Dennis McKiernan - Once upon a dreadful time

With the deaths of her three sisters, the witch Hradian- sometimes a crone, other times not-had fled across many twilight bounds of Faery to a distant realm, this one a swamp filled with Bogles and Corpse-candles and other beings of hatred and dread and spite. And in that miasma-filled mire, she lived in a cottage perched upon stilts barely above the slough and its crawling sickness, her dwelling nought but a hovel deep in the grasp of dark shadows cast by a surround of lichen-wattled black cypress trees, their trunks wrenching up out of the slime-laden bog, their limbs covered with a twiggy gray moss dangling down like snares set to strangle the unwary.

And Hradian ranted and fumed and spied and plotted and contrived, yet rejected scheme after scheme, for it seemed all were too risky to her very own life and limb. After all, her three sisters-Rhensibe, Nefasi, and Iniqui-had been more powerful than she, and they had all lost their lives. So her malice and bile and frustration and rage grew for over four years-as the days are counted in the mortal realm-for she would have her revenge against those who had done her and her sisters wrong.

But it seemed no matter her craving for retribution, her designs would come to nought.

But then. .

. . Once upon a dreadful time. .

. .

On a moonless night, a tallow candle flickered in the darkness, a tendril of greasy smoke rising up to contribute its dole to the smudge-covered ceiling. And in the wavering shadows, Hradian, now a crone accoutered in tattered black, with black lace frills and trim and danglers, stared into a wide bowl, the vessel filled with an inky fluid-a dark mirror of sorts. Seething with rage, she muttered words, strange and arcane, and stared into the ebon depths, seeking answers, seeking revenge, seeking to see her enemies. A visage swam into view, that of a raven-haired, grey-eyed man, and, as the image cleared, beside him stood a blond, blue-eyed demoiselle. The femme held a boy, some moons more than three summers old. And they all three were laughing.

“Alain, Prince of the Summerwood,” hissed Hradian, “and his whore Camille-the one who saved him. And now they have a brat, a son.” Hradian leaned back and ground her teeth in fury. “It should have been Dre’ela’s child, but, oh no, Camille had to come along and spoil everything.” Hradian slammed the butt of a fist to the table, the black liquid sloshing in response.

“Stupid, stupid Trolls-Dre’ela, Olot, Te’efoon-dead at the hands of that little slut! All my plans concerning the Summerwood brought to nought.” The witch hunched forward and stared down into the yet-rippling darkness, and when it settled and showed once again Alain and Camille and their child, Hradian twisted her hand into a clawlike shape, her black talons hovering over the image, and she spat, “I’ll find a way.” In that very moment, Camille’s visage took on an aspect of alarm, and she clutched the boy close and looked about as if seeking a threat. “Sst!” hissed Hradian, and she jerked away, and with a gesture the vision in the bowl vanished. “Must be careful, my love,” whispered Hradian to herself, glancing ’round with her sly, leering eyes. “You can’t be giving any warnings, else they’ll be on guard.”

Once more she bent over the bowl, and again she muttered esoteric words, and now there swam into view the image of a man with silver-white hair and ice-blue eyes. In the distance beyond that man, Wolves came racing through snow. “Murderer,” gritted Hradian, and she reached up and fondled her left ear, the one scored as if nicked by an arrow or cut by a blade.

“You killed my sister Rhensibe, you and your curs. I told her it would be best to strike directly, but, oh no, she wanted a more subtle revenge against Valeray and Saissa and their spawn. But you, Borel, Prince of the Winterwood, you spoiled all.” In that moment the pack reached the man and milled around, all but the lead Wolf, a huge male, who stood stock still and stared directly up and into Hradian’s eyes, as if seeing the witch through her own arcane mirror. Hradian drew away from the ebon surface, and, with a wave of her hand, the image vanished. “No warnings, my love. Remember, no warnings.” Yet leaning back against the chair, the witch sighed in weariness, for unlike her sister Iniqui-now dead-Hradian had never found it easy to cast these far-seeing spells. Groaning, she stood and straightened her back. With tatters and danglers streaming from her black dress like cobwebs and shadows, she made her way to her cot and, not bothering to undress, fell onto it exhausted. “Morrow night, yes, morrow night for another casting, in the dark of the moon. Then mayhap I can find the key to my revenge against Valeray and Saissa and all their brood.”

. .

The following eve, once more Hradian leaned forward and stared into the bowl and whispered cryptic words, while outside dark fog coiled across the turgid bog and slithered among the twisted trees, and only now and again was the silence interrupted by a chopped-off scream as something lethal made a kill. But with her whispered incantation, Hradian found herself peering into Autumnwood Manor, where Princess Liaze-auburn-haired and amber-eyed-and her consort Prince Luc-dark-haired and blue-eyed-formerly a comte ere his marriage to the princess, seemed to be making ready for a journey. And as the prince bent over to take up a boot to place in the portmanteau, from his neck dangled an amulet of some sort-silver and set with a gem, sparkling blue in the lantern light. “Where to, I wonder?” muttered Hradian. “Where do you plan to go?” But even as the witch mused, just as had Camille and the Wolf that Hradian had spied upon in her ebon mirror, Liaze frowned and looked about, searching. Swiftly, the witch dispelled the image. Ah, if she only had mastered the skill at this as had her sister Iniqui-murdered by Liaze, no less-there would have been no seepage of power for any of them to have felt.

Hradian stood and stepped to the hearth and took up the teapot sitting on the stones in the heat of the glowing coals.

She poured a cup of the herbal brew-monkshood petals and belladonna berries among the mix of leaves therein-and then she paced to the window and stared out into the dank night. No starlight penetrated the thick blanket of fog, and the slitherings and ploppings of unseen things were muffled by the murk.

Even so, a shrill scream sounded nearby, followed by a splatting of flight as something fled through the bog and something else hurtled after. Hradian smiled and dreamt of the day when that might be one of Valeray’s offspring fleeing in terror while she herself gave pursuit.

Finishing the herbal drink, Hradian stepped back to the table, back to the bowl, back to the task at hand.

An image formed in the dark mirror: that of a demoiselle with pale blond hair and green eyes. “Celeste,” hissed the witch. “The last of Valeray’s get. Bah, young she might be, yet

’twas she and her consort Roel who murdered my sister Nefasi.” The scene widened, and in the background stood a slender young man with black hair and dark grey eyes. “Ah, the consort,” muttered Hradian. “What’s this? It looks as if they also are preparing for a journey. Where to, I wonder? Beyond the Springwood? If so, perhaps I will have an opportunity.” Even as Hradian mused, Celeste shivered and frowned and looked over her shoulder as if seeking a foe behind. Hradian quickly gestured, and the image vanished.

Again, Hradian arose and trod to the hearth and once more filled her cup with the herbal draught. As before, she stood at her window and peered out into the darkness; in the distance she could hear the crunching of bones as something chewed and slavered. “Ah, the hunter was successful, as one day I shall be.”