The Lady or the Lion Read online

  The Lady or the Lion

  Aamna Qureshi

  Contents

  The Trial

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  A Parting Riddle

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  CamCat Books

  CamCat Publishing, LLC

  Brentwood, Tennessee 37027

  camcatpublishing.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  © 2021 by Aamna Qureshi

  All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, address CamCat Publishing, 101 Creekside Crossing Suite 280, Brentwood, TN 37027.

  Hardcover ISBN 9780744303445

  Paperback ISBN 9780744303421

  Large-Print Paperback ISBN 9780744303889

  eBook ISBN 9780744303377

  Audiobook ISBN 9780744303940

  Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data available upon request

  Book and cover design by Maryann Appel

  Cover artwork by Asrar Farooqi

  5 3 1 2 4

  For Mama and Baba,

  Jazakullah Khair for everything.

  “In the very olden time, there lived a semi-barbaric king . . .”

  This is not his story.

  The Trial

  The appointed hour arrived.

  From across the mountain, the people gathered into the galleries of the arena. Though considered a barbaric custom in the nineteenth century, the trial by tribunal was tradition. It was with sick fascination that the villagers filled the seats, the overflowing crowds amassing themselves outside the amphitheater walls.

  The sky was a murky grey above them; summer was over. A breeze travelled through the air, and the villagers shivered, clutching their shawls and their children close.

  The chatter and clamor ebbed to hushed whispers as the Badshah entered the arena at its height, where his ornate throne awaited him. His bearded face was stoic and severe: his lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes sharp.

  The onlookers lowered their heads in respect as he took his seat. His wife, the Wali, sat beside him. A low murmur pulsed through the crowd as one more took her seat beside the Badshah.

  It was the Shehzadi.

  The low chum-chum of chudiyan echoed through the arena as she moved toward her throne, her blood-red gharara trailing behind her. Her golden crown glistened, bright and shining as her blue-green eyes.

  She held her chin high, proud as ever, as she took her seat. The villagers had not expected her to come. How she could stomach such an affair was beyond them! To see one’s lover torn to shreds or thrust to another was no easy sight.

  Yet, there she sat, directly beside her grandfather. They sat directly opposite the two doors, those fateful portals, so hideous in their sameness.

  All was ready.

  The signal was given.

  At the base of the arena, a door opened to reveal the lover of the Shehzadi. Tall, beautiful, strong: his appearance elicited a low hum of admiration and anxiety from the audience.

  The young man advanced into the arena, his back straight. As he approached the doors, the crowds silenced. A crow cried in the distance, and the lover turned.

  He bowed to the king, as was custom, but his gaze was fixed entirely upon the Shehzadi. The sight of him seared through her.

  He reached for her, she reached for him, but their hands did not touch: they were tangled in the stars between them, destiny keeping them apart.

  From the instant the decree had gone forth to seize her lover to trial, she hadn’t spent a second thinking of anything else. And thus she had done what no other had done—she had possessed herself of the secret of the doors.

  Now, the decision was hers to make.

  Should she send him to the lady? So that he may live his days with another, leaving the Shehzadi to her envy and her grief? Or should he be sent to the lion? Who would surely tear him to shreds before she had a moment to regret her decision?

  Either way, they could never be together.

  Then, his quick glance asked the question: “Which?”

  There was not an instant to be lost. The question was asked in a flash; it had to be answered in another.

  It was time to seal both his fate and hers.

  Chapter One

  Durkhanai Miangul heard the bell echoing throughout the mountains.

  Her hand lay atop her grandmother’s, the Wali of S’vat, whose hand lay atop her grandfather’s, the Badshah of Marghazar. Together, they three had rung the bell to alert the tribespeople of foreign entrance into their land.

  For the first time in centuries, the capital city of Safed-Mahal was opening its doors to foreigners, those from their neighboring districts.

  Coming to harm her family.

  The sound resonated through the mountains, in cacophony with crows crying. It was said that crows brought visitors with them, and as a child, Durkhanai was always excited to see who would visit her castle in the clouds.

  But today, she knew the visitors would bring turmoil. While entrance throughout Marghazar was permissible, sparingly, for trade, entrance into the capital Safed-Mahal had been forbidden for centuries.

  Until now.

  “It is done,” Agha-Jaan said, his old face flushed florid from the wind.

  “Yes, jaanan,” Dhadi said somberly. “Now we prepare.”

  Durkhanai was clad in a pistachio-green lengha choli, her ears and neck dripping emeralds and pearls encased in pure gold. The ensemble made her eyes more green than blue and her skin a soft brown. Beside her, her grandparents were dressed in bottle green: her grandfather in a sherwani, her grandmother in a silk sari.

  Maroon red mehndi covered Durkhanai’s hands in flowery details of blooming roses. Her curly hair was swept up in an updo with ringlets framing her face in front of her dupatta, which sat atop her head and fell down one shoulder.

  She was the essence of a princess, but she would need to be more to protect her people.

  Wind slapped her cold on both cheeks, turning her nose numb: up in the bell tower, there was no spring. It was the beginning of April, when the world cracked open its shell to let greens and pinks begin to spool out. The weather was softer, warmer.

  From here, she saw the great expanse of lands she was heir to, the jewels of the earth. The palace was on the side of the mountain, with views of both the empty valleys and the populated ones.

  On one populated mountain, she saw two waterfalls, and while ordinarily the glittering water brought her peace
, today the two holes punctured in the mountain flowed water like eyes flowing with tears. In the distance of the unpopulated lands, she could almost see the blue green S’vat river, which protected them in the north from the Kebzu Kingdom.

  Now, for the first time, they would need protection from those within their lands.

  Ya Khuda, protect us, she prayed.

  They waited for the bell to quiet, the valley to turn silent. Then, hand in hand, her grandparents made their way to the door, to head back down to the palace below.

  “Come,” Agha-Jaan motioned for her to come.

  “Just a moment longer,” she responded. “I want to make dua.”

  Her grandfather nodded, allowing her solace, and she was alone.

  “Ya Allah,” she prayed. “You are the Protector of all people, so please, protect my people. Bless us, forgive us, let no harm come to us. Ameen.”

  She blew onto all her lands, the homes that dotted the mountains, praying her people and her country would stay safe from those who were coming.

  “I will protect you,” she promised her people. It was her sacred duty to protect this land. With a final glance, she went back down to her palace, to prepare.

  A banquet had been arranged for the ambassadors, and Durkhanai had to change to get ready for it. The defenses were up, but their greatest defense was their behavior: they had to act absolutely unbothered by any of this and entirely innocent—which they were.

  They were to be kind—but with an undercurrent of cruelty.

  As Durkhanai walked to her rooms, she noticed a man walking alone in her hall, his fingers dancing along the windowsill. She paused, blinking.

  Who was he? More importantly, what was he doing here?

  Durkhanai approached until she stood beside him. Noting her presence, he turned and smiled at her, his black eyes molten and warm, hiding a thousand emotions and layers.

  “And you are?” she prompted.

  He smiled an easy smile.

  “Ambassador Asfandyar of the Afridi tribe of Jardum,” he said. His deep voice was stone: ragged and solid. “Pleased to meet you.”

  He lowered his head with respect, but a smirk tugged at his lips. Durkhanai frowned.

  From what she knew, the Jardum people were courageous and rebellious. They were good fighters who were pragmatic in picking their battles and making alliances.

  She didn’t even know him, but she knew he would be trouble.

  Sudden anger flashed through her: she had known the foreigners were coming, but now that they were here, in her home, the irritation was thrice folded. And in her halls!

  This would not do.

  “How pleasing indeed for you, ambassador,” she said, voice clipped, “that such an egregious occasion has arisen to force Marghazar’s hand into welcoming your sorry hides into our pure lands.”

  He met her glare with an easy half-smile, nearly laughing.

  “Forced your hand?” he drawled. “And here we were under the assumption the mighty Marghazari couldn’t be forced to anything.”

  Her breath caught. She had slipped.

  She had let her temper get the better of her, when she knew she was supposed to be fawning over the ambassadors with sweetness to prove her grandfather’s innocence. Her cheeks burned.

  Worse still, he had twisted her words and was looking at her like she was as non-threatening as a child. It tore at the insecurity deep within her that told her she would only be a pretty little fool: beloved, yet useless.

  Decorum be damned. In that moment, she felt less the sweet rose petals, and more the deadly thorns.

  “Haven’t you any manners?” she asked, a bite to the words. She had never been anything but loved and adored, and the way he looked at her made her heart freeze over. “You will speak to your princess with respect, ambassador, lest I have to cut off your tongue.”

  “Princess?”

  He raised a brow, mock surprised. He cocked his head to the side, looking at her intently. She wanted to point out that she was, in fact, dressed as one, and how daft he must truly be to not realize, but she refrained from doing so. Instead, she lifted her chin.

  She felt small, somehow, even though she was far from it: with her tall stature, she was used to commanding the space around her. But somehow, this man was looking at her as if she was as clear and thin as water.

  One look at her was proof enough that she was born of the mountains and the rivers: eyes blue-green, her hair as wild as the rustling trees. Soft brown skin like golden earth, she was solid like a tree, but she had the silken stream of the river and the contours of the valleys.

  She knew she was beautiful; she twisted her lips.

  “Be careful where those eyes travel, ambassador,” she said, saying ambassador like an insult. “People have been blinded for less.”

  “You may blind me, but the truth we shall still see,” he said. Whatever humor he had granted her before was gone. Now his voice was somber. Durkhanai furrowed her brows. This was usually the part where people lowered their heads, excusing themselves. No one liked to be on the receiving end of the Shehzadi’s temper.

  Yet Asfandydar took a step closer, meeting her gaze head on with a blazing one of his own.

  “What, precisely, is that supposed to mean?” she snapped.

  “I was at the summit,” he said, face hard.

  So it was a threat.

  Durkhanai did not even bother to check for a nearby guard; she knew no one would have the audacity to hurt her in her own palace.

  The summit had been organized by the Wali of Teerza, who had invited the walis and advisors of the other four zillas—or districts—of the mountains to discuss a treaty of unification: to join the tribespeople of all five zillas into one united nation.

  The Badshah was adamantly against the idea. Independence was integral to their culture. The other zillas believed in this as well, but with increasing pressure from the Lugham Empire in the east and south, the Wali of Teerza had managed to get four of the five zillas to agree to at least begin negotiation of unification.

  That is, until the explosion.

  And seeing as Marghazar was the only zilla absent, all fingers were pointed to her home.

  “I witnessed the explosion, heard the screams,” Asfandyar continued. “I saw the blood and the bones: those leaders were not merely your so-called enemies, but my colleagues. Moreover, they were mothers and fathers, wives and husbands. They were close confidantes and friends. They were people. And if Marghazar truly was responsible for such carnage—well, then the butchery will be repaid in kind.”

  “Was that a threat? Don’t forget your place, ambassador.”

  He smiled that easy smile again.

  “I assure you, Shehzadi,” he said, turning her title of princess into the insult. “I know my place quite well.”

  “Then you know this is my palace and my land and I can have you killed in a variety of ways without having even a single strand of hair coming undone.”

  Unfazed, he tsked. “That’s thrice you’ve threatened me. Where is your hospitality?”

  She pressed her teeth together and said nothing. He drew closer.

  “Anyhow, your threats are empty,” he said, close enough to touch. “For if you kill me, you will have the war you so delicately prevented. I assure you my life is very dear to the Wali of Jardum.”

  It was true: the only reason the ambassadors from the other zillas were even invited to Marghazar was to buy the Badshah time to prove his innocence so that war could be avoided. It was a gesture of good faith.

  Her threats were empty. But something turned in Durkhanai’s mind as she recalled. The Wali of Jardum was Shirin of Afridi, a young Wali who had inherited the zilla when her mother was killed at the summit attack.

  She looked at Asfandyar, then, how handsome and young he himself was, not yet twenty. Her smile was sugar honey sweet but laced with poison.

  “I didn’t realize they were sending the Wali’s whores as ambassadors now,” she said matt
er of factly, more than a little bit proud of herself.

  Asfandyar offered her a smile just as sweet.

  “Of course that’s why they sent me,” he responded coolly. “We had heard whores were the only company you kept.”

  Durkhanai couldn’t help her mouth from falling open.

  Her entire face scrunched with anger, but before she could react further, he tapped her forehead lightly, where her eyebrows were pinched together.

  “I wouldn’t hold that face for long,” he laughed. “It might get stuck that way—and what a shame it would be to ruin such lovely features, princess.”

  Her fingers curled into little fists, her long nails piercing skin. She didn’t know what to say, but before she could, a boyish grin split his face, setting dimples deep into his cheeks.

  How could he turn from grief-stricken and furious to nonchalant and amused so quickly? Surely there was something curious about such control over one’s emotions.

  “Excuse me, but I have important matters to attend to,” he said, bowing his head with respect and walking away, shoulders relaxed, chin high.

  She watched him go, wanting to throw a dagger into his broad back. He must have sensed her watching, for he looked over his shoulder and winked.

  Unbelievable!

  It was only when her servants surfaced in the hallway that Durkhanai was swept back to reality.

  “Shehzadi,” one of her maids called. “Your bath has been prepared.”