Transformed: The Perils of the Frog Prince

by Megan Morrison

  He bent low over the desk and looked Syrah dead in his eyes.

  “Your Highness.”

  SYRAH was momentarily paralyzed. Somebody knew him, somebody finally knew exactly who he was. But the way Harrow was looking at him was terrifying.

  He hopped twice to deny it. No. I’m not him. You’re wrong.

  “You are,” said Harrow. “Prince Syrah of the Olive Isles.” He laughed wildly again. “Great White skies. No wonder you’ve been all over Dee’s life, following her, hanging out in her room —” He cut himself off. “Have you been hanging out in her room and watching her in private?”

  Two hops. Two hops. Two hops again.

  “Like I’d ever believe you.” Harrow pushed himself to his feet. “You gave her letter to the Criers. You humiliated her on purpose, you worthless piece of — and you wonder why she didn’t want to kiss you? Yeah, I heard her turn you down. I was sitting right there.”

  Harrow was breathing hard, fists clenched. Syrah started hopping to the letters again.

  I DIDNT MEAN —

  Harrow snatched the parchment off his desk, flipping Syrah onto his back in the process. “Who cares what you meant?” He threw the parchment onto his bed. “I’ve thought a lot about what I’d say to you if you ever showed your face again,” he said. “Now I just want you out.”

  He grabbed the jar. Syrah leapt to get away, but Harrow was too fast; the jar came down and he smacked into the glass. Harrow opened his window, still weak enough that he grunted with effort lifting the sash.

  “I hope a hawk eats your guts,” he said as he dumped Syrah out of his room and onto the porch roof.

  Syrah tumbled into moss and sweet peas. Disoriented and in pain, he turned and tried to hop back up to the windowsill, but Harrow brought the sash down hard, shutting him out. Syrah hopped onto the outer sill. He put his gelatinous toes on the window, pleading with his eyes.

  Don’t leave me out here. I really will die. You know who I am — you can’t do this to me —

  Harrow jerked the curtain closed.

  Syrah waited five minutes. Ten. Was Harrow really the kind of person who would leave a cursed prince all alone to fend for himself against predators? Because he seemed — much as Syrah hated to admit it — like a nicer person than that. Maybe when he calmed down, he’d change his mind.

  He didn’t. Syrah waited as long as he could, but after about half an hour, the sun began to set. If he didn’t get down from here and find some cover, a hawk really would eat his guts.

  Somehow, he had to get back to the Thatch. To Walter, who would protect him until he could figure out what was happening with Calabaza. He studied the landscape a moment. Not far away — a few hundred meters, maybe — a stream ran along the property, flowing toward the Ladle River, which in turn flowed toward the Thatch. That stream was his best bet.

  He made his way down from the roof, hopping carefully along the thick vines and sturdy leaves and large flowers that covered the house. It made sense to him now, the way the house seemed to bloom from the ground. If Harrow’s mother was a Yellow fairy then she must be the one who did this. She had probably turned Harrow’s bedroom into a garden too. She beautified their home, and she made their crops grow — Syrah thought he could guess why they didn’t want anybody to know about her. People would be resentful of their good luck. Or they’d ask for favors for their own farms. And there would be a lot of talk in the town and in the Criers if anybody knew that Harrow was the offspring of a Yellow fairy, which was rarer than rare. Syrah wondered what it was like, having a fairy mother. It must have been all right, because Harrow was certainly upset about her being gone.

  Maybe he could find her. He was a frog, and she was a fairy of the land — maybe he could somehow figure out where she was. Maybe he could even ask the wishing well.

  The thought surprised Syrah. Harrow had dumped him outside to die; why would he do him any favors?

  Because if you do, maybe he’ll trust you and help you.

  Syrah croaked his annoyance. Everybody wanted something.

  When he reached the porch railing, he paused and surveyed the ripe oat fields that rolled away from the back of the house, high and golden. Those fields had Ubiquitous crops, and those were probably deadly to him, but he was going to have to hop down and take his chances.

  He spied a massive, foot-size beetle toddling along at the base of the oat plants, its dark green wings folded. A Vangarden. The creatures only lived in Yellow Country, and they only came out to signal the harvest — if the soil was sick, they would surely avoid it. Syrah hopped off the Steelcuts’ porch, unafraid of the Vangarden. They ate nothing but roots. If there were snakes in this field, on the other hand …

  He hopped quickly toward his destination, wondering how he would even begin to search for Harrow’s mother. Maybe it was a stupid idea — he didn’t know the first thing about Yellow fairies. He should probably just stick to figuring out who had tried to poison Calabaza.

  As he hurried toward the stream, he became slowly aware of a strange vibration in his belly. Like humming. And the humming had a shape to it — a word that was being repeated over and over.

  Frog frog frog frog.

  Syrah stopped and looked around. The Vangarden was coming toward him, its carapace shining in the last rays of sunlight.

  Frog frog frog frog.

  Syrah watched it approach, unnerved. No animal had ever spoken to him before. Vangardens were magical, he supposed, but their only talent was knowing when things were ripe and chittering to let farmers know it was time for the harvest.

  Come come come come.

  The Vangarden stopped in front of him and bent its skinny little beetle legs to lower itself until its shell was flush with the ground. Syrah eyed it, not sure what it wanted him to do. Follow it somewhere?

  On, said the vibration in his belly. On on on.

  You want me to hop on you? Syrah thought, uncertain.

  Yes yes yes yes. Carry carry carry.

  The vibration was impatient. Annoyed, even. But there was nothing threatening or frightening about it.

  Syrah hopped onto the Vangarden’s back. Where are you taking me? he thought.

  Message. The Vangarden’s voice was no longer a vibration in the soil. Now that Syrah sat on its back, he could hear the creature speaking in his mind, like high, thin music. Message message message.

  It carried him along the wide, gurgling stream that Syrah had seen before from the porch roof. It walked until darkness fell, then turned and cut a path through the oat fields. It turned again, and then again, making a jagged line toward its destination. Syrah lost all sense of where he was going. The moon rose, almost a perfect semicircle, shining on the oats and lending them a silvery gleam.

  Here here here.

  The Vangarden had brought him all the way out beyond the fields to a place where no oats grew. They must have been over a league from the farmhouse now. They stood now on a large plot of flat, black soil. There was no protection here from the animals of the night, and Syrah kept fearful watch around and above him.

  Off, said the Vangarden, stopping suddenly.

  Syrah hopped off the beetle’s shell and onto the soil, and he looked around, nonplussed. How was this a message?

  Listen. Feel. Listen, feel.

  Syrah listened, but heard only crickets and night birds. He felt, but mostly what he felt was warmth. The soil under his belly was unusually warm, actually. It radiated as though the sun were still shining on it, though the sun was long gone now.

  Then he heard it. Breathing.

  He tensed and rolled his eyes to check his surroundings for a fox or a raccoon, but except for the Vangarden, he was alone. Still, he definitely heard someone breathing. The sound was regular, slow, and deep. Like a person asleep.

  Yes yes yes, said the Vangarden. Sleep. She sleeps.

  Who slept?

  Loess mother. Loess mother.

  Was that Harrow’s mother? Syrah realized in surprise that he already
knew the answer. Dreamlike, disjointed thoughts drifted up from the soil beneath him, penetrating his skin and passing into him.

  Poison inside me, in my soil, white cold. Vicious. Traitor. Sudden, no time. Seizing, twisting, helpless — sink down deep or die. Into the land, deep, deeper than poison. Sleep. Heal. How long? No telling.

  Harrow. Harrow.

  The soil under his belly ached, and Syrah understood.

  She wanted to see her son, but she couldn’t move.

  Harrow’s all right, thought Syrah. He was sick too, but he recovered. He’s going to be okay.

  He felt the land relax. A ribbon of wind licked across the patch of soil and twined around Syrah, tickling and cooling him.

  I’ll tell him you’re alive, Syrah thought. I’ll tell him you’re healing.

  The soil grew warmer; its energy flowed into Syrah, bright with gratitude. With tenderness. Sleep now, it said faintly, and its warmth ebbed. Must sleep.

  The land went quiet.

  The Vangarden lowered itself before him again.

  Carry carry carry.

  Syrah leapt onto the great beetle’s back. It bore him away from the sleeping fairy and trundled back toward the Steelcut farmhouse, first taking paths through the fields, then following the stream. He rode along, lost in thought.

  Traitor, the fairy had said. So it was true. The Ubiquitous seeds had poisoned her, and she hadn’t been expecting it. After twenty years, she had trusted them. Just as Huck had. Why Ubiquitous Productions had done it, and whether they had even done it on purpose, Syrah had no idea. That was huge business, far beyond his ability to figure out. As for whether the poison oats had been fed to anyone deliberately …

  He didn’t think so. Huck Steelcut and Clementine Pease had both seemed genuinely shocked and grieved by the Purge. Neither of them had wanted this to happen.

  But had they poisoned Calabaza with juggetsbane to keep him from finding out their secret?

  Syrah found that he doubted it — at least in Huck’s case. Huck was an honorable, reasonable man. The way he had spoken with Clementine, and the way he treated his son — he just didn’t seem like a person who went around trying to assassinate governors.

  But somebody had done it. Somebody had realized — and very quickly too — that all those people getting sick at the ATC was an opportunity, and they had moved fast to get Calabaza out of the way before the election.

  Clementine Pease, perhaps, had done it. She was the minister of agriculture — she would know what juggetsbane could do. And she was going to run for governor now, instead of Huck. Maybe this had been her plan all along. She had known Huck for a long time — she might have counted on his honorable nature. She had expected that he would admit his own guilt while covering up hers — leaving her free to run for governor herself.

  And then there was Burdock. The Nexus had drawn that red X through Calabaza’s face — he had loathed the idea of another seven years under his governorship, and he was furious about Calabaza’s policies on magic. He had taken advantage of Calabaza’s unconsciousness to blame him for letting the Purge happen, turning the people of Yellow against him. Plus, Burdock was one of the Exalted; his magical training had probably taught him plenty about poisons and plants. And he had been staying at the Royal Governor’s Inn right near the family — he could easily have walked out to that carriage house and planted a basket of food for Calabaza to eat.

  But Burdock wouldn’t do it. Syrah knew it in his guts. He had spent time with Burdock. Not enough time to know the man well, maybe, but enough time to know what kind of person he was. He played jokes on the triplets. He had taught Syrah to debate and offered him an apprenticeship. He wasn’t full of himself, he wasn’t quick to anger unless things were serious — and when they were serious, he wasn’t afraid to take action. He had sent an international warning out about the Purge, even though it had made Yellow Country look bad, because he didn’t want people to die.

  It was Luffa, Syrah thought, who had really wanted Calabaza eliminated. He remembered the way she had treated him, that night in the carriage at the ATC. “Run for governor, and I will come at you with everything I have….” She was the one who had pushed forward with Declaration Day, in spite of the fact that he was ill. And when she had seen her mother’s lost thimble, what had she said? “Mama approves of my course. She forgives me….”

  What did Luffa need forgiveness for?

  Syrah was so deep in contemplation that he forgot to think of danger. He didn’t pay attention to the shadow that passed over him, or note the sudden shift in the breeze. By the time he saw the owl’s talons, they were already open and outstretched in front of him, and he could not dodge.

  The owl struck him. He fell from the Vangarden and lay on his back in the dirt, stunned, staring up at the tops of the moonlit oats as the stream babbled along beside him. He could not feel his heart or breath. He could not move.

  The owl circled back and dropped, aiming for his belly with its beak. Its pitiless orange eyes glared from its masklike face, and Syrah realized that this was the last thing he would see. In a moment, he would be dead. He thought of his nana. Marsala. Rapunzel. The well. He thought of Governor Calabaza. He would never know who had poisoned him. Nobody would.

  The instant before the owl stabbed him, the Vangarden blocked its path, opening its shining wings to shield Syrah. The owl slammed into the beetle instead and skewered it on its beak.

  Go go … go … go …

  The Vangarden’s vibration died.

  Horrified, Syrah tried to move. One of his feet was pinned down by the dead Vangarden, but the owl yanked it off of him, swinging its feathered head back and forth to shake the beetle’s carcass from its beak. Syrah had only a moment.

  He dove into the stream and swam down deep to avoid being eaten. His clear inner eyelids closed over his eyes, protecting them as he swam. He kicked his back legs hard to propel himself, swimming along with the current, moving as fast as he could. He did not stop kicking until he reached the Ladle River. The owl was far behind him now.

  Syrah flowed westward with the river, toward the Gourds’ property. All around him there were minnows and small bugs, but he was still too upset to eat. He had only known the Vangarden for a few hours, but the creature had treated him like a friend. It had carried him and helped him — and then it had died for him. As a human, he had never thought of Vangardens as anything but oversize bugs.

  As a human, he had never thought a lot of things.

  He drifted along with the river until he reached the same dock where the triplets had come the other day to fish. He swam to the bank, but stayed on the rocks and waited, unwilling to make the rest of the journey alone. He didn’t want any more adventures. He checked the sky and wondered what time it was. He had just decided that he could see the faint beginnings of morning light when he felt new vibrations in his belly. Running footsteps pounding along the riverbank, approaching the dock.

  Deli. Running like somebody was after her. She finished her sprint at the dock and dropped her pack on the ground. Then she walked in a circle, hands on top of her head, sucking for air. After twenty seconds of this, she picked up her pack again, threw it over her shoulders, and sprinted off in the other direction.

  Training. In the middle of the night. She really never stopped pushing.

  When she came back and threw down her pack again, she also sat down in the dirt. “Done,” she gasped, and dropped onto her back, breathing hard. Syrah wondered how long she’d been at it. Hours, probably, knowing her.

  He eyed her equipment pack. If he could get into it, he could hitch a ride the rest of the way to the Thatch and not have to worry about any more close encounters. He hopped toward the pack, and onto it. It was buckled shut, but if she opened it to put something away, then maybe —

  He froze. The sound of Deli’s winded breathing had changed. She was still gasping for air, but it was different. Uneven.

  She was crying.

  Really crying, he rea
lized after a moment. The kind of crying most people only did when they were children, or when they didn’t think anybody was looking. She let out a sound of pure anguish and rolled onto her stomach, still sobbing.

  He knew why. He could pretend he didn’t, but he knew, and it cut him deep that she was crying over Harrow like this. Had she ever cried like this about him?

  Maybe. Maybe two years ago, when he had laughed at her letter. Told her she was crazy. Said she wasn’t pretty.

  He wished he could go back and beat some sense into himself. But even if he could have gone back, he didn’t think it would have mattered. The old Syrah would never have listened. He’d been a different person.

  Deli sat up. She wiped her wet face with her hands, hiccupped, and then bent over and cried a little longer before she was really spent. When she got to her feet, she reached for her pack and snatched it off the ground without really looking at it. Syrah gripped one of the straps with all his strength and managed to stay on the pack even as she put it over her shoulders again.

  She headed home at a brisk walk, sniffling every so often. By the time she reached the front door, she was composed.

  Back in the dimly lit Thatch, Syrah drew a deep breath of relief. He had made it. In spite of Harrow’s attempt to kill him, he was not dead. Deli carried him to her room and threw down the pack on the floor. He leapt for the open door before she could close it — she would probably undress after a workout like that, and he wasn’t going to stay here and spy while she did. He definitely had not been lying to Harrow about that.

  He intended to go to Walter’s room, but stopped. At the far end of the family wing, Luffa’s door was very slightly ajar. Light flickered within.

  Syrah approached the door and peeked in. All the way across the bedroom, in front of a tall bookshelf, stood Luffa. She held a candlestick in one hand and searched through her books with the other.

  Syrah tried to nose his way in. The door wasn’t quite open enough for him to hop inside, but he was just able to wiggle through the crack. When he did, the door creaked open slightly farther, drawing Luffa’s attention. She turned sharply away from the bookshelf she was searching, and walked to the door. Syrah quickly sidled along the inner wall of the room, staying in the darkness as Luffa opened the door wider and stepped out into the hall, holding out her candle to see who was there. After a moment, she stepped back into her room and firmly shut the door behind her before returning to the bookshelf.