Durkhanai froze.
Oh no, she thought. Oh no, oh no, oh no.
“Oh,” she said aloud. “Um . . .”
She didn’t know what to say.
Rashid looked at her with his soft eyes full of hope and adoration. Full of expectation. Durkhanai bit her lip, face blank, not letting any emotions show.
An auspicious match. Guaranteed support. And yet . . . her heart burned bright, a warning.
“I’m sorry,” she said, trying to find a coherent thought. “I’m sorry, let me just think for a moment.”
Rashid smiled his sweet smile. “What is there to think about?” he asked. “Surely you must see what an opportune match this could be.”
“Of course, yes, but—” Durkhanai fiddled with her fingers. “Can you give me a day to consider?”
Rashid blinked. He had clearly not expected this. “Do you need it?”
“Yes.”
His eyes flashed with hurt, but he hid it away. He bowed. “Very well, then. I will—” He cleared his throat. “I will take my leave.”
He went. She watched him leave. As he did, she waited for regret to seize her, to feel her heart swell. She waited for her voice to call out for him. Instead, she felt—nothing.
If he never came back, her life would remain unchanged.
It was true she had thought she felt something for him, before. True that she had seen him as her future husband, even. But in the middle there, the more she got to know him—she had been confused. She didn’t know if the soft fondness she felt for him was romantic or strictly platonic.
But if she had been confused before, his confession had brought her perfect clarity: she felt nothing romantic for Rashid.
Durkhanai debated his proposal as she made her way back to her bed.
She was a princess. Hadn’t she always thought that love would come, no matter who she married? There was no room for romance in the life of a princess; marriage was a partnership, it only required mutual respect and understanding.
But Durkhanai found she wasn’t content with that anymore.
She wondered if she had never met Asfandyar, would she feel the same? If she were to rewind to a year prior, when all she had ever thought about was Rashid. When she had dreamt of the day he would finally ask for her hand, make it official.
Then Asfandyar had changed everything she had ever known. Shown her emotions and parts of herself she didn’t realize were there. And she had forgotten about Rashid. She had realized how much bigger the world was. How much possibility there was for love and for life.
Rashid deserved better than her. He deserved somebody who adored him as he did her, somebody who loved him much more than she would ever be capable of doing.
Durkhanai felt terrible, truly. She didn’t know if she had misled Rashid, perhaps to make Asfandyar jealous, or if she had really just been so confused.
But what could she do? She hadn’t meant for things to go this far.
Durkhanai sat back and wondered if she cut her heart open what it would look like. What color would she bleed?
“Tumhe kya hua?”
Durkhanai turned to see Zarmina had entered the room. Durkhanai sighed into her pillows. Zarmina came and laid down beside her.
“You look terrible,” Zarmina noted. She poked Durkhanai’s chubby cheek.
“Rashid proposed,” Durkhanai said.
“What!” Zarmina exclaimed, shaking Durkhanai’s shoulders. Her face was covered in excitement, until she saw Durkhaani’s face.
“I don’t understand,” Zarmina said. “You’ve always wanted to marry Rashid. How many times did you wonder and wait precisely for this moment?”
“I know,” Durkhanai covered her face with her hands. “I just—I’ve changed. I don’t want that—him anymore.”
Durkhanai didn’t have to say the rest. She felt Zarmina realize, saw her go quiet. She knew she was being unreasonable. She had no future with Asfandyar. Her grandparents would never accept a foreigner for their princess, least of all the ambassador of a tribe with which their own had such strained relations. Nor would her people.
Deeper than that, Durkhanai knew there was something more. Something her grandparents would never own up to or accept. And it had to do with the color of Asfandyar’s skin.
She would be a fool to reject Rashid—perfect Rashid—for a chance with somebody she could never be with. She knew how their story would end. And yet . . .
“Durkhanai,” Zarmina started.
“Please, I don’t want a lecture.” Durkhanai’s eyes welled up with tears.
“When do I lecture you? I just wish to understand. Marrying Rashid would only strengthen your standing . . .”
“Please, Zarmina,” Durkhanai said, cutting her off. But her cousin would not be deterred. There was genuine worry in her eyes, her voice anxious when she spoke.
“Just listen to me. You must think of your future. Marrying Rashid would secure it! You do not realize—”
“Zarmina,” Durkhanai snapped, voice harsh. “I don’t wish to hear any more.”
Zarmina opened her mouth to speak once more, and it seemed there was something she wished to say that she could not say, for she bit down on whatever words she’d considered pushing past Durkhanai’s resistance. She released a long breath, then sank into the pillows beside Durkhanai.
“There, there,” Zarmina said, stroking her hair. “Everything is happening precisely as it must, remember? You always tell me that when things seem awry. All will be alright, janaan, in the end.”
When would the end come?
Her head and her heart were at a war like the Marghazari against the Luhgams. Durkhanai called for a ceasefire as she closed her eyes and drifted to sleep.
When Durkhanai awoke some time later, her room had darkened with the setting sun. She rushed to the window to catch the last glimmer of sunset, but it was too late.
The sun was already gone.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Durkhanai had no answer to give Rashid, so she gave him none at all.
There was work to be done, besides. The next time she went to the villages, she brought a small army of the palace’s doctors with her. The Badshah would not be happy to learn she had ordered them to come with her, but she had not been happy to be kept in the dark about the Kezu soldier, either.
“Come, this way,” she instructed. She led them to an open area of land outside the village homes. The center of the village would have been more opportune, but it was already congested from the bazaar and the traffic that led to the main roads, which cut up and down the mountain to the neighboring villages.
“Set up the tent, here, then we can get to preparing the stalls,” Durkhanai ordered. The workers who had accompanied her from the palace got to work setting up the medical station. She had brought three doctors from the palace.
“The stalls are ready, Shehzadi,” a worker informed her when they were done. The morning had been productive, and she was glad.
“Good,” she said. “Now go to the bazaar and inform the villagers to come for checkups. This stall will be here for the duration of today and tomorrow, and I expect all villagers to be examined.”
“Yes, Shehzadi.”
He was off, and when he returned, a line of villagers were behind him: old women and small children and young men.
“Please queue in three lines,” Durkhanai instructed. “And be patient—you will each get your turn.”
Durkhanai stood at the head of the tent, watching and hoping her presence would remind her people that she cared.
“Here, a gift from the palace,” she said, as the first examination was done. She handed a package of dried apricots, nuts, and beef jerky to the villager. She hoped the small package of food would appease the people.
This entire affair had been costly to the palace, and she knew the Badshah would give her a harsh glance for it when he found out, but Durkhanai would meet his glare with one of her own.
After ensuring things were running
smoothly at the clinic, Durkhanai visited the stream where women went to do their washing. Sure enough, there were bassinets of sleeping babies on the side, while women were crouched by the water, cleaning their clothes. Their toddlers chased one another around the trees, tumbling and falling.
“Salam,” Durkhanai said, smiling. She pinched a toddler’s cheek.
The women touched their fingers to their foreheads in respect, setting their washing aside to hear what she had to say.
While many women worked in the fields, those with infants and toddlers stayed home, caring for their children. It was here that Durkhanai called for volunteers: for mothers to perhaps watch their neighbors’ children, allowing more women to work. Durkhanai spent an entire day negotiating between families, trying to set up a network for better distribution of human resources.
She worked directly with tribe leaders, her nobles, on other bartering of resources and skills. Some tribes had superb craftsmen, others had efficient farmers.
However, the more powerful clans like Naeem-sahib’s had everything.
“Again with this idea—we have no need for more farmers,” Naeem-sahib said when she approached him to negotiate. “Nor do we need more women. While overall efficiency has decreased due to the illness, our men are quickly recovering. I am perfectly capable of ensuring my tribe’s success, Shehzadi.” He paused. “Perhaps you should focus your attentions to more pertinent matters.”
He gave her a pointed glance. Rashid had told him, then. She would not be derailed by proposals.
“There is nothing more pertinent than this,” she replied, meeting his fierce gaze with her own.
But he was right in regards to the other matter. If he had wanted for nothing, what incentive could she give him to help the others, who could use the spare hands? And he was right again, that this idea had been suggested before but to no avail. He had said that the people were unwilling to accommodate other clans unless it was of direct advantage to their families.
Durkhanai knew she had to appease him. And she could do so with something no one else could offer.
“I can reduce the quota of men from your clan going to war,” Durkhanai said.
Each clan had to provide a certain amount of men, proportional to their population size, for the wars being waged. It was definitely a bad idea to give favor to some, one the Badshah would abhor, but what else was there to offer?
Naeem-sahib paused, considering the offer.
“With fewer men going to war, you have more hands for the fields,” Durkhanai continued. “You can thus take some women out of the fields and have them watch the children of your neighbor’s tribe.”
Durkhanai used a similar tactic with some of the other tribes who weren’t hit as heavily by the illness. Following Naeem-sahib’s lead, other tribe leaders agreed as well.
But it wasn’t the end of trying to settle things in the villages.
“When will the ambassadors leave?” somebody asked her at one point.
“When negotiations have been settled,” Durkhanai replied. The man sighed in response, almost rolling his eyes.
“Problem?” she snapped. He immediately stood straight, stammering.
“No, no, Shehzadi,” he said, lowering his head.
Durkhanai noticed this throughout the villages: the people were being . . . strange around her. Like they knew something she didn’t. It made her feel bitter, quick to snap at anyone with even the slightest changed tone of voice.
She did not respond well to anything short of adoration.
It was the same, day after day, for weeks while Dhadi continued negotiations to ensure the ambassadors left to never return.
Durkhanai visited the various villages of her mountain, and everything seemed to be in chaos since Rukhsana-sahiba’s departure. Durkhanai barely had time to do anything but reassure her people, to calm the rising war cries and the discontent.
At the very least, the calls for unification had died out, though they had been replaced by the zealous push for the foreigners’ departures.
The ambassadors had all extended their stays to further discuss negotiations and draft a consolidated peace treaty. Rukhsana-sahiba was gone. That was one less person to worry about, supposedly Durkhanai’s biggest concern.
So why didn’t Durkhanai feel safe in her own home?
Rukhsana-sahiba’s words haunted Durkhanai: you will never be badshah.
Somehow, July had tumbled into August, the summer and the heat fleeting for the crisp bite of autumn and the inevitable freeze of winter.
Everything was slipping between her fingers like sand grains falling to the wind and the tighter she held on the faster they fell. Almost like she was losing control over everything.
She had a creeping, haunting feeling that tasted bitter in her mouth and raked against her chest like frustration and anger. She found herself continually walking with a clenched jaw, hands curled into little fists.
The light and sunshine of summer was fading much too fast.
The haunting feeling in her gut came to fruition one day when she arrived back at her palace.
“Shehzadi, the Badshah and the Wali await you in the presence chamber,” a servant told her.
“Khairiyat?” she replied. “Is everything alright?”
“There is a messenger with news,” the servant replied.
She went, and sure enough, there was a messenger in the presence chamber, waiting for her, to tell her the news. She could tell from her grandparents’ faces that they already knew.
“Agha-Jaan, what is it?” she asked.
The creeping feeling filled her lungs, making her feel like there were little bugs crawling across her skin.
The Badshah motioned to the messenger to relay the news.
“Rukhsana-sahiba has passed away,” the messenger said.
Durkhanai drew a breath. She recited the prayer for the deceased. “Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi ra’ji’oon. What happened?” She held her hands together tightly.
“When the Wali’s people came to meet the ambassador by the border, she had fallen ill,” the messenger told her. “A few days into their travel, she quietly passed in her sleep.”
“And the treaty?” Durkhanai asked. She immediately grimaced at herself—a woman had died—but she needed to make sure her people would be alright, that they would not be harmed because of this.
“The treaty is still valid,” the Badshah said. “Rukhsana-sahiba passed from natural means. The Wali of Teerza has no reason to quarrel with us.”
The messenger nodded, taking his leave, and Durkhanai was alone with her grandparents. Heart hammering, she recalled her last encounter with Rukhsana-sahiba, how the woman had taunted her, how furious Durkhanai had been—how impetuous.
But Durkhanai hadn’t meant to kill her, just cause her pain through the illness, for a few days, perhaps. To make her suffer, to make her understand the pain she had caused Durkhanai’s people.
She must have sprinkled too much of the powder. Tears filled her eyes.
Durkhanai had killed her—no.
She held her thoughts at bay, blinked the tears away. She hadn’t meant to; it wasn’t her fault.
Death came to all.
Durkhanai excused herself, holding her head high and back steady as she walked out of the presence chamber. It was only when she was out of their sight that she ran, lifting up her gharara, face scrunching in the prologue of a sob.
She ran to her room and shut the door, breathing hard.
Durkhanai ripped off the necklace and jewelry weighing her down, throwing off her dupatta and tiara. The gold clunked against the marble floors, a cacophony of sounds as she pulled the pins and braids from her hair, letting the hair fall loose.
She couldn’t breathe.
Durkhanai ran out to her balcony, leaning her body on the railing. From here, she could see nothing but mountains—her mountains. She steadied her breathing, tried to steady the blood rushing and gushing through her veins.
Guil
t flooded through her. She felt sinful in the private space between Allah and herself, but Durkhanai pushed those thoughts away, shoved the feelings from her heart. She could sense she was being unreasonable, stubborn, even, but she would be what she needed to be.
Durkhanai was losing her grip, becoming more and more volatile.
More barbaric.
Cutting off Durkhanai’s thoughts, her wardrobe doors opened.
Her heartbeat quickened the instant Asfandyar’s shadow entered her sight; it ricocheted against her ribs further when she saw his face. She knew what she felt for him was otherworldly, but what she couldn’t quite figure out was whether it was from heaven or hell.
All she knew was that they were bound together: as inevitable as an exhalation.
“Was it you?” he asked without preamble, out of breath.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said, clearing her throat. She tried to iron out her emotions, but he caught her fumble.
“Durkhanai,” he sighed, coming close. “What have you done?”
Her patience thinned; she did not need him to make her feel more guilty. “She deserved it, after attacking my people,” she said, voice steel.
“And you’re god now, are you?” Asfandyar responded, pinching the bridge of his nose. “What is this madness?”
“An attack against my people is an attack against me,” she insisted, but she was losing her resolve.
She was losing her grip.
“All people are my people,” he replied. “Durkhanai, just as the lives of your people have worth, so do the lives of everyone else. One life is not worth more than another just because of the arbitration of tribe or family.”
She knew she agreed with him, to a certain extent. But she didn’t want to be lectured, least of all from him. She didn’t need to be reminded of his goodness. Her heart was hardening more and more, and all she wanted was him.
It was the stubbornness rising within her, one she had not felt since she was a child. She was trying so hard to fix things for everyone, but no matter how she pushed, some things would not bend.
She could not let him go. But she could not have him, either.
The Lady or the Lion Page 20
