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.