The silence struck him first. The city should be bustling, but it was empty. Of people, of movement, of life. He had done this.
Perhaps he should not show this to Anahita now. He wanted her to see the city at its best, not the empty shell of what it once was.
But without her help…how could he ever bring it back to life?
Reluctantly, he led the way inside.
Anahita's fingers found his, lacing them together as she stood at his side. "So this is the legendary city of Tasnim. It looks like a sandstorm came through, and the people are just waiting for it to be safe before they sweep the sand away."
Sand, not water. Asad's predictions of flooding had not come to pass. He breathed a sigh of relief, but it was short lived. For the sand was deeper than he'd ever seen it.
More than one sandstorm had done this. The air vents and light wells couldn't keep the desert out for long, but it was piled up in drifts against the walls, leaving swathes of stone floor clear to walk across. How long had he been gone?
There was no way of telling down here. Unlike the sand, time had stood still.
He led the way to the well by which he'd last left the city. A quick peek into the houses along the way revealed…little. They'd been left as if their owners had simply gone on a journey, and intended to return. The beds were made up, ready for their owners' return, and some kitchens still had bags and casks of food in them, waiting to be opened for the next meal.
The well hadn't changed a bit. He must have already been a frog when he fell in, Philemon decided. He knelt down beside the low stone wall that normally kept people from falling in, and scrabbled around in the sand. He unearthed a robe. When he shook the sand out of it, he recognised it as the one he'd been wearing that fateful day. If his clothes were here, then his ring of office must be, too – and the door guardian djinn.
Desperately, he sifted through the sand, searching, but no ring emerged. He'd come back later and search, he promised himself.
"Didn't you say the water is all gone?" Anahita asked.
"Yes," Philemon admitted. "We will find a way to bring it back." If such a thing was possible.
"But I can hear it," she insisted. She knelt, took a pebble from the floor, and threw it into the well. They both heard it plop into water that sounded too deep to be true.
With shaking hands, Philemon lowered his torch as far as he could without falling in. Again. Light gleamed on the water, not far below.
"It's real. It's returned!" he blurted out. He dropped his torch on the ground, wrapped both arms around her, and kissed her. "You did it. I don't know how, but you did!" He kissed her again, and again. He never wanted to stop.
"I didn't do anything!' she protested. "And the water might be back, but where are your people? Do they know the waters have returned?"
He reluctantly turned his mind to more mundane matters. "No, they must not. I must go to the capital and find criers willing to shout it from the rooftops that Tasnim citizens can come home."
"The capital." She did not sound so eager to go home as he thought she'd been.
"Of course. We must also buy provisions, for I am sure the people took what they could when they left."
This didn't lift her frown at all.
"Would you like to see the fabled jewelled gardens of Tasnim? Words cannot describe their beauty – you must see them with your own eyes to fully appreciate them."
A small smile graced her lips. "I've heard so much about them."
Taking her hand, he led the way to the harem gardens, wishing with all his heart that he would find a way to make this her home.
He stepped into the hall that held the most wondrous trees known to man, lifting his torch so that she might see them better. And stopped.
"What bastard stole my garden?" Philemon roared.
Forty-One
It took time to calm Philemon down and persuade him that the capital was probably the best place to start looking for the thief, though Anahita suspected that the jewels and precious metals had most likely been melted down and made into smaller, more portable things by now.
Nevertheless, he agreed, and within two days, they'd reached the capital. A city that changed little, usually.
"That went up quickly. I didn't know Father intended to build a new palace, and we haven't been gone that long. Do you remember hearing anything about this…edifice?" Anahita asked, peering through the gleaming gates of the brand new palace.
Haidar shrugged. "Nothing at all. Palaces take years to build, not weeks. I smell magic at work."
Magic that could erect a palace in a matter of weeks was potent stuff indeed. Whoever had built this place was more powerful than anyone Anahita had ever met.
Haidar exchanged a few words with the guard, then returned to Anahita's side, his frown deeper than ever. "He said this palace belongs to the Prince of Tasnim and his wife, Princess Maram."
Anahita's mouth dropped open beneath her veil. "Maram will never marry, and the Prince of Tasnim is…" She waved at Philemon.
"Not about to tolerate imposters," Philemon said softly, marching toward the gate with murder in his eyes.
"No, wait," Anahita said. "If Maram has truly married the man, she would never refuse to see me. Or the men with me, for she knows I am never without Haidar and Asad." She turned to Haidar. "Tell him who I am, and that I wish to seek consolation for my bereavement with my sister."
Haidar bowed low, hiding his grin. "As Your Highness wishes."
While they waited for a guard to find out if Maram was willing to see her sister, Anahita lowered her voice to share her plan. "Haidar, Asad, return to the palace, and see that my things are taken where they belong. Have the servants prepare an evening meal for me, for I will be home then. Philemon can accompany me as my guard – " she laid a hand on his arm, shooting him a meaningful glance " – until we know more. When the time is right, then reveal yourself, and lay the imposter bare."
Philemon inclined his head. "Spoken like a true assassin."
Anahita hushed him, scanning the people around to see if anyone had heard. Thankfully, no one appeared to have been listening.
The gates swung open and both guards bowed. "Princess Maram welcomes Princess Anahita to her home."
Anahita recognised the maid who met them at the door. "Yasmeen? So Maram really is here?"
Yasmeen bowed. "Yes, Princess. This palace was a gift to Her Highness from her new husband. He even built her a bathhouse so that she might not need to cross the city to use the one by the gates. She still does, of course, but not every day now." She giggled. "Her Highness does not like to leave her husband."
"So Maram is…happy to be married?" Anahita ventured.
"I have never seen Her Highness happier." Yasmeen's tone was rich with satisfaction. She definitely approved of Maram's marriage.
"And what of her husband?"
"The Master is most kind."
Master. An interesting title, for a man who styled himself as a prince. Whoever he was, he was wealthier than her own father, for this palace was grander inside than out. Quite a feat. His wealth must have been what swayed the Sultan to let Maram marry. But it would not have won over Maram.
And, unlike most other women in the harem, Maram would not have confided her secrets to her maid.
So Anahita followed Yasmeen in silence, admiring the mosaics that rose from the floor to cover the walls and the ceiling. Whoever he was, he had an eye for detail and beauty, to command such work for Maram. Perhaps he truly loved her.
What man wouldn't?
Philemon's footsteps echoed angrily behind her, more stomps than steps. A quick glance back told her he had noticed the wealth they walked within, and it only inflamed his temper further. A man who could build such a place had no need to pretend to be a prince. He could have bought himself a small kingdom somewhere with the price he'd have paid for this palace alone.
Then why…?
Maram rose to greet them, her hair flowing like a dark river over her shoulders and he
r cerise silk gown. "What are you still wearing your veil for?" Maram chided, reaching for Anahita's face.
"Your husband…I thought…" Anahita stammered.
Maram clucked her tongue. "No need to worry about him. You are among family here."
A hand seized Maram's wrist before she could touch Anahita. "No one touches Princess Anahita without the princess's permission," Philemon rumbled warningly.
Maram's eyes flared blue as the turned her gaze on Philemon. "But to touch Princess Maram is to lose your heart and mind in love for her, for you are not one of her usual men. Are you?" She lifted her captured wrist and spun in his grasp, a graceful dancer's twirl that highlighted her perfect figure as the silk swirled around her.
"Is he why you won't uncover your face, Ana? For he's no eunuch – see?" Maram pointed.
Philemon released Maram and seized Anahita instead, pulling her body against his to shield her from…Maram? Now Anahita couldn't help but notice his arousal, for it grew harder still with the close contact.
"Stand back, witch! Your foul spell will not work on me. I love only one woman, and no witch will tear her from me!" Philemon ripped his sword from its scabbard and pointed it at Maram. "Back, I said!"
After the enchantress who'd cursed him, he could see no good in any magic wielder. He would cut her down, he feared her magic that much.
No. This couldn't happen. Not Maram.
Her blades were in her hands before Anahita had time to think. One at Philemon's throat, while a second aimed for a lower target.
"Drop your sword, or you'll lose the other one," Anahita said. Tears welled up, but she stood firm. No matter how much she loved him, she would not let Philemon hurt her sister.
"Ana…" His eyes widened with betrayal.
"I swore an oath. Hurt her, and you are no better than Basit. And you shall share his fate." She begged him with her eyes. "Drop your sword."
Forty-Two
Philemon could not refuse her. He let the blade clatter to the floor.
Anahita kicked it out of reach. "Get out."
He stared at her. Surely she couldn't mean that.
"Is there anything you wish of me, my princess?" a new voice asked.
He stood in the doorway to the courtyard, too well-dressed to be a servant, yet not proud enough to be a prince. This lean man reminded him of a desert hunting falcon – tamed and kept hungry to serve one of the desert camps, waiting for his mistress's command.
The witch favoured him with a beaming smile. "My sister's man needs some air. Perhaps you could take him into the garden? He might find it cooler under the trees."
The man returned her smile, and bowed deeply. Not like a servant. More like…he was mocking her. He was the witch's lover, Philemon realised. "As you wish, Princess." He turned to the side and gestured toward Philemon. "Please, be my guest."
Philemon risked a glance back at Anahita, but her eyes still blazed with fury. She hadn't sheathed her knives.
Philemon sighed. "Very well." He followed the witch's lover.
"Men who threaten Maram tend to die gruesome deaths. You are the first she has ever invited to see her garden," the man said over his shoulder. "Perhaps it is because you are a man of the desert. The laws of hospitality are strong in the camps, or so I am told. She must be curious to discover what would make a man forget something so fundamental."
Philemon glanced down at his clothes, for the first time realising what he must look like. He was dressed like a desert sheikh – had they mistaken him for Anahita's dead husband?
"I am not what I appear. I am, in fact, a man of Tasnim," Philemon said.
The witch's lover nodded slowly. "A city known for the high price of its hospitality." A faint smile touched his lips.
"Have you been there?" Philemon demanded.
"Once. I have no desire to return. It is a desolate place." The witch's lover dismissed it with a shrug of his shoulder.
Philemon bristled. "Now the waters have returned, so will its people. Tasnim will live again. I swear it."
"Spoken like a man who loves his home, and knows it is only home because of the people in it. I almost lost everything before I came to realise that. Without Maram, I am nothing." Another shrug, as though this man didn't care that his happiness depended on a woman – and a witch, at that.
"No man is nothing. Return with me to Tasnim, and I will show you that no man is worthless," Philemon said.
The man looked amused. "You would turn me into a man of Tasnim?"
Philemon opened his mouth to correct him, for the right to live in Tasnim was earned, not granted, except in the most unusual circumstances. Like saving the life of the prince, or some other such act of courage and service.
"Behold, the princess's garden." The man turned to the side, to let Philemon precede him. "Have you ever seen anything so wondrous?"
Philemon stepped from darkness into light – and what a wondrous light it was. Fractured rainbows, blinding, glittering, from every angle, both above and below. He shaded his eyes, squinting to find the source of so much light. The noon sun gazed down from above, but there was more to it. It was like standing in a cage of mirrors, or…
Philemon's heart turned to a burning lump of lead in his chest, firing his blood to boiling. "These are the jewelled gardens from the harem of Tasnim. Your Master stole these from me! Tell me his name, and I will grant you full citizenship of my city. He will die for this!" He reached for his sword, but the scabbard was empty. Too late, he realised he'd left the blade behind at Anahita's command, when he needed it now. "You stole these. You visited my city. How?"
A blue cloud erupted between Philemon and the witch's lover. "My Master is no thief, Philemon. I took them as my due, a price for service, as it were. And I was right to do so. Their splendour in sunlight is unmatched. You left them to be buried in dust and blown sand. My greatest creation!" The djinn door guardian spat on the floor at Philemon's feet. "You did not deserve them."
"Kaveh, that is no way to treat a guest in my house," the man chided.
"He means you harm – he threatened your life, just as he drew his sword on the princess!" the djinn insisted.
Realisation dawned on Philemon. "You're not the witch's lover. She's your wife – you're the man who was not content to just pretend to be a prince! My name, my garden…my door guardian! What else have you stolen from me?"
The man pulled a ring off his finger – a ring Philemon recognised. "I did not – "
"No!" the djinn howled, shoving the ring back on his master's finger. "You swore an oath. That ring is not to leave your finger until you pass it to your son on your deathbed!"
A djinn fighting his master? Philemon would not have believed such a thing was possible, if he hadn't seen it with his own eyes.
Philemon held out his hand. "That is my ring of office. I demand you hand it over, along with mastery of that disobedient djinn."
The djinn glared back at him. "You cast the ring aside, along with everyone else in the city, when you deserted us. Fadi sold that ring to a silversmith, so that he would have the money to feed your people. An evil wizard bought it, and gave it to Aladdin. It belongs to him and you shall not have it!"
Philemon ignored him. The fake prince was the key, he knew it. What had the djinn said his name was? "Aladdin, give me my ring, or I will tell your wife who is the real Prince of Tasnim. Let's see if Princess Maram wishes to be your wife when she knows the truth!"
"Please, enlighten me," a female voice purred.
The witch.
Philemon reached for his dagger.
"Oh, don't bother," she said. "She's gone home to her apartments in the Sultan's palace, and you've made your preferences perfectly clear. You fancy my sister, and against her better judgement and my own, she's still partial to you. She's never taken a lover before. She's more likely to take a man's life, than take him to bed. You must have been quite persuasive, Prince Philemon of Tasnim."
Philemon sagged. "Not persuasive enough, if she ha
s left me."
Aladdin had the right of it. The world was empty without the woman he loved. He stared at the fake prince with sympathy, for the first time. The djinn had vanished.
"Perhaps not." The witch wet her lips. "Would you care for a wager, Philemon?"
"What do you have that I want?"
The witch smiled. "By the sound of things, everything. Your garden. Your title. Your symbol of office. And the woman you wish to be your wife."
She had him. "What do I have that you want?" Philemon asked, his heart sinking. He was back to promising all the wealth of Tasnim to a witch. If she turned him into a frog again…Anahita would not save him this time, he was sure of it.
"The power to make my dearest sister happy," she said. Her eyes filled with tears. "I would gamble my garden for that."
Philemon drew closer. "What do you mean?"
Maram waved her hand and a servant appeared. "Bring us refreshments. We have business to discuss." The maid scurried away.
Maram gazed into Philemon's eyes. A frank assessment of his soul, without a hint of the seduction she'd tried earlier. "You will go speak to the Sultan, and you will tell them Aladdin is your younger half-brother. And then you will tell him that seeing your brother's happiness, you must be married to another of my sisters at once."
Philemon shook his head. "Anahita will never agree to it. You didn't see the way she looked at me."
Maram wet her lips. "That is where the wager comes in. If this works, she will be your wife, and I keep my garden. If this does not work…I will ask my husband to have another garden crafted for you to replace this one. Do we have a deal?"
Hope danced before Philemon, like Anahita on her wedding night. Tantalising, but too far away to touch. "And if she decides she wants me dead instead?"
Maram laughed. "If my sister wanted you dead, you'd be lying in a pool of your own blood in my reception room. Anahita does not hesitate…or she didn't, before you."
Could he gamble everything for love?
He stared at Aladdin, the pretend prince, who only had eyes for Maram. Her dark eyes were firmly fixed on Philemon.
"Yes," Philemon said. "Yes, we have a deal."
Kiss- Frog Prince Retold Page 12