The Queen of the Gypsies dragged her hand through the basin of stars in front of her throne. The water swirled, and the magic flowed from her fingertips to imbue it with the gift of clairvoyance. It settled and the reflection disappeared, changing into a blackness that light could not pierce. A picture began to form in the stillness.
A stag, glossy coated and proud horned, stood in a grove of trees. But this was not the vision she had wanted to conjure. The basin was supposed to be able to show her the target of her ire, not some stag cropping grass in the woods.
Where was the hunter?
The vision in the basin became blurry, indistinct. It shifted and showed her a stand of trees. She slammed her fist on the arm of her throne and growled. It was said that some magical objects decreased in potency after many years, mayhap her basin of farseeing was simply reaching the end of its usefulness.
There he was.
It was no wonder she hadn't spied him, the tricky bastard was a woodsman, after all. The mellow greens and browns of his cloak and clothing almost merged him into the tree branches where he was concealed. Even his bow and quiver blended into the surrounding greenery. If not for his eyes, blazing, almost luminous, she would've missed him.
She gazed into those eyes through the pool with anger and hate in her heart, remembering times she had gazed into them with love, and this stoked her rage. Her desire for revenge was only kindled to new heights and heats by what would, for anyone else, be a pleasant memory. She grinned, an evil grimace spoiling her beautiful features.
She would finally, after long years of anger and heartache and longing and crying herself to sleep, have her lust for vengeance slaked.
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