Golden Stair (2 page)

“Well, let’s see if the pattern holds true, shall we?” Adonis rose from the ground and strode over to Saamal, holding his hand toward the god.
Saamal reached into the small sheath at his side to withdraw his obsidian blade.

“Go ahead and slice me,” Adonis urged him.

“For Perun’s sake, could you be any less of a royal?” Kirill disparaged, covering his eyes with one hand before staring over his fingers at Adonis. “You’ve met him three times, Adonis. Three times and you trust him to cut you with a knife that could end your existence.”

“Kirill, don’t be too hard on him,” Saamal chastised him gently. “He wasn’t raised for the life of a prince as you, I, and Etienne were.”

Patricio bristled, his feathers rustling as he straightened to his full height. “I didn’t ask for this position,” he said quietly.

Saamal’s face softened. “Patricio, forgive me. I didn’t mean—”

“No, you killed to get it.”

Adonis’ tone was light, but the sizzling speck of crimson boiling to the surface of his hazel eyes told Eurydice in no uncertain terms that his comment had been intended to draw blood.
Thirty seconds without fighting, that’s all I ask!
she despaired. Suddenly she clamped a hand over her mouth, muffling her scream as Patricio drew something from the folds of his robe. Etienne shouted and Kirill and Saamal froze as Patricio pressed the blade of a sword to Adonis’ neck. She hadn’t even seen him draw the blade. One moment he was reaching for it and the next it was pressed against Adonis’ throat.

The angel’s face had never looked so dark, his eyes having burned to life like liquid quicksilver. He held the great sword like it weighed nothing, pressing it into Adonis’ neck until a line of blood appeared. The demon’s face remained calm, though the red specks of his eyes pulsed and grew into a burning garnet haze. His cigarette fell from his hand to the cool grass, sending a tendril of bourbon-scented smoke curling upward.

Patricio ground the embers into the dirt with his sandal-clad foot. “I tire of your taunting, demon,” he breathed, drawing the blade down Adonis’ flesh.

His foreboding tone carried. It was almost musical, and he canted his head as if listening to something only he could hear. There was a hunger in his face that sent a soul-deep shiver down Eurydice’s incorporeal form, and she had a sudden horrifying image of Adonis lying on the grass, his bloody insides a red stain on the earth, his eyes blank and sightless, blindly gaping into the night.

“Perhaps you should have a lie down then,” Adonis suggested, his voice low, but strong. “I’m sure we could find an oversized bird’s nest for you to have a nap in.”

“Oh, for Odin’s sake, quit pushing him, Adonis,” Etienne snapped. The werewolf prince shifted his weight from foot to foot, obviously at a loss as to how to handle the unexpected surge of violence in the angelic prince of Meropis.

Adonis’ eyes flared like embers in the wind. “No.”

“Hopeless,” Kirill muttered. His gaze remained locked on Patricio’s sword, but Eurydice noticed he’d already put the book down on the grass and had his other hand buried in his cloak. If Patricio kept his sword bared, Kirill would answer him with a weapon of his own.

Eurydice covered her mouth, nervous energy filling the tree until she could scarcely hold still. She couldn’t breathe with Patricio’s blade to Adonis’ neck like that, too afraid that the demon had finally pushed the angel too far.

“You are worthless.” There was an eerie calm in Patricio’s voice. “You run around Nysa climbing on top of anything with a hole between its legs, never paying a shred of attention to your kingdom. You’re incapable of love, of loyalty. Surely that must be a crime worthy of punishment?”

Every word out of Patricio’s mouth was like an arrow in Eurydice’s chest. Her eyes burned with tears as she watched Adonis’ face, searching for some sign that the angel’s words had reached the demon’s battered heart.

“You know as little about me as I do about chastity,” Adonis answered, his voice rough, not with fear, but with the astral energy that swirled inside him. His eyes were the macabre eyes of a jack o’ lantern, empty but for the fire burning to ward off evil. “You think you’re so high and mighty because you have this divine purpose, but we both know the truth of your life. You’re miserable and you hate anyone who isn’t, anyone who dares show a shred of true happiness despite the atrocities life throws their way.”

His voice cracked a little and a tear slid down Eurydice’s face.
Hold on, Adonis. I swear I’ve found a way to help you.

“No one has a perfect life, wings,” Adonis continued, his voice echoing with restrained power. “But some of us make the best of it.” He leaned forward, pressing his neck against the sword until the trickle of blood grew to a steady stream. “And another thing. You would never hear me refer to a woman as a ‘thing with a hole between its legs.’” He leaned back, wrinkling his nose at Patricio. “Have a little respect for the fairer sex,
Your Highness.
”

For several moments, there wasn’t a sound to be heard in the clearing. No one spoke, no one drew breath. The vein in Patricio’s neck throbbed and his knuckles whitened around the sword. After what felt like an eternity, he eased the blade away from Adonis’ neck.

Eurydice collapsed against the inside of her tree and Kirill, Etienne, and Saamal all visibly relaxed, shoulders drooping with relief. Patricio kept his gaze locked on Adonis as he raised the sword to the World Tree, wiping the demon’s blood on the bark. She drew away from the knothole, unnerved by the cold look in the angel’s eyes, combined with sensation of wet steel raking across her tree. Without a word, he cleaned his blade on his robes, cut his own flesh, and added his offering to the wood.

There was no further banter, no laughs…

Just silence as the other princes followed suit. Eurydice rode the swell of the magic, enjoyment muted by the last few harrowing events of the evening. For the first time, she worried that the prophecy was in true danger. Patricio was closer to the edge than she’d thought.

She returned her gaze to Adonis. Perhaps the coming events would ease the demon’s wild ways and reduce the friction between him and the severe angel.

“Applying chamomile leaves directly to a deep wound will aid the muscle tissue in…”

Ivy trailed off and let the healer’s journal droop in her lap. She planted her elbow on the plush green arm of the wide chair and dropped her chin into her hand. In her mind she half-heartedly finished the sentence from the journal as she stared into the fire dancing in the fireplace.

Absent-mindedly, she played with the thick braid of her hair, stroking the part of it that she could reach. The long golden strands disappeared over the edge of her chair, falling down to the floor where they lay in a pile of thick, shining coils like a particularly fine rope. She squinted at the wild strands tickling her fingers. The braid was starting to look a little worse for wear, the strands escaping from the fat coil giving it a look not unlike a demented centipede.

In the morning, she’d have to do something with her hair. All seventy-five feet of it.

Stifling a groan, she forced her attention back to the healer’s journal.

The soft ragged edges of the well-worn parchment fluttered like a slap in the face and she squeezed the weathered leather. She’d read this text so many times, the words were probably etched into her brain itself—right next to all the other words from all the other books her mother allowed her to read. After all, living in a tower, completely isolated from the rest of the world, there was little else to do but read the same books…over and over and over.

Something tickled her nose and Ivy’s face screwed up as a sneeze jerked her back in her seat. She narrowed her eyes at the wall beside her, covered with various herbs and flowers that her mother had hung there to dry.
That’s. It.

Closing her book, she stood and walked over to the wall, removing the dried bunch of yarrow that was still releasing tiny flakes into the air to dance on the breeze from the open balcony dominating the east wall.

“You’ve made me sneeze for the last time,” Ivy muttered and abandoned her book. She wrinkled her nose, holding still as she fought off another round of sneezing. After she was sure the threat had passed, she snatched the offending yarrow over to the small table in the kitchenette nestled between the bookcases on the north and south side of the tower. Her body went through the motions of grinding up the herbs and measuring them out into neatly labeled earthen jars to be added to the rows of other jars lining the shelves in the cramped kitchen.

Her mind was gone to a meadow, picturing what the yarrow might have looked like growing wild. Before its leaves and stems had become brown and brittle, it had been a living thing, roots dug deep into soft brown soil and green leaves reaching for the bright sun. She could imagine its sweet scent, feel its soft blooms.

She slid her gaze to the one opening in the large main room of the tower, the smooth stone archway above the balcony that looked out over the valley outside. Her heart beat a little faster as she peered into the darkness, imagining the view from her high vantage point. She pictured herself leaving the tower, going down into the valley to collect herbs herself. The cool emerald grass would tickle her feet, and she would finally know what it was like to run…

Every summer it seemed the longing grew worse, became a little harder to ignore. The sun burned throughout the day, calling to her, begging her to come run in the sunbeams, playing peek-a-boo in the forest that hid the entrance to the crescent-shaped valley. It lit up the snow peaked mountains that formed the border of her safe haven. A trickle of adrenaline dripped through her system, whispering to her like a naughty secret. She could do it. She could leave the tower. Her mother didn’t have to know…

“Ivy!”

Dame Gothel’s voice shattered Ivy’s daydream, the weak, high-pitched tone yanking Ivy from her position by the kitchen table and urging her to dart to the window. Her heart nearly beat its way out of her chest, hearing her mother’s voice while in the midst of thinking to leave the tower almost more than her sanity could bear. She had to concentrate to rid herself of the unreasonable paranoia that maybe her mother had heard what she was thinking—that somehow she…knew.

Ivy braced her hands on the cold, unforgiving stone of the balcony, leaning over to look down the twenty ell tall tower to where her mother was kneeling on the ground. Dame Gothel was a witch, much, much older than her smooth ivory features would suggest. Her raven black hair was so dark it absorbed what little light the sliver of moon provided.

Ivy squinted, trying to figure out what had put that panicked tone in her voice. The older woman raised her face and cold sweat broke out on Ivy’s brow at the sight of the blood oozing from cuts along her mother’s forehead, her blood glittering tar in the darkness.

“Mother! Hold on.”

She ran back to the pile of her hair still looped next to her seat by the fire. The braid writhed in her arms like a shimmering gold python with sun embers for scales. She resolutely gathered the loops of hair into her arms and rushed back to the window.

“Mother, just hold on.” She threw a length of her hair over the iron hook attached to the eave over her window and pushed the rest over the balcony.

Did her mother have the strength to cling to the make-shift rope?

Dame Gothel put her foot firmly against the bit of braid trailing on the ground and then pulled up the end and wrapped it around her palm, effectively turning the hair into a simple harness. Ivy bit her lip, reminding herself that her mother did this every evening. Even if she was injured, she managed to hold on while Ivy pulled her up, so there was no reason to worry now. The braid went taut as Ivy pulled. She gritted her teeth, determined to get her mother up to safety as quickly as she could. A few heart-pounding moments later, her mother reached the top and tumbled over the balcony onto the floor.

“Mother!” Ivy cried out. She rushed to her mother’s side, gently pushing her hair out of the way so she could see the wounds. Some of the charcoal tendrils were matted in dried blood and Ivy bit her lip to hold back a whimper.

“Ivy,” Dame Gothel murmured. The sleeve of her murky green cloak fell down to her shoulder, revealing several bleeding, jagged cuts on her forearms as she weakly groped at Ivy’s hand. “My beloved daughter, I was afraid I’d never see you again.”

The scent of copper filled the air, every metallic note tugging a cord deep inside Ivy’s gut, pulling at primal instincts, warning her of just how bad her mother’s injuries were. Every time Dame Gothel moved, the scent of blood thickened and Ivy was afraid to examine the rest of her mother’s body.

“Don’t say that,” Ivy insisted adamantly. “Wait here, I’ll be right back.”

Chest tightening with the fear she was trying to repress, Ivy quickly gathered the herbs she needed. The healing journals she’d read spun through her mind, supplying her with the information to help her mother. She returned to her mother’s side with a bowl of water, a rag, and the herbs. As gently as she could, she cleaned her mother’s wounds. She had to rip the bodice of her dress to get at the deep gouge in her stomach and Ivy swallowed hard at the sight of her mother’s insides threatening to spill from the gaping slash. She bit her lip and finished cleaning the flesh then sprinkled the herbs over the damage.

As she pressed the herbs between her fingers, Ivy reached down inside herself for the warmth of her power. It rose like warm honey, sliding from her core to flow down her arms and fingertips to infuse the herbs as she sprinkled them. Golden light soaked into the bits of plant as they sparkled on their descent, falling like warm snowflakes on her mother’s skin. She imagined her mother’s insides perfect and healthy, willing the warm power flowing from her fingers to make it so. The blood stopped seeping from the wounds and her mother sucked in a sharp breath as the flesh knitted. A few moments later, there was no sign she’d ever been hurt.

“I don’t know what I would do without you,” Dame Gothel said quietly.

Her sable eyes glittered in the light from the crystals and the fire, looking somehow cold despite the firelight. She cupped Ivy’s cheek in her cool, pale hand, sending a shiver down Ivy’s spine despite the warm affection of the gesture. Then abruptly the moment passed and she pushed herself to her feet and strode into the main room of the tower.

Ivy cleaned up her supplies and followed her mother. Dame Gothel retrieved a teapot from the cupboard. Humming to herself, she filled it with water and set it to boil, then plucked a few teabags from the canister beside the stove.

“Mother, please let me do that for you.” Ivy tried to reach for the dishes. “You were badly injured, let me take care of you.”

“I am more than capable of making us tea, Ivy.” Dame Gothel gently slapped her hand away. “Sit down and I’ll bring our cups to the table and we’ll have a nice chat.”

The chair scraped across the floor as Ivy pulled it out and sat down. Her mother bustled around fixing their tea, but all she saw was the ghostly image of Dame Gothel’s ravaged flesh as she lay bleeding on the floor. The healing magic had restored her, but the fact remained that tomorrow her mother could be injured all over again.

You could do more for her
a voice inside her head spoke up.
If you went into battle with her, you could be there to heal her right away.
Ivy clutched the edge of the table as the idea took root, growing bigger, stronger inside her head.
You could get out of the tower
the voice continued excitedly.
You could go out into the world, meet people, see the places you’ve read about.

Images filled her head, fed by her fervent imagination. She saw herself in a rebel encampment, sitting around a fire with the other freedom fighters. They would plot their strategies to overcome the royal forces, come up with clever machinations for defeating the hellish kings. The vampire, the incubus, the werewolf…they would all fall under the swords wielded by the true and just. The terrifying angel with his shining sword would be no match for their passionate warriors, and even the god that called the very blood from the bodies of the living would not be able to bring down the righteous force that would take back the five kingdoms. And all the while, Ivy would be there, healing them with the magic that was her gift, sending her golden light into the bodies of the pure. She would help them and her mother. Together they would fight and they would win. And when the war was over, she would never have to return to this tower again.

“I want to go with you tomorrow,” Ivy blurted out, blind to the tower’s stone walls as vibrant images filled her mind. She was already half lost in her dream, swept along by the adrenaline her body supplied in response to her ideas.

Dame Gothel whipped around, onyx veil of hair sailing behind her, trailing ends nearly catching fire as it swept over the flame from the small stove. Her entire body vibrated with a sudden strain that practically crackled in the air around them. Pursed lips flattened into a severe straight line as she focused cold, hard eyes on Ivy.

“What did you say?”

Ivy tipped her chair over, sending it crashing to the floor in her haste as she flew from her seat and rushed to grab her mother’s hands. She tried to keep her voice even as she bounced on her feet, struggling with the surge of adrenaline threatening to strangle her vocal chords.

“Mother, I’m not a child anymore. I can help you, I can help you more. Let me go with you next time you go into battle, let me be there to heal you if you need it.”

Her mother’s hand flew to her chest and she jerked her head back. Ivy could see the “No” forming on her lips and desperation seized her.

She tightened her grip on her mother’s hands. “Mother, please. I want to go. I’m ready, I am, please believe me. Mother, don’t make me stay here, I want to go with you. It isn’t right that I should stay here in hiding while you go off alone to fight. I can be of help.”

“NO!”

Ivy stumbled back at the vehemence of her mother’s response, banging her hip on the table in startled retreat. She opened her mouth to speak, but her mother jabbed a finger in her direction, her eyes tapered into reptilian slits.

“You want to leave the tower? You want to go
out there
?” She clutched at her head, mouth slackening as she stared around her. “I can’t believe what I’m hearing,” she sputtered. “You…you have no idea what you’re asking, no idea what’s out there.”

Hands trembling, Dame Gothel ravaged the room with a glance, as if her daughter’s fantasies could be blamed on something in the tower. Her gaze fell on a painting over the fireplace, a landscape of a white, sandy beach with glorious crystal cerulean waves and cresting white breaks. A mermaid lounged in the surf, her beautiful hair floating around her as she beamed up at the sun.