Durkhanai did not turn. She left without another word, mind spinning.
Spent from the meeting, Durkhanai went to visit her people, expecting the love she often received.
But today, something was different. Something was buzzing, like bugs around spoiled meat: they lingered, but did not attack.
Until somebody broke the silence.
“Would unification be so awful, Shehzadi?” a young woman, Shazia, asked her. Durkhanai saw the mother give her daughter a warning glance, but Durkhanai smiled to let them know it was alright.
“Would it not make us stronger to fight our wars?” Shazia continued.
“We are going through a troubling time, now, Shehzadi,” her father added, emboldened. “My three sons off to war with no news of return, and Shazia ill a few weeks ago. We were among the lucky who were blessed with medicine mysteriously in the night, but what of all those who were not so blessed?”
“I understand your qualms,” Durkhanai replied. “But we have always been against the unification of the zillas into one nation. It would only spread our resources even thinner than they already are.”
“Yes, but the times are changing,” he replied. By then, a few of the neighbors had joined in to see what Durkhanai would say. They regarded the Shehzadi with something that flavored strongly of disillusion.
“Would it be truly so horrible to consider it, at least?” someone said.
“The Badshah did not even attend the summit meeting,” someone else added.
“Why not hold another, just to give it a chance?”
“The wars against the Luhgams in the east and the Kebzus in the north have lasted too long.”
“If Marghazar had allies in the other zillas, if we are all united as one nation, perhaps we could defeat those imperialists once and for all!”
Nobody was being outright accusatory, but she heard the undertones of vilification directed toward the Badshah.
She had heard those words before—from Rukhsana-sahiba. Had she been speaking to the people, planting these seeds of discontent? The people were distressed enough, and if Rukhsana-sahiba was meddling . . .
“I will speak to the Badshah,” the Shehzadi coaxed. “We have not ruled out any options, and we will do what must be done.”
Even as she persuaded the public toward contentment again, Durkhanai knew the creation of a united nation wasn’t just a horrible idea, it was impossible. Waving off her anger at Rukhsana-sahiba’s manipulation, Durkhanai considered the situation logically. Even if the summit had not been attacked, Durkhanai doubted the five Walis would have come to agreement on a single thing.
Joining with them would only hold Marghazar back, tie them down, and all four zillas would never reach accords. It would merely be a struggle between the four leaders over the immense power of so many people, such a vast stretch of land.
Marghazar only ran so smoothly because the decisions ran through one main person: the Badshah. Throw in five more different opinions and a united nation would be taken over by imperialists before it could even celebrate its inception.
But there was only so much Durkhanai could say. The people would not understand. Disheartened, she made her way back to the palace.
Durkhanai went to her grandmother’s courtyard, which connected her wing to her husband’s. There, she found Agha-Jaan and Dhadi soaking in the sun: Agha-Jaan reading a book, and Dhadi’s lips moving as her fingers rolled over a tasbeeh.
“How is my little Shehzadi faring?” Dhadi asked, smiling sweetly. Durkhanai gave a dramatic sigh. She sat by her grandmother’s feet and laid her head on Dhadi’s lap.
“Kya bataon,” she replied. “Some people are determined to see us as the villains, no matter how I explain it.”
“You mustn’t worry, meri jaan,” Dhadi replied, unbothered. “The villain of one story is the hero in another.”
Durkhanai had learned this long ago. It all boiled down to perspective. But she had never considered her family being the villains in any version of any story.
“I don’t want people to think of us as villains,” Durkhanai said.
“Oh, gudiya,” Dhadi said, stroking her hair. “Someone must be, in the end.”
Agha-Jaan opened his eyes, his gaze warm on her. He reached into the fountain and sprinkled water onto her cheek. Durkhanai wrinkled her nose, smiling.
“Sometimes, that someone is us,” the Badshah said. “Don’t you remember when you were a little girl, so small you could sit just on my one knee, and you would sniffle and cry whenever we stopped you from doing anything at all?
“Did we not look like the villains then, in your small little mind, when we told you not to go too close to the mountain’s edge or not to near the roaring fire or to head into the rushing stream?
“You would pout and fuss, seeing us only ruining your fun, not knowing we were only doing what was best for you,” the Badshah said. “That is what it is to be a ruler: to be as the parent—sometimes good, sometimes bad, but always, always doing what is best for those who you love.”
She still remembered how indignant she would become whenever stopped from doing what she pleased, how furious. It could have been something so small as not being allowed sweets too close to dinner, and she wouldn’t speak to Agha-Jaan, suddenly a tyrant, for a whole twenty minutes.
Durkhanai would just stand there, arms crossed, pouting, until she was given her way.
She supposed it was similar with the people: they didn’t understand the nuances of everything occurring, so they could not comprehend the actions being taken or the decisions being made. Durkhanai wished she could explain it all to everyone, to hold all her people close, but it was infeasible.
They had to trust what she was doing came from a place of love.
“You cannot please everyone,” Dhadi reminded her.
“Nor can you befriend everyone,” Agha-Jaan added.
But she wanted to. She wished to keep everyone content.
Chapter Thirteen
In what had become routine, Durkhanai and Asfandyar slipped away from the marble palace, bags full of medicine, and began distributing at a nearby village.
But as they finished their route, they saw a figure walking through the shadows ahead of them. Face covered, the figure carried a large bag. As Durkhanai crept closer to get a better look, the figure slowed their pace.
“Who is—” Durkhanai started, but her voice was cut off when Asfandyar’s hand slipped over her mouth.
“Shh,” he whispered, finger to her lips. He pulled her into the foliage. The figure turned to look over her shoulder, and as she did, her chaadar slipped to reveal her face.
Palwasha-sahiba.
“What is she doing?” Durkhanai whispered.
“We’re about to find out.”
Palwasha-sahiba walked down a trail. Slowly, Durkhanai followed her, maintaining her distance and shrouding her face with her chaadar, as well. Asfandyar followed suit, masking himself.
Palwasha-sahiba slowed her pace, pausing. She seemed to be inspecting something, but from this distance Durkhanai couldn’t tell what. Perhaps the roads?
Or was she lost?
Durkhanai inched forward, trying to get a closer look, but just as she did, she saw Palwasha-sahiba’s entire body tense.
The ambassador began to run.
“Why is she running?” Durkhanai hissed, as she and Asfandyar began to run after her. But Palwasha-sahiba was fast and already twenty paces ahead of them.
“Follow me!” Asfandyar said, grabbing her hand.
He cut through the trees, pulling her along with him, and for a moment she doubted him—then she saw: Palwasha-sahiba ran parallel to them on lower ground. Durkhanai quickened her pace, getting ahead of Asfandyar, branches snapping against her arms as she ran.
Until someone intercepted her path.
It was a group of men, and from the look and smell of them, they were drunk.
Durkhanai scrambled to pull her chaadar up to cover her hair and face. As
she did, Asfandyar stepped in front of her, breathing heavily.
“Are you the little bandits hanging out medicine?” one of the men asked.
Caught up with Palwasha-sahiba, Durkhanai and Asfandyar had gotten sloppy—they hadn’t been watching their own backs.
“Not quite,” Asfandyar said. His hand slipped into his pocket, and before anybody could react, sand flew into the air. It briefly blinded the men, and a moment was all they had.
Asfandyar grabbed her hand, and they ran.
Their feet beat against the ground, and the sound of the men quickly followed. Asfandyar quickly veered left, pulling her out of the forest and into an alley with him.
“Go on,” he told her. “I’ll lead them another way.”
“No,” she protested, grabbing his arm. “We stay together.”
“Go,” he insisted. “We already lost Palwasha-sahiba. At least take the last vial to the child who needs it. I will meet you there when I’ve lost them.”
Durkhanai’s face scrunched with anger.
“No,” she said simply. “Don’t try and tell me what to do.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it, Durkhanai,” he said her name with extreme tenderness. “Please. The child needs his medicine.”
There was urgency in his voice—and no time to fight. Durkhanai pushed him away from her and ran before she could change her mind, thoughts spinning from Palwasha-sahiba to where she was to deliver the medicine.
The house was a few blocks away, home to a little boy named Mahd, who spent every free moment he had in drawing little pictures. He was the boy who had drawn her on top of the highest mountain peak, her crown made from the rays of the sun.
When she had seen him last, he was too sick even to play games with his brothers in the streets or to draw anything at all. He had been burning up with fever, his throat and nose clogged with mucus. He’d barely been able to talk. Durkhanai had especially saved medicine for him.
She ran toward Mahd’s home, not stopping to look back for even a moment, just pushing forward.
Until a large man came into her path.
Durkhanai didn’t know if this was one of the men who had been chasing them, or someone new. She pulled her chaadar to cover half her face, holding it tight around her shoulders with the other hand. Tightening her grip on the last medicine vial, she masked her panic into the appearance of a feeble young woman.
“You there,” he said, voice slurred. “What’s a girl like you doing out so late at night?”
He was staggering toward her, his breath wheezy.
“I’m just going home,” she said, voice quiet and feeble.
“So late?” He kept getting closer. Durkhanai took a step back for every step he took forward. “I’ve heard of bandits delivering medicine in the dead of the night to sick villagers,” he told her. “Might you be one of the guardian angels?”
Durkhanai’s heart sank. She only had one left.
“Yes,” she told him. “If you tell me where you live, I can bring you some more tomorrow. I don’t have any medicine left tonight.”
“I need medicine now,” he replied. “My wife—”
“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice melting. “I don’t have any more, but if you just—”
Her voice cut off into a gasp as his rough hands grabbed her shoulders.
“I need medicine,” he said. Desperation scratched his throat.
“If you just tell me where you live, I can bring you some tomorrow,” she repeated, struggling to keep her voice calm. Nobody touched her, most certainly not so callously. She wanted to claw his hands off of her.
But he didn’t know who she was, and perhaps if it stayed that way, he would let her go.
The man shook her shoulders. Durkhanai bristled, swallowing her anxiety. She could smell alcohol on him. He was sick and angry and drunk.
Where was the accursed Asfandyar when she needed him?
But no. Durkhanai could handle this. She must.
“Sir, take your hands off me,” she said, her voice icy. There was no need to mask her identity any longer. She would demand the respect she deserved. “As your princess, I command you to back away.”
“Princess?” he repeated. “No.”
He shook his head.
“You’re just a pretty little fool.”
He seized her.
Durkhanai barely released a gasp before he had her pushed against the wall, his body pressed against hers. The alcohol on his tongue was putrid in her face. She turned her cheek, her chaadar slipping from her hair. The night cold was sharp to nip on her ears, but his breath warmed her neck. She swallowed her revulsion as visions of Inaya in this same situation flashed through her mind.
“Let me go,” she seethed, baring her teeth.
She shoved him as hard as she could, and he stumbled back. Shock and disgust slowed her sense, and she vaguely thought to reach for the little weapons she had hidden into her jewelry, only to remember that she wore none on these secret trips.
Panting, she moved to run, but he recovered just as she did. Arm locked around her waist, he grabbed her from behind and threw her to the ground, as if she weighed nothing at all. Even with a drunkard, her strength was nothing to his.
Her knees broke the fall, but the sudden collapse forced her hands to pitch forward, sending the vial catapulting from her hands. Durkhanai watched it shatter, so simply.
Another day Mahd would stay ill. Another day he would suffer.
Anger filled her chest like ice. Her hands grasped for anything, anything in reach with which to hit him, when suddenly a hand covered the man’s mouth. His eyes bulged, then closed. His body crumpled to the floor, unconscious, revealing Asfandyar behind him.
Durkhanai stood, filled with the sudden urge to kick the man’s head, to run her nails over his skin, though he lay motionless. She shook from withholding the urge. There were no roses, then, only thorns laced with poison.
Her hands had closed around a broken branch while she was on the ground. She approached, hands raised to strike, when Asfandyar intercepted her path.
“Don’t,” he whispered. She opened her hands. The branch fell to the floor.
Where were you? she wanted to shout, but she couldn’t bring herself to say anything.
It didn’t matter: Asfandyar caught the accusation in her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to take so long.”
Durkhanai shook as the anger dissipated, leaving only the trauma. She wanted to cry, to scream—anything. Asfandyar came close, tentative, and she threw her arms around him, grip lethal around his neck.
He rocked from the force, taken aback. She thought maybe he wouldn’t react at all. But then he grabbed her with equivalent force, his arms encircling her. He stroked her hair, saying nothing, and she was glad. Durkhanai took quick, short breaths, hyperventilating into his neck. She could feel her heart beating like a hummingbird’s in her chest and wondered if he felt it, too. Her knees were collapsing, and he lowered her gently to the ground.
An irreversible eternity passed in those few moments.
“Whenever you’re ready,” Asfandyar finally said, voice hoarse. She knew she would never be. She didn’t want to let him go.
She was cocooned against him, face against his neck. Her hands had fallen to rest on his waist and she was leaning into him.
She felt safe, but Durkhanai knew she must pull away. Just another moment, she told herself.
One more second.
She forced herself away, holding her hands on his chest to steady herself, and looked up at his face, her eyelashes glittering with unshed tears.
“We lost Palwasha-sahiba, too,” she said. “Where had she been going?”
“It’s alright,” Asfandyar said. “We’ll keep an eye on her.”
As he spoke, Durkhanai noticed a slice on his lip. She reached over to touch the cut. Asfandyar winced, jaw clenched, but he didn’t stop her. “Batameez,” she muttered, giving him an angry pout. “Getting
yourself hurt.”
She remembered something. She reached into her bag and got out a little coconut oil balm.
She attempted a smile. His mouth twitched.
“You and you’re blasted coconut oil,” he muttered, but he allowed her to spread it across his lower lip, which was soft as a cushion. The oil melted upon contact, making his lips glisten. There was excess still left on her finger so she spread it across her own lips, her fingers warm.
Asfandyar stood completely still, watching her finger glide across her bottom lip.
He swallowed.
She felt her heartbeat in her ears.
The sweet scent stayed with them as they made their way back. He kept one arm lightly by the small of her back, guiding her, not touching her entirely, but the heat of his skin was close enough to warm her.
When they passed a well, Durkhanai paused to take water. It tasted strange, as though the whole night had turned rancid, even the air sharply sour.
Despite knowing that it was a bad idea, Durkhanai leaned into Asfandyar, feeling his solid chest against her shoulder. His hand fell to her waist, clutching her tightly, and they were joined at the seams.
Durkhanai’s heartbeat was violent against her chest, and she was glad for it. She focused on the staccato, rather than the revulsion from before.
They arrived back in the last whisper of night before dawn. This was where they usually broke apart: him to his room, her to her passageways. But that night, she couldn’t let him go.
“Will you stay with me for a while?” she asked, like her voice belonged to someone else.
He hesitated, and she thought she saw guilt trek across his face, but then he nodded.
She led him to the passageways, holding his hand, leading him through until they reached her room. In silence that was neither awkward nor uncomfortable, she crawled into bed, wishing he would join, but of course he did not. Instead, Asfandyar sat down beside her curled legs.
She was glad he was there. Her stomach felt uneasy, her throat itchy with emotion. But when Durkhani looked up to Asfandyar from her pillow, she was at ease. Less alone. And she wondered how it was possible she had never tired of the view.
He gave her a soft smile and tucked a curl behind her ear, but his eyes were filled with a grief she did not understand. He ran a hand through his hair.
The Lady or the Lion Page 11