Page 18 of Heart of the Summer Queen

I chew my lip as I think. Could the king be one of those rare male witches?

As I read further through the book, it talks about how witches control their given affinities. But in the king’s case, magic possesses control over him.

I skim a few more pages before discarding it to rifle through the others. The next outlines two spell types: conjuration and enchantment. The former involves invoking raw magic as flames or lightning bolts, while the latter changes the state of an object, place or person.

Examples of enchantments include a man turned to stone for displeasing an earth witch, and a shadow witch casting darkness over a kingdom for countless centuries. Such enchantments are known as curses, and every enchantment must have a way to be broken. If not, the magic will harm its caster.

I tear through pages, seeking more information on breaking curses. Halfway in, I find a relevant paragraph.

The condition for breaking an enchantment is decided upon by the witch when at the time of her invoking the spell. One of the simpler conditions a witch may opt for is specifying the spell to last for a predetermined duration. The simplicity of this incantation is, however, offset by the energy required to invoke it. A duration of even a year requires far more energy than is possessed by the average witch, and as magic resides in the blood, utilizing too much energy in a spell risks draining a witch’s life force and killing her. Consequently, they often tie curses to the fates using elaborate stipulations, and such enchantments may endure weeks or perhaps even eternity. The witch need only give a plausible way for her spell to be undone, but it is up to fate to decide when that condition is met. Yet if the incantation involves another besides the accursed, this person’s free will may bend destiny’s path. Although every enchantment possesses a way to be broken, naught guarantees it shall be broken.

I pause, my fingers lingering over the faded ink. As stated, curses can claim people, along with places and objects.

The Winter King . . .

Like Kassia suspects, he must be cursed, his magic spreading to my sister and the other girls, consuming the palace and mountain with ice. This is why he can’t control his powers—they were never his to begin with. A witch cursed him and sealed it with a specific condition for it to be broken.

A condition involving a Summer Queen. Me.

I close the book, the dull thud echoing off the stone walls.

What is the condition? True love, as Kassia suggested? Has no kiss worked because we must truly love each other?

I toy with the carved wooden chair arm. I feel no love for him, never mind true love. As for the king, how can he deeply care for me when he imprisoned me?

A small voice whispers that anyone would restrain their almost-murderer, but I silence it.

It matters not what he feels. If the cure is love, I pose the greatest barrier to breaking the curse. How can I love a man I’ve hated for three years? Whom I dedicated my every waking moment to destroying? For my sister’s sake I would force myself to love him if I could, but true love cannot be forced.

Yet I can’t deny there’s something between us, a desire that warms my cheeks until I’m certain they’re the color of the flame flickering atop my candle. Will focusing on that attraction help overcome my bitterness and allow love to bloom?

I slump in my chair. This is ridiculous. I may never fall in love with him, and even if I do, I do not know how many years—decades—it will take. And as the book says, nothing guarantees a curse will break. My sister’s freedom is too important to leave to fate.

Besides, the cure might not even be true love. It might be something else entirely. But I don’t know how I will confirm this.It’s possible the king and the witch who cursed him are the only people who know.

Mood grim, I resume my search for anything on curses. I read of witches trapping people in trees, cursing others to never again walk on land. Over half the cures involve true love, since witches favor it for fate’s fickleness. But near the end of my current book, a passage causes me to pause.

Those subjected to a curse find their tongues bound, unable to speak a word of the sorcery which ensnares them. Nor may they inscribe anything of their affliction, for the moment pen touches page, their hands shall turn stiff. Nevertheless, this itself can prove a valuable method to discern whether one is indeed afflicted by a curse.

I frown and reread the passage. Perhaps I can employ such an approach. If I ask the king to write about his curse and he proves unable to pen a single word, it will confirm beyond all doubt that he’s cursed.

seven

Clutching parchment and a pot of ink, I head out the library and back into the palace, following the winding staircases until I reach the Winter King’s chambers. Eager to find him and prove the existence of his curse, I don’t bother knocking on the doors and barge in sideways since my hands are full.

The king isn’t in his dining room, so I press on through to his innermost bedchamber. Where we shared our wedding night.

Fortunately, I’m too focused on what I must say for my mind to wander there. I’d hate to burst in flustered.

“You’re cursed,” I exclaim as I step through the doors. “You’re cursed and you can’t tell me you are.”

Only after speaking do I realize what I’ve caught him doing.

Bathing.

Which means he’s currently sitting naked in a copper tub. I try to concentrate on the ornate engravings instead of his hard chest and the bubbles scarcely covering the rest.

The ink nearly slips from my fingers.

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