Even though he was across the space, she could hear him as clearly as though he was standing right next to her, talking directly to her. She felt his gaze on her, even from so far away.

She stared at him openly, waiting. The people quieted, and a figure subtly began to make its way toward the back of the crowd. Then, an instant later, the figure was gone—disappearing like a shadow into the night.

“After the beloved Shehzadi fell ill, I began to investigate where the illness could be coming from,” Asfandyar said.

At her own mention, Durkhanai’s heart seized painfully—the beloved Shehzadi. It was language everyone used—daily—but from his mouth it felt like a tantalizingly soft kiss to her cheek.

“I have found the springs to be poisoned by a plant found commonly in Teerza,” he said. “When the leaves have been dried, then soaked in water for two nights, they release a toxin—it is this that has caused the illness spreading through the villages. It is this same plant that I found in Rukhsana-sahiba’s room.”

Durkhanai was right.

Blood rushed through her ears. She curled her hands into fists, resisting the urge to run. There was only one thing keeping her in place, and it was Asfandyar’s face.

Though he was far away, she saw his intent. He was speaking to the crowd, but his eyes were focused entirely on her. She could read his expression, as simple and clear as a children’s book.

He had done it for her.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Durkhanai ran.

Before anyone could react, she ran through the crowd, past the shocked noblemen, past her furious grandfather, a confused Asfandyar. She ran through her marble halls, past guards, hitching up her lengha, heart pounding, feet thumping. Her heavy gold earrings bounced up and down, her chudiyan chum-chum-ing up and down her wrists. She ran toward the stables.

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.