14 - Iona
W hen all are gathered, there are more than twenty covens accounted for, conversing amongst themselves in hushed tones and shifting with restless anticipation.
They’d only just been informed of Xiomara’s decision to step aside in favor of Iona when letters had been sent far and wide the previous night.
Their expressions range from dubiety to outright scorn, but fortunately none of them saw fit to abstain.
Within the crowd of strangers, Iona spies a few familiar faces. Crescentia, of course, is there with her family. She waves and motions for Iona to stand taller and not look down at her feet.
Phoebe Kimball, Crescentia’s friend from America, stands close by with a very old woman leaning against her arm and brandishing her wand as she speaks, making those around her visibly nervous.
At the other end of the crowd, Kokuro Sato wears a kimono as black as her lustrous hair and delicately embroidered with red flowers, the petals so thin they look almost like sea urchins.
Her family stands silently around her, observing the crowd with keen eyes.
One of the men has a thin angular sword strapped to his waist with his hand resting on the hilt.
Professor Pari, Professor Yun, and Professor Salum are there with their families.
Iona half hoped to see Samuel and his wife Violet in the crowd, too, but thinks better of it.
He is still in mourning. She wonders where Elise is now, if she is locked away in a cell, or lying in bed unable to see past an illusion keeping her docile.
She shakes the thought from her mind, then notices Rebekka standing tall above the rest of the crowd with her family, who are also quite intimidating in size and stature.
She gives Iona an encouraging smile when they catch each other’s eye.
Iona quickly looks away and finds Euphemia on the arm of a rather handsome gentleman with red hair and familiar ice blue eyes.
Leonid Morozova. Ariadne comes to stand beside her.
Within Ariadne’s mind, an image flashes like the glint of a mirror in the sun, showing Leonid as a boy with a dimpled smile.
When they were children, on one of Ariadne’s mother’s trips to Russia, she had fallen on a patch of ice.
Leonid had helped her back to standing, while the other children only laughed and kept playing.
Beyond that, they have hardly spoken, but she never forgot it.
Does Euphemia know of your prior acquaintance? Iona asks.
I do not think so. She means to introduce me today. Ariadne gives Leonid a shallow nod, which he returns.
Why did you not tell her? Iona asks.
Ariadne shrugs. I never would have stood by and let her marry an unkind man. I was contented when I learned it would be him.
Then she is distracted by someone else in the crowd. Iona looks in the direction of her gaze and finds Ksenia drifting aimlessly through the mass of people. The circles beneath her eyes have darkened even more, making her appear almost skeletal. She pointedly avoids looking their way.
She is not well, Ariadne muses. Odd. I do not see the other Ulanovas anywhere.
You could… If you wanted to speak with her… Iona trails off.
She’s not my problem any longer. Ariadne scans the crowd again and visibly relaxes. Samaira is here.
It’s a great comfort to both of them. Samaira smiles warmly, the sapphire ring glittering on her right hand. If some catastrophic disaster were to befall them, she surely would have warned them of it by now.
Movement brings Iona’s eyes back up towards the sky, where a group of about twenty witches and warlocks descend on brooms, and her spirits soar when she recognizes Marcel’s face among the newcomers.
The other families notice them too, but seem far less eager for them to arrive, many of them scowling and whispering in earnest. Marcel lands first and glances about nervously, then sees Iona and smiles politely.
She goes to him, cutting through the crowd, and curtsies low in greeting.
“Good day, Ms. Lysander.” Marcel bows his head respectfully.
“You are most welcome,” Iona says, as the others gather around him.
They eye her warily and seem ready to jump on their brooms and fly away at any moment.
“Please, come.” Iona beckons them forward.
She ignores the whispers and disapproving looks of the other covens as she guides the group to the very front of the assembly.
“Are you certain this won’t cause trouble?” Marcel whispers, but Iona puts up a hand.
“I’ve never been so sure of anything,” Iona says. “Thank you for placing your trust in me.”
His eyes soften and he bows his head. “I am most grateful for the invitation.”
She returns to the wooden platform and looks out at the crowd with a renewed sense of purpose.
“It is nearly time,” Xiomara says, shooing Ariadne away. “Go and stand with the family.”
Ariadne glances at Iona with a trace of reluctance, then gives her hand a kiss and goes to stand beside Marina. Without Ariadne’s grounding presence, Iona’s anxieties bubble back up to the surface. So many eyes are on her, expecting her to fail, or expecting absolute perfection.
“I wish your mother could have been here to witness this joyous occasion,” Xiomara says softly.
Iona blinks in surprise, overcome with a swell of emotion at the thought of her mother standing at the front of the crowd, smiling with pride.
“In her stead, and as a mother myself, I would like to offer my blessings on this sacred day,” she says. “May your magic shine bright and true.”
Xiomara embraces her the way only a mother can, with gentle warmth and enduring strength. A wave of peace washes over her until all her worries seem trivial. She is meant to do this. She is meant to be here.
“Thank you,” Iona says, quickly wiping at her cheek when a tear falls.
Xiomara only smiles, then goes to stand with her two daughters.
“Blessed be,” Iona says, her voice echoing against the mountainside.
“Blessed be,” the crowd responds.
She conjures four pyres at each corner of the space, for the North, South, East, and West. Breathing in the smoke, she raises her arms toward the sky.
“Veneficae et venefici exaudi orationem meam,” Iona recites. “Patria est. Caelum nostrum est. Est aqua nostra. Ignis cum dicimus urit.”
At the final statement, the pyres burn ever brighter, the pleasant heat a welcome respite from the cool wind.
“Prima nox iterum irruit in nos, ut sciamus gloriam. Ostende nobis viam,” Iona says. “Essentia magicae lava in nobis.”
“Essentia magicae lava in nobis,” the crowd repeats, their litany ringing out again and again.
The pendant glows in response and slowly, like a rising sun, light materializes around them until the air is permeated by it.
Iona squints as the magic consolidates into tendrils of brilliant golden auroras.
It gathers, moving closer and closer to where she stands, until it collects within the pendant’s stone.
The opal grows hot against her skin, close to burning her, until the magic explodes outwards, beams of light shining from Iona’s chest, the force of it making the crowd stumble backwards.
The magic reaches so high that it touches the clouds and makes them glow in brilliant yellows and oranges and pinks.
Brighter even than the sun blazing above them, it nearly blinds Iona with its brilliance.
“Magicae messis,” Iona incants. “Magicae messis… Magicae messis…”
She whispers it to herself, her chants drowned out by the laughter and exclamations of the crowd. The magic constellates closer until it’s confined inside the boundaries of the four pyres, all within reach of the crowd so not a trace of it will be lost.
The covens dance wildly, twirling and twisting about as their souls feed on the vestal magic, and they become drunk with power. Circling the pyres, they rejoice in the abundance.
Iona falls to her knees with a sudden rush of euphoria, her heartbeat thrumming almost painfully fast, the magic setting her soul alight. She laughs and laughs until her cheeks hurt, while Wisp jumps and bounds around her, trilling and barking with unfettered glee.
It lasts for nearly an hour, until Iona can hardly stand it. There is more magic than the crowd could ever hope to claim in a year’s worth of rituals. Eventually it fades, returning to the earth and air.
When Iona is able to think clearly again, she locks eyes with Ariadne.
Her cheeks are flushed with excitement, her red eyes filled with pride, and her skin shimmering with the magic her body can hardly contain.
Iona looks down at herself and sure enough, she is shimmering, too.
Tiny tendrils of light illuminate her veins.
With effort she pushes herself back onto her feet, right before Ariadne can manage to run to her and offer her hand. Iona waves her off, but Ariadne loops an arm round her waist to lift her from the pedestal and onto the rocky ground.
“I told you,” Ariadne whispers in her ear.
Iona smiles and takes her hand, then goes to Marcel to make sure he is well.
“I’ve never…” He shakes his head in utter astonishment, unable to speak.
“Calice,” Iona incants, and a golden goblet appears in her hand in an instant. She motions for Marcel to do the same.
He pulls out his wand and incants, “Calice.”
A goblet appears in his hand, too, not quite as quickly, but much faster than his previous conjuration of the feather.
He holds the chalice gingerly, as if it were a fleeting apparition.
Then his friends withdraw their wands to cast various spells and marvel at the swiftness of their magic, a new power that will change their lives irrevocably.
The covens watch on with expressions ranging from bemusement to outright contempt, but Iona pays them no mind.
“Thank you,” Marcel says, his voice thick with emotion. He reaches for her hand, kissing it and bowing low. His friends bow and curtsy as well.
“Please spread the word,” Iona says. “All are welcome.”