18 - Iona #4
Moira pauses in her drawing, reverent wonder filling her eyes. “I haven’t the words to describe her… She has unparalleled beauty. She radiates power. And the moment she’s gone, you miss her terribly. It’s… life altering.”
Ariadne’s mask slips, betraying her fear as she takes a shuddering breath. Moira motions for her to turn around so she can draw symbols along her spine.
“Iona should be the one ridden with nerves, not you,” Moira says. “You are a Zerynthos witch. This is the natural order of things.”
Moira’s words only shift the dread from Ariadne to Iona, her heartbeat quickening with her unease.
“Three years she’s neglected to…” Ariadne bites her lip, not daring to finish.
“Years may as well be seconds to a Goddess,” Moira reminds her. “Whatever you do, don’t complain. Be grateful she’s graced you with her presence at all. We are mere mortals, deserving of nothing.”
“Are they ready?” Xiomara reenters the atrium wearing a similar red silk robe.
“Nearly,” Moira murmurs, and while she finishes her work, Iona agonizes over her comments.
Would Hecate scorn a witch like her, sired under such unorthodox circumstances and laying claim to an artifact Ariadne had been bred to wield? She’s wondered this for days, ever since she learned of the Goddess’ looming presence over the Zerynthos family.
But even now, while Moira drapes Ariadne in red, and Xiomara consoles her with soothing words, their eyes keep drifting to Iona, filled with rueful doubt that only stokes her uncertainty. She’s failed to save a second victim from a gruesome death. Hecate will know.
“Why are we the only ones anointed?” Ariadne asks when Moira puts the oil away.
“It is you our Goddess will speak with tonight,” Moira says. “We are merely the summoners.”
“Come along,” Xiomara hastens them.
They rush down the hall, turning this way and that, until finally they reach the purple door, it’s golden doorknob glittering in the candlelight.
Iona tugs on Ariadne’s arm. I found this door the night of the solstice.
“Has this been here all the while?” Ariadne asks her aunt.
“You never noticed?” Moira smirks.
“This room is only accessible to those who commune with Hecate.” Xiomara pulls open the door.
The small, pentagonal room is dimly lit with five black candles burning in a circle on the floor. A haze of smoke obscures the light even further, smelling of sweet floral incense. Marina waits for them there, her eyes opening when they enter.
“Leave your staff by the door,” Xiomara says.
“Why?” Ariadne asks, her grip tightening around the wood.
“You won’t be needing it,” Xiomara says.
For a moment, Iona thinks she might object but slowly, reluctantly, Ariadne sets her staff against the wall.
“Take your places,” Xiomara instructs.
Marina and Moira kneel parallel to each other with their heads bowed, while Xiomara guides Iona and Ariadne to the circle of candles and has them kneel, too.
Another inhale has Iona’s vision blurring.
Upon searching for the source of the sweet-smelling smoke, she cannot identify anything burning apart from the candles.
Her limbs grow heavy, and her breathing slows.
Xiomara extends her arms wide and closes her eyes. She takes a heavy breath in, then exhales loudly, a smile reaching her lips.
“Vasílissa ton machón, tyligméni sti skiá, evlógisé me me tis mágisses pou se ypiretoún,” Xiomara incants, and though Iona still wears her ring, the words remain foreign to her.
The lurking shadows in the corners of the room encroach upon them until the candles are specks of sombre light barely illuminating the dark. Prickles cover Iona’s skin as her heartbeat wanes to a creeping pace, until she wonders if it will beat again each time it stops.
“Gynaíka tis nychtas, ákouse tin prosefchí mas kai odígisé mas sto skotádi,” Xiomara falls to her knees, genuflecting to a force unseen.
The candles blaze with a startling flare of fire, scalding Iona’s skin as she cowers, leaning into Ariadne.
The shadows corporealize into a mass of darkness, plying and fusing into itself, until they form a statuesque womanly body, tall and rawboned.
Gloom ripples away, revealing immaculate olive skin and glittering kohl lined ruby eyes that glow, casting vinaceous light upon her cheeks when she looks down upon them.
She is draped in black with golden bands adorning each arm.
Silver curls of voluminous hair fall loosely against her shoulders, her ageless beauty oppressive in its intensity.
“Iona Evora Lysander.” Hecate says in a dulcet voice.
She stares up at the Goddess, her lips parting but unable to form words, until Ariadne elbows her in the ribs.
“Yes?” Iona whispers.
Hecate extends her hand with just the hint of a smile. Iona takes it and Hecate pulls her to her feet.
“Come along.” She beckons them forward.
A shimmering portal appears but doesn’t reflect what lies beyond, the way Ariadne’s do. Hecate steps through, the gleaming doorway surging with raw power.
Are you certain of this? Iona asks, unable to look away from the portal.
Ariadne takes her hand. It is a bit late for second thoughts, nymph .
I suppose you’re right. Iona steels herself as she crosses through to the other side.