The alliance that would lead to the Badshah’s downfall.
In exchange for money, Marghazar had been providing soldiers to fight alongside the Kebzus against the Luhgam Empire. It was why the northern frontier hadn’t been so heavily threatened by the Kebzus as of late, why so many more garrisons of soldiers were instead dying in the east. But with the Kebzus and Marghazari allied, the Luhgam Empire had pushed back even harder.
It boiled Saifullah’s blood, that the Badshah would sell his own soldiers, his own people, to fight alongside the Kebzus. Saifullah had felt the betrayal even then, so many months ago, before the summit.
But the attack on the summit had been the catalyst. There was no better time to plant the seeds of revolution his Taya Wakdar had carefully been planning for years. Saifullah’s mother, Nazo, had stayed in contact with him throughout, and slowly but surely they had been plotting.
All they needed was evidence to prove that the Badshah was in charge of the summit attack: it was grounds for war, and when war came, Wakdar would take his rightful place on the throne. But in order to find evidence, they needed somebody on the inside.
It was Wakdar’s plan to make Durkhanai fall in love with Asfandyar, to distract her from everything else that was stirring and to destroy her public image. Saifulah knew that despite how clever Durkhanai considered herself to be, she would be a fool for love, trusting a stranger and leading him to create the evidence they needed by stealing the Badshah’s seal.
While Saifullah knew of the passageways, he did not have the key to enter his grandfather’s study. Only Durkhanai did.
Thus, they had needed someone for Durkhanai to be a fool over. With Saifullah’s advice, Asfandyar was the perfect vessel. It was Saifullah who had discreetly written Asfandyar letters all these months, divulging the secret blueprint of his beloved cousin. Though he had hated to do it, he knew it had to be done.
Wakdar and Nazo had a plan, and Saifullah was a dutiful son. There was nothing more sacred than blood, and he owed his blood to his mother first.
When they had concocted the plan, Saifullah knew not to trust Asfandyar—it was why he had kept his identity as the spy within the palace a secret. But the alliance had been made by Wakdar and the Wali of Jardum. With the forged evidence that the others would believe to be real, war would be incited, which would bring about the perfect opportunity to topple the Badshah and bring forth the treaty between Marghazar and Jardum.
Saifullah’s family would take charge of S’vat while Wakdar became the new Badshah. His grandparents would be exiled, and Durkhanai would be pardoned, for it was not her fault Asfandyar had bewitched her. Jardum would receive an ally and all the advantages that came with it: the river and jewels and much more.
Jardum and Marghazar would be united as one. There was no use for isolation anymore. Saifullah was sick of his grandfather’s barbaric ways. It was a new world, and they would need to adapt.
Saifullah had hoped Durkhanai wouldn’t be the fool, had hoped to soften her fall had she stayed allegiant and resilient, but she had disappointed him—she had fallen for Asfandyar, the foreigner, the spy. It was treason against her people, and treason had to be punished.
It was a bitter pill to swallow, but it had to be done. It was why Saifullah hadn’t told Zarmina everything. She wouldn’t have been able to bear it. Zarmina knew of the Badshah’s alliance with the Kebzu Kingdom, and this was enough to turn her away from him. What the Badshah had done was dishonorable. Marghazar was better off under someone else’s reign. It would be enough to turn the people against him.
And they both hated Asfandyar for taking Durkhanai from them, for stealing her away.
Even now, Durkhanai stood there still as stone, watching Asfandyar being taken away. Saifullah came and wrapped his arms around her, brushing a hand through her hair.
“Everything will be alright,” he told her.
Saifullah hated to betray Durkhanai thus, but it was for her own good. She was like a little sister to him, and he would protect her. He swore to Allah he would.
When war broke out, if Asfandyar was somehow still alive, Saifullah would kill Asfandyar himself in redemption for the part he played in all of this.
The end was near. They were on the cusp of rebellion.
Only then could they start again.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Durkhanai’s world had been ripped apart, and with it, so had her heart.
She wished she could reverse time, go back five minutes, even five seconds—warn Asfandyar, tell him to run far and fast. She wanted to curse fate. Only after Asfandyar was gone did she realize she could not live without him.
Though she wished his tale was a lie, she could not bear to be without him.
“I’m sorry, janaan,” Saifullah said, wrapping an arm around her. Durkhanai was frozen in his arms. She did not want to be touched, did not want to be consoled. She wanted to rage.
She pushed Saifullah away.
“I need to go,” she mumbled, voice foggy. She bit her tongue, holding back the cry that was rising within her. If she started crying then, she would never stop.
Durkhanai left Saifullah, not stopping to wonder what he was doing there, at that time.
All she could think of were her grandparents. Everything she knew suddenly seemed murky. But how could she doubt her own blood? Surely everything Asfandyar had said was a lie. Surely, he was trying to turn her against her kin.
But Durkhanai had believed him. Why did she believe him? And if she did, what did that mean? That her grandmother, who had always picked up little spiders from Durkhanai’s room and set them free in the outdoors, who had held Durkhanai close to her every night when she had first arrived—she had murdered her own grandchild?
If he was telling the truth, it meant the Badshah had allied himself with the Kebzu Kingdom, and not only that, but he had alerted them to the summit attack. He hadn’t officiated the attack himself, but he must have known what would happen.
Head spinning, Durkhanai began walking to her grandparents’ rooms. They would be awake for the morning prayer; she would clarify things immediately. There had to be some sort of in between, some space in her heart where she didn’t lose all those she loved.
But—wait.
Durkhanai stopped in her tracks, heart seizing with the slow, creeping feeling of shame. It was iron hot on her cheeks, pressing into her ribs.
How could Durkhanai go to her grandparents now?
After the guards had arrested Asfandyar on the charges of loving her—and she had been seen leaving his room in the middle of the night? With what face would she speak to her beloved grandparents?
She couldn’t bear the shame.
She couldn’t bear to disappoint them, thus. She would have told them, eventually, would have made them understand, but there was no use now. All they would see in this circumstance would be her sin.
But she needed answers. And she would have them.
Durkhanai went to her grandparents’ rooms. She avoided the stares of the guards, of those who were awake. How had news travelled so fast?
But the tribunal was always thus, for all the people in all the lands came to watch the spectacle.
Her people.
They would all know—what would they think of her? The Shehzadi, fooled by the foreigner, fooled by a lowly ambassador. The Shehzadi who had so easily forgotten her blood and her people and for what?
For a man. The Shehzadi, the whore.
She had made a mistake; she should have stayed away from him.
Now she would have to deal with the consequences.
Durkhanai straightened her back, lifted her chin. She could deal with her grandparents and her people. She was the Shehzadi of Marghazar. There was nothing she could not do.
“Dhadi, Agha-Jaan,” she started.
They both looked up, gazes blank. The silent treatment. How unlike them. At least for Dhadi—it didn’t happen often, but when Dhadi was upset, she would yell and be done with it.
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But now they were so upset they were looking right through her, like they didn’t even recognize her. Her heart constricted.
“Agha-Jaan,” she said. She went to where he sat on the bed and knelt by his side. He held a hand to her face, looked into her eyes.
“How could you forget your place?” Agha-Jaan asked, so unbearably sad. “Your people?”
The disappointment and shame in his voice alone made her want to cry. Durkhanai didn’t know how to respond.
How could she explain it to a man who had thought of nothing but his people for more than fifty years? How frivolous and spoiled she must have seemed when they discovered her secret. How selfish she was to put them in this situation.
But she wouldn’t let her guilt squander her questions. She could supersede her transgression with the knowledge of her father’s existence.
“My father is alive,” she said, testing them. She waited for them to give her looks of confusion, to ask her what she meant.
She stopped, registered the placid looks on her grandparents’ countenances. Realized her stupidity. The fool, once again.
Of course they already knew. Which meant there was truth to Asfandyar’s tale.
If her father was alive, that also meant there had been no attempt on her parents’ lives the night she was born. Another lie. A story, told to cover the truth.
But if her father was alive—where was her mother?
“Where is my mother?” she asked, voice thick with accusation. “Where is she? Where has she been all this time?”
“Meri jaan, come, sit,” Agha-Jaan coaxed, pulling her up. “Take a deep breath. You are too excited.”
She did as she was told, sitting on the bed in front of both of them, but anxiety was running through her in short bursts, her heart beating too fast, her breathing too fast, everything too much, too soon. She pressed her teeth together.
“My father is alive,” Durkhanai repeated. “You said he and my mother were poisoned the night I was born. What is the truth?”
Her grandparents never spoke about either of her parents; she had always assumed it was due to grief. Durkhanai had never known them, so there were no personas to miss, and Dhadi and Agha-Jaan did so well to make sure she never felt her parents’ absence, but she had always wondered. She had never asked so as not to cause her grandparents pain, but she should have.
“Did you send him away?” Durkhanai asked, accusatory and angry again. “Why didn’t you ever talk about him?”
Dhadi and Agh-Jaan exchanged a sad glance, both sighing. They were conversing without speaking at all, and she felt like a glass wall separated her from them. She felt like a child.
“Gudiya, your father left you,” Dhadi said, voice breaking. “He left us all. What use is there knowing that the man who was meant to care for you your entire life willingly left you alone in this world?”
“But why?” Durkhanai asked, confused, hurt. “Why did he leave me? What reason did he have to go?”
“Because he was a coward,” Dhadi replied, holding Durkhanai’s hand. “He couldn’t handle the responsibilities of being the crown prince, so he ran.”
“But—” Durkhanai’s voice cut off, confused. “But why not abdicate? Pass the responsibility onto someone else? Like Zmarack Chacha?”
“We had suggested it, as well,” Dhadi explained. “But he couldn’t bear it. He wasn’t strong enough to answer the people’s questions or the shame of shirking his responsibilities. Janaan, we tried to stop him from leaving, but his heart was set.”
“And my mother?” Durkhanai asked again. “What of her? Did she run with him?”
“After you father left,” Dhadi said, but she couldn’t manage the words. “Gudiya, your mother killed herself.”
“What?” Durkhanai whispered.
Her mother had killed herself. Tears spilled onto her cheeks, and she hastily wiped them away. Durkhanai didn’t know how to register such information, but she couldn’t succumb to her emotions, now. Not when there was still so much to be asked and said.
“So we told everyone they were both poisoned and sent you away, to save you from this truth,” Dhadi continued. So there had been no threat, no assassination attempt. “Now do you understand why we kept this from you? What good would come from knowing your father left you and triggered your mother’s suicide?”
“None at all,” Durkhanai replied. She was numb.
Her grandparents were right, as usual. And she, the fool.
“But what I would like to know is how you came to know Wakdar was alive to begin with,” Dhadi said, curious.
“Asfandyar,” Durkhanai replied. She didn’t want to say he was a spy for Wakdar because that would be damning; they would kill him immediately. Durkhanai was teetering on the edge of both sides, trying to stay loyal, trying to salvage whatever she could.
Damn her heart. Damn her love for a pair of enemies.
“And how did he know?” Dhadi asked.
So she hadn’t recognized him. Asfandyar was right: she didn’t see him as a person. Her otherwise sharp-eyed grandmother’s sight had been blurred by her own hideous prejudice. Disgust rose in Durkhanai’s throat.
“You killed his fiancée,” Durkhanai said, hoping it was not true. “My half-sister. Wakdar’s daughter.”
Durkhanai watched her grandmother rifle through memories until she realized, her face falling into understanding.
“He was there that night,” Dhadi said, astonished. “I thought he was a servant.” Dhadi almost laughed. “So he’s finally getting the tribunal he asked for so many years ago.”
“She was my sister,” Durkhanai said. “Our blood. Why have her killed?”
“Oh, Durkhanai,” Dhadi said, voice weary. “There are too many things you are still too young to understand. That girl was not our blood. When your father was leaving, we told him he was no longer ours, that our blood had split. He left anyway. And so that girl was not our kin—she was a threat.”
“A threat?” Durkhanai repeated. Dhadi nodded.
“Why would she have come, if not to incite a revolution?” she asked. “To lay a claim to the throne—to cause chaos and confusion? She should have known better. She should have stayed away. I did not wish to cause her harm, but we rulers cannot show leniency in situations such as these. We must tear problems out at the roots, or they grow to become weeds we cannot get rid of.”
“But . . . you killed her,” Durkhanai said stupidly.
“I did, and I am not proud of it. But, janaan, have you never done something you regretted afterwards?” Dhadi countered. “How mysteriously Rukhsana-sahiba passed, after the cooks saw you overseeing her food for the voyage.”
Durkhanai stilled, defeated. Her grandmother was right.
“I’m sorry, Dhadi,” she said. “I understand, now.”
And she did.
Things were much more complicated than she would have imagined.
But there was still the matter of the tribunal. Durkhanai had to stop it.
She had two feasible options. She could act like Asfandyar was nothing to her, prove her loyalty. Seeing that Asfandyar was not a threat, her grandparents could cancel the tribunal. Or, she could show them how much she loved him, fight for him. Seeing how much Asfandyar meant to their granddaughter, her grandparents could cancel the tribunal.
Durkhanai could lie, or she could tell the truth.
It was a gamble either way. Her Dhadi was pragmatic enough to concede given the first option; Agha-Jaan was emotional enough to concede to the second.
So which would she choose?
Durkhanai didn’t know what was right, but she knew she was tired of holding her breath, her heart constantly torn between two places.
“Dhadi, I—” Durkhanai stopped.
How could she say it to her grandparents? But she must.
“Dhadi, Agha-Jaan,” she started again. “I love Asfandyar. Please cancel the tribunal. Please. I love him.”
There was the truth, free to fly. A we
ight lifted off Durkhanai’s chest, and she realized just how sweet the words were. Oh, why hadn’t she told him when she had the chance?
Durkhanai waited to see her grandparent’s reaction. There was no explosion, as she had expected. Instead, her grandparents exchanged a knowing glance, as if they had seen this before. As if this was expected.
“Oh, janaan,” Dhadi said. “Of course you think you do. This is precisely why I forbid you from seeing him, yet you did not heed my warning.” Dhadi sighed. “You are young. He has bewitched you.”
“What?”
“Kala jadoo,” Dhadi replied. “He has used sorcery to enrapture your heart.”
“No, Dhadi,” Durkhanai said, feeling her throat closing with the claustrophobic feeling of being misunderstood. “What we feel for one another is true. It is the truth.”
“It is a lie,” Dhadi insisted calmly. “He is pretending to love you to make a fool of you. Why else would he fill your mind with these thoughts but to tear you from us? From your blood. How much easier it will be for him to cause our family’s downfall with you on his leash.”
“No,” Durkhanai said, shaking her head. The insinuation filled her with disgust. It wasn’t true. “No.”
So this was why her grandparents had reacted so calmly. They believed she had been bewitched, that Asfandyar had performed some sort of sorcery on her.
Surely it wasn’t her fault, then, but all his.
They didn’t believe her, thought her feelings to be a fallacy. Like she was a child with no skill for discernment.
“Did you ever want for anything?” Dhadi asked, eyes sad. “Love, adoration, devotion—anything? Did we not raise you with the utmost care?”
“Dhadi, of course you did,” Durkhanai responded, feeling guilty.
“Yet, you still came here with your doubts and your accusations,” Dhadi said, voice hurt. “You thought we had sent your father away and done Allah knows what to your mother. You thought me the villain, who killed your half-sister in cold blood.”
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