Golden Stair (3 page)

“Is that what you think is out there?” Dame Gothel raged. “This childish dreamworld?”

Ivy cried out in dismay as her mother stomped over to the fireplace and ripped the painting from the wall. Magic crackled in the air as her mother expended her own power to destroy the painting. With sharp, vicious movements, her mother slashed at the painting with fingers curled into claws, tearing the canvas to shreds. She hurled the ruins across the room. Ivy swallowed hard, blinking to rid her eyes of the burning threat of tears. Her mother loomed over her, seeming bigger somehow, like a monster that you didn’t believe was real until it crawled out from under the bed and tried to swallow you.

“I
begged
the goddess Demeter to create this pocket for you, this small space where no one from the outside world could find you,” Dame Gothel ground out. “I begged her as one mother to another. The five kingdoms are in chaos! There is blood over every blade of grass, a cloud of smoke that never leaves the sky! Screams echo throughout the day and far into the night, the anguished cries of those being murdered and the cruel cries of the ones murdering them. They fight for power, for the ultimate control of the five kingdoms. The world is in chaos and no one is safe…no one except
you
.”

Ivy dropped her gaze to her feet even as her temper sparked. “There’s more to life than staying safe, Mother,” she choked out. “I’m not a child anymore, at least let me come with you when you go out. I could help.” She swallowed, swaying on her feet as the adrenaline heated her blood, making it harder to think straight. “I know you love me and you just want to keep me safe, but I can’t stay here forever. I love you, Mother, please, let me come with you.”

Her mother’s eyes bulged, showing far too much white. She shouted and snatched the teapot from the stove and heaved it over her head, sending it smashing down onto the floor. Broken ceramic and hot tea flew everywhere, barely missing scalding Ivy’s bare feet. Ivy cried out, throwing her hands up in front of her face, bracing herself against her mother’s fury.

“You want to leave this tower? You want to throw away the safety I’ve fought so hard to get for you?” She grabbed Ivy’s arms and jerked her forward. Ivy yelped, trembling as her mother’s fingers tightened like unforgiving talons around her arms. Her mother’s skin was mottled and spittle had formed at the corners of her mouth.

“Is the life I’ve built for you so horrible?” her mother demanded, her voice a low, guttural growl. “Are you so ungrateful for everything I’ve done that you cannot do the one thing I ask of you?”

“Mother, I didn’t mean it like that—”

“All I ask is that you stay safe. All I ask when I go out to face death on the battlefield is that I go out there with the knowledge that my daughter—the one person I have to love in this world—is safe at home! Are you such a selfish wretch that you can take all that I give you and then deny me the one thing I have that keeps me going?”

Her mother’s voice wavered and she released Ivy to grasp at her own hair, tugging at it as she paced away from Ivy. Ivy’s shoulders slumped, bile rising in the back of her throat as she watched her mother fall apart in front of her.

“No, Mother,” Ivy cried. She fought back tears, her chin quivering, and she put herself in front of her mother, trying to stop her pacing. “Mother, look at me, please, I love my life here.”

“But you would rather be out there?” her mother screeched, flinging a hand in the direction of the window. “You would rather be out there on a battlefield? Do you know what is out there?
Do you
? Today I saw the werewolf king nearly gutted by the vampire king, his intestines spilled in a mess all over the grass, reeking of feces and blood.

“The god of the
kingdom
of
Mu
was using his terrible power, calling the blood from the veins of his enemies until even the smallest injury was nearly fatal. The angel from the
kingdom
of
Meropis
circled like a vulture in the skies, swooping down on anyone who tried to leave.” She sucked in a deep breath, her eyes protruding as she clapped her hands over her ears. “And the demon.” She shuddered. “The demon was the worst of all. Even in the midst of battle, he couldn’t deny his lust.” She bent over, grimacing as if in pain. “He filled the air with the wails of his victims.”

Every word out of her mouth flowed through the air in a tangible cloud. A sickly scent, like rotting vegetables, seemed to follow the words as they slithered into Ivy’s mind, twisting her stomach into tight, aching little knots and filling her with icy dread. She tried to rid herself of the insidious nightmare, tried to hold on to the images she’d conjured earlier, images of adventure and righteous battle, but her imagination fed on her mother’s descriptions, painting the most frightening picture she could ever dream up. It caught her up like a physical force.

The cries of the dying echoed in her ears, and for a moment she imagined she could feel drops of hot blood spattering her skin. She whimpered and her knees gave out, spilling her to the floor. Still the nightmarish images continued, tormenting her as if she were out there, crumpled amidst the carnage. She could hear them, see them herself, as if she were stuck in a particularly vivid nightmare. Ivy couldn’t breathe, couldn’t fight the hysteria rising like a phantom inside her. When she finally collapsed, her mother gathered her in thin, skeletal arms.

“Shhh,” she whispered, rocking Ivy as if she were a small child. “Ivy, I do not want to scare you. I only want you to understand what is out there. I want you to understand why you must never leave this tower.”

Ivy sobbed against her, her mind fuzzy and clumsy. She couldn’t think clearly, couldn’t feel anything beyond the guilt and despair wracking her body. Her skin burned as if she were fighting off a fever, adding to her delirium. A voice in her head jeered at her, shaming her for her pathetic need for rebellion. The words vibrated like balls of energy, swirling and growing stronger with every syllable. Her mother faced such terrors for her, all to keep her safe, and here she was complaining that she wanted to leave because she was
bored
. Shame, shame, shame.

“Ivy, I love you so much. I would fight in the war every day for the rest of my life for you. And I know you want to help, and I love you all the more for that. But surely you must understand why that can never be?”

The weight of her mother’s words pressed against Ivy, bowing her farther toward the ground, deeper into her mother’s embrace. Her mother was right. How could she ever have considered leaving? “I don’t want to lose you,” Ivy whispered, feebly trying to shove away the fog in her mind. Her voice sounded like it was coming from far away.

“And you won’t,” her mother soothed. “It is because of you that I still go on.” She leaned back and took Ivy’s face in her hands. “Where would I be if you were not here to heal me? To take care of me?”

“But what if someday you can’t make it through the gateway?” A shameful ray of wonder pierced the haze in her mind like a beam of sunlight through a grey storm cloud. She pushed the words past her lips before they too were swallowed. “What if you can’t get to me in time? If I were beside you…”

“No!”

Ivy jerked back, wincing as another, darker cloud pressed against her mind. What was wrong with her? Her mother quickly pulled her against her chest, tucking Ivy’s cheek against her shoulder. The scent of blood still clung to her clothes, but underneath it all was still the scent of fresh herbs that was all Dame Gothel. Ivy took a deep breath and tried to focus on that scent of sage, lemon grass, and rosemary, tried to distract herself from the tightness in her chest and the pounding of blood in her ears.

“It’s time for bed,” her mother said gently. She eased Ivy from her lap and rose to her feet. “Go to sleep, child,” she said, petting Ivy’s hair like one would soothe a beloved pet. “Your healing magic has done wonders for my body, but I still need my rest if I am to fight again tomorrow.”

Leaving Ivy alone on the floor, Dame Gothel’s skirts rustled as she walked across the thick braided carpet in the center of the tower’s main room. Bits of dried blood flaked off her corset and floated to the floor. Reminded of her mother’s earlier state, Ivy looked down into her lap, idly noting the stains on her gold robes. She glanced back at the shattered teapot and spilled tea, then farther to where her painting lay in ruins. Stifling a sigh, she began to clean up as her mother swept up the small curving staircase between the kitchen and the north bookcase, heading to her bedroom.

Moments later, the sickness and disorientation plaguing Ivy eased. She breathed out in relief, closing her eyes and sending a prayer of thanks to the gods as her golden energy rose to banish the last traces of whatever had come upon her. After cleaning up, Ivy drifted over to her chair by the fire. The cloud in her mind wasn’t so heavy now, but she still couldn’t quite gather her thoughts. Emotions warred inside her in a bloody battle she imagined must be like the war her mother fought in every day. Fear of the horrors her mother described, guilt for not being more grateful for the sacrifices her mother made for her, and deep, deep inside her, an agonizing yearning to see the world beyond her tower despite its dangers.

Determined to quit wallowing in self pity, Ivy strode to the cabinet where she kept her paint and canvases. She had to clear her mind before she could even think about going to bed. She would never be able to sleep with these images in her head, the images her mother had put there with her war stories and grisly warnings. Perhaps getting them out on the canvas would exorcise some of the horror they inspired and help clear her mind.

The cool summer breeze blew in the window, caressing her face. Ivy ignored it, beyond the comforts of nature. It was the middle of summer and the weather was still warm and muggy, but anything besides direct sunlight felt cold to Ivy. She tugged the burgundy shawl she wore up higher to cover her shoulders and scooted closer to the fire, dragging her painting supplies with her.

Soon she was lost in her work, given over to the angry maroon dashes of paint, the spikes of white that marked the werewolf king’s teeth, and the fangs of the vampire monarch. She had no need for the teals and sunflower yellows she loved so much. Not for this painting. The war raged on, stained with blood and black with hate, and that’s what spilled onto her canvas.

Painting after painting littered the floor, each one drawing out some of her agony. It was a release, a much needed catharsis. Her head cleared, the last of the fog finally lifting. As her thoughts returned, one rang out louder than the others.

She’ll never let me leave this tower.

“Quit moaning about your pathetic little dreams,” Ivy chastised herself immediately. “You have a good life.” She rubbed soothing circles against her temples, uncaring of the paint she was undoubtedly marking herself with. “I am grateful.” The words sounded empty, ringing with all the emotion of a cold, iron bell. Tightening her hands into fists, Ivy repeated them over and over in her mind, forcing herself to feel it.
I am grateful, I am grateful, I am grateful.

By the time she finally felt like herself again, finally felt like she could face her mother with a smile and not a wince, the sun was peeking over the horizon. She cleaned herself up and was just tucking the paintings against the wall to dry as her mother came down the stairs.

“Ivy, have you been awake all night?” her mother scolded, a disapproving frown pulling down her crimson lips. Her hair roiled like a nest of obsidian vipers around her head and the lines in her face deepened as she contemplated Ivy while tucking her dark locks into the hood of her cloak.

Ivy shrugged, too tired to worry about her mother’s disapproval. “Yes. I’m sorry, Mother, but I just couldn’t sleep.”

Her mother’s gaze flitted to the artwork and she brightened. “Oh, Ivy, it’s like you were there.”

Unease slithered down Ivy’s spine as her mother skirted to her paintings. For some reason, the expression on Dame Gothel’s face just didn’t seem…appropriate. Ivy cast a sidelong glance at her newest creations, wringing her robe in the hand fisted at her side. They were horrifying portrayals of the nightmare she imagined the battlefield to be, full of blood and death. As was common for her paintings, Ivy could lose herself in the images, could practically hear the agonized howls of the dark kings’ victims.

Why did her mother look so pleased?

Her mother must have seen Ivy’s thoughts etched on her face. Immediately the spark in her eyes died and her entire body sagged, her gaze dropping to the floor.

“Ivy, you must forgive me. Clearly I’ve told you too much of what I face. If you are able to capture these terrors so perfectly, then I have not spared you the little details that a mother should.”

She strode forward and Ivy tried not to lean away as her mother wrapped her arms around her. It wasn’t unusual for her mother to have a strange reaction to Ivy or her paintings, but as time went on, it was getting harder and harder for Ivy to just brush those reactions aside. It was getting more and more difficult to push away the niggling idea that her mother was hiding something…