The Lady or the Lion

by Aamna Qureshi

  Forty-five years of marriage, and their love had only grown stronger and stronger, like the tree whose roots sunk deeper and deeper into the earth as the years passed. Durkhanai yearned for a love like her grandparents’—one of adoration and respect and understanding. Agha-Jaan and Dhadi were made for each other.

  Her eyes involuntarily turned to Asfandyar, and she noticed he was looking intently at her grandmother, something in his eyes she couldn’t recognize or place.

  “And now for a surprise,” the Badshah said. Durkhanai watched as Marghazari soldiers brought forward a bloodied man, his face beaten, one of his eyes swollen shut.

  She gasped along with the crowd when they realized who he was.

  A Kebzu soldier.

  His uniform was matted with blood and dirt, but they could all recognize it nonetheless.

  “I bring before you proof that Marghazar was not responsible for the egregious attack on the summit meeting held in Teerza all those months ago—it was the Kebzu Kingdom!”

  The soldier fell forward on his knees. Durkhanai glanced across to the other ambassadors to assess their reactions. Gulalai’s eyes were hard with vindication, while Palwasha-sahiba had a hand covering her mouth. Durkhanai could not find Rukhsana-sahiba.

  “In these past three months, I have spared no resources in investigating, and finally I found this spy, trying to flee our lands—speak now! Tell the people what you confessed to me.”

  “It is true,” the soldier spat. “The Kebzu Kingdom ordered the attack on the summit, to keep the tribes weak—an alliance would threaten us. I’m the one who arranged for a deadly explosive.”

  “And how did you know about the summit?” the Badshah asked. “It was secret information.”

  “We have spies everywhere,” the soldier seethed. “Why should I give away who they are?”

  The Badshah made a disgusted face at the soldier, shaking his head, before addressing the people once more. “Rest assured, this despicable being will be dealt with—as will the Kebzu Kingdom. But for now, rejoice. War between our tribes has been avoided!”

  The Badshah and the Wali both grinned as the audience began a round of applause, but something did not set right within Durkhanai. It all seemed too easy—too neat. Something was off, and as she looked to the crowd, her eyes involuntarily falling to Asfandyar, she could tell he felt the same.

  They exchanged a glance, but she looked away.

  Whatever the case, the matter was now closed—Marghazar exonerated, war avoided. She did not know how willing the ambassadors would be to believe this evidence, but even if they had doubts, doubt alone would not suffice for further action.

  Asfandyar would be heading home, now.

  It was what was best—for her, for him, for her people. She had to put this entire ordeal behind her.

  “Now, enjoy the banquet!” the Badshah declared.

  The music started again, this time louder, a quicker beat, and slowly people began to dance, while others dispersed toward the food or toward small gatherings of friends.

  Durkhanai joined the crowds. As a force of habit, she found herself searching for Asfandyar, but she immediately pushed the thought from her head. He was leaving, she reminded herself.

  So instead, she focused on Rashid, who was making his way to her side.

  “You look lovely,” Rashid said, upon seeing her. He wore an embroidered gold and white sherwani, accented with his own pearls. Slung across his hip was a bejeweled sword case.

  In the candlelight, with his beard grown out, he did look quite handsome.

  Durkhanai regarded him closely, waiting to feel something . . . more. A spark, something sharp—but instead, she felt like an unlit fuse.

  “Thank you,” Durkhanai replied, smiling sweetly. He handed her a goblet full of mint lemonade.

  They made their way to the center of the gathering, talking about here-and-there things, without much substance. He asked what she had read lately, she replied, and had he read anything new? The answer was no, he was too busy with work and his father, though he didn’t elaborate.

  Durkhanai mentioned something about the people, but he steered the conversation away, not wanting to talk politics.

  They made their rounds, stopping to chat with the other noble tribe leaders, saying hello, how are you? But even then, it was nothing that caught Durkhanai’s attention; she was distracted . . . bored.

  Durkhanai kept waiting for the feeling, the knife-in-her-gut, the fire-in-her-chest, the electricity-in-her-veins, but it never came.

  There was nothing outright boring about Rashid, but her eyes kept subconsciously searching for someone else.

  “Shehzadi!” Rukhsana-sahiba drawled, greeting Durkhanai, kissing both her cheeks. The other ambassadors were with her, even Asfandyar, and they were all so . . . cozy.

  Such great friends, which was vaguely threatening but more so outright strange.

  She wished everyone would just be upfront instead of all this pretense and suspicion and confusion.

  “What a splendid banquet! Marghazar has been most welcome,” Ruksana-sahiba drawled. “And what a lovely surprise! At such perfect timing as well—one more day and we would have all had war!”

  “Yes, well,” Durkhanai started. “The truth always reveals itself one way or another.”

  “Such a pity for us to have to be leaving soon,” Rukhsana-sahiba continued. “We have learned a great deal about Marghazar’s people during our time here, and they are a boisterous bunch. Tragic, really, though about the illness—the workers are spread so thin.”

  Durkhanai opened her mouth to respond, but Rashid was quicker.

  “The people are having a swift recovery, but thank you for the concern,” Rashid said, smiling. “The people of Marghazar are resilient. A little sickness cannot keep them down.”

  Durkhanai knew he was speaking from a good place, being diplomatic, but she could answer for herself and her people. She narrowed her eyes, and of course, Asfandyar noticed.

  She ignored him.

  “Let us hope,” Rukhsana-sahiba said with a laugh.

  “If you’ll excuse us,” Rashid said, his hand hovering by Durkhanai’s back, to guide her away. She resisted eyeing his hand—not in front of the ambassadors.

  They went their separate ways, and she caught Asfandyar sending her a glance over his shoulder.

  Her heart squeezed tight.

  “How are your tribespeople doing?” Durkhanai asked Rashid, forcing her attention to him. “Have most of them truly recovered from the illness?”

  “Yes, alhamdulillah,” he replied. “Thank you for asking. And you’re not feeling worse or anything, are you?”

  “No, I’m fine,” she said. “And the people, have they eased back into working? Are they no longer discontent?”

  “You don’t have to worry about the people,” Rashid said. “You are a good shehzadi. They adore you.”

  Durkhanai tried not to frown. She knew it was coming from a good place, but she didn’t need him to coddle her, as well.

  “Right,” she replied, not pushing. They continued their chatter, making their rounds, and Durkhanai soon caught glances on her. People were giving her extra glances, and she wondered why.

  Even Naeem-sahib was giving his son a pointed look.

  Then she understood. She had been by Rashid’s side all evening, and he had been by hers. And at a gathering such as this, staying so close could easily be interpreted as meaning something. Even Asfandyar kept glancing her way, frowning.

  At the very least, being with Rashid was making Asfandyar jealous.

  The thought entered her mind and left in a flash. She paused. How despicable she was becoming—or perhaps she always had been awful.

  “Excuse me,” she told Rashid. “I just need some . . . fresh air.”

  “Are you alright?” he asked, concern covering his countenance. They were already outside, what more fresh air could she need? But there were too many people.

  “Yes,” she said with
a forced smile. “I’m perfectly fine, thank you.”

  In truth, she wasn’t. She felt scrambled inside, her emotions skittering this way and that. But she knew one thing for certain, at least; finally some clarity: Rashid deserved better. She found her way to the edge of the courtyard, toward the end of the mountain face.

  Durkhanai leaned her back against a tree, letting the music and chatter die away behind her. Taking a deep breath, Durkhanai looked out to the stars, waiting for the wind to pinch her skin.

  But it was almost July. There was no breeze. It was hot, much too hot.

  She was suffocating from the heat.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Durkhanai began her walk back to the gathering, and as she did, she overheard Rukhsana-sahiba, loud as ever, speaking to a group of people.

  “Yes, the plants in Teerza are truly astounding,” she drawled “Such variety! There are so many teas and medicinal herbs.” Her voice lowered. “Even something to slip to another if they’re bothering you too much, if you know what I mean.”

  Rukhsana-sahiba winked, laughing along with the others. Such talk was ordinary among the nobles: they all kept their own personal arsenal of little plants and potions, just in case. Durkhanai herself knew how to poison people with at least thirty different plants, each with varying effects.

  They were hidden on her person at all times, just in case: hidden little packets in her jewelry or sewn into her clothes or clipped into her elaborate updos. Just in case. She had never used any.

  But from the way Rukhsana-sahiba talked, it was clear this was common in Teerza.

  It got Durkhanai thinking, of how she herself had fallen so suddenly ill, how everyone had. Maybe, just maybe, it hadn’t just been ordinary sickness—but poisoning.

  Illness hadn’t spread so far and so fast in a long, long while. Was it a coincidence it had occurred now, just after the ambassador’s arrival?

  How had she gotten sick?

  Durkhanai recalled that night, how she had interacted with no one but Asfandyar. The bandits had been there—but they hadn’t been ill, and neither had Asfandyar.

  She had assumed she had gotten it from the man who had attacked her—he had been coughing—but she had scrubbed her body raw that night, and besides, she had only been near him for a moment.

  What else?

  Durkhanai pressed her mind to think, searching blindly for details in the memories of that night, despite the sharp pain that slit through her to think of how Asfandyar had comforted her, how he had brought her home. His arms around her . . .

  She brushed the sensation away. There was something missing.

  How did illness spread? How could it have spread so fast amongst the people? It almost seemed deliberate, a cruel punishment sent from Allah—but, no. It wasn’t arbitrary, enough. No one in the palace or court had fallen ill, except for Durkhanai, and that was only because she had strayed.

  And Rashid’s sister, but that was also because she went down to the villages to teach.

  Durkhanai tried to recall the pattern of the illness, how it had spread from the top of the mountain, the villages closest to the palace, then further down. And even in the village, it seemed to be the workers who were getting most ill, not the women who stayed at home with their little babies or the older men who spent all day cooking.

  What was it?

  And then, clear as day, she remembered a detail: the water from the well.

  Anxiety struck through her heart like lightning, spreading through her veins, filling her and filling her. No. Durkhanai pressed her fingers into her throat, felt her pulse thrum furiously.

  Durkhanai tried not to run back to the main throng of the gathering, but still her steps quickened into something close to a jog.

  Of course, the moment she entered, Rashid found her.

  “Feeling better?” he asked, voice concerned. Durkhanai nodded, distracted, looking around the room.

  “Rashid, do you know where your sister is?” she asked, scanning the crowds.

  “Hala?” Rashid asked. “Come, I’ll take you to her.” He took her hand. Durkhanai obliged, not even noticing how easily she gave her hand to him until he was already pulling her along through the crowds and it was too late to withdraw. What had gotten in Rashid? Always so prim and proper, careful not to even bump shoulders with her, now suddenly holding her hand in his? A creeping feeling spread across her chest, but there was no time for that now.

  “Hala!” Rashid called. “The Shehzadi was looking for you.”

  Hala lowered her head in respect, but even she noticed her brother’s hand with the princess’s. She was a pretty girl, with the same wavy brown hair and warm hazel eyes as her brother. “What an honor,” she replied.

  Durkhanai shone her brightest smile. “Come, take a walk with me.”

  She slipped her hand out of Rashid’s and looped her arm through Hala’s.

  “I’ll find you after,” Rashid told her, trying to give her a bright smile to hide his downcast countenance.

  Durkhanai smiled in response, but made a point of moving out of hearing distance. “How are you doing?” she asked Hala, trying to remain calm. She did not need to alarm anyone, not when all she had was a suspicion.

  “I’m well, Shehzadi, shukria,” Hala replied. “And how are you? Is everything well?”

  “Yes, thank you so much for asking,” Durkhanai replied. “I was ill some time ago, but alhamdulillah I have recovered.”

  “Yes, I had heard,” Hala responded. “It is good you are better now. I was ill myself.”

  “Yes, Rashid told me,” Durkhanai said. “Strange, no? The illness seemed to have come from nowhere, yet so many have been afflicted.”

  Hala nodded. “Yes, strange, indeed. I had gone down to the villages to teach the Quran to some children, as I try to do often, and suddenly I woke up ill a day or so later.”

  “You didn’t happen to drink water from one of the wells, did you?” Durkhanai asked, voice low. Hala slowed down, surprised.

  “I often do, of course.”

  Durkhanai didn’t say anything more.

  “But it couldn’t have been something in the water,” Hala said, confused. “The water in the wells come from underground springs, which provide freshwater from the melting glaciers.”

  “Right,” Durkhanai said, shaking her head nonchalantly. She smiled. “There is no way for the water to be contaminated.”

  The concern left Hala’s countenance, and she relaxed once more, laughing nervously. Durkhanai stopped walking, leaning forward to kiss Hala’s cheeks.

  “I must attend to the other guests,” she said. “Please, enjoy the festivities. Make sure you eat the chapli kababs, they are exceptionally delicious today.”

  Durkhanai took her leave, trying not to run, to remain calm. Her mind was running in a hundred directions, leaves fluttering away from different branches, all being pulled in different directions by the wind. What if it hadn’t been a natural illness—what if someone had been contaminating the water at its source, poisoning it?

  With four foreigners and their servants in her lands, it wasn’t unfathomable.

  Durkhanai blood boiled just from the thought, and she tried to calm herself, but the storm inside would find no peace. She needed to leave, immediately, before she caused a scene—pulling the ambassadors out and interrogating them, or worse, running her nails across their skin. Durkhanai passed by delicate vases perched on pillars and wanted to knock them over, spill all the flowers inside and carry the shards like blades.

  But she kept the barbarism at bay—she controlled her emotions. She needed a plan.

  Durkhanai was on her way out of the courtyard when she realized the gathering had gone quiet, eerily so. Even the music had died down, and voices had lowered to whispers. Durkhanai turned, not knowing what to expect—but it certainly wasn’t Asfandyar.

  He was standing in front of the Badshah, his head lowered in respect. With a nod from the Badshah, Asfandyar turned, addressing the audi
ence. She finally looked at him: he was dressed in crisp white shalwar kameez with an embroidered sherwani, his curly hair half out of his pakol. His eyes were sharp, jaw determined.

  “I have an announcement to make,” he said, his strong voice carrying.

  Even though he was across the space, she could hear him as clearly as though he was standing right next to her, talking directly to her. She felt his gaze on her, even from so far away.

  She stared at him openly, waiting. The people quieted, and a figure subtly began to make its way toward the back of the crowd. Then, an instant later, the figure was gone—disappearing like a shadow into the night.

  “After the beloved Shehzadi fell ill, I began to investigate where the illness could be coming from,” Asfandyar said.

  At her own mention, Durkhanai’s heart seized painfully—the beloved Shehzadi. It was language everyone used—daily—but from his mouth it felt like a tantalizingly soft kiss to her cheek.

  “I have found the springs to be poisoned by a plant found commonly in Teerza,” he said. “When the leaves have been dried, then soaked in water for two nights, they release a toxin—it is this that has caused the illness spreading through the villages. It is this same plant that I found in Rukhsana-sahiba’s room.”

  Durkhanai was right.

  Blood rushed through her ears. She curled her hands into fists, resisting the urge to run. There was only one thing keeping her in place, and it was Asfandyar’s face.

  Though he was far away, she saw his intent. He was speaking to the crowd, but his eyes were focused entirely on her. She could read his expression, as simple and clear as a children’s book.

  He had done it for her.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Durkhanai ran.

  Before anyone could react, she ran through the crowd, past the shocked noblemen, past her furious grandfather, a confused Asfandyar. She ran through her marble halls, past guards, hitching up her lengha, heart pounding, feet thumping. Her heavy gold earrings bounced up and down, her chudiyan chum-chum-ing up and down her wrists. She ran toward the stables.