Transformed: The Perils of the Frog Prince

by Megan Morrison

  One minute and a damp rag later, the floor at the bottom of the steps was wiped clean. Syrah crouched beside the foyer wall and watched it happen in listless defeat. That stupid, miserable wishing well had trapped him like this forever.

  And it could untrap him.

  He had to get back to the well, he realized suddenly. The well would know him — the well could fix this. And it wasn’t too far from the Thatch. A league’s distance at the very most. As a human, he could’ve jogged there within half an hour.

  As a frog, it was a treacherous journey. There were cats out there, and owls. There were weasels, snakes, and dogs. It would take him hours to reach the wood, if he reached it at all, but he had to try. He was out of options.

  Determined, Syrah headed to the enormous back half of the Thatch’s ground floor, which had two main sections: the kitchens, and the meeting rooms of state. Syrah wanted no part of the kitchens; they were always alive with movement and energy — and knives. He knew better than to risk it as a frog.

  He headed for a narrow hallway that divided the cooking and eating areas from the areas reserved for government. At the end of this hallway, he knew, there was a door used mostly by the messengers who constantly came and went from the Thatch on important business. It stood open now — the messengers had left with such urgent speed that nobody had closed it. Syrah leapt along the hallway toward it, and then he stopped cold.

  A cat slinked into the hallway, pushing the door further open with a firm rub of its head. Sunlight lit its orange fur as it dug its claws into the long, narrow carpet, closed its eyes, and stretched, pulling its weight backward and fully extending its front legs.

  Syrah willed himself to move. He turned away from the cat and leapt as far and as silently as he could, back down the hallway that led to the government offices, keeping his eyes rolled back to make sure that the cat did not follow. The cat kneaded the carpet, ripping at the fibers with its long, curved claws as it continued its luxurious stretch. It purred deep in its body. The sound made Syrah vibrate. He leapt again, terrified, and because he was not looking where he was going, he hit the wall. Not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to make the quietest plap!

  The cat opened its eyes and met Syrah’s. For one second, the two of them made absolutely no movement; they merely stared at each other, transfixed. Then both of them exploded into motion at once. The cat leapt for him with frightening efficiency, and Syrah bounced frantically out of its way, trying with all his might to outrun it. He rounded the corner at the end of the hall, moving with all the speed he possessed, but the cat was much bigger and caught up in seconds. He felt a claw nick his back, and croaked at the pain. He dove into the first room that had an open door, leaping for higher ground. He reached a bookshelf, and the cat swiped for him. He sprang for the nearest chair, and the cat sprang too. He bounced up onto a long table and over a series of golden hurdles until he came to the table’s end, where he turned and dove sideways, hoping to confuse his predator. It worked. The cat tried to change direction too late and went scrabbling off the table’s end with an angry yowl. Syrah sprang from the table, aiming for a higher bookshelf. He stretched out as he flew toward his target, reaching out with his forefeet, and he only just made the jump.

  The cat was right behind him, but Syrah used his one-second advantage to wiggle in between some books and hide behind them, where the cat could not reach. Or at least he hoped it couldn’t. He pressed himself against the back of the shelf as the cat battered at the books in front of him, shoving them so that they wobbled precariously. A groping paw flashed into view a few times, once piercing his head with a sharp, curved claw and making him cringe again in pain. Blood seeped into one eye, half blinding him.

  “You bad old cat!” he heard a woman’s voice cry. “Get down from there! You know you’re not allowed inside!” A minute later, there was a distant slam as the cat was shut back out.

  Syrah wilted. For some time, he could not even contemplate moving; he could only shiver in relief, glad it hadn’t turned out worse. That had been much too close. Maybe he shouldn’t travel out to the wishing well after all. He’d die for certain.

  A moment later, Syrah heard the woman’s voice again, muttering. “Better not have broken anything … Oh no …” Her voice sounded suddenly frightened. “Oh, I’m —”

  This was followed by a thud, like something heavy had dropped — and then there was no sound. Syrah was reluctant to leave the security of his hiding place, but he nosed his way forward between two books so that he could see what had happened.

  A woman — the same one who had noticed his writing on the floor this morning — lay on the floor below him, unmoving. She stared up at the ceiling, her dilated eyes frighteningly dark. Before he could even consider what to do, voices approached.

  “… emergency measures. What do we know?” The voice was Luffa Gourd’s.

  “We know enough.” Burdock’s voice. He appeared in the doorway, his face looking older than ever. His eyes went instantly to the unconscious woman, and he hurried to her side. “Another one,” he said grimly, sliding his arms beneath her body so that he could lift her. “And here in the house. Was the staff not directed to avoid eating until further notice?”

  “Roma was to communicate it to the housekeeper.”

  “Doesn’t look like she remembered, does it?” said Burdock sharply. He carried the unconscious woman from the room and Luffa slowly made her way to her place at the table, which was marked by a small golden sign that read Minister of Foreign Affairs.

  He had hidden himself in the cabinet chamber, Syrah realized. This was where the ministers of Yellow Country met to make governmental decisions. The golden nameplates that marked each member’s place at the table were the hurdles he’d jumped over before.

  So this was where he would have apprenticed with Burdock, if he were still human. This was where Nana Cava had wanted him to be. Syrah looked around, curious.

  A long meeting table filled the bulk of the room. At the far end stood a gallery area lined with benches, for meetings that required more seating. Behind this gallery was an entire wall made of windowed doors, which opened into a sizable atrium, also fitted with benches, for larger meetings when the public was free to attend. All around the atrium’s windows grew the trees of the Gourd family orchard, where members of the ruling family had been buried for centuries.

  The youngest trees in that orchard belonged to Luffa’s parents and six siblings, all of whom had been assassinated on the same bloody night, ninety-nine years ago, when the Pink Empire had seized control of Yellow Country for the second time. The second claiming of Cornucopia was taught in every history class in Tyme — not because it was a brutal invasion; Pink had orchestrated hundreds of those — but because that particular invasion had begun Pink’s downfall. By killing Luffa’s Blue fairy father, the Pink Empire had finally awakened the full fury of the Blue Kingdom, who had retaliated with a powerful vengeance. It had taken many years to stamp out the Pink Empire’s power throughout Tyme, but it had all begun that night.

  As the other ministers filed into the room, Syrah eyed Luffa. He wondered what it had been like to survive that deadly night. He knew what it was like to survive bloodthirsty spiders and cats, so he knew about terror, and he had been separated from his family for as long as he’d been a frog — but losing them all at once as they were beheaded by a warlord? He couldn’t even fathom it. He was a youngest child of many siblings, just like Luffa. What if, when he’d been just five years old, his mother had hidden him in a laundry basket, and then his parents and all his siblings had been murdered while he listened? What if he’d been smuggled onto a ship all alone to flee his country?

  “Where’s the Nexus?” said Clementine Pease, flicking open an outer compartment of her valise that revealed a cushioned interior. This cushion folded back, rotated, then locked down into place, creating a seat, which she placed in her chair. She sat. “Don’t tell me he’s sick too.”

  “I’m here.”
Burdock strode back in, his expression hard. “There’s been an outbreak of the sickness among the governor’s staff,” he said. “So far, the victims include two kitchen workers, a parlor maid, and the old gentleman who runs the laundry.”

  “His name is Cane,” said Luffa. “He has been with us since Calabaza was a child.”

  There was a moment of silence in the chamber.

  “I hereby bring this emergency meeting of the cabinet to order,” said Clementine. “Let the record show that all are in attendance except for Lane Gosta, minister of finance, who is too ill to participate, and Colby Wesson, minister of defense, who is coordinating efforts with Exalted Nexus Keene to stem the spread of disease. Also not in attendance,” Clementine continued, looking grim, “Governor Calabaza, who is unconscious.”

  Unconscious. Syrah realized he had heard this word earlier, but had been so busy trying to get someone to read his name on the floor that it hadn’t sunk in. The governor was unconscious. That was why Roma had been screaming — that was why the house was in an uproar.

  That was why nobody had noticed his name. His timing had been terrible. Nobody was going to pay attention to a frog and a bit of chalk dust if the governor’s life was in danger. In a few days, when Calabaza was feeling better, Syrah could try again. He might not have to venture out to the wishing well after all.

  “Physic Feverfew has been with him for an hour, and it’s not looking good,” Clementine continued. “Calabaza is completely unresponsive. So this meeting, meant to have one emergency purpose, now has two: We must deal with the source of the plague that is sweeping our country, and we must manage the absence of the governor.”

  Syrah didn’t see how. Those were two massive tasks — how could anyone achieve them in one emergency meeting?

  “Let’s get the second issue out of the way first,” said Clementine. “As stated in our constitution, in the event that the governor cannot govern, the minister of agriculture will assume the role. I accept that duty. If you have a reasonable protest, speak it now.”

  Nobody spoke.

  So just like that, Clementine Pease was in charge. It hadn’t even taken a minute. In that way, Syrah supposed, democracies were no worse than monarchies. They had their lines of succession clearly marked out, and everyone agreed upon them, which made transitions simpler to manage. He looked at Luffa, wondering what she felt. Her only child was sick. She had already lost so much family. Yet she regarded Clementine with perfect complacency.

  “Fine,” said Clementine. “I’ll serve until we can hold the election.”

  Election? Syrah thought, surprised. How could they go forward with something like that while Calabaza was unconscious?

  “Election? Now?” asked a large woman with deep frown lines and leather-rimmed spectacles. Her nameplate read Tara Zu — Minister of Justice. “Has Calabaza no chance of recovery?”

  “I’m not a fortune-teller,” said Clementine.

  Tara narrowed her eyes. “I suppose you plan to run for governor?”

  “No,” Clementine replied shortly.

  Luffa pursed her lips and said nothing, but Syrah had a feeling that Clementine’s answer was not the one she wanted.

  “We need to discuss the spread of this sickness before it gets worse.” Clementine sat forward, resting her forearms on the table. “Nexus Burdock, you’ve received a Relay from Nexus Keene?”

  Burdock nodded. “Oats are the cause of the Purge,” he said.

  Clementine’s expression froze. “Oats,” she repeated.

  “The Purge?” said Luffa at the same moment. “Is that what the people are calling it?”

  A disgusting name, Syrah thought, but a fitting one, given all the vomit.

  Burdock nodded.

  “And you’re certain?” asked Injera Teff, minister of general welfare, who was nursing a baby. She shifted the child in her arms. “Didn’t this Purge break out all at once, within the span of an hour? How could that have been brought about by oats?”

  Syrah had the same question. He listened carefully to Burdock’s answer.

  “As people arrived at the games, they were offered complimentary oatmeal cookies from the Baker’s Dozen. Many chose to eat them, suspecting nothing wrong.”

  “Cookies?” Clementine’s expression relaxed. “Then the problem might be eggs, or butter —”

  “Several victims fell ill early yesterday morning, before the games began,” said Burdock. “Launchball athletes from Pink, as well as others. It was determined later that none of them ate the cookies, but all of them had eaten oat porridge. And there are other victims, in villages east of here, where this outbreak started days ago. Oats are absolutely the common denominator.”

  “This makes no sense,” Injera cried. “Oats causing sickness? If they were rotten, the bakers would have noticed!”

  “The grain appears healthy.” Burdock handed the report to Clementine. “But it is corrupt. Exalted Nexus Keene confirmed it through magical testing.”

  Tara Zu’s eyes were narrow behind her leather-rimmed spectacles. “Corrupt? Exalted Nexus, what do you mean?”

  Burdock pursed his lips. “It’s hard to say,” he said. “The oats aren’t poisoned, or rotten, or plagued by pests or foreign substances of any kind. The oats themselves are just … wrong.”

  Clementine Pease stared at him. “You’re saying they grew wrong?” she demanded. “That’s what Keene thinks? That Yellow Country is growing crops that kill people, straight from the soil?”

  “We don’t know —” Burdock began.

  “You’re right, you don’t know,” said Clementine, her eyes flint. “So don’t you repeat it. A rumor like that will do more than scare people. It’ll undermine the integrity of this nation.”

  The room was silent; the air, fearful. Syrah understood why. His homeland too was a nation of growers. If their grapes or olives caused a sudden plague, it would be devastating for the Olive Isles. Their economy depended on those crops. Their traditions depended on them. He looked around at the ministers’ faces, at Luffa’s and Burdock’s familiar faces, and saw that, in spite of their fear, their expressions were determined. They meant to solve this problem. It was how his mother would have looked, in the same circumstances. How his brother Prince Taurasi would have looked.

  It was strange to be here, in the middle of this. Syrah had never been so close to the heart of important things before. His parents and older siblings dealt with these matters. Whenever he tried to chime in, they laughed him off — and, if he was honest, he had never paid close attention anyway.

  Burdock had been right. This was an education.

  “Huck Steelcut provided oats to the event,” said Luffa. “Three hundred bags of them.”

  Clementine’s mouth was pressed tight. She massaged her purple hairline with anxious fingertips. “He wasn’t the only one,” she said. “We’ll have to call in every oat farmer in Yellow Country who supplied the ATC.”

  “First we issue an international emergency declaration,” said Injera. “People everywhere must stop eating oats at once. I ask the presiding governor’s permission to Relay the order immediately.”

  “I did it,” said Burdock. “Just before coming here. As soon as I had the information from Nexus Keene.”

  Clementine turned to stare at him across Governor Calabaza’s empty chair. “You issued an international order?”

  Burdock’s nostrils flared. “Yes,” he said.

  “Without permission from this cabinet, and without a plan for controlling the damage this information will do to our economy, you informed every government in Tyme that our oats are corrupt?”

  “It had to be done,” said Burdock, high color in his pale cheeks. “Lives are at stake. So yes, I abandoned protocol — if you don’t like it, Provisional Governor, then take action. Dismiss me from my post.”

  The room was silent for another long minute, and Syrah wondered which of them was right. On Balthasar, if one of the queen’s advisors had taken a major action without her
consent, it would have been considered treason. Here, though, in this room, it wasn’t like that. These people were peers. Equals. Clementine had only been governor for half an hour. Burdock might have risked the country’s financial position — but wasn’t that worth it, if he had saved people from dying? Syrah thought it was. If he’d been in Burdock’s shoes, he might have made the exact same choice.

  Syrah suddenly wished that he could ask his mother what she thought. Or even Taurasi. He had always been distant with Syrah — more like a second father than a brother — but he was intelligent. Experienced. He would have known what was right, here.

  “Just how bad is this … Purge?” asked Tara Zu, in the quiet.

  Burdock looked away from Clementine. “It’s bad,” he answered. “Particularly for the very old and the very young.”

  Injera tightened her grip on her child, and Syrah shivered. Nana Cava was very old. Had she eaten one of those cookies? Syrah wished he could see her. He wished he could see Marsala. He wished that someone in this room would say their names and reassure him.

  “Most people start with a sudden high fever and a spate of white vomit,” said Burdock. “It’s almost the consistency of paste. Then their eyes dilate, and about half of them fall unconscious. The others talk nonsense for hours, then seem to shake it off. There’ve also been a handful of cases where people have skipped the first stage and fallen unconscious without prelude. Those who do fall unconscious seem to have the worst cases. Dozens have died.”

  Like Marsala, thought Syrah. She hadn’t thrown up at all — just tipped right into the lake. Did that mean she was sicker than the others? More likely to die?

  “Like Calabaza,” said Luffa. “He seemed healthy until he failed to wake this morning.”

  “He also manifested the illness much later than anyone else,” said Burdock. “About eighteen hours later, in fact — but that might be due to his fairy blood.”