Transformed: The Perils of the Frog Prince

by Megan Morrison

  For my parents, Gerry and Mike, who never let me get away with anything.

  Thank you.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Map of Tyme

  Map of Plenty

  Map of Cornucopia

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  UNDER a bright, hot sky, on a flat rock that jutted like a tiny island from a turquoise lagoon, the youngest prince of the Olive Isles lay laughing.

  “Nice try,” crowed Syrah as the so-called best launchball players in the country butchered their practice exercises. “That the best you can do?”

  One by one, team Olive’s human players were launched from the sea by their muscular, strong-tailed mer-partners. One by one, tucked tight like cannonballs, they flew into the air, trying to get high enough to clear the polished wooden bar that glinted twenty-five feet overhead, held aloft by two poles that were anchored to floating platforms. And one by one, as the players attempted to unfurl and gracefully arc over the bar, they smacked into it, knocked it into the sea, and plummeted after it. Syrah laughed harder at every smack, until he had rolled onto his back and was whooping with unfettered glee.

  “Amazing,” he gasped. “Best show on Balthasar.”

  “The bar’s set higher than regulation on purpose, you know,” snapped the only player on the team who did not have to call him Highness, because she was his youngest older sister. Marsala treaded water and scowled at him. “We’re aiming higher than we actually have to,” she said. “It’s called training?”

  “It’s called comedy.”

  “It’s harder than it looks, Syrah.”

  “It doesn’t look hard at all.” He’d played launchball a million times. He never lost. He would have been a significant asset to the national team — Nana Cava told him so all the time. She wanted him to play. Said it would be good for him to belong to a team, to work hard and accomplish something. Once or twice, he had almost agreed — he wouldn’t have minded making his nana proud. But in the end, they practiced too much. Hours and hours of effort, every single day. He didn’t need any practice.

  “I could clear that bar no problem,” he said, “and hit the center target on my way down.”

  Marsala snorted her disbelief.

  Syrah sat up. “Give me the ball.”

  His sister threw the heavy golden orb at his head, and her aim was good, but his reflexes were better. He caught it and twirled it up onto the tip of his finger, where it spun for several seconds before tipping into his palm.

  “Show-off,” Marsala muttered.

  Syrah leapt to his feet on the rock. He stretched his lithe brown body and untied his sarong, enjoying the admiring looks he got from a group of mermaids who were watching the scene from a nearby jetty. Still holding the golden ball, he dove backward off the rock, sliced into the warm water, and surfaced again beside his sister.

  “Who’ll launch me?” he demanded. Araxie, a muscular mermaid with skin the color of lilacs and arms as thick as tree trunks, put up her hand.

  “Ready?” she asked.

  Syrah grinned. “Always.”

  Araxie dove under, and the rest of the team swam away to give them room. Syrah treaded water until the current surged beneath him, signaling that Araxie was now hurtling upward and toward him. Instantly, Syrah tucked his knees under his chin, flattened his feet, and wrapped one arm tight around his legs. His left arm he kept tucked hard against his side, like a wing. In his left hand, he gripped the golden ball.

  Araxie’s hands struck the soles of Syrah’s feet and pushed, launching him out of the sea and into the air, a compact ball of muscle. Tight and perfect he soared, keeping his head tucked until the moment he reached the apex of his flight. He raised his head. The bar was right before him. He unfurled his body and arced. The flat of his stomach just scraped the polished wood — for one frightening moment, he feared he might fail — but the bar did not dislodge. He had cleared it.

  Of course he had.

  Triumphant, he took aim at the target — a system of concentric circles made of rope, which floated atop the waves thanks to buoys. He hurled the golden ball at the center circle and dove again toward the surface of the sea, cutting into the waves. When he surfaced, he whipped back his long, dark curls, turned to his sister — and laughed at the scowl on her face. He had definitely hit the center.

  “Here come the Gourds,” shouted Araxie.

  Syrah looked over his shoulder in the direction Araxie was pointing. The lagoon was fringed nearly all the way around with palms and flowers that grew wild on thin strips of white beach, but there was a break where this secluded place met the Tranquil Sea. Framed there between clusters of enormous purple hyacinth blooms, a great ship had come into view, flying bright yellow sails.

  “I hear Delicata Gourd’s a real contender for next year’s ATC,” said Marsala. “Maybe she’ll practice with us tomorrow. I’d like to see her moves.”

  “Deli doesn’t have moves,” said Syrah. “I always beat her.”

  “Last year, maybe,” said Araxie. “But I hear she’s been training eight hours every day, even when she’s in a place where there’s no water.”

  “Right,” Syrah scoffed. “She launches without water?”

  “She runs,” said Marsala. “She lifts and practices positions — she’ll be tough to beat.”

  “Gourd women always are,” said a merboy who had just swum up to the group. His green curls gleamed wetly against his pale forehead. “Araxie,” he said, and his bright green fins emerged from the water before him. “How’s the water?”

  Araxie put up her enormous black tail fins. “Kai,” she returned, and the two slapped tails. “Clear and cool. You swam here with the Gourds?”

  “So we can keep training. Deli wouldn’t let up till I agreed. She’s swimming here now.”

  “She jumped off the ship?” asked Marsala.

  “She couldn’t wait to practice, and then she saw you all through the spyglass, so she figured she’d join in,” said Kai. “She wants to train for a couple of hours before dinner.”

  Syrah snorted. Deli Gourd was insane. He had never met anyone as dutiful and fun-free as she was. It was most of why he didn’t like her.

  But Deli liked him plenty.

  He swam back to his warm rock, half-annoyed and half-curious. Deli was in love with him — she’d written him a long letter about it last summer. Syrah, I can’t take it anymore. I have to tell you something.

  He couldn’t remember most of it, but a couple of parts had stuck in his head.

  You think of us as friends, I know. I’ve stopped myself from writing this letter so many times because I don’t want to ruin our friendship….

  Like they had a friendship. They spent time together twice a year, but that was only because their families were intertwined: The Huanuis and the Gourds had history. Big history. There was no getting away from that.

  Last week under the waterfall, when you kisse
d me, I cried. You couldn’t see it, but I did….

  He had definitely seen the crying, which was why he’d swum away as fast as he could. That kiss had been a joke — a complete joke. It wasn’t any fun if she was going to be so serious about it.

  And then, the day before leaving the islands, she had handed him that letter and asked him how he felt about her. He didn’t feel anything, and he told her so. She was overreacting. If she wanted to pretend that one stupid kiss meant love, then that was her problem. Not his.

  Now, here she was, swimming toward him with powerful strokes. When she reached Kai, she surfaced, glittering all over with water, her tight black curls tied severely back in a knot. She was leaner and more muscled than he remembered, but her face and shoulders were still covered in little moles that were black against the deep, dark brown of her skin. Those moles, thought Syrah, were part of the problem. Maybe without those things all over her, she would’ve been attractive.

  He stretched out on his stomach with his arms folded under his chin, and he waited for her to notice him.

  “Marsala,” Deli said, breathless from her long swim. “Hi. Hope you don’t mind if I get a few launches in.”

  “Spying on our team secrets?” Araxie teased.

  Deli didn’t seem to hear. She was looking up at the bar, shielding her eyes with a hand. “Looks high,” she said.

  “It’s above regulation,” said Marsala.

  “Good,” said Deli. “It’ll be a challenge.”

  “The only one here who’s cleared it so far is Syrah,” said Araxie, nodding toward the rock where Syrah lay. Deli glanced toward him. Syrah cocked an eyebrow and gave her half a smile.

  “Hey there,” he said. “Miss me?”

  Deli looked at Marsala. “He cleared the bar? Did he hit center?”

  Araxie nodded.

  “Ball.”

  Marsala looked only too glad to hand it over. Deli leaned toward Kai and whispered something to him, and he raised a green eyebrow.

  “You sure you want them to see that?” he said, and Deli nodded. Kai shrugged and dove under, and Deli treaded water, her face grim.

  “Think you can beat me?” shouted Syrah. “Let’s see those moves, Delicata Aurantia.”

  She didn’t acknowledge him. Moments later, she curled into a tight ball and — to Syrah’s surprise — she sucked a breath, tucked her head, and sank beneath the surface.

  One second. Two. Then — slam — she burst from the sea with speed and lift so intense that Syrah whooped with delight and pushed himself up to sit so that he could follow her flight. Her curled body flew up — up — over the top of the bar. She cleared it with a foot to spare.

  Marsala whistled. “We’re stealing that technique,” she said, and Araxie nodded, staring up.

  Deli arced. She stretched. She hurled the golden ball, smacked the center target, and dove into the waves again with such grace that she might have been a water fairy. Syrah sprang to his feet.

  “Very nice,” he said, when Deli finally came up for air. He dove into the water and frog-stroked quickly toward her. He surfaced so close to her that when he treaded water, his toes touched hers. She flinched at the contact. “Let’s have a contest,” he said. “One-on-one. You and me.”

  Deli submerged. She didn’t surface again for nearly a full minute, and when she did, she had swum a startling distance toward the shore and was not slowing down.

  “Guess she’s not a fan, little brother,” said Marsala, grinning. “Interesting.”

  Syrah silently agreed. Deli Gourd had never been so interesting.

  He swam back to the beach and jogged toward the Pavilions. It only took about twenty minutes to get there from the lagoon if the runner was fast, which Syrah certainly was. He sprinted, dodging palms and leaping over the gnarled roots of twisting olive trees. Sure-footed as a bezel, he raced atop the jagged rocks that lined the bottom of the high cliffs, only stopping when he came to a curtain of thin waterfalls that spilled in shining ribbons from a hundred feet overhead. As he always did, Syrah plucked a fragrant white flower from the plumeria tree that bloomed near the foot of these falls, and then he ducked behind them, enjoying the cool, delicious mist on his skin as he sidled along the slippery stones and onto the grounds of his family’s palace.

  The Pavilions were massive, covering much of Balthasar’s northwestern shore with lofty columns and open halls, all startlingly white against the dazzling blue sea and sky. The buildings stretched high, connected by walkways and bridges, with many winding stairways leading up and up to airy apartments with domed roofs. There were enough of these to house many dozens of Huanuis, which was good, because the last time Syrah had tried to count how many of his family members were living here, he had gotten to sixty-five before calling it quits.

  Before heading up to his room, he stopped by Nana Cava’s apartments, where he found her sitting at the mirror, looking into it with her half-blind, hundred-and-three-year-old eyes. Syrah’s second-oldest brother, Concord, stood behind their great-grandmother, braiding what remained of her hair in a wispy gray circle around the top of her head.

  “All done,” said Concord. He kissed her head. “See you at the feast.” He passed Syrah on his way out. “You’re dripping on the floor,” he said. “You better not leave it for Nana to slip on.”

  “I won’t. Skies.” Syrah went to Nana Cava and tucked the plumeria bloom into her hair. “Nice braid,” he said, grinning at her in the mirror. “You look ninety again.”

  “And you look wet.” Her milky gaze penetrated him. “You’re out there every day, Syrah. Why not just join them?”

  “Because they’re terrible. Deli’s going to crush them next year.”

  Nana Cava’s cloudy eyes narrowed. “You should pay attention to Delicata Gourd. You might learn something.”

  Syrah nodded. Paying attention to Deli was definitely on his agenda, though not for the reasons his nana hoped.

  “What about next year?” his nana demanded. “Have you given your answer?”

  “About what?”

  “The apprenticeship in Cornucopia.”

  Syrah hesitated. He didn’t want the apprenticeship. Following Exalted Nexus Burdock around during Yellow Country’s election season sounded like the world’s dullest way to spend a summer. But he knew better than to say so.

  “I’m still thinking about it,” he lied. “Weighing the pros and cons.”

  “The only con,” his nana said, her voice creaking with the emphasis, “is that you would have to work.”

  “I already spent two weeks with Burdock last year,” he protested. “It’s not like I’ll learn anything new.”

  “This is a rare opportunity. One that thousands of students in Tyme would fight for. You might even surprise yourself by finding it interesting. To bear witness to history — I tell you, it changes you. Are you so foolish that you would throw away that chance?”

  “Okay, Nana.”

  “Don’t take that tone.”

  Syrah sighed. “Sorry,” he muttered. “Look — I’ll really think about it. I will, I swear.” He gave his nana a kiss, dried her floor, and left.

  He dressed for dinner in a white sarong with olive embroidery that showed off his dark islander tan, and he tousled his long, damp curls into what he thought was seriously attractive condition. Then he ransacked his room, looking for the letter that Deli had given him — he was sure he still had it. Pretty sure. It had been full of compliments, and those were always worth reading again. It had also come with a necklace, which she had given him as a gift. He had never worn it, but if he could find it, then maybe tonight was a good time to try it on.

  He found the necklace at the bottom of a basket of old schoolbooks, and he held it up, admiring its gleam. Mother-of-pearl, carved in the shape of a leaping frog, strung on a fine leather thong. He tied it around his neck and the cool shell rested against the skin of his chest. He checked the mirror and flashed himself a smile before heading downstairs to supper.

&nbs
p; The Huanuis, hundreds strong, had gathered from all across the Olive Isles for the wedding of Princess Marsanne of the Olive Isles and Christophen Gourd of Yellow Country. Now that the Gourds had arrived, the Pavilions would be nothing but one big party for days — feasting and dancing by torchlight beside the sea. And this was only wedding number one: They’d all go across to the mainland next week for the second half of the celebration.

  Syrah jogged down the white stone steps that led from his royal apartment to the grand terrace that overhung the sea. He ducked behind the wide green palm ferns that flanked one of the many columns, staying out of his family’s sight. He could hear one of his sisters complaining — Bianca, who was massively pregnant and always in some pain or other — and he heard his mother reassuring her. Uncles and aunts chattered among themselves, cousins played their four-strings, babies babbled and wailed. The smell of sizzling fish hung in the moist air. Syrah moved along the back of the terrace, staying behind the big painted vases and stepping barefoot and noiseless along the mosaic floor until he spied Deli standing on her own at a corner of the wide white railing, staring away from the Tranquil Sea and into the west, where the Huanui vineyards stretched for leagues, all the way to Mount Olopua. She wore a yellow sarong that showed off her shoulders and collarbone, but her face, as usual, looked tense and worried. She had a crease between her brows like she’d just heard something she didn’t like.

  She seriously needed to relax. He had some ideas on how he could help her with that.

  “Uncle Syrah?” His twelve-year-old niece, Asti, peered at him through the leaves of the fern he was hiding behind. “What are you doing?”

  Syrah held a finger to his lips. “Playing a game,” he whispered. “Want to help me win?”

  Asti looked intrigued. “How?”

  “Go get Deli Gourd. Tell her she needs to hurry down to the bottom of those steps there — the ones that go down to the vineyards. Don’t tell her I told you to.”

  “What if she asks why?”

  “Tell her that you think somebody might be hurt.”

  Asti shrugged and headed off toward Deli, while Syrah moved quickly toward a set of steps that led down from the terrace to where the vineyards met the beach. He hopped up onto the sloping white wall that served as a railing, jogged lightly to the bottom of it, and stood there for a moment to bask in the sunset.