Nexus Burdock raised his hands toward the wall that stood behind his bed. He closed his eyes and bowed his head, and in a moment the wall began to glow. It shimmered, dancing like a curtain of light, and then the entire wall fell away, revealing, to Syrah’s utter delight, an extension of the chamber. He hopped quickly from beneath the wardrobe to hide under the bed instead, where he could see straight into the newly revealed space. In truth, it was only a small alcove with a desk in it, but the small space was lit by many floating orbs of different sizes and colors, which floated lazily at various heights, transforming the little study space into something beautiful and mysterious. Burdock sat at the desk, the top of which Syrah could not see from his angle on the floor. He stared down at something in front of him, and he shook his head.
“Seven more years,” he muttered.
He slumped and rested his forehead against the desk, and he stayed like that for a while. Then, with sudden energy, he got up and wrapped himself in a dressing gown. He plucked one of the drifting magic orbs — a large, shining yellow one — from midair, and he carried it with him out into the corridor, shutting the door behind him. Syrah heard the key turn in the lock, and then, too curious to resist, he hopped up onto Burdock’s empty chair. He leapt from the chair to the top of the desk to see what Burdock had been looking at.
It was that day’s Town Crier. Syrah noticed one of the articles that Jack had mentioned earlier about an unknown sickness that was killing people in eastern Yellow. Burdock had circled the names of the afflicted villages in red, and had scrawled some notes in the margins.
Passed through touch? Two victims relatives, all trade at same central marketplace.
Poison? Vomiting, unconsciousness — juggetsbane? Bluepeace? Color of vomit? Send messenger.
Beside these notes was another article with a headline that read Royal Governor Runs Again! Beneath it was an illustration of Calabaza Gourd, with his big hat and his many chins and his welcoming grin. Governor Gourd rumored to run for fourth consecutive term, said the caption. Burdock had slashed a huge X through the whole thing, and red ink cut across Calabaza’s grinning face like a gaping wound.
So Burdock didn’t want to see Calabaza run for governor again either.
Syrah abandoned the Crier and eyed the inkpot on the table. If only he could dip his toes into that ink, he could write his name. He could make it big, red, and unmistakable, so that nobody could possibly ignore it. But he had tried that once before, a few months ago at Rapunzel’s grandmother’s house, and it had been disastrous. He hadn’t even managed to write the letter S before enough ink had seeped through his skin to poison him nearly to death.
But if he could hold the quill in his mouth, and somehow maneuver it …
Burdock had left his quill abandoned beside the Town Crier. Syrah hopped up to it and considered. Its nib was covered in dried ink, but there was a large clean spot along the shaft — probably where Burdock had held it in his fingers. Syrah tested the spot with his tongue. He tasted no poison. Carefully he took aim, and, as though hunting for a fly, he unfurled his tongue and snatched the quill. His tongue wrapped around the shaft of the feather, and the quill came flat against his face with a wet snap. Syrah held it there for a moment, victorious. He had a quill. Given enough time, he could probably write something with it. It would barely be legible, but that was good enough.
The only thing he had to figure out now was how to get ink on the nib without also getting it onto his skin. Maybe if he knocked over the bottle at just the right angle —
The sound of the key in the door made Syrah’s heart jump — and he almost jumped with it. Every instinct told him to scramble for cover. But if he stayed where he was, and if Burdock saw him holding a quill in his mouth and trying to write, then surely, surely he would understand that Syrah was no ordinary frog.
Burdock entered. He came a few steps into the room, and stopped still when his gaze fell upon the frog in the middle of his desk. Syrah stared at him, willing him to see what was happening. Willing him to come closer. Carefully, he tapped the quill against the side of the ink bottle to make it very clear that he wanted to write something.
Frowning, Burdock crossed to Syrah and crouched down to look at him. Syrah held his breath, waiting. The Nexus plucked the quill from Syrah’s mouth. He looked from the frog to the quill in some confusion, and opened his mouth as if to speak.
Yes, Syrah thought frantically. Yes, you see me. You understand. He jumped to the ink bottle and got behind it. Using his head, he pushed the bottle forward a little bit. See? I want to write. I have something to say. I’m a person — I’m Syrah —
Burdock’s eyes glazed over, and he stood up. His curious frown relaxed. He cast the quill aside, picked up the Town Crier, and slid it underneath Syrah’s body.
“Let’s get you outside,” he said.
Syrah leapt to the floor, furious. Burdock had definitely noticed him — he knew that something was strange — why hadn’t he investigated further? Why had he lost interest in Syrah so quickly? Why didn’t anybody ever see that he was more than just a frog?
Because the wishing well won’t let them. You’re stuck like this. Accept it.
No. No, he wouldn’t accept it.
Burdock crouched down to grab him again, but Syrah leapt underneath the bed and hid himself in the deepest darkness he could find. He was here at the ATC, he had waited all this time, and someone was going to help him break this spell.
Maybe it can’t be broken.
He refused to accept that too. All spells could be broken. That was how magic worked, wasn’t it?
Or did some curses last forever?
Burdock did not pursue him. Syrah waited beneath the bed for another hour, until the lights in the room were out. When he could hear the Nexus’s measured breathing and felt certain that he was asleep, Syrah hopped quickly to the satchel that Burdock had earlier left on the floor. Fast as he could, he wriggled into it and found an inner pouch, where he burrowed down. If he stayed in here, he could hitch a ride right to the ATC — and his family’s box was always right next to the Gourds’. He could find his way to his nana. If anybody was going to understand who he was, it was her. She would see that he wasn’t a frog, and she would understand what to do. Wouldn’t she?
Syrah silenced the terrible voice within him before it could reply, and he closed his eyes to wait out one more night.
BY morning, Syrah was thirsty and wished for a puddle or a damp rag. He missed Rapunzel, who had rarely failed to provide these things for him.
He stayed huddled where he was in Burdock’s bag and waited to be carried to the games. Burdock picked up his satchel without even opening it first, and he had only carried it a few steps when Syrah heard the furious sounds of a frantic search. The triplets were shouting.
“You had them last,” he heard Bradley say. “I saw you looking at them last night before we went to sleep!”
“I put them on the table!” said Tommy angrily. “Walter must’ve moved them.”
“No,” said Walter stoutly.
“Burdock!” shouted Bradley, and Syrah heard footsteps pound toward him. “We can’t find our passes to the games,” Bradley panted. “We’ve looked everywhere. They’ll let us in anyway, though, right? I mean, we’re the governor’s sons.”
“I doubt it,” said Burdock. “I don’t think they’d let even your father himself in without a ticket. I have mine right here.” Syrah felt him pat the satchel and was grateful that he did so gently. “Well, I’m off. Good luck, boys.”
“Wait,” said Tommy anxiously. “Can’t you help us?”
“I’m sure you haven’t looked everywhere,” was Burdock’s reply.
“What? Yes we have!”
Burdock chuckled. “By the way,” he said. “Here. You forgot your napkin in my room.”
The triplets were silent a moment, and then:
“You hid our passes!” cried Bradley, triumphant. “You did, I know it! Okay, okay, you got us back, ha
-ha-ha, good one. Now where are they?”
“Shift your perspective,” Burdock replied.
Curious, Syrah shimmied partway out of the inner pouch of the satchel and pushed his way up to the top, which was covered over with a leather flap. There was a small gap at the corner of this, which he peered through, rolling his eyes upward. He saw the tickets almost instantly. They were inside the boys’ room, trapped in a shining yellow bubble overhead, near the ceiling. Syrah almost croaked his approval, but kept quiet.
“Shift our what?” said Tommy.
Meanwhile, Walter had taken Burdock’s direction seriously. First he bent over double and looked at the room upside down. Then he dropped to the floor and rolled onto his back. When he caught sight of the tickets, he grinned.
“I found them,” he said.
“Where?” Bradley demanded, and then he followed Walter’s gaze, and he whooped. “Now how do we get them down?”
“I’m sure you can figure it out,” said Burdock. “Good-bye, boys.”
“Wait!” Bradley was standing on the bed now, jumping to reach the orb. “Don’t take the carriage, or we won’t have a ride! Just give me — one second — I almost — have it —”
Bradley gave a mighty bounce. His fingertips scraped the bottom of the bubble. The explosion that followed was loud, like the crack! of a Ubiquitous acorn amplified tenfold. Bradley screamed and dropped on the bed, curling up in terror as bright yellow confetti burst above him and fluttered down onto his hair and onto his clothing. Tommy and Walter shouted with laughter.
“Aaaaahh!” Walter cried, mimicking Bradley’s scream. He flung his hands into the air, and Tommy collapsed upon the floor in gleeful convulsions. Bradley uncurled and looked down at himself. When he saw the confetti, he tried to brush it off, but it would not budge. He tried to pick an individual piece of yellow paper from his sleeve. It was stuck fast.
“Oh, come on,” he said angrily to Burdock. “Make it come off.”
“I don’t think so,” said Burdock, gesturing to his own outfit, which was a lovely lemony shade from head to foot.
“Tommy did your clothes!” said Bradley. “I just did the glitter!”
“There’s a lot of confetti in your hair, Bradley,” said Walter, grinning. “A lot.”
“Anyway, boys, you shouldn’t be using Ubiquitous,” Burdock warned, plucking the ATC passes from the floor and handing them to Walter. “You know what happened in Quintessential. That fire killed a lot of people — some of them your age.”
“If Ubiquitous is so dangerous, why isn’t it outlawed?” Tommy asked.
“It will be,” said Burdock grimly.
The boys tramped downstairs, Bradley complaining loudly about his confetti hair all the way, and they piled into the same carriage with the Nexus. The rumble of the carriage wheels made Syrah vibrate.
“— like Asti Huanui,” said Tommy, bringing Syrah’s attention instantly to him. “Don’t even try to deny it.”
“Why would I deny it?” said Bradley, sounding smug. “Asti’s beautiful. Of course I like her.”
Syrah listened now with feelings of mingled protectiveness and irritation. His niece Asti was only twelve. Thirteen now, he realized, but still. Bradley Gourd had no business going after her.
You went after plenty of girls at thirteen.
That was true. Deli herself hadn’t been much older than that when he’d kissed her. He remembered the waterfall, and the way she had clutched him. The tears that had fallen on her mole-spotted cheeks, mingling with the water, making him retreat and swim away. Tears were too serious. She had been too eager, too earnest — too everything.
“I’m going to kiss her tonight,” Bradley announced.
Tommy made a noise of irritation. “Maybe I’ll kiss her,” he said.
“Why would she bother with you? I have all the charisma.”
Syrah grimaced. Bradley reminded him irresistibly of himself, long ago in another life, when he’d been a confident, swaggering boy. He could not help realizing, with some discomfort, that Bradley sounded like a royal idiot.
“You mean you have all the confetti,” said Tommy, snickering.
Once outside the carriage, the noise level rose to cacophonous. People cheering, vendors shouting, referees’ voices amplified by magic. Syrah’s heart quickened. Finally. Finally.
The carriage rolled to a stop. There was a general scuffle and slamming of things, and the triplets were gone. Burdock’s satchel bounced lightly against him as he walked, and Syrah shut his eyes, trying not to let the throbbing bother him. Soon he wouldn’t have to put up with this kind of thing ever again. Soon he’d be walking, talking, using his hands. Soon.
“Tickets!” he heard someone cry, and then, “May I offer you a complimentary cookie, Exalted Nexus? Courtesy of the Baker’s Dozen.”
“No, thank you,” Syrah heard Burdock reply, and then he was walking again. Syrah peeked out of the satchel to get a sense of the situation. At first, he could see nothing but a dense crowd, packed in around them, but soon Burdock was climbing a long set of wooden stairs, and then he was showing his pass to an official guard, who bowed and said “Exalted Nexus,” before stepping aside and opening a low gate that led into a private, tented area. Syrah spied tables full of food, a couple of servants, and Governor Calabaza at the center of it all.
“Exalted Nexus!” Calabaza boomed. “Look at you, all in yellow. Very patriotic of you — not sure it’s quite your color, though. Join us! Launchball has already started. New Pink had to drop out — two of their team are ill, I’ve heard. Shame. Commonwealth Green put forth a tolerable effort. Nothing Delicata can’t beat. But the coastal nations have an unfair advantage, don’t they? I told Deli to set her sights on something easier, but she’s just like my mother, unfortunately. She wants victory or nothing, and when she doesn’t get it, she’ll be impossible to live with.”
“Now, Cal,” said a female voice. Syrah rolled his eyes to find its owner and saw Deli’s mother, Roma, reclining in a chair. “Be positive. She’s worked so hard.” She fanned herself. “Such a shame Christophen couldn’t come back for this. He’d be so proud of his little sister. Of course, no one could expect him to leave Marsanne in her condition — triplets, the Hipocrath says! Did we tell you, Burdock? Triplets. I certainly know how she feels….” Roma sighed and patted her flat belly. “I’m so glad those days are behind me.”
“Burdock, did you take a slice of quiche?” said Calabaza. “Our chefs have truly outdone themselves.”
Syrah kept his eyes on the gap in the satchel. When Burdock lowered the bag to the ground and stowed it under his chair, Syrah wriggled out. Here in the box, he could move around fairly freely — they were near a lake, after all, and everyone was busy watching the games. It was unlikely that anyone would care if he hopped around a little.
He sprang up onto the top of a low wall, beside a supporting pole. He stayed tight against the pole, looking around to make sure nobody was watching him. They weren’t. Near him on the railing was a ring of water where someone had probably set down a glass earlier. A small fly was struggling in it, too soaked to buzz off. Syrah swallowed the fly, then sidled into the water ring, glad to get a drink. While he moistened his legs and belly, he took stock of the world around him.
The wall he sat on was waist height, giving him an excellent vantage. He rolled his eyes, taking in the brilliant view. They were probably thirty feet up, elevated above the rest of the stadium seats that stretched as far as he could see in either direction. Directly in front of the seats below, a Vox sang grand tales of legendary champions past, the blowhole atop its head sucking air so that it never had to stop for a breath, its exaggerated humanesque features shifting from emotion to emotion while people watched, entranced. Behind the Vox, a flock of trained marveilles fanned their enormous silver feathers and sparkled under the sun, opening their peacock-like throats from time to time to send jets of fireworks into the sky. North of this display, on a long runway of wooden planks, candle
stick hurdlers stretched their legs and toed the starting line, awaiting the announcement to begin. Beyond the hurdling planks, a tall glass mountain with a tower at its peak had been magically erected. Climbers wearing metal cleats and throwing special grappling claws raced to scale the mountain and get into the tower while spectators cheered with wild enthusiasm. One climber lost her grip and went careering down the slick surface — there was a collective scream — but the climber plunged a glass-splicing spike into the treacherous surface and broke her fall just in time. The crowd went wild.
Down the shore in the other direction, past a pack of Kisscrafters who were competing to see who could spin the most straw into gold, Syrah could just make out the jacks competition. It appeared to be already underway; he saw the shine of Rapunzel’s braid at the center of the ring, and he thought he could distinguish Jack’s hoarse cheers. He felt a pang of temptation to go nearer — he would’ve loved to cheer for Rapunzel with all his croaking might. But he had his own prize to win, so he stayed put.
Lake Tureen was vast — he could not see the other side of it. The morning sunlight was still gentle and hazy, kissing the water and making it seem to ripple. The sight of it reminded him irresistibly of morning light on the Tranquil Sea, and he suffered another sudden wave of homesickness, this one even more intense than the last. How he missed the ocean. The islands. The green mountains and the white sand. He longed for the heat of Balthasar’s sun on his skin and the sounds of his family gathered around him, playing their instruments and cooking and laughing and talking over each other at once. Even if they annoyed him, or mostly ignored him, he wouldn’t care. He just wanted to go home.
Transformed: The Perils of the Frog Prince Page 9