Transformed: The Perils of the Frog Prince

by Megan Morrison

  Syrah felt a chill. He had debated with Burdock before, but this was real. This had stakes. And Burdock was good — he had the crowd’s absolute attention. Their faces were uneasy. Fearful. People shifted in their seats and glanced at one another.

  “Tell me,” said Nexus Burdock. “Last year, when the jacks champion turned out to be the witch Envearia’s child, what did we do?”

  There was silence. No one moved or spoke.

  Syrah wished he could have spoken. He had been there that day. He remembered exactly what they had done.

  “We ran,” said Burdock. “We cowered. Is that who we are?”

  The question settled upon the silent crowd. Nobody stirred except Luffa, whose eyes narrowed. She studied Burdock as though she were seeing him for the first time.

  “No, we are better,” said Burdock quietly. “Nobler. We only ran away because we did not have a plan. Fear is natural — necessary for survival — but if we let it rule us, we are lost. We must have a plan. I have longed to take strong action against witches and other magical threats to our nation. I have petitioned Governor Calabaza countless times for his permission to use the full scope of my power to defend you all against such threats. But that permission has been denied me.”

  Luffa’s expression remained watchful. Farther back in the crowd, G. G. Floss sat up straight, wearing a look of pleased surprise.

  “Many of you will feel that one of the Exalted should not be governor,” Burdock went on. “You will worry that it gives me too much power — and I understand your caution. But consider: As your Nexus, I can only give advice. When the governor asks for my thoughts, I share them. When the Exalted Council makes suggestions, I urge him to listen. But when he ignores me, there is nothing I can do.”

  Syrah couldn’t nod, but he would have. What Burdock was saying made sense. Perfect sense.

  “Some of you will think I’m disloyal for taking this opportunity to run for governor while Calabaza is unconscious,” Burdock continued. “But I think you’ll be angrier with him than with me when I tell you this: The Purge was preventable. No one had to die.”

  Instantly, the silence was broken, replaced by furious shouting. People stood. Demanded answers. Syrah looked around him, amazed. These people had been calm just minutes ago.

  “For years, I have begged Calabaza to let me create a system of magical checks to ensure that the food we grow here in Yellow Country is safe for export and consumption — but he has denied me.”

  The shouts became louder. People cursed. Someone in the back was sobbing.

  “Make me your governor,” said Burdock, his cheeks feverishly bright, “and I promise you that I will do more than make magic available to your farms — I will safeguard you. I will never let another Purge take our loved ones. I will never let another witch steal our children. I will use all the power my Exalted birth has granted me to make this nation safe. My name is Burdock, and I declare my candidacy.”

  The crowd roared with angry energy, and Syrah felt it too. Burdock was right. Calabaza had failed.

  Maybe it was good that they were having an election — that the people had a chance to choose somebody new. The thought surprised Syrah, and he turned it over in his mind, curious. Was there something useful about a democracy after all? He wondered what his mother would say.

  Burdock returned to his seat while Huck Steelcut appraised him in silence. Clementine moved to the podium again and climbed up on her stepladder. Her expression was difficult to read.

  “Stand and declare,” she said. “Is there another candidate who —”

  Harrow Steelcut rose from his seat. His father gaped up at him. “Son,” he said. “What are you doing?”

  Harrow didn’t answer. He stumbled away from his seat as though drunk, staggered a few meters, then he fell to his knees and vomited, white and unmistakable, as the crowd looked on in horror.

  “NO!” Huck shouted, and ran to his son. Harrow collapsed in the white puddle, facedown. Huck rolled him over at once and wiped his face with a bare hand. “Son,” he pleaded. “Harrow, honey, look at me. Open your eyes.”

  Harrow did, and they were black. “Mama,” he rasped, and reached up for Huck’s face. “Mama — where are you —” He turned his face, heaved, and vomited again.

  Burdock hurried to them and crouched down on Harrow’s other side. “Let’s get him to a Physic,” he said quietly. “I’ll help you.”

  “How did this happen?” Huck cried. “He hasn’t touched oats since the ATC —”

  “What does this mean?” shouted a woman in the audience. “What did he eat?”

  “It’s his farm that did it!” cried a man. “It’s Steelcut — he killed my mother —”

  “Declaration Day is hereby suspended!” Clementine Pease had the speaking trumpet to her lips. “Go home, all of you, and wait for news. We will investigate —”

  “You’ve investigated already!”

  “You’re doing nothing!”

  “What are we supposed to do until then? Starve?”

  “We will investigate,” Clementine repeated. “As fast as we can. If you planned to stand and declare your candidacy today, send a message to the cabinet. It’s time now to go on home and let us tend the sick.”

  But the people would not be appeased. Burdock had chosen the wrong time to rile up their fear and anger. Now they were bold with it.

  “What about our sick? Is my son worth less than his?”

  “We’re not leaving without answers!”

  “You want us gone, you drag us out!”

  Clementine motioned to the governor’s guards, who came forward and forced the angry crowd away from the stage. Soon, the only ones left were the Steelcuts, the Gourds, and the members of Yellow Country’s cabinet.

  “We need another emergency meeting,” said Clementine. “Right now. Roma, take your children inside and send a carriage out here for Huck and Harrow.”

  Roma and the triplets departed at once, but Syrah hopped down from Walter’s shoulder and onto a chair. He wasn’t going anywhere.

  Neither, it seemed, was Deli. She remained behind her grandmother, arms crossed tight. Her gaze was on Harrow.

  “Somebody needs to get Physic Feverfew and tell her to hurry to Huck’s,” said Clementine.

  “Me,” said Deli instantly, and she shot off, running at top speed. Syrah watched her go, feeling sour.

  Luffa also looked displeased as she watched Deli go.

  “Burdock,” said Clementine, “you help Huck with his boy, and then get Nexus Keene here, quick as he can make it.”

  “I don’t want the Exalted Council on my farm,” Huck rasped, staring down at Harrow, who was breathing heavily and perspiring so hard that his glittering skin made prisms in the beaded sweat.

  “Mama,” he moaned in misery, white drool running from the corner of his mouth. “Come back …”

  “Huck, we have to.” But Clementine sounded reluctant. “There’s just no choice now —”

  “I’ll give him whatever he needs for his investigation,” said Huck. “I’ll hold nothing back, but that’s my private property. You understand.” He looked up at her, fervent. “Don’t give him a writ to tear up my farm, I’m begging you.”

  Syrah studied him. Whatever his secret was, it was about to come out, and he was clearly terrified. More terrified about that than his son? Maybe he really had started the Purge….

  Though it didn’t seem likely, now that Harrow had it too.

  “The rest of you, inside,” said Clementine. “We have to settle the matter of how to proceed with this election. Burdock, since you’re a candidate, you’re excused. Good, here’s the carriage — let’s get Harrow somewhere comfortable so he can fight this thing off.” She crouched down beside Huck for a moment. “He’s young and strong,” she said quietly. “And he’s not unconscious yet, which is the best possible sign. I’ll come by tonight and talk with you before any writs are issued. You have my word on that.”

  Huck nodded. With Burd
ock’s help, he lifted his son and carefully laid him in the carriage. Huck climbed in with him and pulled Harrow’s sweating head into his lap.

  On instinct, Syrah leapt onto the carriage wheel, then jumped over to the step, and bounced once more to get into the carriage itself. He barely made it before Burdock shut the door behind him. Whatever was happening on the Steelcut farm, he wanted to see it for himself. Maybe the Exalted Council needed a writ, but a frog didn’t. He could investigate.

  The carriage lurched to a start. Once Syrah got his balance, he hopped up onto the seat opposite Huck and Harrow, neither of whom noticed him. Harrow’s eyes were dilated, and his mouth was moving, but no words came out. Sweat poured off him. Huck brushed a hand over his son’s damp curls.

  “Ancestors,” he murmured. “Hear me now. My son’s not involved, and he’s too young to join you. Help him, please.”

  Involved in what? thought Syrah.

  “Mama …” Harrow thrashed, and Huck held him tight as the carriage rumbled on toward Steelcut Farm.

  THE Steelcuts’ farmhouse looked like it had grown right out of the ground. It was tall and wide, cobbled from differently colored stones, and every stone was a different shape, yet they all seemed to fit together perfectly. Bright moss grew from between them, and large swaths of leafy greenery covered large sections of the walls. Flowering vines wrapped the whole roof as though in an embrace. A wide, covered porch surrounded the front and sides of the house, and a garden of bright sweet peas flourished along the porch roof. Thick, graceful lilac bushes grew along the outside of the porch, purple and willowy, providing perfume, privacy, and shade.

  Syrah liked the place. It felt alive, like the wood where the well lay.

  Huck carried Harrow into the house, and Syrah rode along by jumping onto Harrow’s boot. He didn’t want to touch the ground here; if the Purge had started in these fields, then there might be something wrong with the soil, and he didn’t want to absorb any poison through his delicate skin.

  The green, flowering farmhouse sure didn’t show any signs of sickness, though. Everything was vivid and thriving.

  Everything except Harrow.

  Huck carried his son up the stairs and into a bedroom that was as green and flowering as the house itself. Syrah looked around, dazzled. Vines crawled up the walls and over the ceiling, creating a canopy of green cords and dangling blossoms. Huge ferns lined the walls, fanning tall and wide, their leaves thick and waxen, their flowers perfuming the air. It could barely be called a bedroom, except that there was a bed in it, but this bed was as overgrown with plant life as everything else. Thin, leafy branches wrapped the bedposts and the headboard, and the bed’s canopy was a trellis full of blooming yellow starflowers. Even the desk and chair, though not covered in plants, were made of cobblestones like the walls of the house outside. Syrah had never seen an indoor space that was anything like it, and though it pained him a little, he couldn’t help but admire it.

  It was nice and warm in here too. There wasn’t a stove or a fireplace in sight, yet it was as warm and humid in Harrow’s room as it was back home on Balthasar. It felt amazing to Syrah, who hadn’t experienced anything like his native climate in a very long time.

  “They’re coming to help you,” Huck murmured, kneeling beside Harrow’s bed once he had settled him into it. “Just hold on, son.”

  Syrah hopped from Harrow’s boot onto the stone desk and sat there, trying to decide where he ought to go first. Huck Steelcut probably had an office of some kind, where he kept his information. Maybe he would find something there.

  It was strange to think that he was able to explore where the Exalted Council themselves could not — he’d never thought of his frog form as useful before, but for spying, it was perfect.

  A heavy knocking from downstairs brought Huck to his feet. “The Physic’s here,” he said, wiping sweat from Harrow’s brow once more. “I’ll be right back.” He strode from the room and Syrah hopped after him. He watched from between the railings on the second floor as Huck descended the steps and opened the front door. But it was not a Physic who waited there.

  The man who stood on the Steelcuts’ porch was tall and striking. His dark hair was silver at the temples, his face lined and weathered but unquestionably handsome. He was dressed in long layers of dark leather and carried a black traveling bag. An Exalted amulet shone at his breast.

  “Exalted Nexus Keene,” said Huck, clearly taken aback. He bowed, but did not move out of the way. “I’m sorry, but I can’t let you in.”

  “You must,” said Nexus Keene. His voice was quiet, but firm. “I’m here to help your boy.”

  “And ransack my property.”

  “I will not venture farther than your son’s sickroom. Not without a writ from Provisional Governor Pease. You have my word as an emissary of the Exalted Council.”

  “Emissary, huh?” Huck surveyed the Exalted Nexus. “From what I hear, you run the Council.”

  “Not officially,” said Keene. “We work together.”

  “You’re Nexus of Lilac, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “But just about every country in Tyme calls you when there’s real trouble.”

  Keene acknowledged this with a nod. “One of the perils of doing your job well,” he said, “is that people expect you to do it more often.”

  Huck still did not move. “You got here awful fast,” he said. “How are you in Plenty one minute, and Cornucopia the next?”

  “Magic is useful,” said Keene. “I’d like to use it to help your son. Please let me.”

  Huck finally relented.

  “Burdock told me this happened an hour ago?” asked the Nexus as they climbed the stairs.

  “Yes, but it makes no sense,” said Huck. “He wouldn’t have eaten oats since the ATC.”

  “And you’re certain he didn’t eat any at the games?”

  “No, I’m not certain … but wouldn’t he have gotten sick by now?”

  “That’s exactly what I wonder.”

  They went into Harrow’s room, and Syrah followed. He knew he ought to go and find Huck’s office, but he had never seen Exalted Nexus Keene before, and he was impressed by the aura of power that seemed to radiate from the man. He knew that Keene had held him once, while he was hibernating. Rapunzel had found him frozen, thought him dead, and had brought him to the Exalted Council, where Keene had examined him and proclaimed him alive. Syrah had often wondered what heroic deeds and magic wonders he would have felt if he had only been conscious when Keene had held him in his palm. It was a shame he’d missed that adventure.

  Keene looked briefly around the room, then pulled the stone chair to the head of the bed and sat down. He peered at Harrow.

  “Unusual,” he murmured. “I realize it’s none of my business, but your son’s appearance is unique.” Keene glanced around the green and blooming room, which was also unique, though he did not say this. “Is he … is there magic involved?” he asked. “Who is his mother?”

  “Harrow’s adopted,” said Huck. “I can’t tell you his origins.”

  “Ah.” Nexus Keene frowned. “A shame. It would help if I knew.”

  Huck said nothing.

  The Nexus opened his traveling bag. Syrah saw boots inside it, and phials of different colors. The Nexus withdrew a small, bone-white compact that fit in his palm. He pressed a tiny button and it popped open to reveal a dark green powder.

  “What’s that?” said Huck.

  “The only thing I’ve found so far that helps,” said Keene. “Powdered Vangarden.” He dipped his thumb into the powder, then smeared it on Harrow’s temples and his throat. He put his hands out over Harrow, closed his eyes, and bent his head. His hands began to glow. Streams of light moved around them like a hundred quick fireflies, but cool blue and soft purple. The light made a humming sound.

  When the Nexus withdrew his hands, nothing else happened.

  “What now?” Huck demanded.

  “Now we wait.” Nexus Keene
looked up at him. “I realize the timing is terrible,” he said. “And I am truly sorry. But you should hear this now: We have traced the corrupt oats, and they all lead back to this farm.”

  Huck blew out a heavy breath. “There it is,” he muttered, and he began to pace the room, back and forth. “There it is. I’m done for.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “No one’ll trust my name or my crops after this,” said Huck, with a hysterical laugh. “That’s not clear to you?”

  “No,” said Keene. “We know only that the oats are corrupt. We don’t know why. Surely it isn’t your fault — and no one will imagine it is, now that your own son is sick. There must be a disease in the soil, a problem in the water, something beyond your control. Let me search your farm and find it, and we’ll get your name cleared.”

  “I can’t let you do that!”

  “Why not?”

  Huck put his head in his hands.

  “Pa?” whispered Harrow suddenly.

  Huck sat up with a gasp. “Harrow? You’re awake?”

  Harrow blinked his eyes and opened them. He looked up at Nexus Keene. “Who are you?” he mumbled.

  “That was incredibly fast,” said Keene. “No one else has woken up so quickly. And he realizes I’m a stranger, so he’s in his right mind —”

  Before Keene finished speaking, Harrow let out a high, keening sound and convulsed, weeping in pain. His tears were white. So was the sweat oozing from his pores. Syrah shut his mouth tight; the smell of moths was overwhelming.

  “Harrow!” shouted Huck in terror. “Nexus, what is this?”

  “I don’t know,” said Nexus Keene, his eyes narrow and curious as he watched Harrow jerk and writhe in agony. Huck tried to reach for his son, but the Nexus put out a hand to stop him. “Wait,” he said. “Let him get it out.”

  “He’s in pain!” said Huck furiously. “I can’t just sit here —”

  A scream ripped from Harrow’s throat and he began to thrash as he had in the carriage. “Mama!” he shouted, and Syrah watched, horrified. He could not help but imagine his own sister in Harrow’s place. Had she survived this awful thing?