Tracy Banghart - A Season of Sinister Dreams

I should not be able to do what I can do.

Every day I try to tame it, ignore it. But it bubbles up inside, always there, humming in my fingertips, my chest, my throat, building up friction. Building. Building.

Thirsting for a spark.

My magic is a wild thing, a wave, a way to stay alive.

Tonight, I twirl in a gown with a skirt like a big golden bell, and I smile and allow my hand to be squeezed too tightly and pressed against moist lips. Every ball is a swirl of color and sound, too glittering, too made up. But I dance anyway, at every one. Because each clasped hand, each brush of bare skin, each kiss is a conduit. A thread in my web. A way to control.

I must weave my schemes as beautifully, as invisibly, as a poisonous spider.

My dance partner spins me out a few feet from the throne just as the music ends. Normally I would smile as I filed away the courtiers name and face, mentally take note of how he could be of use to me one day. But Im distracted. King Alder has been joined on the royal dais by a man Ive never seen before. Hes tall, with a pointed beard to match the pointed look in his eyes.

King Alders advisors fill the shadows behind the throne. None of them look particularly happy to be here. The four men and one woman are stiff and frowning. Even the kings grandson, Prince Kendrik, off to the side and slightly more relaxed, glances toward the arched doorway longingly.

King Alder pushes to his feet, his back hunched. The thick blue brocade of his jacket hangs from his painfully thin frame. He stretches a hand toward the stranger. Count Orlaith, of Maadenwelk, may I present Lady Annalise.

From Maadenwelk, the kingdom to our south. No wonder I didnt recognize him. He bows more deeply than my rank as the kings grandniece deserves. A sycophant, then.

I curtsy again and raise my hand to be kissed. The tips of the counts gloved fingers tighten on mine as he bends over my hand. My magic-tinged suggestions rise to meet him: Her chin is too sharp, her hair too dull. Her eyes not bright enough. It only takes a moment of contact, and most men are easily influenced. But his lips never quite brush my skin, and he remains unpersuaded. A pity.

King Alder sinks back onto the velvet cushion of his twisted golden throne. Behind him, Advisor Halliday shifts closer. I cant see the advisors hand, but I know hes snaked it through the gaps in the gold to touch King Alders neck. Every day, he and the finest healers in the kingdom sink their magic deep into the kings bones.

But they cannot stop time.

Is she acceptable? King Alder asks, gesturing to me with a single palsied hand. He does this every ball. Parades me before countless magic workers turned noblemen and courtiers, discusses me as if I cannot hear. I know the gallantry, the compliments these questions elicit are for him, not me. Usually, I am eager to use the introductions and dances for my own designs. But I have no use for foreigners with no sway in this kingdom.

I smooth my hands down my golden skirt. Its round shape is meant to soften my sharp angles. My chin is too pointed and my hair is too dull, my shoulders bony and my elbows like knives. But I am grateful for my deficiencies. They are my protection from the machinations of these men.

Count Orlaiths eyes narrow. Hes twenty years my senior, at least, and stands as if his spine were a spear.

She is very beautiful, Your Majesty.

Liar.

Then we have an agreement? King Alder asks.

A shiver of unease slides up my spine. Agreement is a strange word for dance.

King Alder doesnt look at me. He hasnt, once, in this entire exchange. Prince Kendrik shifts his weight. Beside him, the kings advisors stare stony-faced.

Count Orlaith bows to the king. We do, Your Majesty.

King Alder nods, his rheumy gaze fixed on the count. Lady Annalise, your betrothed.

Betrothed.

Shock races through me. I make a strange sound. Excuse me?

Count Orlaith has accepted your hand in marriage, King Alder explains. He sinks further into his chair, his shoulders rounding. You will leave for Maadenwelk in the morning.

The morning. Maadenwelk. No. No. My heart beats hard and fast, a hammer drumming against my ribs. I cannot leave Tyne. This is my home. This kingdom, this court, is where my purpose lies.

A sudden rage licks along my bones, charging them like lightning rods. My skin starts to shiver. Thunder rumbles above the Great Hall, loud enough to be heard over the musicians efforts.

Count Orlaith reaches for my hand. A dance, my lady, to celebrate our joyous union. You will love Maadenwelk. The air is warm and soft as gossamer, the ground littered with flowers. A kingdom truly worthy of a lady such as yourself.