26 - Ariadne
T he Satos’ absence from the equinox ritual had been thought to be a mere abstention, but Samaira’s vision alludes to something far more sinister.
She advises them to dress warmly, as her vision was of ice, blood, and Kokuro’s desolate cries.
They journey to the Satos’ estate just outside the great city of Edo, and hope they aren’t too late.
“Time to redeem yourself,” Moira whispers in Iona’s ear before slinking off with a mocking grin.
“Leave her be,” Ariadne snarls as she closes her portal.
“Ladies, please!” Aunt Xiomara sighs. “Iona and I will brave this alone if you insist on bickering.”
“Make yourself useful and keep us hidden,” Moira says, gesturing to the staff. “We mustn’t draw any unwanted attention.”
“Your silence would accomplish that just as well,” Iona says.
“No, dearest. You misunderstand.” Moira’s smile turns condescending.
“Foreigners have not been permitted on Japanese soil for nearly two centuries. If anyone were to see us, we could have samurai hunting us, too, and I am in no mood to duel with them when we have more pressing matters to attend to.”
“Oh…” Iona reaches for Ariadne’s hand, then hesitates and pretends to fuss with her trousers.
Ariadne despises the uncertainty in her eyes, and all it implies of their growing rift, but she cannot focus on it while Kokuro’s life hangs in the balance.
“The Satos’ estate is over that hill, past the village.” Aunt Xiomara points to the northeast.
“Let’s go then.” Ariadne’s staff glows as she casts an illusion to obscure them from view and takes Iona’s hand firmly in hers.
Iona holds on so tightly that she loses feeling in her fingers, and it bolsters her resolve.
There is no denying what they face, the weaknesses the Crone will almost certainly exploit, and the crushing urgency of their quest, Iona’s quest. Ariadne’s hatred for the malefician was always assured, but after their most recent encounter, killing the Crone turned from an obligation to a vendetta.
She will never hold Iona’s lifeless body in her arms again.
Never. She will burn entire cities to the ground, lay waste to forests, brave any storm, whatever it takes.
If she must fight against fate herself, Ariadne will never live without Iona, regardless of their current strife, which they will also overcome, somehow.
Iona will live many countless years, a full and happy life, and Ariadne will love her for every second of it, and into eternity. No other future will satisfy her.
“Wait here,” Moira says, motioning for them to stay, when they reach the threshold of the Satos’ residence, a five-tiered structure of black and white stone with curved shingled roofs marking each level, and surrounded by a moat.
Instead of taking the singular road into the courtyard of the castle, Moira withdraws her wand and crafts a wooden bridge across the water, walking over it with casual grace, though there is slight tension in her shoulders.
Moira disappears inside, and they wait with bated breath until she exits and runs across the bridge.
“They are in their beds, asleep like the dead,” Moira says. “All except Kokuro.”
“And no sign of the Crone?” Aunt Xiomara asks.
“Obviously not,” Moira says, earning a smack upside her head from her mother.
“We must search the grounds with great care,” Aunt Xiomara says. “Death is in our midst, claiming many souls. I can sense his presence…”
Iona goes pale as a sheet, then gestures to her fox to lead the way. Wisp puts her nose down to the grass and sniffs, searching for Kokuro’s scent, while Aster stays close by, guarding Iona as Ariadne asked him to.
“Is that…” Moira points straight ahead of them and sure enough, Kokuro walks along the bank of a winding stream, through a patch of red spider lilies, their thin petals fluttering in the light breeze.
“Should we call to her?” Iona asks.
“No,” Xiomara says. “We should watch over her and see when the malefician will strike. For once, we may have the element of surprise.”
“Oh, my word…” Moira says, her jaw dropping.
Ariadne searches for what upsets her but finds nothing amiss. Aster raises his nose to the sky and sniffs, whining faintly. There is a small village not far from them with modest townspeople going about their business as the sun sinks lower on the horizon.
“What is it?” Iona asks.
“You cannot see?” Moira’s red eyes are wide.
Ariadne squints, willing her eyes to permeate any illusion that might obscure her vision, then gasps in horror as the mirage fades and reveals the town as it truly is.
The houses are all aflame, burning to cinders in an uncontrollable blaze.
The scent of smoke hits her soon after, tainting the sweet air and darkening the orange sky.
Any townsfolk visible to them are long dead, their bodies deflated and grey as their blood seeps from their eyes, their ears, their mouths, and trickles downhill into the stream, turning the water a sickening shade of pink.
When Ariadne’s gaze returns to Kokuro standing by the stream, there is an eerie smile on the woman’s face, as tears of blood drip down, tarnishing her pale cheeks. Then she turns and walks along the edge of the stream to the west.
“She’s an illusion, too,” Iona whispers. “When I concentrate, she fades into nothing.”
“We should follow her,” Moira says.
“Are you certain?” Ariadne asks, scarcely able to fill her lungs enough to speak the words. “It could be leading us into a trap.”
“The malefician already knows we’re here,” Moira says. “That smile was meant to frighten us and left this massacre for us to find. Don’t let her disarm you.”
“I won’t, I…” Ariadne’s words fade.
Hecate walks barefoot through the grass just outside the small village, the bottoms of her feet and the hem of her white gown stained red with blood. She takes in the carnage with a solemn expression.
“Do not disturb her,” Aunt Xiomara warns.
“She is not here to slay your enemy for you, if that is what you hope,” Moira whispers, and Ariadne glares at her.
“We shall follow the river,” Aunt Xiomara says firmly, with a final despondent look at the fallen village.
The babbling of the stream sets Ariadne’s teeth on edge.
It’s far too peaceful a sound when the blood of innocents saturates the water, growing darker in color the farther they walk until it matches the spindly petals of the blooming spider lilies that sway in the gentle breeze.
A distinct, revolting metallic scent turns Ariadne’s stomach.
Iona busies herself with conjuring a breastplate and imbuing it with protection spells, and offers to do the same for Ariadne, who reluctantly acquiesces.
She cannot deny that the weight of the metal encapsulating her torso is a small comfort, knowing that Iona’s magic is trapped inside, protecting her from harm.
The farther they trek, the more destruction they encounter, entire villages decimated along the path of the stream, the homes and businesses burned to ash, and blood seeping into the water.
Ariadne wonders grimly if they might be too late, and they’re merely here to recover Kokuro’s corpse as they did with Sara.
“Wait.” Aunt Xiomara puts out a hand to halt their grim procession.
She points ahead where the water strays from its path downstream and rushes through the grass toward another open field.
Following the direction of the diverted flow, they come upon a tower of impressive height with stairs running along the outside leading to the top, which is obscured by dense, looming clouds.
The structure glistens in the evening sun, a menacing edifice made entirely of blood turned to ice.
“One witch made this?” Iona’s voice trembles.
A piercing scream cuts through the silence, coming from the sky.
“We should take flight,” Moira suggests, but just then the clouds open up, creating a deluge of sleet and tempestuous winds. She tries throwing fire at the base of the tower, but the blood merely reforms the moment she relents. She yells over the wind, “Make a portal!”
“I cannot see the top!” Ariadne points to the clouds covering the tower’s peak.
“Halfway then!” Moira yells. “We’ll climb the rest!”
Ariadne squints, trying to make out the highest point she could safely transport them to, then makes a portal.
A violent gust of wind bursts from the doorway the moment its opened, making it quite difficult to step through, but in time they’ve all made it onto the icy stairs beneath the cloud cover.
“Come, Wisp,” Iona yells, but the fox stays behind with her ears pressed against her skull.
“Aster?” Ariadne calls, but she knows the wolf won’t come.
It unnerves her, just how terrified the familiars are. They hadn’t reacted this way to Elise, but as they are becoming increasingly aware, the Crone is altogether different.
I’ll send them back to Rome. Ariadne forges another portal and snaps at the familiars, who jump through without looking back.
Is that normal? Iona asks.
None of this is normal, Iona. Ariadne sighs, not from frustration, but out of complete overwhelm.
When they’ve all crossed over to the frozen steps, Ariadne pulls Iona close and takes what little comfort she can from her proximity.
“Stay close to the wall!” Aunt Xiomara beckons them onward, putting up a hand to shield against the ice and wind cutting her face.
Taking her first step, Iona nearly slips and falls on the icy surface, but Ariadne catches her and holds her up. They continue to struggle to keep their footing as the howling wind tries to push them over the edge. One wrong step, and they’d need to conjure wings to prevent their swift descent.
“At this rate we’ll make it to the top by Yule!” Moira complains.
“Keep going!” Aunt Xiomara says, then slips and nearly falls on her side against the sharp edges of the stairs before Moira catches her.
The wind only worsens within the clouds, the unrelenting sleet blinding them.
“Something’s out there!” Moira yells, pointing into the gray expanse.