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.”

Releasing a measured breath, Durkhanai entered her bathing room, where the tub was filled with warm honeyed milk. Her maids undressed her, then scrubbed her skin with milk-cream until she was soft and smooth. Then she transferred to a second tub filled with rose water. All the while, Asfandyar’s face lingered in her mind, his words playing over and over: They were people.

Surely, such a loss was tragic, but it was not her grandfather’s fault. Her family was innocent, and she would prove as much.

After she was clean, she went to her dressing room to see an elaborate, draping suit.

The folds of the brocade lengha were thick with embroidery, crystal stones, emeralds, and cutwork. The peplum top held the same heavy work, as did the dupatta. It was more ostentatious than anything she had ever worn. Spread beside it were what must be half her weight in jewels and gold: twenty-four chudiyan for each arm, rings for almost each finger, dripping earrings, a wide necklace, thick anklets.

It was florid and ornate, and while she and her grandfather usually adored the extravagant, this was excessive to make a point: it showed the wealth of the capital Safed-Mahal, the zilla S’vat, to foreigners. The power of the Ranizais tribe and the Miangul family.

The might of the Badshah of Marghazar and his crown princess.

Durkhanai straightened her back and raised her chin. She was the daughter of the mountains and river S’vat. She was a princess to this valley and the purest tribe.

She would not let a lowly ambassador faze her.

Chapter Two

Durkhanai stood by her grandfather’s throne, waiting to greet the ambassadors.