7 - Iona #4
“If I was, I’m sure the thief was most disappointed by my lack of coin.” Rebekka smirks, “but more likely I paid some fair maiden a visit and left my jacket, shoes, and hat behind. I couldn’t tell you when or where…”
“You must be more careful,” Euphemia admonishes.
“Yes, yes. I’m sure if you had your way I would be embroidering cushions with you by the fire.” Rebekka bats her eyelashes.
“Or settling down, as Ariadne has,” Euphemia says.
“What would be the fun in that?” Rebekka asks.
They go on like that for a while, their voices blending into the cacophony of other conversations surrounding them. Iona takes a sip of her wine, and soon she is laughing along with the others, her discomfort forgotten, until she is overcome by the distinct feeling of being watched.
She looks over her shoulder to find Ksenia at the other end of the room dressed in a black velvet gown with ringlets of her pale blonde hair framing her face, staring intently at them.
The prominent dark circles beneath her ice blue eyes make Iona wonder if she’s slept a wink in the month since college ended.
She is almost compelled to cross the room and speak to her, but Ksenia’s gaze shifts to over Iona’s shoulder.
“Good evening,” Samaira says as she approaches wearing a sunset orange gown with a deep red sash thrown over her shoulder.
“Samaira!” Iona’s spirits soar. “How good it is to see you!”
“And you, my friends,” Samaira says, then opens her arms for Ariadne to embrace her fiercely. “I’ve missed you so! How have your travels treated you thus far?”
“They have been… rather eventful,” Ariadne says when she pulls away. “We shall speak of it later.”
Iona embraces Samaira, too, and when she looks over her shoulder again, Ksenia is gone. It’s just as well. Iona has no real interest in speaking with her now or perhaps ever again.
Despite their surprisingly cordial exchange when parting ways in May, she cannot forget the many ways Ksenia had been cruel to both her and Ariadne when she’d thought she might have a chance at claiming the pendant for herself.
While Ariadne speaks animatedly with Samaira, regaling her with stories of Brazil’s great beauty, there is a distinctive difference in Samaira’s countenance, a gloom in her aspect that gives Iona pause. Then she glances down at Samaira’s hands clasped tightly in front of her.
“Where is your ring?” Iona asks.
Samaira’s smile fades as she tries to move her hands behind her back, but Ariadne is too quick, grasping Samaira’s wrist and lifting it up to the candlelight.
There is only a faint mark of lighter skin on her left ring finger, but no sapphire in sight.
It’s quite odd, since Samaira has never been without the ring since Iona first met her.
Ariadne had told her of the ring’s secret power to give Samaira visions of the future.
“I took it off,” she says, gently freeing her wrist from Ariadne’s grip.
“Why?” Ariadne asks.
“Is something wrong?” Iona asks.
“No! No, no, everything is… fine,” Samaira says. “I merely needed a respite. That is all. There is no need for alarm.”
“A respite from what exactly?” Ariadne asks.
Samaira sighs and looks over her shoulder, then leans forward and whispers, “Follow me.”
She leads them away from the ballroom and down a long hall where she cracks open a door, then beckons them to enter what looks to be a well-used study. Dusty books are strewn everywhere, cluttering a collection of wooden shelves, and piled on every chair and table.
“We should not be disturbed here,” Samaira says.
“Good,” Ariadne says, looking at her expectantly.
“First I must ask, what did you find in Brazil?” Samaira asks.
Ariadne’s responding sigh of frustration is ignored by them both as Iona conjures chairs and motions for Samaira to sit.
“There is another malefician,” Iona says. “We found the remnants of their ritual and… my grandfather’s body.”
“Your grandfather?” Samaira’s eyes go wide. “Oh, Iona, I am so terribly sorry.”
She lowers her head. “I’d only just met him… My sorrow lies with his family, those who really knew him. It must have been a terrible shock for them, and to know he died so violently… He was slaughtered like an animal.”
Tears threaten to spill from Iona’s eyes, but her grief is overshadowed by confusion when Samaira does not seem entirely surprised to hear such awful news.
“You knew?” Iona asks, but Samaira quickly shakes her head.
“No, but… the darkness I’ve felt for months did not subside when Elise was defeated.
On the contrary, it has only grown,” Samaira says, fiddling with her lace fan in her lap.
“I thought I was merely fatigued from a long year of study and perhaps there was residual maleficium still lingering from Elise’s spells.
When I left Austria, I thought all would return to normal. I wished it would… I’d hoped…”
“Samaira, please,” Ariadne says. “Tell us what is ailing you.”
She looks between them, and, to Iona’s dismay, she begins to weep. It is disconcerting to see one so calm and composed as Samaira be so overcome with desolation, and Iona goes to kneel before her and grasp her hands tightly.
“Don’t despair. Please…” Iona says. “Whatever it is, we shall face it with you.”
Ariadne conjures a handkerchief and hands it to Samaira, who takes it gratefully and tries to compose herself.
“When I returned to Nepal, I felt sick. Not in body, but in mind,” Samaira says softly. “I decided to abscond into the mountains to meditate and heal. My family has a small dwelling there, overlooking the valley. I stayed for three nights. On the fourth day, I had a ghastly… all-consuming vision.”
“Of what?” Ariadne prompts.
Iona cuts her a look. For pity’s sake, let her speak in her own time.
Ariadne clenches her jaw, her anxiety running rampant and putting Iona on edge as well, but she gives one short nod of assent. Iona’s attention returns to Samaira, who leans in closer.
“All I see is darkness,” Samaira mouths, so quietly that Iona strains to hear it, “and all I hear are screams.”
“Whose screams?” Iona whispers, the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end.
“I could not say… When one is overcome with terror and agony, there is nothing recognizable in their voice,” Samaira says.
Ariadne’s eyes glaze over in remembrance.
When Iona looks through the bond, she hears the memory of Vivien’s screams. On that fateful night at the river, her former friend’s voice was unfamiliar to her though they had been acquainted for many years.
The sound was wild, unhinged. Iona shivers and leaves Ariadne’s mind.
“Man or woman?” Ariadne asks.
“Woman, I think,” Samaira says. “I had the same vision every day, time and again. Once it starts, I cannot not escape it. I am forced to listen, trapped in darkness, until it is over. Until whoever it is… dies. It is unendurable. When the vision reoccurred a third time, I took off the ring and have not dared to touch it since. That was one week ago.”
There is a prolonged silence, wherein Iona cannot look away from Ariadne’s face. She wants to reenter her mind but is frightened of what she might find there.
“If I had not been such a coward, perhaps your grandfather may have lived.” Samaira wipes away another tear.
“You mustn’t torment yourself with such hypotheticals,” Iona says. “Who is to say if you would have seen it? You’ve no control over the visions you receive, is that not so? And you would not have recognized his face anyhow.”
Iona looks to Ariadne for support, but she appears conflicted.
“Ari?” Samaira asks softly.
“I cannot imagine the torment you face. I cannot begin to understand… but this artifact is in your possession, and it is useless without someone to wield it,” Ariadne says.
“We shall never know what visions you may have missed since you decided to take the ring off. Perhaps you were not meant to prevent Goncalo Evora’s death, but there may be others. ”
“Ariadne,” Iona protests, but Samaira shakes her head.
“No… she is right,” Samaira says. “It was selfish of me.”
“I disagree strongly,” Iona says. “Why must you suffer needlessly?”
“It would not be needless if I may provide invaluable insight,” Samaira says.
Iona shakes her head obstinately. “If our fate is sealed and predetermined, then nothing you see could change it.”
“By choosing not to wear the ring, I do my part in sealing fate,” Samaira insists. “If I wear it, we may have a chance to intervene.”
“But… you could say that of anything at all. You are not solely responsible for preventing every tragedy from now until your death,” Iona argues.
As another silence lingers, she reconsiders the magnitude of her words.
In a sense, that is exactly what all three of them are now responsible for.
Iona, as a pendant bearer, Ariadne, with her staff, and Samaira, with her ring, are all capable of saving innocent lives.
Could they ever in good conscience decide to turn a blind eye?
“We must prepare ourselves for the days ahead,” Samaira says. “I fear our troubles are far from over.”
The door to the study opens and Euphemia steps inside with her dove perched on her shoulder. “What are you all doing hidden away in here?”
“Nothing,” Ariadne says. “In fact, we were just leaving.”
She offers her hand to Samaira, who takes it and stands, wiping the final remnants of her tears as she regains her composure and smiles.
“Good evening, Euphemia,” she says.
“My dear, you look to be in need of a strong drink,” Euphemia observes.
“If Crescentia hasn’t drunk it all,” Samaira’s laugh is stilted as she follows Euphemia out of the room.
Iona wants to stand but finds herself frozen in place. Ariadne watches her with an unreadable expression.
We should enjoy the party, while we can, Ariadne thinks.
I do not feel like celebrating. Iona avoids her gaze.
“Wallowing in anguish will not bring him back to life,” Ariadne says.
Iona’s eyebrows raise incredulously. “What a horrid thing to say.”
“We cannot change his fate now, nor anyone else’s. Death is a terrible but unavoidable part of life,” Ariadne says. “Did you forget what Jacira said?”
“Yes, we are still alive, but we should not be calloused to others’ suffering whenever it suits us,” Iona says.
“So says the woman who suggested Samaira abandon her artifact to avoid its negative side effects,” Ariadne says.
“She should not be riddled with guilt for avoiding such terrible visions,” Iona argues. “You should understand her aversion to a recurring nightmare, perhaps better than anyone.”
Ariadne blinks and looks away. “My nightmares are a weakness. I would gladly welcome any benefit to be had from them.”
“Ari,” Iona sighs, but does not know what to say. She regrets mentioning Vivien at all, while the memory of her screams still ring in their ears.
Ariadne nearly leaves the room without another word but hesitates in the doorway.
“The best way to honor the dead is by remaining vigilant and preserving life however we can. We shall require Samaira’s help in that endeavor, and for that she needs her ring.
Meanwhile, I shall have a drink with my friends.
You are welcome to join us when you are ready. ”
Ariadne leaves the door open when she steps out into the hall. The echoes of the raucous party are grating on Iona’s agitated nerves, but as the seconds turn to minutes, she cannot bring herself to walk the short distance to the door and close it.
She supposes she should go out there and find it in herself to be cordial, acquaint herself with new witches, craft new alliances, and set aside her worries for the moment.
That is what she should do, but in truth, she hasn’t the energy or the inclination.
She cannot focus on such trivialities when a new threat still lurks out there somewhere, lying in wait.
Her spirits sink into despair upon the realization that perhaps this is how it shall be from now on.
Defeating Elise had nearly killed her and Ariadne both.
She does not know if she can muster the courage to face a malefician again, and yet more after, but it seems she must. Darkness will always exist.
“Iona? What troubles you?”
She startles and looks up to find Rebekka standing in the doorway and regarding her with concern.