She would have enough to do, finding another way to break Philemon's curse. Once this current task was complete. First, she had to grind Basit's face in the dirt.
Asad thrust her through the flap of the largest tent in the camp, from blazing light into darkness. It took her a moment for her eyes to adjust, which was time enough for Haidar to drop a bag of her things at her feet and inform the women of their sheikh's orders for her.
Then the tent flap closed entirely, leaving her alone with what looked like a hundred women, curious about the newest of their number.
Anahita relaxed. She knew her place in a harem – even this one. She allowed the women to lift her dusty robe off, and pretended not to notice their exclamations at the quality of the work or the quantity of dust on it.
"She's so small!"
"He'll break her on her first time."
"She looks terrified."
"Such a pretty tunic. Are the jewels real?"
Anahita let their words wash over her, not uttering a word except to nod occasionally if someone asked her a question. A new bride in a new home was supposed to be nervous. Never mind that she outranked all of them – once she married their sheikh, her place would be his to dictate. So she surrendered to them for now.
"Should we tell her? Warn her, maybe?"
"Can't risk it."
"She should save herself if she can. What if she suffers the same fate as Inbal?"
Inbal, a girl who could not have been older than ten, Anahita discovered, had had her tongue cut out for saying something that displeased the sheikh.
Anahita resolved to avenge the girl.
"Make her so beautiful he cannot resist."
"Oh, isn't the silk lovely? So fine, you can see quite through it!"
"That will not last the night."
Women washed her with cool water, then applied perfumed oils to her skin, before helping her into her wedding clothes – the contents of the bags Haidar had brought. Sheer silk so thin that in the right light, you could see through it, but only her husband would see that, in the privacy of his tent tonight. She fastened the bells onto her bracelets herself, while two small girls did the same with her anklets. A thin chain of bells clipped to her belt, and her dance clothes were complete.
"Do you think they will succeed?"
"They must! This cannot go on."
"Don't forget to oil her hair. You know how grabby his hands can be. At least give her a chance."
They combed, curled and oiled her hair, a luxury Anahita had not allowed herself while they travelled. Hair oil seemed to pick up every speck of dust in the desert, but tonight its glossy sheen would catch the light once she took her veil off. She knew she was too plain to attract him with her beauty – even Philemon had said so.
"Wish we dared poison the wedding feast. He and his favourites alone will eat it – this poor mite won't eat a bite."
"Better that way. What would he do to her if she vomited her food at his feet?"
"Don't even think it. Whoever does the deed will have my thanks."
"And mine."
"Who is it, do you know?"
"One of the men. They all want the honour of delivering the final blow."
"Of course they do. They know what it means."
Over the gossamer silk, they placed another heavily embroidered robe the blood-red colour of her marriage bed. Jewels had been sewn into this one – dark rubies that glittered in the light, drawing attention to the curve of her breasts beneath it.
"When will it happen?"
"After the feast, when he takes her to his bed."
"Actually IN…?"
"Shh, she looks scared enough. Don't frighten her further. It must be tonight."
The matching jewelled veil completed her bridal clothes, covering Anahita's hair and all but her eyes.
"Doesn't she look a vision?"
"He will not be able to resist."
"Good."
A gentle hand landed on Anahita's shoulder, and she met the pitying eyes of an older woman. "It's all right to be afraid, chick. All brides fear their wedding night. Just stay silent, lie back, and submit to whatever he wishes. It will be over quickly."
Anahita's heart sank as the woman didn't say the final line of bridal advice she'd heard so many times in her father's harem: "You might even enjoy it." No one here enjoyed Sheikh Basit's attentions.
No wonder they were plotting a coup tonight.
A coup that could not succeed if the sheikh was already dead at her hands.
Did she have the right to take vengeance away from these women? Stolen from their fathers, husbands, families, to serve his pleasure?
Ah, but none of the women would deliver the blow. And she had her answer.
She didn't need a man to save her. Anahita would save herself. And all of them. The moment that arsehole put his foot on her neck, he'd sealed his fate.
Twenty-Eight
Philemon sat, forgotten, with the camels and other animals. Would this be his fate forever? Even the passionate kiss of the princess he loved had not been able to break the curse. If Anahita couldn't do it, then could anyone? Or would he be alone forever?
The sounds of feasting and merriment came from a well-lit tent near the middle of the encampment, beside the women's tent where they'd taken Anahita. Women walked between the two, carrying platters of food or what remained of it after the men had devoured everything.
He hadn't heard a single female voice since he arrived, he realised. No laughter, no chatter – none of the normal sounds he'd expect from normal women. They might be more outspoken in Tasnim than other places, but nowhere had he ever met women who were forced into silence. It was against their very natures. There was something very wrong in this camp, and he wished he were far from it. But he could not leave Anahita here among the worst of it. With that sheikh who didn't deserve to kiss the ground she walked upon.
Whose wedding feast they were no doubt celebrating now. A feast to give the bridegroom stamina, for the true test of a wedding was whether he could keep the bride in his tent until morning, when the wedding breakfast they shared concluded the marriage ceremony.
Yesterday, he would have bet money on Anahita not staying until morning but after what he'd seen today…
Had her men drugged her? Given her something that would make her more docile? Or cast some spell on her that had the same effect? Was that why he'd been kept away from her, and made to ride with Haidar?
He prayed they had not, but he could not be certain. Even if he was, what could he do? He was a frog.
"Are we still doing it tonight?" an unfamiliar voice whispered.
"Of course! Every day under his rule is an abomination to the honour of all good men," a second voice hissed back.
"And their wives," the first one muttered.
"Why didn't someone just poison his food?"
"Didn't you see the boys he has lined up at his feet? Their mothers cook the meals, and must feed each dish to their own sons before he tastes a single bite. That's how he foiled the first poisoning attempt. The women do not dare any more. It must be us, and we cannot fail!"
"When? There was so much arguing, I couldn't stay to find out what they decided. An ambush after the feast, when he is too drunk on wine to see it?"
"Of course not. He'll be expecting that. Besides, did you see him drink more than a cup of wine at the feast? No, he has all his wits about him now, and he will expect an attack as he walks back to his tent with his princess. She's barely more than a child, my wife said. Would you willingly give your daughter to that monster?"
"I'd sooner kill my daughter than give her to him. It is fortunate I don't have one."
"Not yet. If you get your wife back on the morrow, I'll wager you'll be busy planting one in her belly before sundown!"
"If she still lives. She hasn't left the women's tent in weeks."
"She's the only healer left. They're probably keeping her busy, healing the girls the morning after he's had them. If h
e'd killed someone, we'd know about it, for who'd he send to bury her, hmm?"
"Maybe. So when will we finally be rid of him again?"
"We wait until he's distracted, deflowering his child bride, and then we strike."
"What about the girl?"
"If she gets in the way, kill her, too. No one here will mourn her."
Philemon opened his mouth to shout that he would, but he knew it was no use. They wouldn't hear him. Only Anahita would understand him. Someone needed to warn her.
"He'll probably crush her the first time he tries to mount her. They say that's what happened to Ahmed's daughter. He broke her hip bones with his weight, and she wouldn't stop screaming, so he killed her."
"If she's screaming, he won't hear us until it's too late."
Cheers and catcalls rose from the feasting tent.
"Look out. He's heading to bed."
The plotting men disappeared into the shadows as a couple appeared on the track that ran between the tents. He held a torch aloft in one hand as his other arm encircled the waist of a girl dressed head to toe in blood red.
Anahita. It had to be.
She walked willingly, he noted – the sheikh did not need to drag her. She should be trying to tear loose from his grasp, to run away.
Philemon shouted a warning at the top of his lungs, but she didn't seem to hear, for she kept going. To her death, he was sure of it.
Cursing his already cursed body, Philemon leaped down from the camel's back and headed after them. He had to warn her, about the monstrous sheikh and his imminent death. A warning just for her ears, for the sheikh would not understand him.
He hopped faster. He had to save her.
Twenty-Nine
It took every drop of Anahita's self control not to sink a blade into Basit's arm as he marched her away from the feasting tent. Not that she'd wanted to stay, but his meaty fingers biting into her arm would leave bruises.
Her stomach protested that she hadn't eaten, but Anahita ignored it. No one had offered her food or wine at the feast – even her previous husbands had made an effort to feed her. Then again, with Basit's greedy eyes on her, she hadn't felt like eating.
While he stuffed himself and his men drank countless toasts to his health and virility and other such manly virtues, she'd watched the crowd. Several men had slipped out, unseen by anyone but her, and she'd witnessed whispered conversations between the serving women and some of the men seated at the lower tables.
The bloated bastard beside her was blissfully unaware of the coup his own people had planned, while she saw signs of it all around her, spreading like a sickness. Eyes watched from the darkness between the tents as they passed, but none came close enough to kill the man. No, they wanted her to distract him.
And she would, but not in the way they had planned. For she was not a pawn in anyone's game. Not her father's, not Basit's, and definitely not the strange one played by his people.
Basit shoved her through a tent flap, shouting for some guards to take their position at the entrance. Haidar and Asad, she hoped, as they'd planned.
Gaily coloured silk cushions lay in piles everywhere, not unlike Maram's bedchamber if she'd tripled the number of cushions and not cared about the colours. Or the cleanliness of them, Anahita realised, noting the stains on several of them. A patch of dried blood here, something white and crusted across two of them, something yellow that had turned part of an azure blue cushion murky green… She shuddered.
"Get your clothes off. Now," Basit growled, shoving her toward the dirty cushions.
Anahita ducked her head to hide the fury in her eyes. "In the Sultan's harem, it is traditional for a new bride to perform an intimate dance for her husband as she removes her wedding clothes. I am told it is necessary to increase a husband's pleasure."
Actually, Maram had told her it give her a way to take off her own clothes without her husband noticing how many knives she carried, but Anahita wasn't going to tell him that.
Basit threw himself on the cushions and folded his arms across his chest. "I will be the judge of that. Show me."
Anahita took a deep breath, then began to mark the beat with her feet, stamping on the ground until she had the rhythm in her head. Then she began to move, unfastening the heavy, red gown slowly as she moved her hips to swirl the skirt.
Basit grunted.
She released the last fastener and let the gown's own weight carry it to the floor, revealing the thin silk tunic she wore underneath. A twirl unfurled the skirt fully, showing off everything before the folds settled again, giving only a tantalising glimpse as she moved.
The heavy red veil was next. She turned her back as she tore the garment from her head, shaking it out so that it flew like a banner behind her as she danced. She turned to face him, revealing her face to him for the first time, and held her breath.
Plain she might be, but the women here had done their best to paint her eyes to make them look bigger, and redden her lips, too.
The obvious approval in his expression made her breathe out a sigh of relief. She danced faster, her every movement sending the bells on her belt jingling.
"Enough dancing. Take the rest off," Basit ordered.
Anahita pretended not to hear, planting her hands on her hips as she moved them again, more slow and sensuous this time.
"I said now!"
He grabbed her arm and dragged Anahita around to face him, tearing her sleeve.
Another gossamer silk tunic ruined. What was wrong with men?
Anahita met his eyes. "And I say no."
Thirty
The track between the tents seemed to stretch forever. Philemon would never get there in time to warn her. Not before that misbegotten camel herder got his hands on her…and what if he hurt her? Philemon sucked in a breath and hopped faster.
Of course the sheikh's tent was at the far end of the camp. Where no one could hear the screams of his women as he tortured them, most likely. Barbarian.
Four guards stood at the entrance. Two tribesmen, Haidar, and Asad. Philemon cursed. He couldn't go in without her men spotting him.
He hopped around the back of the tent, looking for another way in. Maybe if he squeezed under the tent wall here, digging under it a little, he might manage…
A woman's scream sliced through the night. Then another. From inside the tent.
Anahita.
He squeezed through the gap, not caring what happened to him, and caught sight of Anahita struggling with the sheikh.
He had to stop him. Couldn’t let him hurt her.
But what could a frog do?
He eyed the sea of cushions between him and the woman he loved.
Her marriage bed.
He'd make Basit rue even looking at Anahita.
Philemon leaped.
Thirty-One
Anahita started to scream, startling Basit into releasing her. She didn't hesitate, thrusting her knife up to pierce his throat. Once, twice, then a third time. Basit jerked his head up, ripping the blade from her hand, before she could deliver a final blow.
Gasping for air he could no longer breathe, Basit fell heavily against her, nearly knocking her over. Anahita fought to stay on her feet, then to push him off her. He weighed so much, but she gave an almighty heave and she was free. He tumbled back onto his soiled cushions.
Beside a naked man.
Philemon?
She opened his mouth to ask how, or perhaps why…
The guards chose that moment to charge into the tent.
Anahita thought fast.
"He killed him! He killed him!" she screamed, pointing at Philemon, as she backed into a corner of the tent and curled up into what she hoped looked like a hysterical wife pushed past what her mind could handle without going mad.
Haidar and Asad would seize him, he'd turn back into a frog, and chaos would ensue. She could retrieve her knife, and slip off into the darkness. Though if she had time, she'd still like to cut out his tongue.
"
You killed the sheikh?" one of Basit's men asked shakily.
Philemon drew himself up to his full height. "I did. Honour demanded it."
Anahita suppressed a snort. There was nothing honourable about Basit's death. She'd made certain of that.
In the silence that followed, she risked another look. Basit's men had dropped to their knees, pressing their foreheads to the floor. Asad and Haidar slowly followed their example.
"Honoured Sheikh, what are your orders?" one man asked.
Philemon's mouth opened, but no words came out.
Anahita wasn't as familiar with desert politics as Maram, but she vaguely remembered something about tribes where leadership was won by being the strongest fighter, and the succession was not by birth, but by force of arms. Kill the leader, and you inherited his position. Was it like that here?
Asad seemed to think so. "Most Honoured Sheikh, would you like us to bring you a better wife to warm your bed? One who is not so…hysterical?" He nodded in Anahita's direction.
She buried her head in her hands again and whimpered a little. Her throat was already sore from screaming – she didn't want to do it any more tonight, if she didn't have to.
"This one will suit me fine. I'm sure she will calm as soon as you remove the corpse from her chamber," Philemon said. "And bring us fresh bedding."
"As you command, Most Honoured Sheikh," they chorused.
Anahita's hands clenched into fists. When she got Philemon alone, she would throttle him for this. This wasn't her plan at all.
Thirty-Two
The guards took an eternity to carry all the cushions out of the tent, or so it seemed, before they set up a bedroll big enough for a bridal couple.
Two men rolled the former sheikh in the blood-soaked carpet beneath him, then lifted the grisly bundle between them.
"Wait!" A third man made them set their burden down and open it.
By all that was holy, why? Philemon wanted to scream.
Kiss- Frog Prince Retold Page 9
