19 - Ariadne
A sprawling field of pale white asphodel flowers spreads far and wide in every direction.
Their sweet fragrance combines with a pungent scent of sulphur.
There are no stars or moon in the darkness above them.
There is no wind to make the flowers sway.
The stalks stand upright in an eerie stillness as Ariadne roams with her hand outstretched, brushing her fingertips against the soft petals.
The only light emanates from a golden torch in Hecate’s upraised hand as she guides them across the Underworld.
“I have been most anxious to meet you,” Hecate says to Iona.
“So I’ve heard,” Iona says.
“Yes, I’m well aware of Moira’s lapse in discretion,” Hecate says with disapproval. “So over-exuberant in her work, but I must remind myself of her youth. She will learn.”
“Given the current circumstances, I believe total candor to be the best course of action,” Iona says.
“Agreed,” Hecate says. “There is no time for anything else.”
They reach the end of the flower fields as the ground turns from dirt to soft grass.
“Do sit down,” Hecate gestures ahead of them.
Three chairs and a circular table materialize instantaneously; the swiftest display of conjuration Ariadne has ever before witnessed.
The furnishings are gilded with gold trim, the surface of the table glossy and black.
As they sit, Hecate sets her torch in the very center of the table where it hovers.
Then she conjures herself a goblet of wine and an array of food, from clusters of grapes, epityrum, fresh bread, and sliced cheeses.
Taking a grape, Hecate pops it into her mouth.
“I would offer you sustenance, but I trust you know why that would be unwise.” She smiles apologetically.
“I couldn’t eat anyhow,” Iona says, her voice betraying her despair, but she swallows her tears and sits up straighter in her chair. “Please, impart your message.”
“Of course,” Hecate says, glancing at Ariadne for the briefest moment. “This may come as quite a shock.”
Iona reaches below the table to take Ariadne’s hand, gripping it tightly.
“As a Goddess of witches, I bless all who practice magic,” Hecate says. “However, there is a reason I’ve favored the Zerynthos family for so many generations and made them my devotees on Earth, whose task is as monumental as it is essential; destroying maleficians.”
Letting out a compulsory gasp, Ariadne’s grip becomes a vice around Iona’s fingers, until she worries that she might crush them. Hecate regards her with knowing eyes.
“But I’ve never heard of such a thing,” Iona says. “I thought maleficians were too powerful to be confronted.”
“For the average witch, certainly, but my coven stands apart. We do not have the luxury of avoidance, or otherwise the world would be overrun with darkness,” Hecate says.
“Maleficians are as rare as they are because my coven makes it so. We do not allow them to live, safeguarding those too weak to fight against them.”
“Even Katrin?” Iona asks, with equal incredulity in her tone as Ariadne harbors within herself, that which has struck her mute despite her thousands of questions.
“Especially Katrin,” Hecate says. “She was the bravest, most lionhearted of all, endured unknowable terrors, endless carnage, nightmares that would drive others mad.”
“How is this possible?” Ariadne whispers.
Her every memory of Katrin is bleak. She was an angry, bitter woman who never said one kind word to her, even in death.
“You must understand, Katrin’s burden was immense. Only a stalwart, resilient woman could withstand it,” Hecate says. “You may not wish to hear it, but your grandmother was a hero of the highest order.”
Her heart rejects the claim, but her mind reels from the revelation, recalling how her mother would abscond on trips at random intervals, leaving her alone with her father.
She would rejoice in those times, wishing they’d last forever, but inevitably her mother would return, and her vigorous instruction would continue.
Her mother had claimed the trips were obligatory, like Aunt Zephyra’s travels to Moldavia. Ariadne wonders now if there is a lycanthrope infestation at all or if it was a lie to conceal Aunt Zephyra’s true activities in the area.
“But… how is it that no one knows of this?” Ariadne asks. “Surely if my family has been killing maleficians for centuries, they would be legends like Morgan.”
“It is a rigorously guarded secret,” Hecate says.
“If maleficians knew of whom to evade, it would make your family’s endeavors infinitely more complicated.
The devils would run the moment they saw a flame mark.
Just as a malefician’s anonymity is their greatest asset, so do your family wisely keep their true intentions hidden, with no accolades or recognition of any kind. ”
Iona’s face is gravely serious as she digests this news, while Ariadne is overcome with a profound emptiness. For this to be happening the entire time, right under her nose…
“Katrin disguised her interference as conquest,” Hecate says.
“Maleficians can be drawn to places of power the same as any witch, performing rituals to grow stronger. Under Katrin’s watchful eye, the maleficians were left with very few options to harvest magic, all while the covens could still perform their own rituals as they saw fit. ”
“Her empire was a lie?” Iona asks.
“All in an effort to prevent further bloodshed,” Hecate says. “With the pendant, Katrin could protect countless innocents from harm. And now, so must you.”
Iona’s eyes widen in horror. “Me? But… What of Xiomara? Is she not the leader of your coven?”
“Xiomara does not possess the pendant,” Hecate says. “Nor any other artifact of great power. You must take on the role, continuing Katrin’s work, or the attacks will only multiply with every passing day.”
“Why are you not able to fix this yourself?” Ariadne asks, her accusation far more angered than she’d intended.
Hecate’s glowing eyes flare, making Ariadne squint at the sudden flash of divine light.
“As it has always been between Gods and mortals, you must fight your own battles,” Hecate’s voice booms. “I may guide you in your hour of need, but I am not obligated to interfere in a way you deem acceptable. I owe mortals nothing, and you should be sure to remember that.”
“We meant no offense,” Iona says quickly.
Hecate regards her with softer eyes. “I can appreciate how difficult this night has been, with emotions running high.”
“Yes,” Iona says with relief. “We only wish to understand.”
“You shouldn’t have been put in this position to begin with,” Hecate says, staring directly at Ariadne as she says it.
“But there is no changing that now. I’m afraid this is not a request, but rather a commissioning of your magic.
It is most imperative for you to ally with my coven in this time of great peril.
This malefician cannot be suffered to live and she is too strong for ordinary witches to defeat.
You must hunt her and end her, or who knows what havoc she will wreak. ”
“End her? But I’ve never-” Iona stutters.
Hecate takes Iona’s other hand, pulling her closer. “There is a delicate balance in your world, between entropy and symmetry. It must be preserved at all costs.”
Ariadne looks between Iona’s disconsolate face and Hecate’s obdurate one.
“You must not fail,” Hecate says. “Or countless innocents will die.”
Ariadne gasps awake, coughing violently when the smoke accosts her lungs and nearly chokes her. Iona wakes beside her, trembling uncontrollably.
“No…” Iona shakes her head. “No, I cannot endure this again. Not again…”
“Iona.” Xiomara kneels beside her. “Breathe. It will be alright.”
“Why is this happening?” Iona sobs.
“I know not, dearest.” Xiomara pulls her into an embrace, stroking her hair to soothe her. “We will defeat her and set this all to rights.”
“How?” Iona asks.
“Why didn’t you warn me?” Ariadne’s voice is foreign to her own ears, its somber, empty tone drawing all eyes in the room to her. “Why? Was it some sort of test?”
“If it was, you failed,” Moira says, crossing her arms.
“Moira,” Xiomara snaps. “Hold your tongue.”
“If I’d known, I never would have…” Ariadne’s breath comes in gasps as she claws at her chest.
Iona crawls across the floor to her, but Ariadne cannot bear to look at her, shame and regret turning her stomach. Even when Iona presses herself against her back, whispering consoling words in her ear, she cannot think beyond her panic and rage that roils within her, beyond her control.
“I did warn you. We should have sent Iona alone,” Moira murmurs to her mother.
“Like hell you will!” Ariadne yells, jumping to her feet and charging toward her cousin. “She is not some pawn for you to sacrifice!”
“No, only you are allowed to treat her so,” Moira smirks.
Holding out her hand, the staff flies through the air and into Ariadne’s grasp. “Dominari somnia!”
Moira goes limp, her head hitting the floor with a sickening crack when she falls. Ariadne crafts an illusion of sand, of Moira sinking beneath it just as Iona had, until she’s submerged in abrasive darkness, unable to move or scream.
“Ariadne, you let her go right now!” Xiomara screams, falling to her knees beside her daughter to try and wake her.
“How could you trust her with this, and not me?” Ariadne yells. “Why do you always lie? You all lie…”
Iona presses a hand against Ariadne’s forehead and incants, “Sove.”
“Can you blame her?” Iona’s voice is a faint echo.
“Of course I can,” Moira says indignantly. “She hasn’t a semblance of self-control, and yet she wonders why we never deigned to involve her.”
“You lie to her for years on end, and yet you are amazed when she lashes out!” Iona snaps.
“Always the victim,” Moira grumbles.
“You were the one lying prone at her feet,” Iona says. “Your bitterness only betrays your shame at being so easily pacified.”
Moira scoffs, “If I truly wished to, I could-”