11 - Iona #2
“When violence is dealt, one cannot be surprised when it is reciprocated. I was seconds away from intervening myself, and she would not have enjoyed that much more,” Xiomara mutters gravely.
“Though I do appreciate your apology. I shall convey it to Cintia. She has decided to return to Thessaly alone. Perhaps it is for the best.”
“Father is still here?” Ariadne asks, genuine shock in her voice.
“Yes, he elected to stay,” Xiomara says, sharing in her surprise.
“But why… Ah. The cereus flowers,” Ariadne says, a small smile reaching her lips. “He will not wish to part with them before they bloom.”
“That explains it,” Xiomara smirks. “I suppose it is just as well. We shall be traveling tomorrow anyhow, for the solstice.”
“Where will you travel to?” Iona asks.
“There is a place in the Sibylline Mountains,” Xiomara says. “In fact, that is what I wished to discuss with you.”
“Yes?” Iona sits up taller in her seat, lacing her hands together on the tabletop.
“What precisely are your plans for the solstice?” Xiomara asks.
“Well… I’d intended to hold the ritual in Lyon,” Iona says. “With the reception to be held at the Drakenstrom’s manor in Sweden.”
“Lyon?” Xiomara arches an eyebrow.
“Yes, Crescentia Léandre resides there and has been kind enough to host us for the summer,” Iona says.
“Is that the only reason you chose it? Because it happened to be where you were at the time?” Xiomara asks.
Iona flushes. “Is that not appropriate? It would be like any other ritual, like the ones we had at college.”
When Iona glances at Ariadne, she appears equally confused.
“There are certain customs that would be expected,” Xiomara says. “For instance, the location. Generally, it would be someplace elevated so we might be closer to the sun’s light and warmth.”
“During the day?” Iona asks.
“Yes, of course. When the sun reaches its highest point,” Xiomara says.
She studies Iona’s face, perceiving her uncertainty.
“Is Samuel Lysander still withdrawn from society?” she asks. “I’d hoped he’d at least send a letter to guide you in these formalities, to better prepare you for your introduction to the covens.”
“I am more than capable of advising her in these matters,” Ariadne says, with a trace of indignance.
“You’ve attended one sabbath ritual of this size before, to my knowledge,” Xiomara says. “Do you truly believe that is enough to know what is customary? What time the ritual should begin, which directions to face, what words to incant, how to prepare beforehand? What do you know of such things?”
Iona observes the warring emotions of Ariadne’s expression, until finally she frowns and looks down at her hands.
“Not all magic is learned in books, my dear, and Iona is already at a disadvantage with only one year of study. If she should flounder, the covens will remember,” Xiomara says, not unkindly.
“Admittedly, a great deal of it will be theater, a show of power and grace. Us witches are known for our dramatics, but traditions shouldn’t be ignored. ”
Xiomara addresses Iona directly, her gaze filled with concern.
“The great covens will not be the only ones observing you,” she warns.
“Any maleficians lurking in the darkest places of our world shall watch for any sign of weakness in you, and for any trace of dissension amongst our ranks. It is during these times of transition that they often strike in bolder ways, stealing as much magic as they can before disappearing for another decade or two. There have already been three attacks this month alone. Leeching spells.”
At that, Iona and Ariadne share a worrisome glance, remembering their brush with leeching spells in Lysander Forest, when Elise stole magic from Iona’s very soul to enrich herself. The pain had been unparalleled, that which Iona hopes never again to endure.
“Haven’t you heard?” Xiomara asks. “The youngest victim is but three and ten… she will never cast another spell. We are only fortunate no one was killed, but I suspect the worst is not yet over.”
Iona’s blood runs cold. “How do you know of this?”
“The council has been monitoring the situation for some time,” Xiomara says.
“Council?” Iona asks.
“The heads of all the prominent sempiterna covens form a council to convene in times of trouble and represent our interests in a fair and equal forum,” Xiomara explains. “I represent the Zerynthos Coven.”
Iona looks to Ariadne for reassurance, and she gives a shallow nod.
“Has word reached you of the attack in Brazil?” Iona asks.
“What attack?” Xiomara asks, her spine straightening. “Tell me.”
Iona recounts her grandfather’s gruesome murder and Xiomara’s face drains of color.
“Four attacks,” she muses. “This cannot be.”
She stands and paces the floor, her hand over her mouth and her eyes distant.
“Aunt Xiomara?” Ariadne asks.
“We need this ritual now more than ever,” Xiomara says.
The crushing magnitude of responsibility weighs on Iona’s shoulders. “I… I shall try my very best…”
“If I may,” Xiomara says. “And perhaps you will not accept my assistance, but I must offer it.”
“What sort of assistance?” Ariadne asks.
“A mentorship, if you will,” Xiomara says to Iona.
“You wouldn’t have been taught this sort of thing at college.
Most witches aren’t called upon to conduct rituals like these at such a young age, if at all.
I’d always intended to instruct Ariadne when the time came, when we thought she would be the one…
Well, that time has passed now. You will be expected to perform flawlessly or otherwise cast doubt on Morgan’s decision. ”
Xiomara comes to sit before Iona again and takes both her hands.
“Please stay here with us so tomorrow morning we might prepare,” she implores. “Take my place at the ritual in the mountains. Many of the covens already plan to attend, and more still might come when they hear of your involvement. I can take you there at dawn.”
“Oh…” Iona looks to Ariadne, entirely unsure of what to say.
“Even if only for the solstice, I feel it is imperative that your strength be deemed undeniable. Your reputation must be spotless,” Xiomara says.
“It is spotless,” Ariadne says.
Xiomara lets out a frustrated sigh, as if there was more, she wishes to say, but can’t. Iona’s intuition flares, and she takes her hands back.
“If we are discussing reputations,” Iona says, “your mother is still feared years after her passing and forgive me, but I do not know if I should be so closely associated with her coven on such a pivotal debut, if I am to avoid comparisons.”
Xiomara narrows her eyes. “Then why did you bond with her granddaughter?”
Iona opens her mouth, then closes it. She looks to Ariadne, resenting her prolonged silence, her expression still unreadable.
“You are already associated with us, Iona, and just as you are not your grandmother or your disgraced cousin, I should hope you would not assume anything of me, or Ariadne for that matter,” Xiomara says.
“Of course, I only meant…” Iona trails off, unsure of how to voice her concerns without offending her further.
“What do you gain from Iona’s success?” Ariadne asks.
“Marriage notwithstanding, given your bond of blood, she is a part of this family now and we take care of our own,” Xiomara says. “I only wish to help.”
“Does Cintia agree with that sentiment?” Iona asks.
“She is not the head of this coven,” Xiomara says. “I am.”
Iona sits up straighter as she bolsters her resolve. “If we are family as you claim, then please be honest here and now. Why was Moira sent to question us? What does Hecate want with us? With me?”
Xiomara’s expression becomes guarded as she weaves her fingers in her lap. “I am afraid I cannot say.”
“Why?” Ariadne asks.
“On Hecate’s command, I cannot say,” Xiomara repeats. “Forgive me.”
“Why should we trust you if you keep secrets from us?” Iona asks.
“I made a vow to serve my Goddess. If I broke that promise, would that not also make me untrustworthy?” Xiomara raises a brow.
Iona sees no indication of deception, but she has been fooled once before. She crosses her arms and looks pointedly at Ariadne, who studies her aunt’s face.
“If you are so opposed to accepting my help, and Samuel cannot advise either, then I implore you to find someone else to counsel you in this matter,” Xiomara says.
“Though I am unaware of anyone with the insight I could provide, considering I’ve attended many of my mother’s rituals and conducted countless of my own besides. ”
Say something, Iona demands.
It is ultimately your decision. Ariadne’s eyes flit to hers. It’s your ritual, not mine.
Do you trust her? Iona asks.
Ariadne hesitates. Yes.
Are you certain? Iona asks.
She has never hurt me. And she is right. Perception is everything to these people. Shows of strength are crucial to gaining respect and becoming a proper leader. Isn’t that what you wish for? Ariadne asks.
It could be a ploy… to gain our trust and deliver us to Hecate, Iona muses.
Undoubtedly it is, Ariadne agrees. However, if you meant to avoid such things, we never should have come here to begin with.
Iona cannot argue that. She’d come to determine why Hecate is so interested in her. If she could spend time with Xiomara, earn her trust in turn, perhaps she could achieve two goals in one.
I wish I could speak with Samuel, she relents.
What do you think he would say if you could ask him? Ariadne asks.
Iona considers it for a moment. That wisdom can take many forms. That we are not our families. And that there is more than one way to solve a problem.
“I did have one other matter to discuss,” Xiomara says. “In regard to Elise’s imminent trial.”
Ariadne grimaces, shifting uneasily in her chair, and Xiomara gives her a sympathetic look.
“I imagine it is a very difficult subject. I regret the need to discuss it with you at all,” she says.
“You will preside over the trial with the council,” Iona realizes, suddenly understanding why Moira was so fixated on it before. Her own mother will take part in deciding Elise’s sentencing.
“Yes, with a heavy heart I shall,” Xiomara says. “When the trial commences, you may be called upon as witnesses to her crimes. We will also be requesting Crescentia Léandre’s attendance.”
“Is there not enough evidence to convict her?” Ariadne asks. “I may be a witness in her trial, but Iona need not do it. She is-”
“I will do it,” Iona decides.
Ariadne looks at her in surprise. “Are you certain?”
“Yes,” Iona says. I must, or I could never forgive myself.
“You have my gratitude. I shall relay your answers to the council tomorrow,” Xiomara says. “It is good for us witches to stand united against maleficians. We should not allow dark magic to reemerge as it once was in the old days. It would be ruinous for us all.”
Perceiving nothing but sincerity in Xiomara’s countenance, Iona finds it truly baffling how different this woman is from her sisters, from her own daughter.
It strikes her then that Xiomara reminds her a bit of Samuel in that way.
Trapped in the midst of those she would otherwise avoid, forced to coexist with them.
She is the voice of reason in her volatile family. A peacemaker.
A clock on a nearby shelf chimes ten and Xiomara’s eyes go wide. “My, is that the time?”
“We should return to Lyon,” Ariadne says, reaching for her staff to make a portal.
“Wait,” Iona says.
She is reminded of the fear etched into her grandfather’s face when they’d found his corpse, reflecting the terrible pain he endured in his final moments.
If one ritual, performed well enough, could in any way prevent such a travesty from occurring again, instilling fear in those who deal in violence and terror, then perhaps she should put her misgivings aside.
She cannot afford to turn away allies, not now.
Maybe fate brought her to Xiomara at this moment for a reason.
“The hour has grown late,” Iona says. “Perhaps we could stay and if you have any advice for tomorrow’s ritual, I would be grateful for it.”
“Splendid!” Xiomara says with a radiant smile. “I shall have a room made up for you. We will serve breakfast at sunrise, which should allow us ample time to prepare before noon.”
She continues on animatedly, telling them of the importance of sleep the night before a ritual of this size. Then she sends them off to bed, assuring them that they will discuss it all at length tomorrow.