2 - Iona #2
She wonders if perhaps the Evoras have dispersed, moved on to a new city, or returned to Portugal.
In the end, a search that was only meant to take a week at most has turned into a two, almost three weeklong endeavor.
The summer solstice is fast approaching, a fact that Iona refuses to acknowledge just yet.
She’d considered sending a letter to her uncle and inquire as to what he might know, but she is hesitant to bother him while he mourns the disgrace of his only daughter, Elise. Samuel deserves time to heal with his wife undisturbed.
Iona gasps when a shimmering portal appears directly in front of her with Ariadne on the other side.
“Are we searching the city, or aren’t we?” she asks.
“My, we are temperamental this morning,” Iona says sardonically.
Ariadne leans against her staff and broods from beneath her long dark lashes.
“Very well. Let’s go,” Iona says.
They’ve made their home in a bungalow not unlike the one they inhabited during their Yule holiday the year before, deciding to conjure it at the edge of the city on the bank of the Rio Tamanduateí.
They’ve taken to spending their days wandering the streets to observe the locals for any sign of magic or glimpse of a notable aura.
As they pass by a partially built cathedral, Ariadne remains noticeably mute.
I must say, your most attractive quality is your temper, Iona thinks, her sarcasm enough to make Ariadne’s lips twitch.
I thought my hands held your highest appreciation, Ariadne thinks.
Iona’s cheeks heat. Do you intend to sulk for the entire morning?
Or perhaps my eyes? You seem quite taken with those. Ariadne ignores her.
At present, your beauty pales in comparison to your impudence. Iona meets her gaze, only to find herself lost in those very eyes that never fail to disarm her.
You wound me, Ariadne thinks. However shall I cope without your steadfast admiration? I’ve grown quite accustomed to it.
Your own vanity shall sustain you, I’m sure, Iona retorts.
Ariadne chuckles and Iona welcomes the sound. She takes Ariadne’s arm and goes to lean her head on her shoulder, but Ariadne pulls away.
Wait. Her alarm makes Iona pause.
She searches for whatever has caused it. At the other end of the plaza stands an elderly couple with white hair and weathered skin, who observe them with shrewd disdain.
You mustn’t forget yourself here, Ariadne warns.
The elderly woman makes the sign of the cross and kisses her fingers.
Iona averts her eyes. I do not think it is our proximity that disturbs them.
There are a rare few humans with an awareness of magic in the world. Iona’s mother taught her from a young age to keep away from any person who stares too long or asks too many questions. One human alone is harmless but fear often causes them to swarm.
Still, we cannot be too careful. Ariadne’s eyes narrow slightly.
Can you not shroud us within an illusion so I may touch you whenever I please? Iona asks.
Ariadne glances sideways at her with mock disapproval. Are you requesting the use of an ancient artifact to make your morning stroll more pleasant?
The labradorite stone on Ariadne’s staff glows as she crafts a new illusion and sustains it with ease.
“Come here.” Ariadne drapes an arm across her shoulders and presses her lips to Iona’s cheek, lingering there with soft, gentle kisses, and grinning against Iona’s skin when she incites the blush she’d hoped for.
Wisp and Aster follow on either side of their witches. Ariadne has already obscured them from view to prevent any panic from the humans and turned her irises from red to brown to avoid any odd looks. She can keep the illusions steady for hours on end without needing rest.
Though the staff gives Ariadne a wealth of magic, often more than she can hope to expend within a day, Iona’s pendant possesses even greater power.
Her spells can at times be overzealous while she grows accustomed to her new threshold of ability.
She hopes to learn just how vast her magical ability has become once their holiday is through.
Ariadne advised her never to take the pendant off under any circumstances.
Do you sense anything? Ariadne asks.
No… nothing yet, Iona says, letting her gaze drift across the bustling plaza.
Not a single aura is of any interest. She wonders if perhaps their search is entirely pointless, when Wisp’s ears perk up and she runs ahead of them.
“Wisp,” Iona hisses.
Aster runs after the fox before Ariadne can grab him.
Where are they going? Iona asks.
Ariadne shrugs and chases after the two animals with Iona close behind.
They make their way across the busy square and down a back alley until they come across a wooden wagon painted the color of a ripened tangerine with two yoked oxen tied to it.
The air smells distinctly of annatto and other fresh herbs.
“You will do as I ask, bruxa,” a demanding male voice echoes off the stone buildings.
“I know not of what you speak,” a gravely woman’s voice responds.
Iona and Ariadne make careful, silent steps around the wagon. There they find Wisp and Aster sitting near an old, wizened woman with wavy gray hair that reaches her upper thighs. Her dress is stark white against her tanned skin, and her posture is hunched.
A middle-aged man stands tall and threatening before the woman, though she does not seem intimidated by him in the least.
“Find another way to settle the score with your enemy,” the woman says. “You lot do well enough with fists and muskets. You do not need help destroying each other.”
The man spits at the woman’s feet. Iona steps forward to help, but Ariadne grasps her skirt to hold her back.
He is only a human, Iona protests.
She is not. Ariadne doesn’t let go.
“You will regret denying me my vengeance,” he vows.
“You will have many more regrets than I when you leave this world,” the woman presages.
His face, once red with anger, turns deathly pale as he storms off in a rage.
“Many blessings to you both,” the woman says.
She turns and regards them with a discerning gaze and a reserved smile. When she steps closer to Wisp and Aster and pats them affectionately on their heads, Iona finds the old woman to be far more sprightly than she would have expected.
“Many blessings, senhora,” Iona says, “Are you quite well?”
The old woman gestures behind herself with a smirk. “Men like him are far more frightened of me than I am of them.”
Ariadne keeps hold of Iona’s skirt, and she glances back at her questioningly.
The old woman curtsies. “I am called Jacira. What is your name, pendant bearer?”
Iona curtsies in turn. “My name is Iona Evora Lysander, and this is Ariadne-”
“A Zerynthos witch so far from home,” Jacira says, her eyes resting on Ariadne’s witch’s mark.
Ariadne stiffens slightly, her mouth forming a thin line.
“Save your fear for what is to come, pequenina. Do not waste it on me,” Jacira says.
Ariadne narrows her eyes and is about to respond when they hear footsteps approaching. At first Iona worries that the man has returned but instead, a young woman turns the corner.
“Please!” the woman begs as she runs towards them. “Please help me!”
A weak cough and wheezing breath comes from a bundle clutched to the woman’s chest. Jacira extends her arms and the woman immediately hands over her sickly child.
“She cannot breathe,” the woman cries.
“She will,” Jacira says with absolute certainty.
Before Iona can offer to heal the baby herself, Jacira takes the bundle with her inside the orange wagon and leaves the door ajar. A heady fragrance of herbs strengthens in the air. Ariadne’s eyes are locked on the young woman, who paces back and forth in agitation.
I do not sense danger here. Iona glances at her. You need not be so suspicious.
You’ve always been far more trusting than I. Ariadne takes her wrist and gently pulls her closer.
A rattling of vials from within the wagon makes them all hold their breath.
Why are you so convinced of her duplicity? Iona asks.
She likely sensed your power the moment we stepped through the portal.
Do you not wonder why she chose to summon us now and not days ago?
Or why she chose to conceal her own power from us?
Ariadne asks. Crones like her are often so deftly attuned to their environment that they needn’t ask questions at all.
She intuited our names before she even beheld our faces. Such is the potency of age.
A strong, healthy cry breaks the silence. The young woman sobs with relief as Jacira emerges from the wagon, the baby squirming and wailing.
“There, there,” Jacira says as she returns the baby to her mother and presses her hand against the child’s forehead and murmurs an indiscernible spell.
“Thank you,” the young woman says to Jacira, though her eyes are only on her beloved daughter as her distress subsides.
“She’ll be a handful,” Jacira smiles wryly. “Keep a very close eye on her.”
The woman thanks Jacira profusely and offers her money, which she refuses to accept.
We are a world away from the troubles of home, and we have magic enough to protect us from unseen harm, Iona thinks. Can we not afford to be cordial?
Ariadne’s expression remains guarded, but she is partially appeased by Jacira’s show of compassion. When the woman and her baby have gone, Jacira takes a seat within the wagon’s doorway and produces a white rag to wipe sweat off her brow.
“Now,” Jacira says. “We haven’t much time before our visitor arrives-”
“Visitor? What visitor?” Iona asks.
“Please,” Jacira says. “Allow me to explain.”
“No, allow me.”
The sound of wood scrapping against stone creates a faint echo against the surrounding buildings.
As the sun disappears behind a cloud, an old man in a black suit and top hat emerges from the alley to their left, a mawkish smile fixed on his wrinkled face.
His wood cane taps against the cobblestones with every step he takes.
Ariadne gently pulls Iona behind her, which causes the man to stop in his tracks.
“There is no need for alarm.” The man puts up his hands. “You’ve traveled so far to meet me, after all.”
“Leave us in peace, Goncalo,” Jacira says. “Your cause will not appeal to her.”
“And why shouldn’t it? She is a Lysander, too, is she not?” Goncalo asks, his voice tinged with menace.
“It seems you have us at a disadvantage, sir,” Ariadne says.
“Of course, my apologies.” He removes his hat and bows. “Goncalo Evora, at your service. It seems you’ve already met my sister.”
To hear the name spoken after so many days of searching should have filled her with joy, but it makes the hairs on the back of Iona’s neck stand on end.
“Only just,” Jacira says, “but we’ve much more to discuss, if you’d kindly be on your way.”
Iona studies the man with growing suspicion and marks his persistent covetous stare lingering on her pendant.
“You are the spitting image of your dear mother,” Goncalo murmurs.
“You knew her?” Iona takes two compulsory steps towards him, but Wisp comes to stand in her way.
“Leona was my youngest daughter,” Goncalo says. “My pride and joy.”
Jacira scoffs and Iona glances back at her with uncertainty before asking the man, “You are my grandfather?”
“Yes,” his smile widens. “All these years… I wondered if we might meet someday on Samhain, if at all. How fortunate to see you now while I still have life left in me.”
He opens his arms to embrace her, but when Iona glances at her familiar, Wisp’s eyes plead for her to stay back.
After a moment’s hesitation, she peers into Goncalo’s aura and though he is disciplined enough to obscure it, the pendant’s magic allows her to perceive fleeting images of flowing waters and a woman’s mournful face.
Her dark hair billows around her, the wind of a blustering gale casting rain upon her, mixing with her streaming silver tears.
His burning hatred for this woman is undeniable, in stark contrast to his blithe demeanor.
Then his thoughts shift to the pendant again, and the rapacity she’d seen in his eyes is revealed to its fullest extent, compelling her to take a step away from him. His face falls as he lets his arms hang at his sides.
“You think you can fool a pendant bearer with empty sentiments?” Jacira asks. “You would need much more than that to deceive her.”
“Please, I am so confused,” Iona admits. “What is it that you want from me?”
“Want from you?” Goncalo lets out a stilted laugh. “Only to be reunited, to introduce you to the rest of your family, so that we may be whole again.”
“He wants retribution,” Jacira warns.
“I am not a patient woman,” Ariadne says through gritted teeth, her anxiety at their situation making Iona’s skin itch. “Please won’t someone speak plainly of their intentions?”
No need. Iona places a comforting hand on her arm to soothe her. “Good day, Grandfather. I hope when next we meet you shall be more forthcoming.”
His smile fades. “What… Whatever do you mean? I have no-”
Iona turns her back to him and instead approaches Jacira. “What is it you wish to show me?”
Jacira’s answering smile is radiant and filled with pride. “Come.”
“You will regret this,” Goncalo says.
“Go back to Portugal.” Jacira shoos him away and beckons them to step into her wagon.
Ariadne climbs after Jacira and holds out her hand to help Iona step inside.
She marvels at the walls that are covered with plants, some dried and bundled together, and others growing from pots on shelves.
Wooden cabinets are filled with countless vials containing potions of all colors and consistencies.
“She will never find peace!” Goncalo calls after them. “You would have her suffer forever.”
“And you would forsake her for your own gain,” Jacira says. “Begone from this place. It is your home no longer.”
Iona reaches down to help Wisp onto the wagon, while Aster makes the jump with ease. She spares a final glance at her grandfather, who glares at her without pretense, his countenance now devoid of warmth.
“Just like your mother,” Goncalo snarls.
“Yes, sir. I most certainly am,” Iona says.
With a heavy sigh, he places his hat upon his head and takes his leave.