The Cursed Queen (The Impostor Queen #2)(73)

Carefully, I think of ice. Not a blizzard, not a gale, but only frost on leaves and grass, a kiss of cold in the still air. And I feel it caress my brow, so gentle. The quiet creep and crackle of it draws my gaze, and when I turn my head I see the maze of crystals growing around my body, slithering slowly along the floor as my breath fogs the air. It feels so good. This cannot possibly be wrong.

I sigh and settle into it, summoning the heat now, letting it scamper up from where it was hiding and burst into the open. It is hungrier than the ice, but more playful too. Wisps of flame appear above me, spiraling around my body, making me dizzy. The fire glows, melting the ice, though the frost re-forms only moments later as if challenging the heat.

Surely I can control this. Surely this magic won’t hurt me. It seems to love me. It kisses my skin so sweet, like relief, like joy. And I need it, after so much fear and pain. I sit up slowly, hope taking root. Here is the ease I craved, that I feared would never be mine. This curse, given with malice, has a life of its own, but now it belongs to me, not the witch. It doesn’t do her bidding. It is mine.

I rise, my palms upturned. On one hand sits a ball of fire, and on the other, a swirl of frost and untainted cold. I tickle them with my fingers, and they dance for me. Jaspar was right—I should not question what I am anymore, even if I question where I belong. I should not listen when Thyra urges me to doubt, when she tells me to control myself.

Why do you love someone who doesn’t love who you are?

A swell of resentment surges within me. It’s not my fault I was cursed and invaded, burned and frozen by the violation of fire and ice.

Suddenly the ball of fire on my palm is as large as a shield. I gasp and clench my fist, but it becomes a maelstrom, rising toward the ceiling.

The wooden ceiling.

“Stop,” I whisper. “Obey me.” But my heart is beating so hard, full of fear and anger, and that is what it seems to be listening to. I grasp at the flames and hiss as they cling to my fingers, biting too hard. I summon the cold to fight it, and blades of ice form and spin on my other hand. They begin to stab at the fire as a bitter chill descends on the room, so sudden and frigid that my face is numb in an instant. I cry out, and the fire rises higher and spreads wide, blackening the ceiling and reaching for my bed.

“No!” I shriek as my blanket catches fire, and then the straw tick pad beneath it. My breath comes out in a spray of frost as the fire doubles back on me.

My tunic catches fire, and I scream.

A shout from the hall is followed by a crunching crash, and Sander and Jaspar barrel into the room. I flail, my sleeves aflame, as Jaspar grabs the pitcher on a side table and flings its contents at me. My back hits the floor and shouting fills my ears. More water splashes onto me, followed by soaked, heavy cloth and an unyielding body that presses me down. “Calm yourself,” Sander huffs. “Please. Don’t kill me, too. Ansa. Please. Be still.”

I collapse under the weight of failure and despair and horror, the pain so intense that it makes me writhe and shiver. Voices bark various orders above me, for more water, for bandages, for Halina, for medicine, for a fire in the grate, for no fire at all. Confusion reigns as I wish for darkness and quiet. But there is no such mercy for me. I am completely aware as I am peeled from the floor and doused with water yet again. Sander shouts at someone to bring him heavy leather gloves, and I realize I must be burning him. But when I wish for the cold, he yelps and lets me go, stung by the ice. Someone, probably Carina, offers to kill me, but Jaspar roars at her to leave the room. “My father wants her alive!” he shouts at her retreating form.

Nisse wants me alive.

I am his broken sword.

Tears run down my face as I begin to laugh. My skin is ruined and weeping and steaming, all over now, not just my arms. The fire and ice are rabid and mad, and I’m not strong enough to wield them. They slide silent and venomous back inside me as I am laid on a fresh blanket on the floor. Sander leans over me. “Your attendant is coming,” he says. “She will do what she can for you.”

But I hear the crack in his voice, the rasp of helplessness. I remember it from that day on the Torden. “Am I going to die?”

His eyes meet mine. “I don’t know.”

There is a shout from the corridor. “Are you sure?” Jaspar calls from his spot just behind Sander, where he holds a full water pitcher, just in case. When he hears the answer to his question, he nods. “Tell them to get up here immediately, then! We’ll take whatever help we can get!”

“What’s happening?” I whisper.

“The party from Kupari has returned,” Sander says, sounding bemused. He looks down at me again, and I see my own ruined face reflected in his dark eyes. “And apparently they’ve brought someone who can help you.”

I am shaking with agony as dark-cloaked figures rush into the room. “Better hurry,” Jaspar says. “I think she’s dying.”

Thyra reaches me first, her eyes wide with horror. “Oh, Ansa,” she whispers, “I’m so sorry. But this will all be better soon. I promise.”

I blink up at her through swollen eyelids. “H-how—”

Nisse leans into my line of sight. “She’s right, Ansa. Try to stay calm.” He raises his arm, welcoming a third person to my side.

This one has the thick stubble of black hair around his jaw and over his head, as if he had shaved it all off but now it’s growing back. His lips seem swollen, two fat slugs sitting on his face. But his eyes are alight with curiosity. He says something in the trilling, looping language I recognize as Kupari. Halina is shoved to her knees next to him. “He says you must have a great deal of fire, to have done this to yourself,” she says in a flat voice, wrenching her arm away from Sander.