17 - Iona #4
Then she doesn’t tease any longer, slipping two fingers inside and stroking her far better than she can to herself, reaching around with her other hand to fondle her aching breasts, and has her falling apart in no time at all.
Ariadne clings to her as she finds her pleasure too, her cries muffled by Iona’s hair.
“There aren’t words enough in a thousand languages to express my love for you,” Ariadne whispers in her ear.
Iona’s chest heaves, Ariadne’s words bringing tears to her eyes. “You needn’t go to such lengths to beguile me. I am already yours.”
Ariadne only tilts her chin to claim her mouth with a possessive kiss.
Upon their arrival in Scotland, Harriett Sullivan greets them with bouquets of white heather for luck before she and her mother guide them to their home in the lowlands near a city called Bearaig a Tuath.
Following the witch trials of King James VI, the Sullivans, and any other families who had managed to escape, created a new village by the sea called the Loch nan Bana-bhuidsichean and hid it away with illusion magic.
The spells are sustained by the entire village, each witch and warlock collectively shouldering the strain, so it is not so heavy a burden.
Some of the cottages are made with heavy grey stones and thatched roofs, while others are built in a more modern style, with shingled roofs and taller chimneys.
The cool sea breeze is starkly familiar, reminding Iona so much of Cornwall.
The scent of brine brings back memories of her walks to Tintagel, swimming in the ocean, and lounging on the beach beneath the cliffs where her mother’s white cottage once stood.
When she observes the townsfolk gathered in the central square, she does see a few other witches with marks, one in particular having a green triskelion on their forearm, and it brings Iona comfort to know that Harriett will not be alone in having one.
She will grow up to be like Crescentia, a witch who knows what life is like without a mark, who can hopefully provide a new perspective to her community, with the power to be heard.
The two women in need of healing are in a far worse state than Harriett.
One has three deep gashes across her face, one of them just barely missing her right eye.
When Ariadne inquires about the injury, Regina explains that healers have already visited, but they’ve struggled to mend the wounds entirely, only managing to remedy them a little bit at a time, despite their proficiency.
It seems the maleficium prevents the healing magic from penetrating. However, with Ariadne’s help, Iona manages to heal the woman’s face and renew her magic. When it’s done, there are three sprigs of thorns where the gashes once were. A new mark.
The other woman is badly burned on her left side, with open wounds on her shoulder and her arm.
She’s hardly able to lift her head from her pillow, her red hair plastered to her sweaty forehead.
When she is healed, a ring of purple primrose flowers encircles her wrist, her forearm, all the way up to her shoulder.
The spells take their toll. Iona leans against Ariadne, fatigue nearly overtaking her, but she forces herself to keep awake long enough to say her goodbyes to Harriett and Regina.
Ariadne’s arm tightens around her waist. “Are you-”
“I’m only… winded,” Iona assures her.
Unconvinced, Ariadne crafts a portal to Drakenstrom Manor and helps her step through.
“You should rest,” Ariadne says.
“I am well,” Iona insists.
But when they pass through the threshold, Euphemia stands there waiting for them, grim-faced, with an unopened letter in her hand.
“It arrived only moments ago.” She offers it to Ariadne. “I did not think it right for me to open-”
“It’s in Samaira’s hand.” Ariadne frantically rips it open, pouring over the words, and her face pales.
“What does she write?” Iona asks, her stomach sinking.
“I see a skirmish amid rain and waves,” Ariadne reads, her voice trembling. “Blood spilt amid a fruitful wasteland. Time will wait on account of one whose thread will be cut short… This is gibberish.”
She flips the paper over, sighing with frustration at finding no other message.
“Perhaps you should journey to Nepal and speak with her,” Euphemia suggests.
Iona takes the letter to read for herself, searching for any insight that may aid them, until she notices a blot of ink in the corner that forms a familiar shape.
“Ariadne,” Iona grasps her arm, drawing her closer.
They squint at the paper, but sure enough the blot has undeniably formed the shape of a snake. They share a look of dismay, for whether Samaira meant it intentionally or not, it is an omen they cannot ignore.
“What is it?” Euphemia asks.
But Ariadne wastes no time crafting a portal and gripping Iona’s hand as they cross over to Cairo, the late afternoon sun beating down upon them. They approach a great house surrounded by palm trees, the walls made of pale stone, with multiple domed roofs and mashrabiya windows.
Iona gets barely a glimpse inside at the small garden courtyard with marble floors and an ornate fountain at its center, when Nenet runs out to greet them.
“How did you know?” she asks.
“Samaira.” Ariadne runs to her. “What’s happened? Are you well?”
Nenet shakes her head, tears brimming in her eyes. “We’ve been searching ceaselessly for hours. Sara, she is missing."