The Lady or the Lion

by Aamna Qureshi

  The Wali shook her head, face cold.

  “Please, let us go home,” Asfandyar pleaded then, too frightened. He cast a frantic look to Naina and saw the crippling fear in her eyes—but worse was the grief of rejection. “We won’t say a word to anyone. It’ll be as though we had never come. Just let us go—have mercy.”

  “Kill the girl for her false claims to my family,” the Wali had said, without batting an eye. “Send the servant back as a warning to the man who claims to be of my blood.” She turned and met Asfandyar’s eye. “There is your mercy.”

  The guard holding Naina lifted his sword to her throat.

  “No!” Asfandyar cried, struggling to break free. “Send her back. Kill me!”

  “I will send you back so you remember,” the Wali said. “And because a servant can never be a threat.”

  “What about a tribunal?” Asfandyar argued, fighting against the guards holding him. “Your barbaric tribunal!”

  The Wali just shook her head.

  “Please, please! Just send her back, let her live, kill me instead—”

  Asfandyar turned to Naina to find that she had gone quiet, face sad, but resolute.

  “Asfi,” she had said, voice so soft, her final caress. “I love you.”

  And before he could say it back, she dragged her own throat against the sword.

  “No!” he screamed.

  She sacrificed herself, taking her own life—not giving the Wali the satisfaction, ensuring that Asfandyar would live.

  There Asfandyar stood, a coward, motionless, unable to do anything but watch in horror as his beloved’s body crumpled to the ground, blood pouring from her throat like a waterfall—rushing, ceaseless, unforgiving.

  He failed her; it was his sacred duty to protect her, and he failed her.

  Everything burned inside of him: grief, rage, despair. And the Wali didn’t even flinch.

  “A shame,” she had merely said with a cluck of her tongue. “If the girl’s blood hadn’t been tainted, she would have made a proper Miangul. Tell the man who claims to be my son to never near these borders again. Show him this girl’s corpse should he wish to test me.”

  And then she left without another glance.

  Asfandyar had cried the entire journey home, Naina’s rotting corpse haunting him the entire way. He couldn’t stand to look at her lifeless face, yet he couldn’t tear his eyes away. So he would stare instead at the little ring that had caused all of this: the Miangul family crest.

  Finally, he made it home, guilty and ashamed, traumatized and angry. Hopeless.

  He had thought Wakdar would kill him right then and there, and secretly Asfandyar had wished for it—wished to be reunited with Naina in the Afterlife. But Wakdar had stood completely still as Asfandyar recounted the events.

  Asfandyar himself couldn’t stop crying: it had been his responsibility to take care of Naina, to ensure she didn't get hurt, and like a coward he had returned with her corpse.

  “I swear my life to you,” Asfandyar said that night. “From this day forth, my life is yours as penance for the life of your daughter, who I had sworn to protect. I failed her. I failed you. From this day forth, my life is yours.”

  “From this day forth, you have one purpose,” Wakdar had said calmly. “You will fulfill my revenge.”

  They began planning. It was not enough just to slaughter the Badshah and his wife; they would take their land, dishonor and humiliate them, and take all that the Mianguls held dear—then, and only then, would they kill them.

  So Asfandyar became ambassador, through Wakdar’s connections, and the rest of the story unfurled.

  “I swore,” Asfandyar finished. “We swore to Allah that we would avenge Naina, that we would have our revenge.”

  Asfandyar watched Durkhanai as he told her all of this: watched the shock and grief and horror. She held her hand to her chest, and he felt his own heart react in reaction to her emotions.

  He loved her, in truth. He would run away from all of this with her, run away from his oath to Wakdar and his oath to Naina. Damn his word, damn his revenge. He would start anew with her.

  But there was no point in those thoughts now. Durkhanai would never have him. Yet, Asfandyar couldn’t help but imagine him and her, living under the stars, a thousand miles away. He would tell her the stories his own mother once told him, and they would be together, for eternity.

  He thought about when Durkhanai had first kissed him, which seemed a lifetime ago now, and how afterwards he had pressed a finger to his bottom lip and found it to be swollen, tender to the touch. Delicately, he had run his tongue across it, and, even though it hurt, he couldn't quite bring himself to stop.

  He could almost taste her on his lips, then, and he couldn't help himself, even if it hurt.

  After Naina, Asfandyar had thought he would never love again—that he couldn’t.

  How cursed was his fate.

  It almost made him laugh.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  “You demon,” Durkhanai seethed.

  He stood there like a wilted flower, head bowed. She wanted to strike him.

  “Why are you telling me this? Are you trying to turn me against my family?” She shook her head. “How will you benefit? Just as you care about your people, I care about mine.” Her nails bit into her palms. “I won’t let you harm them.”

  “You are my people,” he pleaded, reaching for her.

  “Stop!” she shrieked. “Stop lying to me.”

  He opened his mouth to speak again but she cut him off.

  “You have no honor,” she said, shaking her head. “You are worse than a thousand curses.” She meant every word, and it astonished her, her own cruelty. “I hate you. I wish we had never met, I wish you had never been born.”

  She shook with emotion, but the rage quickly gave way to grief because, oh, hadn’t he warned her? Hadn’t he told her from the very beginning that he was a spy? Hadn’t he told her he had lost his best friend? The clues were there all along. She was just too blinded to see them.

  “I believed in you,” she said, voice breaking. “I saw good in you, despite what everyone said. And this is what it got me—it serves me right for being a fool.”

  She was losing her mind.

  “Durre, please,” he pleaded. “I—I love you.”

  “Why should I believe you?” she said. “Why should I believe anything you said? If your tale is true, my grandmother murdered my half-sister. Yet, if your tale is true, why did she not recognize you? Why risk coming to the palace once more?”

  “She did not see me as a person, Durkhanai,” Asfandyar said, voice low. “Please, just think for a moment.”

  Durkhanai shook her head. “No, you are a liar and a spy. I don’t believe you. You don’t love me.”

  “I do, please, just listen to me,” he reached for her, but she pulled away.

  “Shaam hi toh hai,” she said, voice empty. “It’ll pass.”

  It tasted acidic, like a lie.

  But her mind was spinning to what she had read before all this—to Asfandyar stealing the Badshah’s seal.

  “Why did you steal the Badshah’s seal?” she asked, fear creeping through her. “What did you do?”

  Asfandyar swallowed.

  “It was part of the reason I was sent here: to create evidence that proved Marghazar was behind the summit attack,” he replied.

  “But Marghazar wasn’t—you would falsely indict my grandfather?”

  “How can you be so sure he wasn’t?” Asfandyar countered. She shook her head, and he went from her side toward his desk, rummaging through papers until he found something.

  “I wasn’t sure either, at first,” he told her. “But Durkhanai—with the Badshah’s seal, I forged a letter from him to send to the Kebzu Kingdom, written as if from the Badshah, inquiring about the summit attack. Just like we did with Palwasha-sahiba.”

  “Stop,” she said, putting up a hand. “Please stop.” She didn’t want to hear this.

/>   “Do you want to know what they sent back?” he asked, offering her the paper. “They sent back thanks: appreciation to the Badshah for alerting them of the summit.”

  “What?” she whispered, dumbstruck.

  She took the paper, and before reading it, folded it in half to inspect the seal. It looked real, but how could she believe it was not a forgery? As if reading her mind, Asfandyar pulled something from his pocket.

  “Check the seal,” he said, handing her another letter. I found this in your grandfather’s office, as well. It is from last year, discussing a temporary ceasefire in the northeast mountains during the avalanche. Surely you will remember it and know that this is not a forgery, either.”

  Durkhanai recalled the instance. She could not allege that this second letter was a forgery, for she had been present when Agha-Jaan had read it for the first time.

  She put the seals together, and they matched perfectly.

  “Now read the first letter,” Asfandyar said. Her hands shook, but she held the page up, reading.

  To the Badshah of Marghazar,

  * * *

  You inquire as to whether we took due course of action in regards to the summit of your neighboring leaders, to which we respond that we responded adequately. While it cannot be said that we are friends, for the war that still rages on at our shared border, the information you provided me was surely that of camaraderie. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, and in informing us of the summit meeting and its location, you have earned what you asked...

  Durkhanai could not read further. She felt sick.

  The Badshah had orchestrated the attack on the summit.

  All this time, she had stood up for her crown, thinking them to be innocent when in fact it was they who were guilty. She had assured Gulalai and everyone else that Marghazar was blameless, that they would never do such a thing.

  She had racked her brain searching for the truth—and here it was: so simple, so hideous.

  Of course it was them.

  Wasn’t Marghazar the one with the most to gain from all this? The one zilla that left unscathed? The one most threatened by the other zillas’ unification?

  “Durkhanai, I’m sorry,” Asfandyar said. “I don’t want war any more than you do, and now, nor do I wish for anything to happen to your grandparents, simply because I know how much you adore them, whereas just a few months ago, I would have killed them both on sight without a second thought. They spared Naina no mercy, and for that I would have spared them none—but for you, I would spare them anything.”

  His hands were tight fists. She could see this was costing him greatly to say. He would not lie, but she did not want to believe him, did not want to imagine her grandmother as a murderer, though she could not have said it surprised her entirely. The Wali was ruthless when it came to protecting her family and her people.

  “I don’t understand.” She shook her head. “What do I do with this?”

  “You cannot in good conscience let them continue their rule,” Asfandyar said. “Not after what they’ve done.”

  “You want me to . . . overthrow them?”

  “If you publicly condemn their behavior, stating you had nothing to do with it, and banish them into exile, there could still be a chance at peace,” he told her. “After learning of this alliance, no one will accept your grandparents’ leadership. But if you make it clear you had no knowledge of such actions and punish the Badshah and Wali for their transgressions, the people will naturally turn to you. It won’t be easy—but you could do it, Durkhanai. You could convince the village people and the noblemen. It is your birthright. You would be the Badshah.”

  Here was the truth in front of her, grotesque and cruel.

  What Asfandyar said made sense. She could come clean to the people, condemn her grandparents’ actions, avoid war, and take her place as Badshah.

  But she couldn’t overthrow her grandfather. She couldn’t banish them to shame, undoing everything her grandfather had worked tooth and nail for in the past fifty years. It would ruin their legacy, their memory. It would be a permanent stain.

  She couldn’t be so disloyal to her blood. Despite all they had done—the Kebzu alliance, killing Naina—Durkhanai could not forsake them in such a manner.

  She took the paper in her hand and ripped it to shreds.

  “You have no evidence,” she said, voice flat.

  Asfandyar was silent in return.

  She needed to leave.

  “Wait,” he cried, grabbing hold of her. “You don’t understand. I swore my life to Wakdar, after Naina—we both swore to Allah we would avenge her. And yes, I had been sent to spy on you, and it was a ruse, but as I got to know you, I—” He stopped, holding her tight.

  “Durkhanai, I love you. I never thought myself capable of any emotion so strong after Naina, but you’ve opened that part of me once more. I love you.”

  “I don’t believe you!”

  “Teri kasam, Durkhanai, I love you,” he said, swearing it on her, but his words meant nothing. “I love you.”

  His voice cracked. She shook her head.

  “I tried to tell you before anything happened between us,” he continued, “but I didn’t know how—I lacked the courage—and you’ve avoided me. You don’t understand everything, just let me explain to you, please.” She had never seen him so desperate. “I decided to run away from my oath to Wakdar after that night in the village, after the farmhouse and the rain. I didn’t want to hurt you anymore.”

  “It’s too late,” she replied, voice quiet. “It’s much too late.”

  “Please, Durkhanai, I don’t want to be the villain anymore,” he pleaded. “I just want to be with you.”

  She couldn’t stand any more.

  Her father was alive. She had a sister, then lost her. Her grandmother had her sister killed? Asfandyar loved her. He was here to cause her grandparents’ ruin. Her grandparents, who were guilty.

  Durkhanai couldn’t understand how all of this was true.

  She needed clarity. She needed to think. She needed to breathe.

  She needed to get away from Asfandyar.

  “Please,” she said, voice breaking, holding up a hand to silence him. She couldn’t bear any more.

  Shaking, she approached the door. She needed to speak to her grandparents, to see what was true and what was false, but before she could make it two steps past his room, a slew of guards charged past her.

  “What is the meaning of this?” she snapped, a princess once more.

  The guards paid her no attention. They went straight to Asfandyar, who was standing motionless, and grabbed his arms.

  He didn’t even fight.

  Something inside of her broke seeing the guards seize him. She knew what this meant.

  “Release him,” she ordered. The guards did not react.

  “As your crown princess, I order you to release this man this instant,” she hissed, drawing her full height before the guards. No matter that she was falling apart. She was to be queen of this land—she would have her respect.

  “Apologies, Shehzadi,” the guard responded, not meeting her eyes. “The orders came directly from the Badshah. This man is to be arrested and stand trial by tribunal.”

  Tribunal.

  The fatal question.

  No.

  “On what charges?” she demanded, heart quickening.

  Finally, the guard met her gaze. She saw shame embedded deep, deep within. But even further, she saw disappointment. Lost hope.

  A fallen princess.

  “For loving you.”

  No, no, no.

  “This is absurd,” she seethed, but the guards paid no heed. Finally, she looked to Asfandyar; all the fight had left him.

  “Deny the charges,” she snapped, grabbing him by his kurta. “Tell them it isn’t true.”

  She loved him, she loved him. The words burned in her mouth. Oh, what a fool she had been.

  “I will never lie to you again,” he swore.

&n
bsp; She watched with horror as they took him away.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Saifullah’s Tale

  Saifullah watched as Asfandyar was taken away.

  He couldn’t help the satisfaction that ran through him, bordering even joy. The only thing that tainted his pleasure was the look on Durkhanai’s face.

  She loved him; he saw it clear as day. How aggrieved she was to see him taken away like the criminal he was.

  His poor, beloved cousin. What a fool she was.

  Saifullah did feel a little guilty, he had to admit. All of this could have been avoided, from a certain point of view, but from another, it was as inevitable as a rainstorm. Yes, the devastation seemed great, but it was only after the rain that the earth could flourish.

  It was Saifullah who had informed his grandparents of Durkhanai and Asfandyar’s love affair.

  “Saifullah!” Agha-Jaan had cried, face florid with fury. “Mind your tongue.”

  “Do you think I wish to utter such a thing?” Saifullah had replied. “I tell you only so you can stop her. If you do not believe me, send guards to Asfandyar’s rooms now. See if he is alone.”

  Saifullah had been embarrassed to even say such a thing, in truth. His ears had burned with shame at the thought of Durkhanai with Asfandyar at such an indecent hour, and his heart felt scorched with anger. But he had known Durkhanai would be there in the hours before Asfandyar’s departure.

  Silently, he had hoped she wouldn’t, but she had been. It made Saifullah sick, truly, what his cousin had become.

  But it wasn’t her fault, he reminded himself. It was that accursed Asfandyar who had bewitched her—turned her into someone she wasn’t. He had performed some sort of sorcery on her, possessed her.

  But in the end, when all of this was through and everything was in order again, she would heal. He would explain it all to her, make her understand everything she did not see, and beg for her forgiveness. She would grant it to him, for they were blood.

  Saifullah had hated Asfandyar since the beginning, when the boy had first come to his mother and told them his suspicions about the Badshah; Saifullah would have cut off his head then had he and his mother not had similar suspicions about the Badshah’s alliance with the Kebzu Kingdom.