Once upon a dreadful time ou-4

by Dennis L McKiernan

  Once upon a dreadful time

  ( Once Upon - 4 )

  Dennis L. Mckiernan

  Dennis L. McKiernan

  Once upon a dreadful time

  “Do all fairy tales begin ‘Once upon a time’?”

  “How else, my child, how else?”

  Revenge

  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.”

  Slowly she sipped until
she had downed the last of her drink, and, renewed, again Hradian stepped to her ebon mirror.

  “One more. One more. I have seen the Summerwood, the Winterwood, the Autumnwood, and the Springwood. . all of the spawn of Valeray and Saissa. Now to look in on those two.” She uttered dark words, and in the bowl as if in the distance there appeared an image of the Palace of Seasons, and toward this place Hradian willed herself to go. She seemed to fly o’er the wooded hills of this small demesne, the kingdom inaccessible except through the four forests ruled over by the children of King Valeray and Queen Saissa, though unlike those individual domains, this realm, central to the others, underwent the change of seasons, and now summertime lay on the land. Over the palace grounds she soared, and below in a grassy field stood tents and stands and a jousting list, and pennons flew in the starlight; it was as if all was ready for a tournament. And from tall poles flew the banners of each of the Forests of the Seasons-

  the green-leafed oak of the Summerwood; the silver snowflake of the Winterwood; the scarlet maple leaf of the Autumnwood, and the full-blossomed cherry tree of the Springwood. “Ah, are they preparing for a visit from their brood?” Into the palace she swooped, where servants bustled thither and yon, making ready for guests. “Ha! Yes, I do believe here is where the children come. ’Tis not far across the twilight borders from each of their separate manors. If so, then soon they will all be gathered together in this one place. Mayhap there is something I can do.”

  Given the seepage of power from her casting, and not daring to risk a confrontation with Queen Saissa that would perhaps whisper warning, Hradian dispelled the image and leaned back and pondered. “What to do? What to do?”

  Once more she stepped to the window. The distant sound of the crunching of bones yet drifted on the air. “How to gain my revenge? For the children murdered Rhensibe, Nefasi, and Iniqui, and the sire and dam are responsible for imprisoning my master Orbane in the Castle of Shadows beyond the Black Wall of the World, a castle from which even he cannot escape, and I have not the power to loose him. And Valeray and his get seem aided by the Fates themselves, and only my master can stand up to those three. What to do? What to do?” Yet mulling over what seemed an insoluble problem, Hradian, weary, threw off her clothes and took to her bed. And with all she had seen whirling about in her thoughts and her mind searching for some resolution, she fell into a restless sleep.

  . .

  It was in the hours just ere dawn that Hradian bolted upright.

  “So that’s what Iniqui was after!” Hradian jumped up and in her nakedness danced a whirling jig, her gleeful laughter ringing throughout the cottage, for now she knew how to get her revenge for absolutely everything.

  Awareness

  “Oh,” exclaimed Celeste, looking over her shoulder, a frisson running up her spine.

  “What is it, cherie?”

  The princess turned toward Roel. “As before, I felt as if someone or something dreadful were in the room.” Roel stepped to his racked armor and took up Coeur d’Acier, the sword gleaming silver in the lamplight.

  “It’s gone, Roel,” said Celeste. “Vanished as quick as it came.”

  “Nevertheless. .” said the black-haired knight, and, with blade in hand, he moved to the door and jerked it open and looked up and down the empty hallway beyond. Then he strode back across the room to a window and threw wide the drapes and peered out into the glittering starlight to see nought but the lawn of Springwood Manor and the trees of the forest in the distance beyond, the green gone dark in the nighttime. He turned from the window and, as would a tiger unleashed, he prowled about the chamber, opening the curtains shrouding the bed and then the doors to the tall armoire, and then to the garderobe beyond.

  He flung wide the door and disappeared within, and then stalked back out and entered the bathing room and privy adjacent.

  “Nothing,” he said upon returning once more to the bed chamber.

  “Perhaps this time it was just a whim,” said Celeste.

  Roel reracked his sword and then stepped to the princess and took her in his arms. “Non, Celeste, I do not believe so.

  These feelings of yours have sporadically occurred throughout what, two or three summers? Love, you are sensing someone or something with malice in its heart.”

  She looked up into his eyes of dark grey. “As have Liaze and Camille. . and Michelle, too, but only when she is with Borel.”

  “A deadly intent aimed at him, do you think?” Celeste shrugged but said nought.

  Roel stroked her pale yellow hair. “When all the family gathers at your sire and dam’s palace, we will call a conference and discuss this enmity.”

  “Oh, Roel, I would not press gloom upon such a gala.”

  “Cherie, ’tis something that must be dealt with.”

  “How can one deal with such?”

  “That I do not know, Celeste, but to ignore it is to perhaps court disaster.” Roel smiled down at her. “We must not hide our heads under our wings, my little towheaded chickadee, else the snake will strike, the cat will pounce, and we will be nought but a flurry of bloody feathers.”

  Celeste burst into laughter, her green eyes sparkling. “Chickadee? Chickadee?”

  “Oui, my love, now give me a peck.”

  . .

  In a bedchamber in Autumnwood Manor, Luc turned to Liaze.

  “Another one?”

  The princess took a deep breath and let it out. “Oui, cheri. It lingered a moment, then was gone. Yesternight Camille sensed maleficence, too.” Liaze replaced the long gown back in the garderobe and stepped to an escritoire. She opened a drawer and fished among tissue-thin tiny rolls of paper. “Here,” she said, handing the message to Luc. “This came by Summerwood falcon in the mark of noon.”

  Moving to the lamp the better to see the tiny writing, the dark-haired prince read the raptor-borne missive: My dear Liaze, it happened again, that feeling as if someone or something wicked were in my chamber. But then it vanished, just as before. We must speak of this at the gathering. Duran is well. Alain sends his regards.-Camille

  Luc looked up from the message. “She is right. We must hold council at the gathering. Yet were I to hazard a guess, I would say that the fourth acolyte is somehow involved.”

  “Fourth? Ah, oui. Hradian. But she is the only acolyte now.”

  Luc nodded and handed the missive back to Liaze, then turned and closed the portmanteau.

  . .

  “I believe that is all,” said Camille, hanging the last of the gowns in the tall, hinged trunk.

  Duran looked up from amid a scatter of toys. “Non, Maman.” He took up a white horse from among his playthings, the tiny bells on the caparisoned steed jingling. “Asphodel will go, too.”

  “Ah, the swift Fairy horse,” said Camille. “You are right.

  We must not leave him behind. After all, his namesake helped Oncle Borel save Tante Chelle.”

  “Fast,” said Duran, clip-clopping the toy across the floor to Camille and then into the portmanteau.

  “Oui, fleet,” replied Camille. Then she scooped three-summers-old Duran up in her arms. “Oh, my big boy, you are halfway to four, and every day you grow to look more like your father. You have his grey eyes, though your fair hair is more like mine.”

  “Will I be a Bear, too?”

  “ ’Tis unlikely.”

  Disappointment shone in Duran’s face. “I would like to be a Bear, Maman.”

  “Perhaps one day,” said Camille, clasping the child close.

  “And speaking of your father, where could he be, I wonder?”

  . .

  Duran’s father, slender and tall and raven-haired, and not at all looking like a Bear, stood in the Summerwood armory with Armsmaster Bertran. “Is the warband ready?”

  “Oui, my lord. Does Lady Camille yet sense something or someone of ill intent?”

  Alain glanced at the scarred veteran, the mark on his cheek taken in the battle in the realm of the Changelings. He nodded.


  “On occasion.”

  “My lord, we shall be armed to the teeth. She and Prince Duran will be well protected. It is a short journey to the palace.”

  “Two days apace,” replied Alain. “The baggage train: who is assigned as its escort?”

  “Gerard and his men are with those already on the journey.

  Others will trail us. Those I have assigned to Phillipe and his crew; they will arrive a day or two after.”

  “Good men, all, Gerard and Phillipe and their bands.” Alain fell silent, and after a moment Bertran said, “My lord, are you certain you will not go armed-a sword or even a dirk?”

  “Non, Armsmaster. The Bear will suffice, if needed.”

  “As you will, my prince.”

  . .

  Borel looked up from the missive and sighed. “Did you sense aught this time, Chelle?”

  “Non, Borel,” said Michelle, concern in her sapphire-blue eyes. “But you know it seems only to happen when I am with you. It’s as if something evil glances in upon us. . or rather glances in upon you.”

  Borel ran a hand through his long silver-white hair. “Why is it, I wonder, that neither I nor Alain nor Luc nor Roel discern such?”

  “Mayhap it is because you are male?”

  Frowning in thought, Borel handed the message back to Michelle and said, “Now and again Slate seems to sense something amiss, and he is male.” As she put away the tissue-thin strip, “Slate is a Wolf,” replied Michelle, as if that explained all.

  Borel barked a laugh. “Are you saying that women are closer to Wolves than are men?”

  Michelle laughed and pushed Borel backwards and onto the bed, where she flounced up her skirts and straddled him. She bent forward, her long golden hair falling down about his face as well as hers as she looked into his ice-blue eyes and said,

  “Wolves, are we?” She kissed him, long and passionately, then gently took his lower lip in her teeth and growled.