Transformed: The Perils of the Frog Prince

by Megan Morrison

  “You pretend not to understand me,” said Luffa, “even while you depend upon my being right. You bear my name, and so you are trusted more than you ought to be.”

  “Why shouldn’t I be trusted?” Calabaza snapped. “I’ve taken care of the country.”

  “You hold us prisoner to the past.”

  “I protect our traditions!”

  “You have outlawed significant magic that supports agricultural progress —”

  “Leave the magic to the magical,” said Calabaza. “And the farming to the farmers.”

  “You are spineless.”

  “Whereas you were a fearless warrior queen,” said Calabaza impatiently. “Yes, I know, I know — skies, I’ll be sick if I have to hear those damned stories again. You want to see a prisoner to the past? Look in the mirror. Everything you are happened a century ago. Your time is done.”

  Syrah had to hold back a shocked croak. He couldn’t believe Calabaza could be so disrespectful to his own mother — especially since she scared the living crops out of everybody else.

  “You have never known hardship.” Luffa’s voice was cold. “Never faced adversity — ancestors forbid this country should face war with you in charge. The nation would crumble.”

  “Yellow Country isn’t in danger of a war.”

  “But you are,” said Luffa. “Run for governor, and I will come at you with everything I have.”

  “Including your old sword?” said Calabaza, who sounded completely unconcerned. “Planning to bring the might of the Olive Isles to bear against me? Going to dig up Cava’s old armor and —”

  Calabaza stopped short, and Syrah hopped onto the back of the driver’s bench, curious to see why. Edging to the corner, he could just see through the window, and he caught sight of Grandmother Luffa’s eyes. The look in them made him prickle all over. She was not a woman who showed emotion — none that Syrah had ever seen — but now she had the eyes of an animal shot through the heart.

  “You gave the people a choice,” said Royal Governor Calabaza after a minute. “And they’re going to choose me. Get used to it.”

  “I have removed men from power before.”

  “By beheading them, yes,” came Calabaza’s callous reply. “Diplomacy was never your strength. Now, if you’re finished?”

  The slam! of his carriage door reverberated through Syrah’s body. He heard Calabaza’s heavy footfalls as he walked away.

  A few minutes later, Luffa followed.

  Syrah hopped along the driver’s bench until he came to a large picnic basket. It had a leather strap around it, with a brass buckle on top, but the buckle was undone and one wicker flap stood open. He leapt into it and burrowed beneath a napkin. It smelled strongly of mayonnaise, which had always made his stomach turn, but it was a safe place to wait.

  Soon, he was jostled awake. He hadn’t even realized that he was asleep, but the lurch of the carriage brought him to his senses. He heard the clopping of hooves, and snatches of conversation floating from the open carriage windows.

  “— not fair we have to leave early just because of one little joke —”

  “— shouldn’t have poured it into the punch bowl —”

  “— told you Deli would see you.”

  Syrah knew those voices. The triplets. It was difficult to make out whole sentences over the noise of the carriage, but it sounded like Deli had sent them away for the night. That was good, he thought. It meant that Deli would be able to go and get her sleep before the competition. He still couldn’t believe that her mother had asked her to do anything else. He hadn’t realized Roma Gourd could be so selfish.

  “— crying so hard, I felt bad —”

  “— practically tore the place apart. Over a frog!”

  They had to be talking about Rapunzel. She had discovered him missing, and she had gone wild looking for him — of course she had. But that couldn’t be helped now.

  “Bradley, you had a frog down your shirt one time.”

  “— forgot about that! It’s down my shirt! It’s on my back!” Frenzied laughter followed this high-pitched imitation, and then the sound of a smack and an angry “Ow!”

  When the carriage came to a stop, Syrah hopped to shake the napkin off, readying for a jump from the basket. Before he managed it, the wicker flap that had stood open above him fell shut. Syrah heard a brief, scraping noise. He jumped up to test the top of the basket, but though his back struck the wicker, the flap did not budge. Somebody had buckled it. He landed, bruised and frustrated. Maybe this hadn’t been the best plan after all.

  “Boys!” cried a woman’s voice. “Take your lunch basket.”

  Syrah fell sideways into the wicker as the basket began to shake.

  “Boys!” said the woman again, and the shaking worsened. Syrah tried to huddle in one corner to prevent being knocked back and forth. “Basket!”

  Syrah was flung swiftly from one side of the basket to the other. His side slapped the wicker with force, and a croaking groan escaped him. “Wait up!” he heard one of the triplets say — he had no idea which one — before the basket began to shake again. Syrah had no teeth to grit, so he pressed his mouth shut hard and hoped very much that the basket was about to be gently deposited somewhere quiet, where he could make his escape.

  No such luck.

  “You guys,” whispered a triplet. “Burdock’s not in his room. Let’s mess with him.”

  Syrah pushed himself up against the wicker, trying to see where they were. If he could get into Nexus Burdock’s room, maybe he could get his attention. Get him to notice that he was more than just a frog.

  “Burdock uses magic on his door.” Syrah was almost sure that Walter had spoken; he had a slight lilt in his voice that the other two did not. “If you try to open it, your hand will stick to the knob and you’ll get caught and Grandmother Luffa will not be pleased.”

  Syrah strained to see through the minuscule slats in the wicker, but it was woven too tightly for him to get any sense of where they were.

  “Tommy, sneak around back,” said the triplet who had to be Bradley. “Climb up the garden wall, go through the window, and open the door from inside.”

  “There are guards out there!”

  “Don’t be such a minnow.”

  “Then you do it!”

  “You’re the best climber,” said Bradley. “Way faster than me.”

  His flattery worked. “That’s true,” said Tommy. “Walter, hold this.” Syrah gripped the wicker at the bottom of the basket as best he could with his toes to keep from being flung sideways again as the basket changed hands. He heard Tommy’s fading footsteps.

  “I’m hungry,” Walter announced eventually.

  Syrah heard the scrape of the lunch basket’s buckle being undone. He shrank back, flattening himself against the far side of the basket as Walter lifted one of the flaps and stuck his hand into it.

  “Just shut up about food for two seconds,” said Bradley. “Drop that basket and get ready.”

  Walter placed the wicker container on the floor with the flap still standing open. Syrah remained out of sight, readying himself to jump.

  “We shouldn’t prank Burdock,” said Walter.

  “Listen,” said Bradley. “Hear that? Tommy’s already in there.”

  “He should use a handkerchief to touch the inside door handle with,” said Walter sagely. “So his fingers don’t stick to the magic.”

  “Why didn’t you say that before he left?” Bradley demanded.

  “I did,” said Walter.

  “Tommy!” said Bradley in a stage whisper. “Tom, use a handkerchief to touch the door!”

  “What?” came Tommy’s muffled reply.

  “USE A HANDKERCHIEF TO TOUCH THE DOOR,” shouted Walter.

  Syrah couldn’t help a very quiet rawp of laughter.

  “Shhhh!” Bradley hissed, and then Syrah heard the sound of a door swinging open.

  “Skies,” said Tommy. “The handkerchief stuck right to it. Good thing
you warned me!”

  “Now Burdock will know we were here,” said Walter.

  “So?” said Bradley scornfully. “Come on.”

  The boys’ voices became more distant as they went about their pranking inside Nexus Burdock’s inn chamber. He heard the muffled crack! of a Ubiquitous acorn, and then a second crack! and then a third, followed by a shriek of laughter. When Syrah was reasonably certain that no one was near the basket, he wriggled to the open side, climbed partway up the wicker, and raised himself high enough to scan the corridor.

  It was the exact same corridor he’d been in earlier tonight with Rapunzel. His amazing plan had brought him right back to the Royal Governor’s Inn. No sooner had he thought this than he heard a very familiar, very unhappy voice.

  “What if he got run over by a carriage? What if he drowned?”

  The tearful questions were unmistakably Rapunzel’s. Syrah dropped down into the basket like he’d been shot and hid under the napkin again.

  “He didn’t drown,” came Jack’s steady reply. “Maybe he met another frog down by the lake and decided to stay and hang out.”

  “You think he left me on purpose?” Rapunzel’s agonized voice was now right outside the basket, and Syrah knew from the shadow that had fallen over the napkin that she and Jack were standing right beside him.

  “We’ll keep looking tomorrow,” said Jack. “Try to get some sleep, all right?”

  Their words became indistinct, and Syrah heard the sounds of doors closing. As soon as he was certain there was no way that Rapunzel could see him, he poised to spring. If he jumped for it now, he could probably hide in Burdock’s room while the triplets were distracted.

  “Okay, shut the door!” Bradley’s sudden whisper was fierce. “Don’t use your hand, it’ll stick. Use your head!”

  “Your head would stick too,” said Walter calmly.

  “I didn’t mean it literally,” said Bradley in a hush. “Use the napkin in the basket. Skies, Tommy, do I have to think of everything?”

  A moment later, the napkin was whisked away, revealing Syrah. He rolled his eyeballs upward to see Tommy looking delightedly down at him.

  “Hey look! A frog!”

  Syrah leapt for his freedom, but not fast enough. Tommy slapped the basket shut, smacking Syrah in the head and sending him thudding back down into his wicker cage. He tried to moan.

  “Stick it under Burdock’s pillow,” said Bradley. “Quick!”

  “It belongs to that girl,” said Walter. “Rapunzel. We should try to give it back to her.”

  Syrah croaked his despair.

  “You seriously think that’s the exact same frog?” Bradley gave a derisive snort. “Do you even know how many frogs live around the lake?”

  “How many?” asked Walter.

  “A lot,” Bradley replied. “Stick it in Burdock’s bed, and let’s get out of here.”

  “You do it,” said Tommy. “Unless you’re too scared. It’s down my back!” he mimicked again. “It’s in my hair! Ahhhhh!”

  The basket was thrown open again, and Syrah was seized in a determined fist. He felt only a few brief thoughts — Stupid Tommy. Next frog I find is going down his pants — and then Bradley released Syrah and covered him with a pillow. Syrah heard a door slam, followed by the fading sound of raucous, boyish laughter.

  Then silence. Merciful silence.

  Syrah wiggled halfway out from underneath the pillow to view his surroundings, but for a moment, he could see nothing but a glare of sparkles. Sparkles everywhere. Even in near darkness, the Nexus’s room dazzled his eyes. The triplets and their Ubiquitous acorns had left the whole place coated in a film of bright yellow glitter. It was all over the bedcovers too. Syrah couldn’t move from his position, or he’d end up hopping right into it, and he had no idea whether he would absorb it or how it would affect him.

  He stayed halfway under the pillow and scanned the room, rolling his eyes to take in everything. The space was extremely narrow, small and spare, with scarcely any sign that a person was staying in it, let alone an Exalted Nexus. There were no spells at work, no ink and parchment, no magical ingredients or tattered manuscripts. Only a bed, a wardrobe, a table, and a chair.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement at the windowsill. A spider. Syrah turned toward it, hungry, but stayed where he was. He couldn’t get to the windowsill until all this glitter was cleared away.

  And the bedcovers were moving.

  It took Syrah a moment to realize that his eyes were not tricking him. The bedcovers were moving as though there were dozens of toes wiggling beneath them. The undulations were traveling too, moving rapidly toward the head of the bed. Whatever was under the blanket, it was coming right for him.

  Syrah backed up underneath the pillow, his heart fluttering madly. What had the triplets done? What had they left here? Was it a cat? It didn’t move like a cat. Should he jump for it, into the glitter?

  A shiny black creature emerged from beneath the sheets, and Syrah croaked in terror — then wilted in relief.

  A beetle. Just a beetle. The triplets must have used a Ubiquitous Bait Bomb. Syrah’s tongue flashed out, and he snatched the beetle into his mouth. He thought it tasted a little like burned toast. He missed toast.

  He had barely swallowed when he saw a thin rectangle of light surround the chamber door. The boys’ handkerchief fell away from the knob. The door swung open.

  Exalted Nexus Burdock peered into the room, a smile tugging at his lips. In one hand, he held the checkered napkin that the triplets had used to shut the door from outside; in the other, an orb of amber light the size of a fist, bright enough to light the chamber. He looked much the same as Syrah remembered him — sandy-haired and kind-faced, though older than his years. Against his official Yellow Country vestments, his Exalted amulet gleamed.

  Syrah gazed at the amulet, hope swelling in his amphibian breast. The Exalted were the most powerful mortals in Tyme. If anyone could make him a man again, it was Nexus Burdock.

  But how could he communicate with him?

  You can’t. The wishing well will never let you.

  Syrah pressed down this thought, determined not to heed it. He would make somebody understand. He had to. The alternative was too horrible to allow.

  Nexus Burdock picked up the handkerchief, stepped into his narrow chamber, and gave the orb of amber light a gentle toss. It floated up toward the ceiling, where it hovered, casting a firelight glow over everything within. Then he closed the door and dragged a fingertip through the glitter on the wall. “Ubiquitous,” he muttered, dusting his glittery fingers together. “It’s everywhere….”

  His fingertips glowed suddenly with the light of magic. He flicked this light toward the wall, and it danced rapidly along the glitter, moving like sunlight on a lake, erasing the sparkles as it traveled. In a minute, every last sparkle was gone. Burdock dropped his satchel beside his bed, and his eyes moved to the undulating bedcovers.

  He pulled the coverlet back, and recoiled. The bed was full of bugs, a writhing pile of them — Syrah was torn between human loathing at the sight of so many insects, and froggish hunger at the idea of pouncing into the middle of that pile and feasting.

  “Boys, boys,” murmured Burdock, tutting. “Is this the best you can do?” He plunged his hand into the pile of insects.

  The bugs went motionless. For a moment, the whole pile glowed bright silver-blue. Then the pile shrank, evaporating toward the center, until Burdock held just one glowing silver-blue beetle in his palm. This pretty bit of magic he allowed to crawl over his fingers, turning his hand over and then back again to allow it more room to explore, until finally he raised his hand to his lips and blew out as though extinguishing a candle. The beetle disintegrated and vanished.

  Syrah watched him, admiring his calm. Most adults would have been furious to find that a bunch of kids had broken into their room and messed with their stuff, but Burdock really didn’t seem to mind. He was a powerful man — as an Exalted Ne
xus, people owed him respect — but he didn’t seem concerned with any of that.

  It might have been all right, really, being his apprentice for a summer.

  Burdock glanced around the room. He bent and checked under a chair, then lifted a corner of the carpet. Next, he opened his wardrobe, and he let out a groan. Every article of his clothing had been turned a garish shade of yellow.

  “Very patriotic,” he muttered, shaking his head, but Syrah could tell he was amused. Burdock lifted his hands to his wardrobe and began to try to wash the color away with magic of his own. This prank, however, he found more difficult to undo than the first two. One of his tunics grew slightly less yellow, but nothing else changed. The Nexus made a noise of concentration and lifted his hands again.

  While Burdock was distracted, Syrah wriggled out from beneath the pillow and made his way to the windowsill, where he unfurled his tongue and gobbled up the spider that still lingered there. His eyeballs retracted, pushing the whole spider, still alive, down into his stomach. He felt it wriggle for a moment, and then it stopped.

  The Nexus finally gave up on his clothing, which was now the color of fresh butter. Syrah watched as he remade the bed and rearranged the pillows. When he found the moist spot where Syrah had been, he raised an eyebrow, checked under the mattress, then glanced around the room.

  His gaze fell on Syrah.

  “Poor fellow,” said Burdock, coming toward him. “Did they lock you in here?” He opened the window, and the warm night air rushed in. “Go on,” he said. “You’re free.”

  Syrah croaked loudly and jumped up and down several times. Burdock chuckled and reached out to pick him up, but Syrah leapt away from his hand and down to the floor, afraid he might be shut outside. Burdock moved toward him again.

  “You’ll be happier in the garden.”

  I really won’t, though. Syrah shimmied beneath the wardrobe. Now he was out of reach unless the Nexus felt like moving all the furniture — which he apparently didn’t. Burdock gave up on him, and Syrah crept to the edge of his hiding spot and watched as the Nexus locked his door. He removed his shoes and stockings and doffed his fancy robe. In short trousers and a sleeveless undertunic, he was thin and sinewy as a vine, with pale, corded arms and legs that were marked all over with old scars. Different kinds. Some looked like cuts, others like burns. Syrah had heard how dangerous it was for the Exalted to learn to control their powerful magic; the Nexus had clearly injured himself badly a number of times during his training.