Eleven

 

Philemon feverishly searched every inch of the cavern twice over, and still he did not find the ring. He shouted until he was hoarse, but only ominous silence greeted him from above. He feared the city was empty but for him. And the water beneath it was draining away. Even now, the pool that had broken his fall had dried to a couple of shallow puddles.

No matter how high he leaped, he could not catch the lip of any of the wells, which taunted him from above.

But he would not die down here. He was a prince, by all that was holy.

If he could not return to the city, then he would find another way. The water here had travelled some sort of path between the city and the oasis, and where water went, so could he.

He'd follow the water to the oasis and make his way back to the city across the desert.

He set off along the tunnels, following the sound of flowing water in the darkness. If he faltered, he only had to remind himself that he was not destined for an ignominious end, all alone in the tunnels beneath his city. As long as he lived, so did Tasnim. Step after tentative step, he would reach the oasis.

Hours passed, or perhaps it was days. The darkness was as timeless as the desert above, but it would not defeat him.

When he finally did stop, it was because water barred his way. Not the puddles and shallow stream he'd splashed through, but a pool so deep he could not see the bottom. Yet the water glowed as if lit by some magical underground sun.

No, not an underground one, he realised. One that burned down from the sky above. He'd found the oasis, but he would have to swim to reach it.

So be it.

The water was cool against his skin, a sweet caress urging him on. He swam for longer than he expected, but not so long that he felt the burn in his lungs from holding his breath too long. When he surfaced into brilliant sunlight, he let out a shout of triumph. No witch would be the end of him!

Was it his imagination, or did the oasis appear bigger than before? Philemon wasn't sure, but the swim seemed to take as long as his walk through the tunnels. But determination drove him, now more than ever before, and he reached the shore.

Desert sand compressed underfoot, gritty and crumbling between his toes. Huh. He must have lost his shoes somewhere in the dark and not noticed until now. Philemon glanced down, but he couldn't see his toes through the dislodged dust swirling through the water. He stepped out.

Pain burned the soles of his feet, like the fires of hell itself. He bit back a scream and hurled himself back into the water. Slowly, the fire in his feet extinguished in the lapping waters of the oasis.

He would bind his feet with scraps of cloth torn from his robes, the way beggars did, Philemon told himself. Beggars in other cities, for there were none in Tasnim.

He reached for the hem of his robe, but he clutched only air. Now he looked down again, really looked, and this time he couldn't tear his eyes away. No amount of water could hide the green tint to his skin, or the peculiar shape of his feet.

Philemon held his hands up to his face, praying that they would be normal, but his prayers were not answered. His green hands had only four fingers each.

A toad, the witch had called him, not a prince.

She'd turned him into one.

He let out a scream of fury, but all that came out was a croak.

Swearing he'd hunt down the witch and force her to fix the mess she'd made, he sank beneath the surface. Watching. Waiting. For frogs could not survive in the desert alone – he would need to find a travelling party to join to take him back to Tasnim. Or, better yet, to where he could find the witch.

A caravan would come, he told himself with confidence. And when it did, he would be ready.