Releasing a measured breath, Durkhanai entered her bathing room, where the tub was filled with warm honeyed milk. Her maids undressed her, then scrubbed her skin with milk-cream until she was soft and smooth. Then she transferred to a second tub filled with rose water. All the while, Asfandyar’s face lingered in her mind, his words playing over and over: They were people.
Surely, such a loss was tragic, but it was not her grandfather’s fault. Her family was innocent, and she would prove as much.
After she was clean, she went to her dressing room to see an elaborate, draping suit.
The folds of the brocade lengha were thick with embroidery, crystal stones, emeralds, and cutwork. The peplum top held the same heavy work, as did the dupatta. It was more ostentatious than anything she had ever worn. Spread beside it were what must be half her weight in jewels and gold: twenty-four chudiyan for each arm, rings for almost each finger, dripping earrings, a wide necklace, thick anklets.
It was florid and ornate, and while she and her grandfather usually adored the extravagant, this was excessive to make a point: it showed the wealth of the capital Safed-Mahal, the zilla S’vat, to foreigners. The power of the Ranizais tribe and the Miangul family.
The might of the Badshah of Marghazar and his crown princess.
Durkhanai straightened her back and raised her chin. She was the daughter of the mountains and river S’vat. She was a princess to this valley and the purest tribe.
She would not let a lowly ambassador faze her.
Chapter Two
Durkhanai stood by her grandfather’s throne, waiting to greet the ambassadors.
Beside him, her grandmother the Wali sat on her own throne. Already feeling tense, Durkhanai turned to her grandfather. He met her gaze with a warm smile.
“Don’t worry, meri jaan,” he whispered, squeezing her hand. With his other, he reached for his wife’s hand. “The Wali and the Shehzadi by my side—together, there is nothing we cannot conquer.”
She knew she was his beloved beyond anything in the world. She was her grandfather’s jaan, his very soul. She was loved by him above all humanity. And he was loved by her.
Durkhanai would never let anyone hurt him. Never let harm come to anyone she loved.
The door swung open with a solid thud as the ambassadors passed from the receiving room into the throne room. There were four ambassadors, each accompanied by one servant. There had been requests to bring their own security; those had been denied. There had been requests to bring along spouses; those had been denied. Eight foreigners were already eight too many.
The ambassadors from the four zillas—B'rung, Teerza, Jardum, and Kurra—came close, spreading out until they stood before the Badshah. Three ladies and one man. Durkhanai’s eyes immediately went to Asfandyar.
He wore a more formal black sherwani atop his black shalwar kameez. It looked simple, but when she looked closer, it had fine black embroidery woven into the material.
Subtle, but fine.
He looked sharp. When he caught her staring, he smirked. Pressing her teeth together, she turned her gaze to the others.
She would not lose her composure as she had in the hall. She knew her orders: she was to be the sweet and beloved princess, to treat her guests with kindness and respect. She would prove her grandfather’s innocence.
The ambassadors all bowed before the royal family. When they rose, the Badshah’s eyes narrowed when they fell upon Asfandyar.
“Come, now, this won’t do,” the Badshah tsked. “The Jardum send their servants to represent them?”
Durkhanai bristled at the cruelty in her king’s voice; his barbarism was bleeding through. It was evident Asfandyar wasn’t a servant—did her grandfather mean to humiliate him?
Asfandyar was unfazed.
“No, Your Excellency, Badshah of Marghazar,” he responded coolly. “My name is Asfandyar of the Afridi tribe, ambassador from Jardum, here to represent Wali Shirin.”
The Badshah was unimpressed.
“A Jardumi?” he asked. “One so Black?”
“My mother was from Dunas,” Asfandyar responded. He hadn’t lost an ounce of composure, but she noted his jaw clenched as the Badshah laughed.
His eyes flicked to the Wali for an instant, almost unintentionally, then his focus was back on the Badshah. It seemed like he recognized the Wali somehow.
“Very well, son of a Black woman, we accept you in this court,” he said. “As charity was beloved of the Prophet.”
Asfandyar bristled but kept his smile, showing no reaction to the king’s cruelty.
Unease needled through Durkhanai. She had no misgivings about punishing him for crimes against her people, but the color of his skin was no affront. This was not the first time she’d been jarred by her grandfather’s beliefs. She’d spent the first portion of her life somewhere else, apart from her grandparents. Their gap in age did not help to assuage such chasms.
Asfandyar retained his aplomb, but she could see his smile like a cracked egg: jagged and crooked, hiding everything soft inside. Asfandyar wasn’t even that dark. Some Teerzais were much darker—but it was the build and the features.
Asfandyar was Black, no doubt about it. Everything sculpted and textured and built differently—and being different made you dangerous.
“We accept you all into this court, into Safed-Mahal, the jewel of S’vat and Marghazar,” the Badshah proclaimed. “My sincerest condolences for those who suffered in the abhorrent attack on the summit held in Teerza. I promise you, on Allah and his Messenger, Marghazar had nothing to do with such a horrid act, and we will all strive together to uncover who the guilty party is. Punishment will be swift and severe, I assure you.
“You are here in my court as a sign of solidarity and comfort, my brothers and sisters. Stay in our court, eat our food, speak with our people, and learn that the Marghazari are enemies to no one, that we are all brothers and sisters serving one Allah, following one divine message. I extend asylum to you all.”
Everyone was smiling, acting like her grandfather’s words were sincere, as though they truly were brothers and sisters when in truth Durkhanai was in a den of snakes, all with fangs poised to attack her family. She would not let that happen. She swore to it.
“You are my honored guests here, in my court,” the Badshah declared. “You will be safe and cared for and honored. Protected by the mountains and by my warriors. We are not enemies. We are family.”
But Durkhanai heard the threat underneath, as did the ambassadors: that they would be safe so long as they did nothing out of turn, and if they did, the mountains would suffocate them, barring exit, and his warriors would kill them.
“Now,” her grandmother said cheerfully, “let’s all retreat to the banquet hall for a feast!”
Durkhanai followed her grandparents into the ornately decorated ballroom. There, her extended family and the other nobles were waiting for them, smoking shisha and making light conversation.
The men were dressed in crisp white shalwar kameez and black or gray waistcoats, their heads topped with wool pakols. The women donned clothing heavy in floral embroidery on smooth silk or soft lawn cotton. Thin chiffon dupattas covered their hair, and warm wool or velvet chaadars covered their shoulders from the chilly mountain night. Their hands, necks and ears were covered in shining gold, their lips coated pink or red.
Durkhanai knew they were all curious and frightened and exhilarated and infuriated by the foreigners. The hall opened into a courtyard where large bonfires lit the night and warmed the cool air.
The smell of food filled the air. Naan cooked in the tandoors, wafting melted butter and garlic, while coriander garnished dishes of butter chicken and large swaths of mutton legs with roasted potatoes. Chapli kababs were stacked high with onions while carrots and raisins garnished dishes of lamb palau. The air was full of smoke: firewood, tobacco, and roasted meat, all swirling together to create a sweet charred smell.
This was her castle in the clouds. This was her home. The rubab playe
d softly in the background, the melody as distinct as her heartbeat. The stars glimmered in the vast sky like sugar crystals in black tea.
She looked around, watching the people, those who were hers and those who were not, until her gaze caught on Rashid, the nobleman she was to marry someday. He was the son of the head of the Yusufzai clan, the most powerful people after Durkhanai’s own family. After an instant, he caught her glance, his ears turning pink as he quickly looked away.
She wished he would dance with her, do something, but he would never do anything so blatantly dishonorable without an official courtship. Their inevitable affection for one another was silent yet understood, and equally understood by both her grandmother and his.
But Durkhanai had more important things to worry about. She couldn't understand how to exonerate her grandfather when they were innocent.
“Don’t fret, gudiya,” her grandfather whispered. “All will be alright, my smart little girl.”
Her grandparents left her to mingle. Walking toward the familiar faces of her court, she stopped by Laila Baji and played with her cousin’s new baby girl, a chubby little thing. Durkhanai rattled the chudiyan on her arm in front of the baby, who cooed and laughed in response.
Feeling a little better, Durkhanai watched the people from the ambassadors’ eyes. Her grandfather was eccentric, sometimes unbelievably cruel—as he had shown with ridiculing Asfandyar. Her grandmother, the Wali of S’vat was kind but quiet—stoic. She was always on guard.
And her people? The Marghazari were loud, lively. They laughed widely and ate continuously. It was the semi-barbaric part within them all: the lack of modesty and overabundance of pride. To talk, to dance, and to laugh, all exuberantly, the men and women together. They were entirely unashamed of their culture and had grown even more proud and obnoxious during her grandfather’s near fifty-year reign of prosperity.
Durkhanai could tell it bothered some of the ambassadors, to see the women so brazen, to see the dancing and the noise and the drinking exhibited by the elite. It was un-Islamic, but some traditions were hard to shed.
“Come, now, everyone join us in a dance!” her grandmother exclaimed.
In the background, the dhol and pipes called the people to dance under the stars. She circled with the ladies; the men did the same. It wasn’t unusual for the dance to be mixed, but she knew some of the other tribes like B'rung were more conservative. All the ambassadors joined the dance except for the ambassador from Kurra.
Durkhanai took the hands of those beside her, and the beat started off with slow steps as they circled. To the rhythm, they clapped inside the circle at the instant the music called for, then brought their hands out again, only to repeat.
The music gradually quickened, as did their motions, adding an extra clap, adding a twirl between the beats. To show their regard for Durkhanai, the ladies clapped, then touched their fingers to their foreheads in respect to their princess. As they did, Durkhanai smiled, looking away.
Across the floor, she caught Asfandyar’s gaze, glowing with firelight.
He grinned.
She averted her gaze quickly, her breath catching. Face flushed, she risked a glance back, and he was staring at her still—and so openly!
She had never known such forwardness. Usually boys were tripping around her, such as Rashid, always nervous in such a sweet, endearing manner. But Asfandyar—he had no shame.
Durkhanai knew she was beautiful, even more so with the precision that had gone into getting her dressed, and boys usually did stare, though not so unabashedly. She wondered if it was because the Jardum pass connected the east and the west, so its people were known to be more metropolitan.
Whatever it was, she couldn’t stand the heat of his gaze.
Heart beating quickly, she danced with the movement of the song, quickening her steps as the dhol intensified, and between the clap and spin, she caught Asfandyar’s eyes on her, unwavering, unflinching. As the beat of the drums quickened, so did her heart, filling her with a fiery feeling she couldn’t displace.
He was focused more on her than the steps of the dance, which he executed perfectly, even as the beat quickened further. His neck shone with sweat, but it was nothing compared to the glitter in his eyes. Breathless already from the dance, Durkhanai felt there wasn’t enough air in her lungs.
He kept staring, easily gliding in and out of the dance steps, eyes never leaving hers.
Durkhanai couldn’t stand it.
“I’m going for a drink,” she said to her friends, out of breath. They continued on without her as she went to the side, picking up a goblet of shikanjvi. She sipped it carefully, resisting the urge to drink the spiced lemonade in one gulp. She forced her heart to find a steadier rhythm than the quick music and even quicker pounding of feet.
Somehow, she felt him before she saw him.
He slid into the space beside her, grabbing a drink as well. He didn’t say anything, just turned to look at her over his goblet as he drank. She watched the long column of his throat. She sensed people watching them, but she couldn’t bring herself to move.
He was staring at her lips, which were coated in purple lipstick. She knew it looked as if she’d been sucking on blueberries, her lips plump with stain. He swallowed.
“Shehzadi,” he finally said, breaking the silence. He lowered his head in respect. A smile tugged at his lips.
“Ambassador,” she replied, unamused, even though she was, ever so slightly, charmed by his infectious buoyancy.
“I had heard you are famed for many skills, princess,” he said, lowering his head close to hers so she could hear him over the music. “But I had not known dancing to be one of them.”
Her heart ricocheted against her ribs. Something illicit coursed through her.
“I am a woman of many talents.”
“What else can I expect?” He drew closer. She met his gaze, matched his smirk.
“Good things to those who wait.”
“But I am not very patient,” he sighed, close enough to touch.
“Kasam se?” she asked, voice bored. “Truly?”
“Teri kasam,” he replied.
What a flirt! He swore it on her name as if she meant anything to him. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She knew she was supposed to be sweet-talking the ambassadors, reassuring them that despite Marghazar’s bold customs and manners, they were not cold-blooded enough to plot the murder of their neighbors, but Asfandyar rifled something deep within her.
She bit back a rude retort. She was supposed to be polite.
The banquet was loud, and with each sentence, he drew closer.
“Come now, you are famed for your kindness, yet all you have been to me is cruel.” His grin softened into a pout. Firelight danced in his eyes.
“I am kind to my people,” she countered. “Not those with ill intentions.”
He smiled fully then, drawing close enough to whisper into her neck. His body swallowed the cold space between them, and when he spoke again, his breath was warm against her ears.
“I assure you,” he said. “You don’t know my intentions.”
The words sent a shiver down her spine; he was too close. She wondered if he was drunk, but when she drew back, his eyes were entirely clear of alcohol, simply glittering with mischief.
She narrowed her eyes. She would not be fooled. If this was the game he wanted to play, she would play.
And she would win.
She rested a hand on his shoulder, mirroring the way he had spoken into his neck. They were a whisper away from an embrace. She lifted her chin to speak soft words into his ear.
“Just as you don’t know mine,” she said, voice husky.
She would dance along the knife’s edge of seduction and secrets: she would not get cut.
Durkhanai withdrew her hand. They held each other’s gaze.
“A prayer for you, then, princess,” he said, raising his glass between them. “May Allah keep your intentions pure as the snow that caps the
heavenly mountaintops.”
“And may He keep your thoughts even purer,” she added, raising her glass to his.
They both grinned, suddenly drunk off the game that had begun.
“Ameen,” they said together, and they drank.
With a smirk, Durkhanai flitted away, chin up. She swayed her hips, feeling suddenly giddy. She knew he was watching, but she didn’t bother to turn.
Instead, she approached another foreign face, determined to wrap all the ambassadors around her fingers before they could cause any harm. Putting aside Asfandyar, who had already infuriated her, she needed the rest to believe her grandfather innocent of that deadly attack, and people were so much more amiable with a healthy layer of sugar added to them.
But that did not mean she would be feeble or a weakling. Durkhani was famed for her kindness, as Asfandyar said, yes, but she could be cruel, too. Just like her semi-barbaric grandfather.
Nobody would expect it from the rosy princess, making them all the easier to prick with her thorns. She couldn’t afford to slip with them, as she had with him.
The ambassador she approached was a young woman, who had a slight limp and carried a jeweled cane. When she saw Durkhanai approach, she immediately extricated herself from another conversation, taking a few steps forward to meet the princess.
“Gulalai,” the ambassador introduced herself. “Daughter of the Wali of Kurra.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Durkhanai responded, calling information to her mind.
Kurra was a relatively irrelevant zilla, known to remain neutral or uninvolved in most matters. It was famed mostly for its beauty, the velveteen greenery and colorful flowers and moonlit water. Gulalai came from a land of gardens and orchards, lush greenery and flowers. The people were mostly nonthreatening, though that had changed once their wali had been injured at the summit explosion.
“Wondering whether or not to trust me?” Gulalai asked, smiling. “Don’t worry, I’m lame. How much harm could I possibly do?”
“Though not lame in wits, I can see,” Durkhanai replied.
“Besides, I’m younger than you, and by Allah’s command I must respect my elders,” Gulalai said, voice teasing.
The Lady or the Lion Page 2