Shoulder to shoulder with Harrow, he stumbled through the front entrance of the Copper Door and limped slowly into the dark town square. At once, people on horseback caught sight of them and drew near. They surrounded Syrah and Harrow, holding up torches. One woman dismounted, wearing Exalted vestments. Her amulet rested heavily against the front of her cloak.
“I am Exalted Aravinda,” she announced. Her vibrant voice rang out in the quiet square, and her eyes shone like a cat’s. “By description, this must be Harrow Steelcut. Did you think you could run from the Exalted Council, Harrow?”
Harrow didn’t answer, but moaned again and doubled over. He vomited on Syrah’s bare feet.
Syrah barely cared. He had been through far worse. “Slumbercap,” he said, pointing to himself, and then he gestured to Harrow and sucked a breath. “Servoil.”
Exalted Aravinda raised a black eyebrow. “Servoil is forbidden,” she said. “How did he get it?”
“Burdock,” Syrah managed. “Cellar of the Copper Door. With his sister. She’s a murderer. And she poisoned the governor.” He inhaled deeply. “You’re welcome.”
Aravinda’s eyes glittered as they swept over Syrah, still dressed in nothing but a banner. “And you are?”
“Prince Syrah of the Olive Isles,” he rasped, attempting to bow with a flourish just as Harrow passed out cold. His full weight slumped against Syrah, who didn’t have the strength to hold him up. He fell to his knees, taking Harrow down with him. “Please take us to a Hipocrath.”
THREE days. He had been a man again for three days, and every moment he was grateful. He would never stop being grateful.
The Exalted Council separated him from Harrow. They took Syrah immediately into their care and made him more comfortable than he could remember being in a long, long time. He stayed in a luxurious tent, where he slept in a bed and had pillows again. Magical professionals tended to his every need; Kisscrafter healers soothed his burns and stitched his wounds, while a Hipocrath coaxed the slumbercap out of his system. He ate and drank like a prince again. Everything was perfect, except that he was isolated from outside contact and did not know when he would be allowed to see anyone. The only people allowed to visit were members of the Council and professors from the University of Orange who wanted to study the effects of the strange magic that had imprisoned him in the body of a frog for so long. They poked and prodded and bandaged and salved him, leaving not an inch uninvestigated. They found scars from all the times he’d torn his thin skin, puncture wounds from the places he’d been bitten and clawed at, bruises and small fractures from having slammed against things and having things slammed against him. Every time they found something new, he was invited to tell the story of how it had happened, and they listened to him avidly, asking questions, taking notes, and always congratulating him on his wits and courage.
It was strange getting so much attention from so many important adults. They seemed to think he was special. He didn’t quite know what to do with it.
The only thing he didn’t tell them about his life as a frog was that he had been able to hear people’s thoughts through his belly. It didn’t seem right for anybody else to know that. Those moments had been private. He had given away somebody’s secrets once; he wasn’t making that mistake again.
On the third morning, he asked for a pen and paper. He knew what he had to write, but it was harder than he had expected. Setting things down in words made the truth so obvious that he felt stupid and small for having taken so long to come around to it.
But he owed Deli a letter. A good one. And he wasn’t leaving anything out, no matter how painful.
He had just signed his name when Exalted Aravinda arrived, sat beside his bed, and subjected him to the least pleasant experience of his three-day stay: an interrogation that went on for hours. She pressed him for every detail he knew about the juggetsbane poisoning, and she demanded information about the conversations he had overheard as a frog, trying to assess whether he was privy to any sensitive information that he should not have possessed. He was honest in his replies, but Aravinda was not satisfied.
“You were the one who brought the Steelcuts’ relationship with Ubiquitous to the government’s attention,” she said. “How did you know about it?”
“I found a letter,” said Syrah. “I told you.”
“That letter has since been hidden or destroyed,” said Aravinda, studying him closely with her light green cat’s eyes. “As has all other correspondence between Huck Steelcut and Ubiquitous Productions. It should have been brought back here as evidence.”
“I was a frog,” said Syrah. “No thumbs, no pockets …”
Aravinda pursed her lips. “If you knew the stakes, you wouldn’t be so flippant.”
“Why, what’s wrong?” asked Syrah, sitting forward. “Is it Ubiquitous?”
But this, Aravinda would not answer. She left the tent, and when the flap opened again, Syrah sat back against his pillows, amazed.
“Exalted Nexus Keene,” he said. “I’m honored.”
“Your Highness. The honor is mine.” Keene sat in the chair where Aravinda had just been. He looked troubled. “I need to understand something,” he said. “As a frog, you traveled quite some time with Rapunzel. Is that right?”
“Yes,” said Syrah. “Thanks, by the way, for telling Rapunzel I was hibernating. If you hadn’t, she might have buried me alive.”
“Aha.” Keene looked gratified. “That was you, of course it was. Now it makes sense.”
“What does?”
“When I first held you, I thought I felt the touch of magic, but it faded quickly — almost as though it didn’t want to be felt or found.”
“The well didn’t want anyone knowing who I was.”
“Yes, so say the reports from my colleagues. A fascinating aspect of your journey — and a frustrating one, I have no doubt. But that’s not what I’m here to discuss. When Rapunzel defeated Envearia, were you there?”
Syrah shook his head. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell Keene that Rapunzel hadn’t defeated anybody — Rapunzel hated when people treated her like a witch slayer — but Keene continued before he could speak.
“A shame,” he said. “Then perhaps you can help me understand Gretel Rantott instead.”
Syrah grimaced at the sound of her name. “Sure,” he said. “I’ll try.”
“As you know, she was touched by the White,” said Keene. “But that’s impossible — or should be, without making a witch’s bargain.” He pushed back his silvering hair. “The White should not be able to make physical contact with Tyme,” he said. His gaze was urgent. Worried. There was even sweat on Keene’s brow, and the sight of it made Syrah prickle with fear. How bad did something have to be to unnerve the most famously courageous and powerful mortal in Tyme? Was it related to what Aravinda had said about the stakes? What were the stakes? They couldn’t be in danger from the Great White Fairy … could they?
“What can you tell me?” Keene pressed. “Did she explain?”
“Not really. Gretel said that when she was putting the witch in the oven, she got about halfway through when a white light came down. She said it went through her back and took the witch’s body. That’s all I know.”
Keene nodded tensely. “That is consistent with Burdock’s story,” he said. “Which helps me somewhat.”
“Can’t you ask Gretel?”
“She remains unconscious,” said Keene. “That fire poker went right into her heart. We are attempting to revive her so that we can try to help her heal from the White sickness, but it may not be in anyone’s power to do either.”
Into her heart. Syrah felt almost guilty for doing it. She had left him no choice, but still, the story of her life was such a terrible one that he mostly just felt sorry for her — which was easier now that she wasn’t trying to kill him.
“I thank you,” said Keene, standing. “And I commend your bravery.”
“I didn’t really have a choice.”
&nbs
p; “Survival is a ruthless and effective teacher,” said Keene. “You discover your deepest strength when you have no choice. Be glad of it. There is nothing more powerful than knowing what you are capable of.”
After Keene’s visit, Syrah was declared fit enough to leave the Exalted Council’s camp, though he was cautioned not to exercise strenuously for at least a week. He dressed in the clothes the Exalted had given him. They were tailored and handsome, fit for a prince, but they could have given him a grain sack with neck and armholes, and he would have been happy. He had his body back.
It was different, though, his body.
He checked the mirror they had left for him, and his stomach gave a funny squeeze, like it did every time he saw his new reflection. His hair was still long and wavy, and his skin was still as brown and tanned as it had been when he had last left Balthasar, but his lean, firm belly was gone, replaced by a round, frog-like gut, and the angles of his jawline were hidden by a froggy sort of double chin. He knew it shouldn’t bother him. He ought to be free from petty vanity after everything he’d suffered. He guessed some flaws were harder to shake than others.
The Exalted had set up camp on the north side of the river, not far from Harrow’s house. A carriage had him there in fifteen minutes, and he marveled at the ease and speed of it. To be able to climb into a carriage and say where he wanted to go — it was such luxury, but he had never once appreciated it. How had he never appreciated it?
When the front door of the farmhouse opened, Syrah was almost knocked off his feet by the force of Huck Steelcut’s hug.
“You saved my boy,” the man said hoarsely. He released Syrah, who stepped back, baffled and embarrassed. “Harrow told me what you did,” Huck said, wiping his eyes. “I owe you my life.”
Syrah had no idea what to say.
“He’s upstairs with Delicata,” Huck went on. “You go on and say hello.”
Deli. Syrah felt for the letter in his pocket and he suddenly felt clammy.
“You’re not arrested?” he asked Huck, stalling a bit.
“The cabinet acquitted me,” said Huck. “Nexus Keene pushed for it. He said I’m not to blame for the Purge any more than the girl who cracked that acorn in the Jacquard factory was responsible for that fire. It’s Ubiquitous that’s the problem.” Huck crossed his arms. “I don’t know as I agree,” he said. “I knew I was breaking the law. But I’m not going to throw myself in prison.”
“What about the election?” Syrah asked.
“If you can believe it, I’m still going to run,” said Huck. “In fact, I’m on my way to the Thatch this minute. Go on, now. Harrow will be glad to see you.”
Huck left the house, and Syrah climbed the stairs. It seemed to take longer now than it had when he was a frog. His feet were heavy with dread. He knocked at Harrow’s door.
“It’s me,” he said. “Syrah.”
“Come in!”
Syrah pushed the door open. Harrow lay against his pillows, glittering. Deli sat in a chair beside him, her expression impassive. Her eyes were on Syrah, but he couldn’t detect a trace of emotion in her face. She had never looked so much like her grandmother.
“Prince Syrah of the Olive Isles,” said Harrow warmly. “Sorry I threw up on your feet.”
“And burned me. And threw me out a window. I should have you beheaded.”
“Ha-ha.”
“You don’t know if I’m joking. For all you know, I’m a miserable tyrant.”
“Maybe you used to be,” said Harrow. “Now you’re not so bad.”
“Not so bad? I took poison for you, Glitter.”
Deli’s mouth twitched.
“So you’re still sick, huh?” Syrah asked.
“That stuff was brutal,” said Harrow. “They said the nausea doesn’t usually last this long, but coming right after the Purge, I can’t seem to shake it.”
“But you will.”
“Yeah. I will.”
Syrah came to stand beside him. He put a hand on Harrow’s shoulder. “Thank you,” he said. “For figuring out who I was and for going along with my plan.”
“It was a terrible plan. It wasn’t even a plan.”
“But it worked.”
“Barely.”
“We’re alive,” said Syrah. “And I’m human. I’m going to call that a win.” He glanced at Deli. “Delicata Aurantia,” he said. “Good to see you. How’s your father?”
Her expression clouded. The crease between her brows went deep. “Now that they know what’s really wrong with him, Physic Feverfew was able to wake him,” she said. “But it’s bad. He’s not himself. I guess he might never be again.” She paused. “Thank you,” she said, sounding pained. “I’m glad you figured out what really happened.”
“Not just me. Give some credit to my friend here.”
Harrow looked at him in surprise. “Your what now?”
Syrah shrugged. “My friend,” he said. “I hope.”
Harrow seemed to consider this. “A royal friend,” he said at last. “That could work.”
“I’m an eighth child,” said Syrah. “The perks aren’t great. No private island or anything.”
“Well then, never mind.”
The two boys grinned at each other. Deli gazed from Harrow to Syrah, apparently at a loss.
“By the way,” said Syrah. “You should know, your boy here can’t lie to save his life. Literally, he will die.”
Harrow yanked the pillow out from behind his head and threw it at Syrah’s face as hard as he could, which was pretty hard. Syrah caught it, laughing madly.
It was so, so good to be a man again.
“I’d better get home,” said Deli, rising. She reached a hand toward Harrow’s shoulder, caught herself, pulled back before touching him. “Feel better,” she said distantly.
The way Harrow gazed up at her, Syrah was pretty certain that his friend was not going to feel any better as long as Deli kept a big, frosty wall between them.
That wall was his fault. He had damaged her trust. He owed it to her to at least try to repair it.
Syrah had faced his share of hardship. But this part was going to be the hardest.
“I’ll go with you,” he said to Deli. “If that’s okay.”
“Uh …” Deli looked uncomfortable. “I guess.”
Syrah whacked Harrow with the pillow, then handed it back. “I’ll come back soon, all right?” he said. “Try to stop puking.” He followed Deli down the stairs and out of the farmhouse.
“I walked,” she said. “I wanted some air.”
“And some time away from home?”
She didn’t answer, but the crease between her brows deepened.
“You can ride with me if you want.”
She got into the carriage with him. For a while, they sat in silence. Syrah took the letter out of his pocket and looked down at it, his stomach churning. Suddenly everything he’d written seemed small and stupid.
“What’s that?”
“I don’t know,” said Syrah. “Nothing.”
“It’s got my name on it.”
“Yeah.” He handed it to her, cringing. “It’s not an apology,” he said. “I don’t think there’s an apology I could make that would fix what I did.”
“No.” She turned it over in her hands. “So what is it then?”
“It’s a confession.”
“Confession?”
“Just read it.”
Deli opened the letter and unfolded it. “‘I, Syrah Huanui, Prince of the Olive Isles, hereby declare that I am guilty of the following crimes.’”
“You don’t have to read it out loud.”
“‘Number one,’” said Deli, “‘I deliberately played with your feelings. I kissed you to tease you and mess with your head, and then I made fun of your looks and treated you like you were nothing. I did it because I thought I could get away with it, and because I thought it was funny, and because I thought I was better than you. It was cruel. I was wrong. You deserved better.’”
She glanced at him, then kept on reading, her voice strong and calm. “‘Number two. I took your private, personal writing and I gave it to that scribe at the wedding. I did it to hurt you, because you rejected me. It was vicious. I have no excuse. You deserved better.’”
Deli paused. Her jaw worked back and forth for a moment.
“‘Number three. I made fun of you for being serious without understanding anything about your life. But now I’ve seen you with your family. I see what they expect from you, and how your grandmother treats you. I had no idea how much pressure you were under. I was wrong to judge you. You deserved better. Number four.’” Her voice hardened and her dark eyes turned sharp as knives. “‘I confess to thinking you’re beautiful and amazing, and I realize now I’m the dumbest thing alive for not liking you back when I had the chance —’”
She stopped abruptly, folded the letter back up, and shoved it into the envelope.
“There’s more,” said Syrah, his heart beating hard.
“I’m done.” Deli shoved the letter at him.
“Keep it. Publish it in the Criers. Hang it in the town square.”
“It would teach you,” she replied.
They rode on in silence. Syrah wished there were something he could do, something he could say that would prove to her that he meant every word of that letter, that he was truly sorry and would take it all back if he could. But there was no getting an egg back in the shell. She was never going to feel that way about him again. Some things, once lost, could never be earned back.
He studied her profile. The tiny moles on her right cheek were shaped almost exactly like a heart. How had he never seen that before? Just one more thing he had noticed too late.
But Harrow had noticed — Syrah would have bet his life on it. Harrow, he was certain, had seen Deli’s worth right away. He had appreciated her. And he had never tried to hurt her on purpose.
Syrah had to work hard to get the words going. They were jagged, at first. Painful. He had to force them out.
“You know, your boyfriend almost murdered me when he found out who I was,” he managed. “He stood up for you.”
Deli was quiet a moment. “We’re just friends,” she said.
Transformed: The Perils of the Frog Prince Page 29