Tell Me My Name Page 2

  Then a surge of anger rises. What right does this man have to do this to me?

  “Who are you?” I demand, managing to speak clearly this time, though the words emerge shakier than I intended. I realize I’m still lying on the ground and quickly stand, hoping I appear stronger than my quaking heart feels. My head rushes from the movement, making the world tilt, and my legs, still weak from the effects of the spell, protest the effort of standing. But I resist the urge to grab the wall for support and, doing my best to harden my expression, say, “What do you want with me?” Though my heart continues to race, my voice doesn’t quiver this time.

  The man stares at me, but doesn’t answer. After a few seconds he turns to the hooded figure beside him and mutters, “I don’t understand why it didn’t work.”

  “With all due respect, sir, I’m not surprised,” says the other, who has a low, female voice. “We barely gathered any information last time, and we were working on assumptions. We need to know more.”

  Their words make no sense to me, and I ask, “What are you talking about?”

  But I might as well be invisible. The man turns to another hooded companion and mutters, his voice too soft for me to make out any words.

  I take a step closer, intending to demand answers, but he shoots me a glare so full of rage that my courage withers. The memory of the pain he caused me – the unrelenting fire I was powerless to fight – causes my heart to pound even faster, and I shrink back. My feeble knees buckle, threatening to collapse beneath me, and I wonder suddenly if I’d survive that torment again.

  To my great relief, he doesn’t shoot another spell. Instead, he turns his back to me, revealing the brilliant pattern of swirls and shapes embroidered in metallic thread down the back of his cloak. Light flashes off the gleaming embellishments – silver spirals, golden stars, bronze ciphers – that adorn his coat and those of his five of his companions. That man used a spell to torture me, and I know that he must be a magician. Could those symbols represent his power? What exactly do they mean?

  Who is he?

  And are the five figures with him, the ones with similarly embellished cloaks, magicians as well?

  What about the sixth? He wears no such finery, and I find my attention drawn to this figure in the plain black cloak, wondering if its simplicity places him below the rest in the hierarchy. He stands apart from the others, and all I can see of him are his sharp chin, straight mouth, and the tip of his nose. His smooth, youthful complexion is the color of golden saffron or deep amber, and he holds himself so still, I almost wonder if he’s a statue. While the ones in the decorated clothing mutter to each other, step closer, or tilt their heads, he remains motionless and silent.

  Hoping that he’s not like his companions and won’t ignore me, I say, “Please, who are you? What do you want with me?”

  His lips part, as if he’s about to speak, but then he turns his face toward the man who cast the spell and shuts his mouth. He lowers his chin, and though I can’t see his eyes, I know he must be staring at the ground.

  That’s more of a response than I’ve received from anyone else. His actions tell me that he wanted to reply, but something about the man stopped him. That magician seems to be the leader … does he hold some kind of power over the others? Did he order them to capture me? Why would he do that? And who is this youth in the plain cloak?

  I watch him anxiously for a sign, and a glimmer of hope lights my mind as he lifts his chin and turns his face toward me. He opens his mouth again, but pauses, as if midway toward forming a word. Then he exhales and presses his lips together.

  “Please,” I repeat, yearning to know what that word might have been. “I … I don’t understand why I’m here. If you can’t tell me who you are, then I beg you, at least tell me who I am.”

  He remains still for a moment, but then his jaw clenches visibly and he takes a step closer. Desperate hope creeps into my heart, and I keep my pleading eyes on him, wishing I could meet his gaze.

  But then the leader abruptly whirls toward the younger man and grabs him by the arm. “Where are you going?” he asks.

  The youth bows his head. “I was only going to tell her–”

  “I told you not to speak to her!” the magician snaps. He throws me a dark glare and I shrink, terrified that he’ll cast his spell on me again. Thankfully, he keeps his arms by his sides. Instead, he whirls to face the other cloaked figures around him and says in a commanding voice: “I forbid all of you from speaking to her, am I clear?”

  Why? The idea that this man trapped me and then tortured me, without even giving me a reason or justification, rekindles my anger. And now he’s destroying my only hope for an ally. A fresh surge of energy flows through me, overpowering my fear, and I give voice to my questions. “Why? What– What do you want with me?”

  But nods and murmured assents have already rippled through the small crowd, and nobody even glances in my direction. Except one: the youth in the plain cloak, who briefly turns to me before facing the magician again.

  “With all due respect, Master,” he says, “she at least deserves to know–”

  “Silence!” The magician – evidently the youth’s master – takes a threatening step toward him. Though the younger man is taller by several inches, his master’s authoritative expression and broad, barrel-chested build make him radiate power. “She may look like a mere girl to you, but you must remember that this creature is not one of us. Have you learned nothing of what I taught you about her kind?”

  My kind? What does that mean? Why does he forbid the others from speaking to me at all? What are they hiding? Are they … Could they be afraid of me? But why? I want to ask, but I’m shaking so hard from the cold that I can barely breathe, and my jaw, clenched to keep my teeth from clattering, is no longer capable of obeying my will.

  The young man starts to speak, but his master holds up one hand and forms a fist, and the youth’s mouth snaps shut as if it’s been compelled by magic.

  “I make my decisions based on generations’ worth of collected knowledge,” the magician says in a low growl. “No one here is worthy of challenging its wisdom, least of all a seventeen-year-old apprentice.” His expression relaxes, taking on a gentler, almost fatherly look. “You have much to learn, young one. I know this is difficult for you to understand, but what I’m doing is for the greater good. Someday, the fate of the world could rest on our work here. As for the creature–” He shoots me a brief glance. “–Never forget the destruction her kind has wrought in the past. She’s dangerous, and for your own safety, you must not speak to her.”

  He unclenches his fist, and the young man inhales sharply through his mouth. I’m now certain that this man used magic to prevent his apprentice from speaking. If he can hold such power over one of his own, what would he do to me? And why would he think I’m dangerous? I back into the wall, wishing I could disappear into it. The ice stings my skin, but I barely feel it through my anger.

  It has dawned on me that I must have been imprisoned for a reason. Does he mean to use me for some wicked purpose of his? What did he mean by my “kind”?

  Suddenly, he raises his hand toward the gap in wall. Thick ice crawls down from the ceiling and up from the floor, slowly filling the window between us with its frozen crystals. Realizing that he means to close me off again, I rush forward.

  “Stop!” I cry, grabbing one of the bars. The metal is so cold it’s painful to touch, and I quickly draw my hand back. “Don’t leave me here! Please, tell me why you’ve trapped me! Tell me what I’ve done!”

  The magician ignores me and continues his spell, but his apprentice turns and faces me. Does he still feel some kind of sympathy toward me? Or have his master’s words turned him cold as well? My heart protests the latter thought, telling me that he was the only one with the courage to speak up, instead of blindly obeying the master, and that kind of courage can’t possibly fade so quickly.

  “Please,” I say for what feels like the hundredth time, and my
voice trembles. “Please …”

  He firms his mouth, then steps in front of his master. He must block the spell, for the ice stops growing, leaving a jagged, almost square window, bisected by a single iron bar.

  The magician scowls at him, and it contorts his face into something so hideous that I almost draw back from it. “How dare you!” He throws his hand toward the apprentice in a forceful gesture, his fingers curved like claws, and the youth slams into the cell’s wall as if blown by a hurricane. His head crashes against the metal bar before me, and the sound of the impact rings in my ears.

  I cry out as he collapses to the ground, and for several moments he appears to be unconscious, lying in a heap with the thick hood of his cloak covering his face. Finally he sits up, but before he can stand, the master stretches one finger toward him. The boy freezes, caught in an invisible spell.

  “What was the meaning of your insubordination?” the magician growls.

  “We can’t leave her like this, Master.” The apprentice’s words are strained with forced deference. “She–”

  “Weakling!” The man punches his hand forward, hurling the apprentice into the wall again, and a second crash reverberates through the dungeon.

  “Stop!” I yell. Though I can’t see what happened from my current angle, the sound was more than enough. The punishment seems unreasonably cruel, and my anger rises at the injustice, filling my heart with a crackling force. I glare at the master, wishing I could slam him into a metal bar. “He didn’t do anything!”

  But the magician ignores me, keeping his wrathful green eyes fixed on his apprentice. “Do not question my orders. Or do you really think that your measly knowledge of the magical is a match for mine?”

  The mocking lilt in his voice ignites a fresh spark in me, and I shout, “Is this what you do? Hurt people for no reason? You monster!” But my voice might as well be a whispering breeze for all the reaction he gives.

  The apprentice picks himself up again, and this time the master doesn’t interfere. As the youth stands, I catch a glimpse of a dark bruise creeping down his face from under the shadow of his hood. But if the punishment intimidated him, he doesn’t show it, for he holds himself erect, steps toward the magician, and keeps his voice steady. “Master, what good will she do you if she freezes in this cell?”

  Guilt gnaws at me, and I bite my lip. Why would he still try to help me, when he’s already provoked his master? For a moment I fear that the magician will hurt the young man again, but instead he says dismissively, “Cold does not affect her kind as it would you or me.” Before I can protest – for whatever I am, this is most certainly not true – he gives me an appraising look and says, “But perhaps this one isn’t as strong.”

  He steps around the apprentice and waves his hand in a circular motion. A ball of yellow light appears, hovering above his palm, and the warmth it emits brings immediate relief. I want to take that warmth and wrap it around me like a cocoon from which I’d never emerge.

  The magician draws a long breath, then blows at the ball of light, which flies through the window in my cell. I instinctively reach toward it. A warning rings through my head, telling me that anything this monster sends my way can’t be good, but it’s too late – the glowing orb is upon me, and I hold up my hands to protect the rest of my body. To my surprise, I’m able to catch the light, and its soft warmth sends a rush of comfort up my arms. Though I feel nothing solid, its presence is undeniable. I tentatively press my hands toward each other, and the force of the magic resists my push.

  I pull the sphere close, speechless with gratitude, and let its warmth flow through my frigid arms and chest. For a moment, this source of heat is the only thing I care about.

  Then I recall that it was given to me by the same monster who tortured me with his fiery spell, and I almost fling it away, just to spite him. But much as I hate that man, its heat is the one shield I have against the cold. And he only gave it to me after the apprentice said I might freeze … so the magician must need me alive. Why? What does he plan to do with me?

  I look up at the window, seeking him, but he and the other cloaked figures are marching away, toward the stone staircase on the other side of the wide room.

  “Wait!” I cry. If they leave, there’s no knowing when – or if – they’ll return. I have so many questions, and they’ve yet to answer a single one. I know it’s useless to ask, but I have to try. “Just tell me why I’m here!”

  The apprentice, unmistakable in his plain black cloak, even when his back is to me, stops. The others continue, but he turns and walks toward me. I watch him hopefully. He’d meant to answer me before; will he really defy his master again after what just happened?

  “Stop!” The leader’s voice thunders through the room, and he glares down at the young man from the step. “If you speak even a single word to her, I guarantee you’ll regret it.”

  I suddenly fear what punishment he would inflict upon the youth; if he threw him into a wall because of a protest over the cold – a protest he then agreed with – what will he do for outright disobedience? I know how much agony his magic can cause, and I can’t stand the thought of that boy enduring more pain because of me. So I bite back my questions, my heart sinking.

  The apprentice looks back at his master and pauses. I watch anxiously, hoping he’ll choose not to provoke the other further. To my dismay, though, he continues toward me. The man keeps his eyes fixed on him and raises his hand in an ominous gesture, as if to cast another spell.

  I open my mouth to tell the youth to stop, to obey his master, to leave me – I’ll be fine. But then he unhooks the clasp of his cloak and removes it in a single, sweeping motion, revealing his face. Struck by the sight, I forget what I’d meant to say.

  The golden light from the ball in my hands glints off his black hair and highlights a pair of well-defined cheekbones, and I almost don’t notice the two bruises – one on his forehead and one stretching down his cheek – marring the otherwise even complexion. His eyes are darker than midnight, and the angles of his thick black eyebrows add to their obsidian intensity. The fierceness in his expression is almost frightening, and yet I find something strangely beautiful about it.

  Firming his mouth, he throws a glare back at his master, who suddenly looks like a mere shade of a person in comparison. There’s something powerful about this boy, something that makes him appear older than his seventeen years, but at the same time, he radiates a kind of bright energy only the young could hold. Had both faces been revealed before I knew of their relationship, I might have assumed the younger man was the master.

  He walks up to the window of my cell, his expression softens, and it hits me that the fierce look it held a moment before had been meant for the man giving him orders. It was a look of defiance, a challenge. As he reaches through the bars, the cloak in his hand, I realize that he means to give it to me. Not knowing what else to do, I accept it.

  “Thank you,” I whisper, closing my hand around the thick black cloth. I don’t expect him to respond after his master’s threat; in fact, I hope he doesn’t.

  And though his mouth remains hard, his eyes take on an apologetic tilt, and I can hear what he wants to say as sure as if he’d voiced the words himself: “I’m sorry I can’t do more.”

  Suddenly he twists with an unnatural jolt, turning away from me, and the action snaps me out of my momentary distraction, reminding me that we’re both still at the mercy of the master. Behind him, the magician holds up both fists. If his eyes could emit heat, the apprentice would have been reduced to cinders in an instant, and terror darts through me as I wonder what will happen to the boy.

  “Don’t hurt him!” I cry, wishing I could crash through this wall and protect the only person who’s shown me any kindness.

  Without glancing at me, the man jerks his fists back, and the apprentice stumbles toward him. The master must have bound him by magic – it’s the only answer. “Come. Or will I have to drag you out of here?”

  The b
oy remains silent. A slight, barely perceptible shudder runs through him, and a sense of guilt twists my stomach. His simple white shirt and brown pants appear as useless against the cold as my dress. I would never have asked him to relinquish his source of warmth, and it feels wrong, having taken the cloak from him. At the same time, it would have seemed just as wrong to refuse his kindness when he went through so much to offer it.

  Knowing I can’t ask any more of him, I turn my attention to his master. How dare he act so cruelly, both toward me and toward his own apprentice? What gives him the right to abuse us like this, and for no reason that makes any justifiable sense?

  These words teeter on the edge of my tongue, but I can tell by the scowl on his snake-like face that only a thread holds his temper back, and I worry that if it snaps, he’ll take out his wrath on the youth. My eyes are drawn to the two bruises on the boy’s face – bruises he received because of me – and I’m sure he must have more that I can’t see. Rage blazes in the leader’s expression, and I can’t risk anything more happening to that young man. He may be a stranger, but he’s already given me more than I had the right to ask for.

  So I just watch, seething in silence, as the magician leads his apprentice and cloaked followers up the stone steps. At the top, he stops and lets the others pass. When the youth arrives, the man unclenches his fists and places a hand on the boy’s shoulder.

  “You have much to learn, young one,” he says, shaking his head. His gentle, fatherly tone sounds so false after the actions I witnessed that it makes me cringe. “I know you must resent me right now, but do not think my actions harsh. Remember, this is our way – the way of endurance, of trials, of great rewards for great prices, for only the strong are worthy of the kind of power we wield. You knew that when you swore your life to us.”

  “Yes, Master,” the young man says softly, and I don’t understand how anyone could have chosen this life. What kinds of “great rewards” could be worth serving such a wicked man?