“Yes, I had heard,” Hala responded. “It is good you are better now. I was ill myself.”

“Yes, Rashid told me,” Durkhanai said. “Strange, no? The illness seemed to have come from nowhere, yet so many have been afflicted.”

Hala nodded. “Yes, strange, indeed. I had gone down to the villages to teach the Quran to some children, as I try to do often, and suddenly I woke up ill a day or so later.”

“You didn’t happen to drink water from one of the wells, did you?” Durkhanai asked, voice low. Hala slowed down, surprised.

“I often do, of course.”

Durkhanai didn’t say anything more.

“But it couldn’t have been something in the water,” Hala said, confused. “The water in the wells come from underground springs, which provide freshwater from the melting glaciers.”

“Right,” Durkhanai said, shaking her head nonchalantly. She smiled. “There is no way for the water to be contaminated.”

The concern left Hala’s countenance, and she relaxed once more, laughing nervously. Durkhanai stopped walking, leaning forward to kiss Hala’s cheeks.

“I must attend to the other guests,” she said. “Please, enjoy the festivities. Make sure you eat the chapli kababs, they are exceptionally delicious today.”

Durkhanai took her leave, trying not to run, to remain calm. Her mind was running in a hundred directions, leaves fluttering away from different branches, all being pulled in different directions by the wind. What if it hadn’t been a natural illness—what if someone had been contaminating the water at its source, poisoning it?

With four foreigners and their servants in her lands, it wasn’t unfathomable.

Durkhanai blood boiled just from the thought, and she tried to calm herself, but the storm inside would find no peace. She needed to leave, immediately, before she caused a scene—pulling the ambassadors out and interrogating them, or worse, running her nails across their skin. Durkhanai passed by delicate vases perched on pillars and wanted to knock them over, spill all the flowers inside and carry the shards like blades.

But she kept the barbarism at bay—she controlled her emotions. She needed a plan.

Durkhanai was on her way out of the courtyard when she realized the gathering had gone quiet, eerily so. Even the music had died down, and voices had lowered to whispers. Durkhanai turned, not knowing what to expect—but it certainly wasn’t Asfandyar.

He was standing in front of the Badshah, his head lowered in respect. With a nod from the Badshah, Asfandyar turned, addressing the audience. She finally looked at him: he was dressed in crisp white shalwar kameez with an embroidered sherwani, his curly hair half out of his pakol. His eyes were sharp, jaw determined.

“I have an announcement to make,” he said, his strong voice carrying.