22 - Iona
W aiting in Nepal is both a respite and a torture. The threat of an imminent attack poisons any serenity Iona may have found within the majestic mountains, along with horrible, indecipherable nightmares, and the ever-present suspiration of Ariadne’s fear coalescing with hers.
She trains tirelessly with Ariadne every single day, honing her ability to react, to think quickly on her feet, learning how to meet every attack with an appropriate counter spell.
Afterward, she often joins Samaira in silent meditation on the mountaintop, though she is not as successful at clearing her mind just yet.
She spends the hours thinking, obsessing over her shortcomings and her incurable foreboding, until she is too exhausted to do anything but nestle in Ariadne’s pacifying embrace, staving off sleep as long as she can despite her exhaustion.
The dreams are a deluge of abstract warnings and disturbing images that Iona cannot make sense of.
She can never seem to wake from them on her own.
Either the dreams release her at dawn, or Ariadne shakes her awake when she cries.
She’s taken to enduring them silently though, rather than worrying Ariadne with them, when she still struggles with her own recurring nightmares of her youth.
Neither of them opts to wear a dream talisman out of pure stubbornness, as they refuse to subject the other to their suffering.
Iona tells every detail of her dreams to Samaira, or whatever she can manage to remember, and she is equally disturbed and confused by them.
They pour over grimoires meant to help in the interpretation of dreams, but every insight is paired with a contradiction.
Whether they be omens of the future, or another one of the Crone’s deceptions, they cannot yet determine, but Iona is reluctant to trust them.
At times, she returns to Brazil and practices healing magic with Jacira and Ariadne, which proves a comforting diversion from her troubles. The inner workings of the body become less of a mystery the more she observes Jacira’s mastery and, in time, attempts the spells herself.
Jacira explains how the magic encourages the body to heal at an accelerated pace, how knowing what ails her patient will allow her to pinpoint the best method of healing, whether it be a spell or potion.
Some humans seek Jacira out, asking her to heal their burns, broken bones, ailing lungs, infected cuts.
Other times they go to human villages in the countryside where disease may manifest. Malignant croup, malaria, the bloody flux, and all manner of awful maladies plague the masses, but Jacira has cures for those willing to accept them.
Some refuse, as is their right, but Iona pities them all the same.
The only malaise they cannot deter is that of time.
The older the patient, the more difficult it can be to coax the body into healing itself.
Iona suggests conjuring coins for the poor and though Jacira says it can be harmless in small, rare instances, if they should conjure an imperfect copy of a coin, or if a person known to be destitute suddenly becomes rich overnight, it could cause that person harm.
They could be accused of counterfeiting, a capital offense in most countries.
Therefore, Jacira prefers to offer her services free of charge, and will cast spells on crops to help them grow.
There never seems to be enough food, so Iona often leaves loaves of bread behind, especially in the homes of children.
It takes such insignificant effort to conjure that it shames her, how much she has when others have so little.
It’s not until the final day of July that Samaira notices their threads aiming away from Nepal to the west. Iona halfway hopes it is just an indication of another visit to Brazil, but she’d only just visited days ago.
Though she knows their interlude in Nepal would not last forever, she resents the awareness of its inevitable end.
Her decisions no longer feel like her own, more like a prescribed, elaborate illusion of which there is no escape.
“Tea?” Samaira asks, offering her a cup.
“Thank you,” Iona says, taking it from her, and sipping the turmeric brew with appreciation. It warms her from the inside.
They sit together on the summit of Samaira’s mountain to meditate at sunrise.
Orange and pink clouds collect in the firmament and obscure the view of the valley below.
It reminds Iona of the mountain where Morgan had presented the pendant to the three of them, but Samaira had abstained because she already had an artifact of her own.
“Where did your ring come from?” Iona asks.
“Ah.” Samaira looks down at the glistening sapphire with both fondness and resignation. “I’m afraid that is a mystery lost to time. This artifact is so ancient, that the original owner is forgotten.”
“There isn’t a soul who remembers?” Iona asks incredulously.
“None that I’ve ever encountered. Perhaps someday that might be so for the pendant, too, when Morgan Le Fay’s name is uttered no more,” Samaira says.
Iona cannot imagine it, but she supposes enough centuries could make it so.
“All that is known is the place in which the ring manifests, and how to claim it,” Samaira explains.
“It was a test of stamina. When the previous bearer passed on, I and many of my peers climbed to a mountain peak much like this one and sat in silence, meditating on life and the universe, without sustenance or interruption.”
“For how long?” Iona asks.
“However long it took,” Samaira says. “Many relented in the first day or two, others lasted a week, the very last of us remained longer than a month.”
“A month!” Iona’s jaw drops. “But… how is that possible?”
“It rained nearly every day, so we could drink at least. Otherwise, we endeavored to separate ourselves from earthly desires. We fed on magic itself. It healed us, sustained us, so that we might endure another day. It was by far the most rewarding spiritual experience of my lifetime,” Samaira smiles.
“I lost track of the sunrises and sunsets… I left at the beginning of June and did not return until July. I was quite delirious by then and needed rest for a week or two to regain my strength.”
“Goodness… How many did you outlast?”
“We never counted, nor does it matter much to me. It was not a competition. It was an enrichment.” She sets down her teacup and spins her ring around her finger.
“As the sun set on the horizon, I watched as the sapphire materialized at my feet. I didn’t dare pick it up until darkness fell, and when I did, I saw the faintest light of my thread guiding me home. ”
“Please tell me you at least conjured food before climbing back down,” Iona says.
“Yes, a bit of bread and cheese,” Samaira assures her. “We do not need all that much, evidently. What I truly missed were my friends, Ariadne especially. I went to visit her in August, and she was… much changed. More like the woman you met when college began in September.”
“I see,” Iona says, taking another sip of her tea.
“She expels her anxiety through rage,” Samaira observes. “And you seem to endure yours in silence.”
In support of her statement, Iona doesn’t respond, not knowing what to say or how to say it.
“Holding onto pain and regret can be a terrible burden,” Samaira says. “If you ever wish to speak-”
“Two souls are gone forever on my account,” Iona says. “I fear the time for speaking is over. I must… I must be more. I must be stronger.”
“You cannot save everyone,” Samaira says.
“It seems I cannot save anyone,” Iona mumbles.
“Not so,” Samaira shakes her head. “Crescentia would not walk without your intervention.”
“I would not have been capable of healing her if Ariadne hadn’t saved me,” Iona says.
“It will not do to compare heroism,” Samaira says. “You and Ariadne will be in never-ending competition on that score.”
Reluctantly, Iona does admit to herself that she’d saved Nenet in the desert, though she cannot speak of it and Nenet will never remember it.
“These battles are never simple,” Samaira says. “You save who you can, and that’s all you can do. All we can do.”
“But will it be enough?” Iona whispers.
Samaira goes to answer, then goes rigid. Iona reaches for her, expecting her to go into convulsions as she does whenever the vision of darkness overtakes her, but she merely looks unseeingly into the distance, her lips parted and eyes wide.
“What do you see?” Iona asks.
“Phoebe Kimball,” Samaira says. “Running… through a cemetery.”
“When?” Iona asks.
Samaira’s eyes focus again, and she looks to Iona. “This very night.”
The Kimballs reside on the edge of a lush oak forest in a Massachusetts town called Ashland, a haven Phoebe’s ancestors fled to during the witch trials in Salem and never deigned to leave.
Iona and Ariadne travel straight there from Nepal after sending a letter to Rome in the hope that the Zerynthos Coven will join them soon.
Upon leaving Nepal, they trade sunrise for sunset. Ariadne sprints up the front steps and bangs loudly on the front door of the two-story colonial house, painted white with blue shutters.
“Phoebe?” Ariadne yells, cupping her hands around her eyes to peer through one of the windows.
“Where else could she be?” Iona asks.
The neighing of horses behind them has Ariadne running to Iona’s side, until they recognize the carriage pulled by white horses, it’s coach painted red, and the spokes of the wheels gilded with gold.
When it stops in front of the house, Zephyra and Sebastian step out wearing dark shirts and trousers.
“We received your letter,” Sebastian says.
“Where is Aunt Xiomara?” Ariadne asks.
“Council meeting,” he says.
“There’ve been unrelenting attacks all week. Animal sacrifices littering the wilderness. It’s madness,” Zephyra says. “Her attendance will be expected, or it will draw unwanted attention.”
Iona’s stomach sinks. “Why did no one inform us? Should we return-”