4 - Ariadne #3
“A meddling witch like you?”
“Or Ksenia.”
Ariadne’s mood darkens at the mention of her former friend.
“She lurks at parties,” Crescentia murmurs. “She’s always been a quiet observer when she wished to be but… I must admit her stares are disconcerting of late.”
“She will not interfere with me again,” Ariadne says.
“Or you could trust Iona with the truth,” Crescentia says. “If she hasn’t left you yet, I doubt much would deter her.”
Ariadne glowers at her but she only giggles and playfully bumps their shoulders together. Ariadne fails to hide her reluctant smile, but she does heed Crescentia’s words. She will explain everything to Iona… eventually.
Crescentia provides a detailed tour of Lyon’s sights with seemingly endless walks to admire the buildings painted with warm colors and browse the merchants’ carts assembled in the Place du Change. The week passes by swiftly and not unpleasantly, to Ariadne’s great relief.
The city is rich with culture, food, and historical landmarks from a time gone by. It was once the ancient city of Lugdunum, established by the Romans, but when they left, Crescentia’s ancestors felt compelled to stay on Fourvière Hill and remain there still.
As they stroll down a narrow cobblestoned street, Crescentia explains, “My ancestors coexisted with the Celts and practiced humble magic for many generations until one day, thirty years ago, a meteor fell from the sky just beyond the city limits. My mother had been walking alone that night to meditate under the full moon when she came upon the crater and found the celestial rock inside.”
Crescentia lowers her voice, so the passersby are not alarmed by their talk of magic.
“She performed a ritual and absorbed it, taking in all the energy accumulated over centuries of travel through the cosmos. With very few methods to harvest magic, it was extraordinarily fortunate that she happened upon it before anyone else could.”
“What prevented her from harvesting in other ways?” Iona asks.
“Katrin Zerynthos,” Erik says bluntly, uncaring of Ariadne’s apparent discomfort at the mention of her late grandmother. “She expressly forbade those not of sempiterna blood from attending her rituals or conducting their own in places where magic is plentiful.”
Iona’s brow furrows, and when Ariadne glimpses inside her mind, she sees fleeting images of the Rio Paraná in Brazil, and the blue comet ritual they’d taken part in at college. Iona’s hand compulsively reaches up to brush her fingertips over the opal stone of her pendant.
“Anyhow,” Crescentia says, with slightly forced enthusiasm. “The meteor gave my mother and her offspring considerably more magic and thus, I became part of the first generation of ennobled Léandre witches.”
“Nearly ennobled,” Erik corrects her, and Crescentia’s smile falters.
“Until now, at least.” Iona takes her hand and makes a show of admiring the laurel mark.
Her smile returns in full force. “My family’s future has never looked brighter. We may yet become part of a coven soon, if my father has his way.”
“Which coven?” Ariadne asks warily.
“Not yours,” Crescentia rolls her eyes.
“Why not?” Iona asks.
Suppressing a sigh, Ariadne keeps her mind clear as best she can and gives Crescentia a stern look for encouraging this topic of conversation.
Crescentia chastens and with great care, she says, “The Zerynthos Coven is what would be considered one of the few remaining covens distinguished as a cult of mysteries with secret rituals only ever revealed to the devotees within their ranks. It’s said that Hecate herself chooses her devotees, and-”
“The Leandrés would be quite out of place,” Erik chuckles.
“No more than you would be, Virtanen,” Ariadne retorts.
Erik sniffs indignantly but does not object. Crescentia and Iona both look at her as if she’s grown a second head. Then she realizes she’d just defended Crescentia. She clears her throat, feigning nonchalance, but she can feel Iona’s smile.
“What others are there?” Iona asks.
“There are covens for Freyja, Baba Yaga, Lilith, the Yama-Uba, Isis, The Morrigan, Nicnevin, Ishtar, Heka, Kali, Sekhmet, Circe, Erichtho,” Crescentia counts on her fingers.
“A great many to choose from,” Erik says.
“Not all are as… selective as Hecate, who has only seen fit to show favor to the Zerynthos line,” Crescentia explains. “Oftentimes witches and warlocks who wish to further their interests for future generations will join another sempiterna family’s coven in the hope that their magic will grow.”
“That is what my family did, before we were marked,” Erik says. “We served the Magnus Coven for five generations-”
“Five?” Iona’s jaw drops.
“As faithful devotees of Freyja. I now benefit from their labors.” Erik drifts his fingers over the mark on his cheek.
“And what precisely would be expected from a devotee?” Iona asks.
“It is entirely dependent upon who you worship,” Crescentia shrugs, as if it were merely a trifle.
“Most covens have ceremonial rites for their patrons, but none still boast direct contact as the Zerynthos family claims to have with Hecate. My father hasn’t yet decided who we may appeal to, or perhaps we may abstain, like Euphemia. ”
“She is wise to do so,” Ariadne says. “Covens come with far too many obligations.”
“You only say that because-” Crescentia begins to say, but Ariadne silences her with a glare.
“Are covens only headed by Goddesses and the like?” Iona asks.
“Not always,” Crescentia says. “Nostradamus had his own coven. He once lived in this very city when he advised Queen Catherine de' Medici.”
Iona is successfully diverted by that tidbit of history as Crescentia coaxes her farther down the street, regaling her with stories of old prophecies Nostradamus had only deigned to share with fellow witches and warlocks.
They explore the rest of the square, then visit the Cathédrale Saint-Jean before taking a long walk along the Rh?ne and ending their day with dinner at Café du Soleil.
During that time, Crescentia takes every available opportunity to proudly display the mark on her wrist. In the café, when encountering a witch friend of hers, she is sure to angle her arm just so to make the laurel impossible to overlook.
Perhaps her mark should have been a peacock , Ariadne thinks.
You seem to wear yours proudly enough . Iona’s gaze lingers on her flame.
Ariadne presses a finger beneath her chin to guide her eyes upward. Careful, nymph. You wouldn’t want the whole of France to whisper of your lack of decorum.
I could not be blamed for my captivation . Iona’s cheeks turn pink as she grins.
“We should go to the brasserie for a drink,” Erik says.
Crescentia doesn’t appear enthused by the suggestion, so he takes her hand.
“Don’t you want your guests to have a thorough experience of Lyon?” Erik asks.
“I am sure they’re quite exhausted after exploring town all day,” Crescentia says, glancing at Iona for confirmation. “Admittedly so am I.”
“Don’t be such a bore,” Erik says. “It is not that far a walk to Marcel’s.”
“…Very well,” Crescentia relents. “If Iona and Ariadne are agreeable, we may have one drink.”
She puts up a finger for emphasis and Erik smiles in triumph. They finish their dinner and make their way down the dark cobblestoned streets to a new part of town until they arrive at a seedy pub, the patrons varying in rank and stature.
Ariadne quickly wishes she’d worn a different dress with a higher neckline when a group of warlocks stare brazenly at her witch’s mark the moment she enters, glaring at her with unabashed scorn. She tightens her grip on the staff and a deep growl rumbles from Aster.
Iona comes to stand beside her, and the men’s eyes widen when they recognize the pendant. They turn away and whisper amongst themselves.
“Pay them no mind,” Iona whispers, taking her hand.
She guides Ariadne to the bar where Crescentia speaks to a young man with a white apron tied round his waist. He looks to be no older than thirty years of age with shoulder length brown hair and warm brown eyes.
“May I introduce Marcel Beaumont,” Crescentia says. “These are my friends, Iona Evora Lysander and Ariadne Zerynthos.”
“Good evening,” Marcel says, bowing his head as Iona and Ariadne curtsy. “It’s not every day a pendant bearer enters my humble establishment.”
Iona surveys the bustling tavern with a look of confusion. Ariadne does too, and notices Erik speaking to the same group of leering men at the front.
“This is your brasserie?” Iona asks.
“Yes, indeed it is,” Marcel says.
“But…” Iona hesitates, “You are a warlock.”
“Yes,” Marcel says, tilting his head in question.
“Forgive me but… why would a warlock own a bar when we can conjure our own food and drink whenever we please?” Iona asks.
Ariadne grimaces as Marcel lowers his eyes to the pint glass in his hands.
“Have I spoken out of turn?” Iona flushes with regret. “I… I did not intend to denigrate your means of employment.”
Marcel throws his rag over his shoulder and sets down the glass he’d been cleaning. “Allow me to amaze you with my powers of conjuration.”
He pulls out his wand, made of a paler wood than Iona’s, and waves it over the palm of his other hand, behind the surface of the bar.
He incants, “La plume.”
After incanting five times more, a fluffy white feather gradually appears, one thin vane at a time at a terribly slow pace. He hands it to Iona with a small smile.
“My powers are known far and wide,” he says dryly.
“Oh… I see,” Iona says with a nervous smile.
Ariadne scrutinizes the feather. She is aware of those with less magic than they but hasn’t met anyone with quite so little. Neither, it seems, has Iona.
“Do not tease her,” Crescentia admonishes.
Marcel’s smirk fades when he observes Iona’s discomfort.
He leans forward and his voice softens as he explains, “Not all of us are gifted to inherit the wells of magic you all possess. I have magic enough to practice simple spells, but my power is often overextended by midday if I am not attentive enough to reserve it.”
Iona spins the feather between her fingers, testing its weight in her hand. They would barely need to think at all to conjure something so flimsy.
“I earn an honest living with what little magic I have to my name,” he says.
“I can conjure francs, which helps a great deal when business is slow.I can make decent healing potions should I ever fall ill, conjure wine or champagne when we have need of it. Otherwise, my life is quite mundane, I’m afraid. ”
Ariadne looks out at the crowd again and perceives the mixture of auras, some with the distinctive glow of magic and others without.
“And no one suspects you are a warlock?” Iona whispers.
He shrugs. “I am a fixture of the community, and the time of witch trials has ended, for the most part. So long as I am discreet, I am left alone.”
Iona places the feather down upon the wooden surface of the bar.
“I suppose it must appear rather quaint to a sempiterna witch but alas, this is how most magic folk make their way in the world,” he says, with slight condescension.
Ariadne narrows her eyes, but Iona does not appear vexed by his caviling tone. She remains introspective.
“When I once lived with my mother in Cornwall, we sold conjured pearls for our money,” Iona says.
Taken aback, he asks, “Did you?”
“We would sell to merchants in far off towns and not so often that it would arouse suspicion,” Iona says. “I was unaware of my own power then and did not know very many spells. I am still growing accustomed to my magic in all honesty, but I have not forgotten those days.”
Marcel leans his arms against the bar. “Then you are not like our dear Crescentia, born with a silver spoon?”
“Mine was platinum,” Crescentia says before taking a dainty sip of champagne.
“Mine was pewter,” Iona grins.
Marcel’s smile is small but warm. “Finally, a woman with perspective.”
“I have perspective,” Crescentia argues.
“A lady of your breeding could never understand the lives of peasants,” Erik says as he approaches them.
“I suppose not,” Crescentia acquiesces and tries to hide her discomfort at being belittled in the presence of her friends.
Ariadne clenches her jaw but resists her desire to tell Erik what a hypocritical sycophant he really is. Noticing her ire, Crescentia gives her a warning look and a subtle shake of her head.
Iona clears her throat and asks, “Sir, would you consider attending my ritual on the summer solstice?”
Crescentia and Erik gawk at her in utter disbelief, but Ariadne had seen the question ruminating in her mind and is impressed that she finally mustered the courage to ask it.
“I would like to formally invite you and any witch or warlock who wishes to attend. You are the perfect gentleman to spread the word,” Iona says, gesturing to his many patrons.
Marcel scratches his cheek as he struggles to form a reply. “I appreciate the gesture, Miss Lysander, truly, but we are not the sort to attend such grand rites. They are reserved for sempiterna families.”
“I care not for such useless exclusivity. All are welcome to attend my rituals,” Iona insists.
“What a fascinating prospect.”
Ariadne nearly jumps out of her skin at the voice. She’d almost forgotten its vile tone but the moment it touches her ears, every muscle in her body goes rigid. An unwelcome hand grips her shoulder and squeezes far too tightly, making her squirm away from Moira’s unyielding grasp