Transformed: The Perils of the Frog Prince

by Megan Morrison

  The Tranquil Sea was breathtaking here. Nowhere else in Tyme did it reveal its full glory. Syrah had been to the mainland many times; he’d seen plenty of its coastline and its beaches. It didn’t compare. The sea that met the mainland was dark and moody; the waves were cold and rough, the surface sharp and hard. Not like home. Here the sea kissed the white shores, calm and soft, warm and inviting. Here the water was clear all the way to the bottom, every silver fish and pink shell visible beneath its surface. Here the waves made rhythmic music as they moved, lulling everyone into serenity.

  He heard quick footsteps approaching, and he leapt down from his perch and hurried in between two long rows of grapevines, crouching to stay hidden.

  “Hello?” he heard Deli call. “Do you need help? Where are you?”

  Syrah grabbed a vine and shook it a little. The moment Deli slipped in between the long rows of vines, he stood up fast, bringing them nose-to-nose. She shouted and backed right into the corded vines. Syrah couldn’t help laughing.

  “What’s the matter with you?” she demanded angrily. “I thought someone was really hurt!”

  “I am hurt. You wouldn’t even talk to me earlier.”

  Deli turned away and tried to leave, but Syrah grabbed her hand and held it fast.

  “Stop it,” she said through her teeth.

  “Stop what?”

  “Bothering me.” She yanked her hand out of his grip and ran back to the narrow steps that led up to the Pavilions.

  Syrah ran faster, sidestepped her on the stairway, then turned around and blocked her path. “That sarong suits you,” he said. “You should dress like that more often.”

  “Get out of my way.”

  “Notice anything?” he replied, and he tapped the necklace. “Remember this?”

  Deli looked away and said nothing.

  “I kept your letter, you know.”

  “Just move!” She sounded almost tearful.

  “You don’t want to be around me anymore?”

  She met his gaze, and in her eyes was the same devastating seriousness that had made him swim away from her last year. Tonight, though, he was glad to see it. She did still like him. She was just trying really hard to hide it. If he said the right things, he was pretty sure that he could make her kiss him again within the hour.

  “Okay. I get it,” he said quietly. He slouched a little to affect sadness, and stepped aside. “I just hoped we could hang out and talk.”

  It was a risk — she might really leave — but he didn’t think so.

  She glared at him, fists clenched. “Fine,” she said. “Talk.”

  Syrah one. Deli zero.

  “Is your dad running for reelection next year?” he asked.

  She looked surprised by his choice of subject. “It’s … not public knowledge yet,” she said slowly. “But actually, he might not.”

  “He’d give up being governor? Why?”

  “My grandmother doesn’t want him to run. She knows he’ll just keep winning, and she wants somebody else to have a chance. And nobody says no to Grandmother Luffa.”

  That was because Grandmother Luffa was terrifying. She was also, in Syrah’s opinion, very wrong. “She still thinks democracy is the way to go, huh?” he asked.

  “It’s better than staying stuck in a monarchy.”

  Syrah clapped a hand to his heart as though wounded. His family had been monarchs of Olive for a thousand years.

  “No offense,” Deli added, smirking a little.

  Syrah shook his head and sat down on the stone steps. “If you want to mess up your whole country, be my guest.”

  “Democracy doesn’t ‘mess up’ the country,” Deli answered, her tone quick and warm. “It gives people a voice!”

  “An uneducated, inexperienced voice,” said Syrah, folding his arms and leaning back. He had studied this topic last spring, during his two-week internship with Nexus Burdock of Yellow Country. He always had to spend time with diplomats when his family traveled — it was supposed to improve his ambassadorial skills for later in life. Usually it was a deadly bore, but with Burdock it hadn’t been as bad. The Nexus liked to debate, and he didn’t dumb things down like some teachers; he made it hard for Syrah to beat him. Deli didn’t know what she was in for.

  “The people of Yellow Country aren’t uneducated!” she said hotly.

  “Your citizens know how to read and write,” Syrah agreed. “But we’re talking about running a country. A monarchy ensures that future rulers are raised from birth with a complete understanding of international history, law, and policy. They’re schooled in the delicate arts of negotiation and intercultural customs, not to mention martial strategy in case there’s a need for war. Is that what your people learn in school?”

  “Well — no. But they could learn it later, if they decided to train for leadership.”

  “A few years of training can’t make up for a lifetime of learning,” said Syrah. “A monarch is raised in the heart of government and understands the nuances of rule.”

  “But what if that monarch turns out to be a tyrant? Look at the Pink Empire.”

  “They’re the exception. No other monarchy in Tyme has been violent.”

  “Crimson.”

  “They’re run by fairies.” Syrah waved a dismissive hand. “They don’t count. But as long as we’re looking at countries, how about Orange? The most enlightened, most educated country in Tyme, so people say. And they’re a monarchy.”

  “An elected monarchy.”

  Syrah shrugged. “They understand the power of tradition,” he said. “They didn’t scrap their whole system like Yellow is trying to.”

  “You think tradition is more important than freedom?”

  “Our people in Olive are perfectly free.”

  “Except they don’t get to choose their leaders or their laws.”

  “And your people do? What if forty percent of your people vote for a candidate that doesn’t get elected? Don’t those forty percent have to live with whatever leader the other people picked?”

  Deli looked at a loss. “If it’s what the majority wants …”

  “Then the rest of your people don’t matter, because there are less of them?”

  Her eyebrows flew up. “I did not say that.”

  “Now forty percent of your populace is dissatisfied,” said Syrah. “These dissidents will band together to undermine the elected leader. They might even bring about a civil war.”

  “Dissidents?” Deli repeated, frowning. “Did you read a history book to impress me or something?”

  “So you’re impressed,” said Syrah, grinning. “Good. Now admit you’re wrong.”

  “You made good points,” said Deli. “But I’m still right.”

  “Then let’s agree to disagree.” He put out his hand.

  She hesitated, eyeing him, and then she shook his hand and dropped down to sit on the step beside him. “I didn’t realize you cared this much about government.”

  “I’m supposed to be in Yellow to observe the election next year. It’s part of my ambassadorial training. Nexus Burdock offered me an apprenticeship.”

  “You’re going to apprentice with the Nexus?”

  “Why so surprised?”

  “Uh, because it sounds like work.”

  “Maybe I’m starting to like a little work.”

  It was a good lie, and it had the desired effect. Deli’s eyes changed. She considered him with real interest. “This is a new side of you,” she said.

  “Do you like this side of me?”

  She glanced away from him. “I should get back,” she said, but she didn’t get up.

  He nudged her bare shoulder with his. “Want to take a walk?”

  She looked pained. “Syrah …”

  “Come on,” he said quietly, and took her hand. When he pulled her to her feet, she dropped his hand — but she walked away beside him. It was almost dark now, and torchlight danced along the shore. Deli shivered, and Syrah put his arm around her.


  “Cold?” he asked.

  She stopped walking. “You’re being way too nice,” she said. “I know you don’t mean it.”

  “Why would I do it if I didn’t mean it?”

  “Good question,” she said, drawing back. She crossed her arms. “What do you want?”

  Syrah smiled. “Nothing. I just like you.”

  “Name one thing you like about me.”

  He shrugged. “That was a pretty cool launchball trick earlier.”

  “I was good at launchball last year. You didn’t like me then.”

  “How can you say that? I kissed you, remember?”

  This was clearly the wrong answer. She gave a low laugh and stepped all the way out of his reach. “Yeah, I haven’t forgotten,” she said. “See you around, Syrah.”

  She went back to the party. Syrah stayed where he was, watching her go, but he did not pursue her. Not yet. If this was how she wanted to play it, then he would gladly play. Hard to get was fun to get.

  As it turned out, however, Deli was frustratingly good at staying ungotten. The next day, during the wedding preparations, Syrah couldn’t find her anywhere. The day after that, during the actual wedding, he had too many ceremonial duties to uphold to do practically anything else. He tried to wriggle out of them, but no luck; Nana Cava was half-blind, but she still saw everything. There was one moment, right after the ceremony and before the feast began, when he almost caught up with Deli on the beach, but Nana Cava grabbed him by the back of his tunic. For such an old woman, she had a surprisingly good grip.

  “You didn’t braid your wreaths.”

  “Yes I did,” he lied. “All twenty. Maybe somebody else didn’t do theirs.”

  “Come with me and do your job,” she said. She leaned on his arm. “Now.”

  Reluctantly, he supported his nana back into the arching halls of the Pavilions. They walked among the columns, until they reached the small room where all the wreaths had been assembled. A pile of palm leaves and twine sat waiting for him.

  “Sit.”

  Syrah sat. He picked up leaves and started quickly braiding them together. Nana Cava slapped them out of his hand.

  “Like I taught you,” she said. “Use the peg.”

  “Who cares how good they are? People are just going to make stupid wishes on them and throw them in the fire.”

  Nana Cava didn’t answer. She slowly settled onto a stool and fixed her eyes on him.

  Syrah scowled and started braiding. It was ten full minutes before his nana spoke.

  “Delicata Gourd has your attention.”

  Syrah glanced at her. “So?”

  “So why should any girl of substance bother with you, the way you behave?”

  Syrah tossed his hair. “Have you seen me, Nana?”

  Nana Cava snorted. “One day, you will look like this,” she said, pointing a gnarled finger at her wrinkled face. “What else are you made of?”

  “Money? A royal title? I’m told my sense of humor is amazing —”

  “Be serious.” Her voice was hoarse. “Every day, whether you mean to or not, you are becoming the man you will be —”

  She stopped and coughed. The sound was so cracked and rough that it made Syrah feel cold, and he looked up from his wreaths, trying not to be afraid. She sounded older all the time, but he couldn’t let himself think about it. Nana Cava was going to live forever.

  When he had assembled twenty proper wreaths, he carried them to the upper dining hall, which overlooked the sea. It had no walls except for the columns that held up the roof, so Syrah had a perfect view of the torchlit beach, though he barely appreciated the beauty of it. He stood at the top of the steps, handing each guest a braided palm circle and wishing he could just go and talk to Deli, who was standing at the head of his family’s table, listening intently to something his mother was saying.

  When he was finally done, he sidled up to Deli, who didn’t notice he was there.

  “We won’t need an army.” Syrah’s eldest brother, Crown Prince Taurasi the Perfect, was speaking. Their mother, Queen Claret, was listening intently to him, as she always did, her hands clasped in front of her mouth.

  “We don’t know that,” she replied. “Force may be necessary.”

  “Better to have it and not need it,” Syrah’s eldest sister, Barbera, put in.

  “You’re suggesting we should send our army across the sea, march them to the Resplendent City, and then turn them around and bring them home, just as an exercise?” said Taurasi. “That’s an extraordinary and unnecessary expense.”

  “Perhaps,” said his mother. “But the Pink Empire cannot be trusted.”

  Syrah was surprised into speech. “Pink Empire?” he echoed. “Why bother with them? They’ve been asleep a hundred years.”

  His siblings looked at him, some with pity and tolerance, but most wearing expressions of annoyance. They never wanted his opinion. Syrah glared back at them all.

  “How are your studies going, Syrah?” asked his father, chuckling.

  “Not well, apparently,” said Barbera. “Ever heard of the Hundred-Year Day, baby brother?”

  “Obviously,” Syrah shot back. “But that’s almost two years away.”

  Their mother spoke — but not to him. She hadn’t so much as glanced in his direction. Her focus was still on Taurasi. “Everyone who has ever underestimated the Pink Empire has paid in blood,” she said to her eldest child and heir. “They may be asleep, but I will not disregard history — and neither should you.”

  So they weren’t going to answer his question. But he was used to that. He turned to talk to Deli instead — and realized that he had missed his chance. She had returned to her family’s table and wedged herself in between her mother and her brothers, too snugly for Syrah to sit near her.

  Frustrated, he went down to the shore. He waited by the great fire until the guests gathered on the beach to toss their wreaths into the flames, shouting their good wishes for the happy couple. Syrah prowled the crowd in search of Deli — this was a perfect moment to kiss her, if only he could find her — but either she was expertly avoiding him, or she had already gone to bed.

  By the end of the week, he still hadn’t managed to speak two words to her. They boarded separate family ships to the mainland, and for a few days, he could only stew. He brought her old letter with him onto the ship and read it several times, slowly, noticing things he’d skipped over before. I’m not your friend. I’m so much more than that — or at least I could be, if you’d let me. I’d do anything for you. Whenever you walk into a room, I can’t breathe….

  It was deadly flattering stuff. Cold as she might be acting, this was how she felt, and he had no doubt that he could get her to admit it.

  “What’s this?” Marsala demanded. She had sneaked up to the railing where he stood, and now she snatched the letter out of his hand. “‘I love you,’” she read aloud. “‘I don’t know how to stop. I’ve tried to for so long….’” She made a face like she’d eaten bad fish. “What crazy person would write this to a spoiled brat like you?” She flipped the letter over, and her eyebrows flew up. “Not Deli Gourd,” she said. “She never.”

  “She’s in love with me.”

  “I doubt it,” said his sister. “She couldn’t get away from you fast enough all week long.” She eyed the letter. “When did she write this?”

  “None of your business,” said Syrah, snatching the letter back.

  “So it’s old,” said Marsala. A delighted look crossed her face. “You’re standing here in the sunset reading an old letter? Sounds like you’re the lovesick one. Too bad you’ll never get her.”

  “Want to bet?”

  “You’re disgusting,” said his sister, turning on her heel. “No, I don’t want to bet.”

  Syrah stuffed the letter into his pocket and gripped the ship’s railing. He could get Deli Gourd — and when they reached Cornucopia, he intended to prove it.

  The second wedding feast was held after sunset
in the grand back gardens of the governor’s mansion, which everyone called the Thatch. It had a sprawling, sun-bright, straw-thatched roof, and dozens of big picture windows that looked out on the surrounding farmland and the Ladle River. The night was clear and full of stars, and early spring warmth touched the air. Magic flames thrashed in small crystalline lanterns that floated in rows, forming a pathway through the empty pumpkin field and casting soft lights over the yellow starflowers that had been scattered like a carpet over the grass. The smell of hyacinth mingled with the scents of fresh-baked bread and grilled beef that wafted across the grounds. Mingled sounds of laughter and feasting and music filled the garden, making the atmosphere complete.

  It was nice enough, Syrah thought, squinting critically at the lanterns. But the wedding on the beach had looked better. Nowhere was more romantic than the sea. His eyes traveled the party, searching for Deli, who as usual was difficult to locate.

  He finally found her standing near an enormous kettle of stew, wearing the official colors of her country — a dress the color of a sheaf of wheat, and butter-yellow starflowers in her curls. She was talking to a young man whose dark skin glinted as he moved, as though his flesh were studded with gold flecks. Syrah was momentarily distracted. He had seen Blue fairies with skin the color of sapphires and merboys with tails as orange as flame, but he had never seen anyone whose skin appeared to be laced with metal. It had to be magic, to shine like that. The young man took Deli’s hand and kissed the back of it, then tipped his big country-boy hat and headed back to his own table.

  She was alone.

  Quickly, Syrah slipped away from his family. He headed toward Deli, taking a roundabout path so she wouldn’t see him coming and try another dodge.

  The ting of silver striking crystal rose above the din of conversation. The guests fell silent. At the head table, Grandmother Luffa stood. Like Nana Cava, Luffa was 103 years old, but because she was fairy-born she looked and sounded no more than 50.

  “Ninety-eight years ago,” she said, her voice ringing out across the feast, “the Pink Empire seized these gardens where we stand. My parents and siblings were slaughtered in the house behind me, and my country was conquered for the second time.”