vast numbers, were themselves impressed at the size of their Khanate. They made grand gestures to their people before proceeding to the shaded interiors of the Grand Pavilion.

  There, they would enjoy an extravagant breakfast while the foreign delegations were presented and welcomed in the Great Hall.

  At the center of the Great Hall, the theater of diplomacy began.

  The three Princes—Huaizong, Mahintha, and Tan Po—made a grand entry. The end of the Grand Hall had been arranged as a stage. On a dais a foot higher than the floor sat the Khan’s "throne." But today, it was not Khubilai who sat there.

  Zhenjin, resplendent in purple and gold robes, sat on the throne to receive guests and gifts on behalf of his father. This was Khubilai’s signal to the world: Look at my son. Look at my pride. It was well known that Khubilai wanted Zhenjin to marry, though Zhenjin was often heard saying he would rather be a monk.

  The three princes served as ushers, escorting supplicants, guests, and honorees to the center of the hall to bow to the throne, before guiding them off the raised proscenium and into the Festival Hall, where a constant buffet awaited.

  The Medang delegation was announced first. They had arrived in sleek outriggered vessels, representing their first voyage across the Kalaliman (the Deep Ocean) to meet the Khan.

  The Princes bowed to the Paraluman, the representative of the Queen. It was not the deep bow reserved for kings, but a courtly one, the kind used for pursuing ladies and charming rich widows. The Paraluman was not a vassal heir. She was not betrothed to any of the Khans. She was simply a guest. She held her head high, bowing gracefully in greeting but never bowing to the ground in subservience.

  Urduja, watching from the side, felt a spark of recognition. The Paraluman was a proud, beautiful woman. Urduja was proud to be like her—proud to be Austronesian. But she understood the difference: the Paraluman was wealthy, landed, and commanded an army. Urduja could not imagine a life far from the sea, yet here they both were.

  High up in the lattice screen overlooking the Great Hall, the Five Temple Monks dissected the parade like vultures picking at a carcass. Their judgment was scathing.

  "She's too skinny," droned Salkhi, Master of Internal Discipline, criticizing the lean physique of the Paraluman. "Not good for bearing children."

  "She is not servile and obedient," complained Ty, Master of External Affairs, observing her upright posture.

  "She will make a bad wife," muttered Mod, Master of Agriculture. The Monks cared only for progeny and stability.

  The Cham delegation was presented next, their tribal wear stark and rough against the flowing Yuan court silks.

  The three Princes divided the space in front of the throne efficiently. Mahintha welcomed them, escorting them to Huaizong, who placed them where the sun from the high windows would illuminate them for the prestigious event. Instructed them on protocol . The delegates would then bow to the throne and offer greetings. After they waved to the applauding crowd. Then Tan Po escorts them to the entry of the Festival Hall.

  "They are truly ugly," Salkhi scoffed from the lattice. "Are those women? Are they not monkeys? Plenty of monkeys in Cham. Certainly, they can't hope to win Zhenjin's attention with that."

  Then came a delegation from the Sindhu Subcontinent.

  Dusshela of Dwarka was presented. She was not there for trade; she was seeking sanctuary. Again, the three Princes—Huaizong, Mahintha, and Tan Po—escorted her. Behind Dusshela walked the beautiful Noble Lady Sumita, and behind her, four more handmaidens.

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  "Dusshela from Dwarka is gorgeous! And wealthy," exclaimed Deng, Master of Industry. "Certainly, she'd make a good match for the Prince."

  "Good hips," agreed Master Mod.

  But the hall went silent as Dusshela stepped forward. She did not simply bow; she addressed the entire assembly, her voice echoing off the high rafters.

  "Hear me, Great Khan! I seek sanctuary—temporary sanctuary. I come from Dwarka," she began, her eyes burning with a cold fire. "A city that no longer exists. My cousins and their rivals fought with weapons that defied nature—celestial fires and iron bolts that shook the foundations of the world. Their fighting, their greed, and their dangerous weapons have caused the very earth to groan and sink. Dwarka was swallowed by the sea. I am a Queen of a sunken grave, seeking a home for those of us the water did not take."

  Up in the lattice, Tenger, the Sky Master and Director General, rubbed his temples. "She's a widow five times over! She had five husbands. She's not a proper wife!"

  "Then those are several more mouths we are going to feed!" Salkhi snapped. "We get nothing from these widows... not a trade deal... not an heir... just expense and intrigue."

  "Those Sindhis are all alike," Mod observed. "Rajiv was supposed to take control of the Chola Empire. To this day, his Tamil cousins are still in his castle. Now it's Dusshela. And her remaining clansmen, the Patnayas? They are still on board at Bohai Bay. And those elephants we are housing by Pradesh? Those giants? They eat a forest a day!"

  "Dusshela is wealthy," Salkhi countered. "Think of those five princes she married. Princes who were wealthy and landed in their own right. And yes, Dwarka sunk, but there is still Hastinapur and the Gulistan. Rajiv has no money. Rajiv just wants to sleep and write second-rate poetry."

  "Still... they need us. We don't need them," Master Ty insisted. "The harem is bursting at the seams. If he marries them, they'll no longer need to subject themselves to the suttee."

  "He can't marry them," Mod argued. "They won't give us a proper heir. That means we lose our Mandate. Our Emperor isn't supposed to marry widows. And we will get poorer as they don't bring in wealth in terms of dowry... and the gods will abandon Xina."

  "Dusshela is wealthy," Salkhi repeated, ignoring him.

  "We don't have a Mandate. We lost that a long time ago," Tenger muttered darkly.

  "Shut up! Why did our grain production triple if we have no Mandate from Heaven?" Master Ty asked.

  "I don't know. Maybe because Khan stopped raiding the Western Wall?" Salkhi quipped with sarcasm.

  "Khan? Which Khan? There are several Khans..." Mod said, confused.

  "One of them. I don't know which one. Better be nice to all of them," Master Tenger replied, ending the bickering.

  Next, the Goryeon delegation was ushered in. Cheongsun was received as a vassal heir, but with notable warmth. His mother was related to Khubilai. The Goryeons were the Khan's favorites of all the seven nations of the Middle Kingdom. While all people of Xina farmed, no one farmed in Goryeo. They were fishermen or raiders. That is, until Khan began giving them grain for good behavior. He acknowledged a twin spirit in them: warriors who lived and died by their sword, their battle axe, their weapon. Life was war. With the Goryeons, Khan began to build his navy.

  The temple monks all smiled at the cute little boy. The platitudes flowed like honey.

  Finally, the focus turned to the Tawalesi delegation, specifically Queen Udayan.

  There was the usual exchange of gifts. The ladies at the Khan court loved pearls, and of course, salt was a treasured gift. These were received by Khan's proxies. And then, Urduja was presented as a vassal heir.

  Cute at ten years old, accompanied by her loyal friends Tala and Liwanag, Urduja took that bow while the Khan court gushed at how lovely she was. But she felt humiliated. She felt small.

  Looking beyond the throne, Urduja saw another titled, powerful female she had heard much about: Khatun Ulaan. She was a Khan. She had the right to rule.

  Strange, Urduja thought, staring at the powerful woman. A right to rule... when all I see there is a heavy, self-imposed obligation.

  when finally the Tawalesi Queen Udayan was presented Urduja stood before Khazan Zhenjin. He had long black hair. And oh yes he was handsome. But so was Prince Huaizong, Prince Mahintha and the Monk Tan Po.

  No one threw a party, a bash, or a parade better than the Emperor.

  After the presentation of delegates, Lunch would be served. Then the parade of silks, jugglers, and acrobats began. These performances would go on all day, and at night came the Khan's favorite: the Xinese Opera. Complete with music, elaborate lighting effects, and narratives so moving they left the audience elated and in tears. The following day Khan put on a military parade, displaying the terrifying catapults and ballistas the Song engineers had designed for him. In the afternoon there would be kite flying and the arcade of exotic animals

  On the third day, at the trade talks themselves, Queen Udayan drove a hard bargain for her people. The political machinations were dizzying to follow, but when the terms were laid bare, Urduja understood the price.

  Her mother, Queen Udayan, would return home laden with grain, bolts of silk, lard, and precious stones.

  But no cocoons.

  Khan had prohibited the export of all cocoons. He would not allow the secret of silk to leave his borders.

  The price of her people's survival was Urduja. Urduja felt defeated. She had made sacrifices for those cocoons. And now she, along with her loyal friends Tala and Liwanag—whom she had inveigled into coming—were trapped inland, far from the sea. Hot tears ran down her cheeks.

  On the last days of the Khuriltai, after the kite flying, the silk parade, the fluvial parade, and the evening performances, the traditional contests between the four tribes resumed. Horse mastery, lassoing, archery, wrestling. A winner would be declared, bringing their tribe great honor.

  Finally, there was the Hunt.

  The warrior who brought down the prey would be honored on the last night. And as this was a Xinese hunt, of course, it was the Emperor who brought down the prey. Trumpets blared and fireworks went off to announce the "bravery" of Khan in this staged hunt where the prey—a magnificent tiger—was heavily drugged. The Temple Masters were afraid that the Heavenly Mandate be harmed in any way. They not only protected Khubilai; they spoiled him with massages and gourmet food to keep him docile.

  Khubilai's brothers snickered from their horses. But they knew who commanded the harvest. The distribution of grain, tea, jerkies, dried fruits, pickles, silk, and almost all luxuries came at the expense of this sickening charade of a hunt.

  That night, as fireworks lit up the sky, Queen Udayan sits with her daughter Urduja in the Pavilion of the Ocean Queen.

  Udayan pressed a piece of rough blue coral into Urduja's hand. It felt cold and hard against her palm.

  "They want a hostage, but I have given them an agent," the Queen whispered, her face close to her daughter's. "You are to become one of them, my little pearl. Become Turkic. Learn their tongue, master their iron, and build a fortress inside yourself. Only then," Udayan promised, her voice thick with emotion, "only then can you and your handmaids surf again."

  Before the sun rose, the Ocean Queen was gone.

  Urduja stood alone at dawn, the promise of the waves echoing in her heart, a tiny warrior in a massive, cold land. She looked down at the blue coral her mother had left her. Then she looked up at the setting moon, hanging over the golden roofs of Xanadu. It felt cold and remote without the ocean beside her.