There wasn’t a moment to be lost.
She grabbed her chaadar, threw on her riding boots.
“Shehzadi, you mustn’t leave at this hour!” a stable boy cried, trying to stop her.
“I must,” she said, grabbing Heer and wrestling the white horse out of the stable. She adjusted her chaadar, covering herself, and with a sturdy kick, Heer was off.
She needed to warn her people.
Wind whipped through her hair, upending the chaadar that covered her face, and her eyes burned, but she couldn’t stop.
How could she, when she knew what was causing the illness? She had to stop it. She had to do something, anything.
Her people.
She rode far and fast, down the mountain, toward one of the bigger villages. Ignoring the sudden bite of the night, anxiety propelling her forward, Durkhanai had only one thing on her mind: to warn her people.
It was much too dark for her to be out riding, and alone, but she was sure the guards were following her. If she listened close, behind the rustling trees and the wind, she heard hooves riding not too far behind her.
How stupid she had been all this time!
Not to realize that the water had been poisoned. How else would illness spread so far, so fast, and remain undetected? She had been so focused on everything else . . . and now her people were paying the price.
“Nobody drink the water!” she cried, when people entered her line of sight. The village homes shone with moonlight, some lit with the glow of lanterns.
“Shehzadi!” a man cried, recognizing her from her garb. “What are you doing here, and at this hour!”
“Isn’t the Badshah’s celebration tonight?”
“Is everything alright?”
“What has happened?”
The villagers’ voices all mingled together, confused, concerned, apprehensive, worried. They began to gather, upon hearing the Shehzadi was in their presence. It was late—well past the Isha prayer, and many rose from their sleep to greet her.
A man handed her a torch, which she held up. The fire warmed her flushed cheeks. Durkhanai straightened her back, waving her hands to quiet the people down.
“Please, you must listen to me carefully,” she shouted, projecting her voice so the gathered people could hear. “Nobody drink the water! It has been poisoned.”
“Poisoned!”
“In our own lands! Our home!”
“But who would do such a thing?”
“It was those cursed foreigners! The Badshah should have never let them into our home!”
The people’s voices buzzed into a frenzy, raising in frequency.
“I assure you all,” Durkhanai cried, “the Badshah will be swift in punishment to those responsible for this.” She trod carefully along the path, making eye contact with as many villagers as she could, exuding sincerity. “But for now, it is my duty to warn you. The instant I heard the news, I rode out to you—I do not want to see anymore of you ill.”
The people’s rising riot began to ebb, understanding and appreciation in their features.
“Jazakullah khair, Shehzadi!” somebody cried. “You have saved us!”
The others began to cry in agreement, thanking her.
Durkhanai knew it worked like this: one minute rioting, the other eternally thankful.
If only they could stay grateful . . .
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of horse hooves and a voice calling her name. Her entire body seized.
“Durkhanai!” Asfandyar cried, riding to meet her. She turned her cheek, not wanting to look at him, afraid of what she would show, of what she would say.
“The foreigner!” a man cried. “Was it him who poisoned us?”
“Did you hear?” one said, voice accusatory. “He calls our Shehzadi by her name!”
The people began to buzz once more, anger and hatred filling the air.
“No!” Durkhanai cried, voice strong.
Despite how irritated she herself was with Asfandyar, she didn’t want others to question him. She couldn’t help but defend him, even if he didn’t deserve it.
“It was not him,” she assured the people. “This is the man who discovered the source of the illness that has been spreading. Had it not been for him, we would have remained ignorant to the cause of this illness! We must thank him for his vigilance in uncovering the truth.”
She saw their doubt, the questions in their eyes to see their Shehzadi defend the foreign ambassador. Saw the people glance between her and the handsome Asfandyar and raise their eyebrows, wondering.
“Why would he do such a thing?” somebody asked. Durkhanai herself did not know.
She gave him a look, and finally, he spoke. “Because I care for the people of this land. I could not in good conscience let such information go untold.”
The people’s voices dwindled down to murmuring, which was sometimes worse, for she couldn’t understand what they were saying, what they were feeling.
But it didn’t matter. She was here with a purpose.
“I implore you: send a rider to the neighboring villages, and have them send one to their neighboring villages,” she said, gathering their attention once more. “Send word that the wells have been poisoned and that nobody should drink directly from them. Take the water home and boil it first. That should clean it of impurities.”
Given their orders, the people began to disperse. She saw to it that a rider was sent in the directions of the neighboring villages, further down the mountain.
Villagers came to offer her chai, but she refused them. She couldn’t stomach anything until she knew her people were safe once more.
As she gave orders and spoke with the townspeople, Asfandyar trailed her like a shadow, watching her. He didn’t interrupt or intercede; he let her do her work. She was comforted by his presence, to know somebody was by her side in all this.
With the work done, at least for the night, Durkhanai said her goodbyes and began her ride back to the marble palace.
“Did you see my guards following?” Durkhanai asked Asfandyar, finally speaking to him. She wondered where they were. Not that there would be any use in them looking for her, now that she was on her way home.
“Yes, but we diverged paths,” he replied. “They went east, to the main commercial village. I traveled west, guessing that you would be here.”
“And how did you guess that?”
“This was the first village we visited to distribute medicine,” Asfandyar replied. “And the one you visit the most; you have close relationships with many of these villagers, so I just figured . . .”
“Right,” Durkhanai said, cutting him off.
She both liked and disliked being so known by him. She nudged Heer forward, but Heer had other plans. She went to nuzzle against the horse Asfandyar rode, and it was then Durkhanai registered which horse it was.
It was Heer’s mate, a strong horse with a chestnut coat and thick black mane. Ranjha was well known for his affection for Heer. The two horses had been raised together, and Durkhanai had grown up riding both, though she preferred Heer.
“You had to take this horse, didn’t you?” she said to Asfandyar, glaring.
“What?” he replied. “I’ve taken quite a liking to him.”
She reminded herself she was angry with him for more than simply taking her second horse and debated on what to say next.
Until a raindrop plopped onto her forehead and decided for her.
Durkhanai swore.
“Follow me,” she said, striking Heer with a kick to get her going. She made a sharp cut to the left, where a small village would be coming up in about a fifteen-minute ride. In the meanwhile, the occasional raindrops turned into a drizzle, which quickly became a downpour.
Sure enough, just as they were beginning to get soaked, they reached a stretch of farmland. They rode into the farmhouse, seeking shelter from the storm pouring away outside.
Chickens squawked in apprehension at their arrival. Other f
arm animals were fussing due to the rain, so she quieted them, calmed Heer, and got off. These storms were unpredictable. They could be stuck there all night.
Even longer if there was a landslide.
Durkhanai settled Heer and went to the open mouth of the farmhouse, leaning against the frame. The roar of rain bombarded her ears, the air filled with sweet petrichor.
Tentatively, Asfandyar did the same, standing on the opposite end of the frame. He watched her wordlessly.
After a few moments passed in silence, Asfandyar took a few steps forward and offered her his woolen loi. She still said nothing, turning her back, further soaking from the rain blowing into her. Even under the roof of the farmhouse, there was no relief.
“Durkhanai, take it,” Asfandyar coaxed, bringing in front of her again. She ignored him.
“Tch, chanda,” he said, touching her shoulder. Her heart warmed at the term of endearment, but she gave him a dirty look, throwing his hand off of her. He held his hands up in surrender.
“Your face is florid,” Asfandyar informed her, tapping her nose. Durkhanai fixed him a withering glare, then pressed her hands to his solid chest and pushed him from under the canopy into the rain. He gave a yelp, almost falling, then rushed back under the canopy, hair dripping.
“Happy?” Asfandyar asked, shivering.
Finally, she smiled. taking the shawl from him. The instant she wrapped the scratchy wool around her shoulders, she was warm. Drier, even.
“Quite,” she replied, twisting her lips. He held a hand to his heart, pretending to be shot by an arrow.
“Ah, Shehzadi, you break my heart,” he said, wincing dramatically.
“Shut up,” she snapped, the smile gone. “I’m still furious with you.”
“You should be,” he said, giving out a long sigh.
“Nothing else to say?” she snapped. She took a step toward him, wanting to fight.
He looked away, hand knotted in his curls, jaw clenched. He opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again. Face contorted, he looked . . . heartbroken.
Like she had broken his heart, somehow. She couldn’t explain it—he looked . . . raw. The anger seeped from her, replaced by a soft tenderness.
“Why did you do it?” she asked, voice neutral: not angry, not forgiving.
He sighed, taking the peace offering.
“To force the Badshah into spreading the medicine faster and further,” he said. “When you were sick, the people were getting worse, and I couldn’t do much, alone. Besides, even together, we had hardly made a big difference.”
A plausible explanation.
“Why do you care so much about my people?” she asked.
“Ever noble, no?” Asfandyar replied with a half-laugh, all empty-arrogance and self-deprecation. She frowned.
“You can doubt me, but people are people,” he continued. “I don’t want to see anyone suffer.”
“You should have told me.”
“You’re right,” he said. “I should have told you. I’m sorry.”
“Hmm.”
She wondered if she should believe him.
He was here now though.
“It’s why I found out what was causing it, if it’s worth anything,” Asfandyar told her. “I knew something strange was occurring: illness doesn’t spread so fast, all of a sudden, especially not in the mountains in the summer, not like this. And then I got to thinking . . .”
“So you did all that because you’re a good person?” she said, giving him a difficult time. Asfandyar shook his head, shrugging, not even bothering to agree.
“No, I’m not,” he said. “But sometimes I try to be.”
And he looked at her in a way that said: Sometimes for you, I try to be.
But he didn’t say it, and Durkhanai told herself she was imagining things now. Her heart was like clay, always molding to different shapes: angry and sharp one instant, soft and watery the next. She couldn’t hold being angry with Asfandyar anymore.
“Right,” she said, wrapping the loi around her tighter. “And you thought you’d be the hero, chasing after me with a loi, and all would be forgiven?”
Finally, Asfandyar grinned.
“It worked, didn’t it?” he said, raising his eyebrows at her. She rolled her eyes but couldn’t help her laugh. How horrible. She detested him, truly.
What an unholy, insufferable—but she couldn’t finish the thought. She couldn’t finish the idea because she knew the blame was all hers. “Zyada mat bano,” she said. “Don’t gloat.”
“Besides, I wanted to speak with you,” Asfandyar said innocently. “Did you ever receive word from the Wali of B'rung?”
“I did,” Durkhanai replied, frowning. “But it was a dead end—the Wali didn’t know anything.
“I suppose it doesn’t matter now,” Asfandyar responded. “The Badshah provided his evidence—the matter is closed. We’ve avoided war, and I’m sure after wrapping up some negotiations, we’ll all be heading home. Back to our lives.”
“I suppose.”
But Durkhanai couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something more.
“Did you recognize the soldier at all?” Durkhanai asked. “He would have been there, that day, right?”
“No, I didn’t recognize him—he must have been in the background, hiding.”
“Doesn’t it all seem a bit . . . clean cut to you? Something doesn’t feel right.”
Asfandyar considered this. “I agree, but what else can be done?”
“I have half a mind to interrogate the soldier myself,” she said, voice trailing.
“Well why don’t we?” he replied. “After this blasted thunderstorm ends—we go back and see this through.”
“And how do I know you won’t use that information against me?” Durkhanai responded.
“I really am sorry,” he said, eyes suddenly intense. “For everything. I won’t betray you again.”
Asfandyar drew nearer, true guilt on his expression.
“It’s alright,” Durkhanai replied. “You are forgiven. Allies once more?”
She put her hand out to shake, but he shook his head instead.
“Friends,” he said.
She smiled. “Friends.”
They stood in silence, staring at the rain as it poured down, washing away impurities as it did.
Durkhanai turned back to see how Heer was faring. The mare disliked the rain and was looking out apprehensively. Durkhanai reached over and stroked her white mane, making comforting noises, before doing the same for Ranjha.
“I cannot believe you’ve been riding my horse,” she grumbled.
“Technically, Heer is your horse.” Asfandyar joined her, his fingers brushing against hers on Ranjha’s mane. Durkhanai shivered. “Ranjha is your spare.”
“Still.”
Asfandyar shrugged. “He took a liking to me.” He neared the horse, stroking his mane. “Isn’t that right, Ranjhu?”
Ranjha nuzzled against Asfandyar, but his nose sniffed towards Asfandyar’s bag, where something glittered in the moonlight.
“Shh,” Asfandyar whispered, but it was too late. Durkhanai snatched his bag.
“Sugar cubes!” she cried, holding out a handful. Ranjha immediately licked them from her hand. “That’s cheating!” Durkhanai crossed her arms. “It doesn’t count.”
She expected Asfandyar to laugh. She expected him to tease. What she did not expect was for his eyes to suddenly grow serious, his eyes glittering with moonlight. The downpour of rain was thunderous in her ears.
“Love is love,” he said, voice low. “No matter how it started, what I feel is true.”
She didn’t understand.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Heart beating fast, Durkhanai turned to go back into the farmhouse.
She looked over her shoulder to catch a glimpse at Asfandyar’s silhouette but saw instead that he was watching her go.
Then she was tumbling.
In the first instant, Durkhanai was stunne
d: she never tripped.
Then, sharp pain cut into her hand. She let out a cry.
“Durkhanai!”
Asfandyar was by her side in a moment, skidding onto the floor beside her. Durkhanai had immediately cradled her hand to her heart, but Asfandyar reached for it to look.
“It’s fine.”
She had cut her hand on a farm tool. The wound was bleeding, and she knew he hated the sight of blood. Knew it made him recoil.
Warm blood spilled onto her chaadar, soaking lightly onto her chest.
“Durkhanai,” he said, voice woolen, and she looked up to see his face was pale.
But more than that, his countenance was covered in raw emotion and his eyes—they spilled all his secrets. The way he looked at her—it took her breath away.
She knew what it meant.
Asfandyar cleared his throat, focusing on her hand, which she refused to show him. Suddenly, she wanted to cry.
“You’re never clumsy,” Asfandyar said, confused. “You’re exhausted.”
“I’m fine,” she insisted, but her voice was thick, and tears spilled onto her cheeks. Her legs were tired from riding. Perhaps that was it.
“Durkhanai, you’re crying,” he asked, even more worried. “Does it hurt that badly?”
“No,” she said, wiping her cheek on her shoulder. “I’m not crying.”
It was just her emotions, dripping out. Perhaps sometimes the heart needed to be wrung dry to keep a person from drowning.
Durkhanai refused to meet his gaze, until he finally pulled her face close to his.
“Please, let me see,” he said, voice gentle.
She gave him her closed fist, and he carefully pried it open. The release of pressure caused a fresh flow of blood, and the open air made her gasp with sharp pain.
“Okay?” he asked, hesitant. She nodded, sniffling.
“I have such unbelievably low pain tolerance,” she informed him, trying to act blasé.
They both inspected her hand. There was a gash running from beneath her pinky finger, across her palm, and down to her wrist. She saw the open gash and felt nauseous. Blood stuck under her nails and dribbled down her wrist in rivulets.
She looked away.
The Lady or the Lion Page 17
