Tell Me My Name Page 3

  Meanwhile, the magician places his other hand on his apprentice’s head and knits his eyebrows in an expression of concentration. At first I think this is meant to be some new kind of paternal gesture, but then I notice the bruises on the other’s face fading, and realize with some surprise that the magician must be casting a healing spell. After a few moments, the injuries disappear completely, and he lowers his hand.

  “I know you mean well, my young one, but your foolishness will cost you. Never forget how deceptive appearances can be.”

  The youth gives a slight nod, but his expression is filled with confusion as he draws one hand across his healed face. The master glances back at me and narrows his eyes, then, with his hand still on the other’s shoulder, leads him up the stairs. I think back to how he called me dangerous, and notice that he seems strangely protective of the boy, as if he believes that his harshness is for his apprentice’s own good. I don’t understand how he could think that way, but is there something more to him than the pure wickedness I see? He locked me up and tortured me with his spell, and yet could he possibly have a good reason? Did I do something terrible to deserve this … something that I can’t remember? Maybe I’m the monster, and he’s keeping me here to prevent me from hurting anybody. But I don’t feel like one … Were we enemies? If that’s so, why wouldn’t he tell me?

  I think back to his words and try to puzzle out why he hates me so much. “This creature is not one of us,” he said. And he kept referring to my “kind.” He must mean that I’m an outsider – perhaps I come from an enemy land? Maybe I’m a prisoner of war?

  That explanation seems to make sense, and I try to recall what we might have been fighting over. Maybe if I can remember that, it’ll help me puzzle out where my home is. The feeling of an invisible knife hanging over my head – the uncanny sensation of omnipresent danger that accosted me when I first woke up – returns, and I shudder. Actually, it’s been here this whole time; I just wasn’t thinking about it because I was distracted by the magician and his young apprentice.

  Now that I’m alone, I sense it looming over me, threatening to fall at any moment. And I realize that the only way I can escape it is to get out of here, to return to a place where I’ll be safe. But no matter how much I probe my mind, I find only gaping emptiness. How do I know so much about the world – about storms and magic and war – when I can’t recall a single thing about my own life? The magician said he wanted to discover my “secret,” but how can he hope to do so when I don’t even know it myself?

  Whatever it is, I need to find it. If it’s important enough for him to desire, it could be the key to my freedom.

  Maybe if I look hard enough, I’ll find something that can awaken my memories. The sight of my body helped me recall what my face looks like – maybe a familiar word or object from the outside world will bring back more.

  I look out the jagged window the magician left in the cell’s wall. He and the others have disappeared up the steps, and without them, the large room seems eerie in its emptiness. It’s wide and shadow-laden, illuminated by only a single iron lantern, hanging on a chain from the low ceiling. The walls and floor are made of dark stone, but not individual blocks such as brick. Instead, the entire place appears to have been hollowed out of a single, enormous rock. A wooden post stands in the center, and I notice a pair of shackles attached to it. Leaning closer to the wall to get a better view, I look toward the outskirts of the space.

  There’s not much, but what I do see tells me that I must be in a dungeon. More shackles dangle from the walls to my far left, and I shudder at the thought of people being bound by them. My cell appears to be one of many, all of which have iron bars frozen over with ice. Do other captives lie within them?

  “Hello?” I call. “Is anyone out there?”

  Only silence greets me. Hollow, lonely silence.

  “Hello? Please, is anyone there?”

  I wait, but no one responds. So I retreat into my cell, feeling heavy inside. I’m completely alone here, and nothing stirred any memories. I’ve looked at everything within sight of my cell, and none of it’s done me any good. I need to get out of here – to see more, and to escape before the magician returns and casts his horrible spell on me again. But how? I’ve already tried, and nothing I did even hinted at working. A rush of anxiety tightens my chest, but I try not to let it overwhelm me. There must be a solution, and I feel like I’m missing something obvious …

  I glance down at the ball of warm light in my hand, and suddenly an idea sparks. These walls are made of ice, and ice melts! This answer seems so clear now, I wonder how I didn’t think of it before. The nervous clenching in my heart turns to an excited, elated drumming, and I feel the corners of my mouth tugging into a smile at the revelation. It won’t be easy, using such a small piece of warmth to melt so thick a wall, but I can do it. Even if it takes hours, or days, of gradual wearing down, I’ll persist until I succeed. And then I’ll slip through the bars – I’m sure I’m slight enough to do so – and freedom will be mine.

  I press the ball of heat into one of the frozen surfaces and watch intently. Though I remind myself that this will take time, I can’t help my eagerness. A drop of water is all I need to see – just a hint to tell me that my plan is working. Time crawls by, and I can’t resist pushing the ball harder into the wall in my impatience. Come on, just show me a drop …

  I lean closer, hoping to catch even the thinnest of rivulets winding down the rough ice. But I see nothing; the wall might as well be made of stone. My excitement fades back into anxiety, and I try not to fear the worst. I’ve only just started, I remind myself.

  More time passes, stretching on and on, but I hold the sphere steady, knowing I need to concentrate all the heat on one spot. Any second now, I’m sure I’ll see a sign that my plan is working. Just a drop … Please …

  My arms and back begin to ache with stiffness from holding the same position for what feels like hours, and I try to ignore them. It’ll all be worth it once I’m free, I think to myself, but the self-assurance rings hollow. The wall remains as solid as ever, and it occurs to me now that the ice could be enchanted to remain sturdy in the face of heat. I recall the sparks the magician tortured me with – the ones that burned so hot, they nearly drove me mad. There was no sign of water then, and if such fire couldn’t melt this frozen mass, how could a small ball of light do anything … especially when it was given to me by the very man who imprisoned me here?

  Suddenly the foolishness of my plan descends upon me, and a great swelling of despair fills my chest as I realize that this effort, like my others, is in vain. I let my arms drop, wondering how long I stood here like an idiot, waiting for something that could never happen, and, with tears stinging my eyes, sink to the ground. I don’t want to give up, but when I wrack my brain for more ideas, I can’t come up with any. I’ve tried breaking down the walls, widening the window, melting the ice … what more is there to attempt? The ground is solid iron – I could claw at it until I ground my fingers to bone dust, and it wouldn’t make a difference. The ceiling is iron as well … not that I could reach it.

  It’s hopeless. Completely hopeless. I’ve tried everything I can think of, and I’m no closer to finding a way out. And how can I learn anything if I’m trapped here, with the only other sign of life being those who refuse to answer my questions? Though the enchanted sphere keeps the frigid air back, I still feel incredibly cold. The chill comes from inside me, from the emptiness of not even knowing my own name.

  But I can’t simply surrender. There must be something more I can do – I just need to figure out what.

  Realizing I’m still holding the apprentice’s black cloak, I wrap the material around me. Something about its presence brings me a small measure of comfort. Perhaps it’s just knowing that someone – anyone – cares a little about me. What if I ask him for answers the next time he comes? a part of me inquires. He alone was willing to help me; he’s probably my only hope. But why would he, especiall
y when his powerful master controls him so tightly?

  He challenged that authority already, for my sake, that voice in my head whispers. If I appeal to him, if I let him know how much I’m depending on him, maybe he’ll do it again.

  But what would the master do to him if he did? Though the magician healed the wounds he inflicted the first time, I can’t forget the horrible way he threw the boy into the wall. I questioned then what right that man had to do so, and now I have to wonder: What right have I to ask the apprentice to face that again? What right have I to ask anything of him?

  To do what my mind suggested would be to manipulate another for my own gain, and that would be wrong. Further, I shouldn’t have to depend on someone else in the first place. I should find a way to recover my memories and escape this cell on my own. But what if I’m not clever enough? Not resourceful enough? Not … strong enough?

  Tears roll down my cheeks, and as I brush them away, I catch a glimpse of the window to the outdoors. The light that previously shone through it has retreated, leaving a bluish-gray shade across the sky. Its darkness seems to reflect how I feel: lonely and lost.

  Then a twinkle catches my eye. A star – the first one I’ve seen tonight. A feeling stirs – not quite a memory, but close. Something inside tells me that stars represent goodness, and I focus on the thought. Maybe it’ll bring back the recollection of who taught me that.

  Suddenly the stories shine clearly in my head, as sure as my knowledge of the wind and the sky, and I find comfort in their familiarity. I know that the goodness of starlight, given by the benevolent Divinity, glows within all of our souls. She watches over us, Her children, and charged Her heavenly servants, the ayri, with caring for us. They dwell in the Celestial Realm alongside the spirits of the dead, each ayr responsible for a specific aspect of the world – an hour of the day, like midnight; an element of nature, like rain; or a particular virtue, like truth. They embody these pieces of the universe, with the ayri of time ensuring each hour occurs when it should, and those of nature bringing balance to the weather and the earth. As for the ones of virtue – it’s said that they whisper their advice into our minds and guide those wise enough to listen. And though they all remain ever watchful, the Divinity forbids them from interfering with our lives in the Terrestrial Realm. For She loves us, the children She created at the dawn of time, and wants us to have the freedom to dictate our own destinies.

  I recall the story of how Her wicked brother, the Fiend, tried to destroy the Terrestrial dwellers – our ancestors – shortly after their creation, and how She and Her ayri fought fiercely to defend us, until finally She cast him into the Firelands – a great cage in the Infernal Realm, from which there is no escape.

  But I don’t know who told me these things, or where I learned them.

  I stare at the star outside, and the knowledge of what it is and what it means sits firmly in my head … yet isn’t held there by a single memory of my own. How can that be? Then I concentrate hard on what I do know, hoping it’ll lead to something more, even if it’s just a glimpse of my past.

  But an abrupt, searing blaze flares through my skull, and I scream in agony. A hundred red-hot knives cut through me, ripping with such intensity that I would cut off my own head to end the torment. I press my face into the ice, willing to do anything to make the pain stop, and push so hard into the rough surface that I feel as if I’m crushing my skull to powder. But there’s no relief from the scorching flames, not even in the frigidness of the wall, and I’m sure the fire will incinerate me. The heat pierces through me in sharp blasts, like someone is firing a volley of infernal arrows, and the air shakes from the cries I have no power to hold back. I slam my forehead into the wall, but the impact hardly registers through the raging, intolerable blaze. No matter what I do, there is only pain, pain, pain.

  Then, suddenly, it disappears. I gasp, my forehead still against the cold wall, and my head throbs from the pressure. Every bone has become as heavy as stone, and I sink to the ground. Expecting to find ashes where my hair was, I pat the back of my head, but everything seems fine – on the outside, at least. Inside, I feel like the life has once again been sapped from me, with much of it destroyed in the cursed inferno … just as it was when the magician threw his spell at me.

  Is he behind this? Did he place some kind of curse on me that would torture me even in his absence? Why would he do that? What does he want from me? This is the third time I’ve felt the great heat of a curse overtake me – the first was when I tried to remember my name. What caused it to take effect like that? Did I do something to set it off?

  Then, it hits me: I was trying to remember something then, and I was trying to remember something just now. Could that be the answer? Is the curse meant to keep me from recovering any memories? But why?

  What can I do? I haven’t the strength to break through these walls. And I dare not search my mind for memories again. I can’t stand the thought of facing that pain once more, not when it drove me mad enough to dash my head against the wall this time. And it was all for nothing – I haven’t unearthed a single hint about my past. If I could, maybe I would uncover some clue that would help me escape – a skill I’ve forgotten I have. A piece of information the magician would find valuable enough to trade for my freedom. Or the name of an ally I could call upon for help.

  But no matter which way I turn, I see only darkness. It’s impossible.

  Hopeless.

  I wrap the cloak closer around myself and bury my face in my knees.

  Chimes ring in a cascading melody, but only a black expanse lies before me. I follow the sound, hoping to find their source. Silver mist rolls toward me in the distance, and I know it must conceal something important, though what that thing is, I can’t begin to guess. Something within me – maybe my heart, maybe my soul – urges me toward it, and I listen.

  The chimes grow louder, yet their tinkling song remains gentle, like the voice of a breeze. I look around for the instrument creating the music, knowing it must lie somewhere in the sea of mist. I don’t know why, but an intense need to find it pulls at my core. As I enter the cloud of silver, though, heat assaults my skin, and I jump back with a cry.

  Where did that heat come from? I don’t see any flames. There’s not even any sunlight. Thinking maybe I imagined it, I reach one hand out cautiously. As soon as my fingers brush the mist, a sudden, invisible blaze scorches them. I clench my teeth, breathing hard from the pain, but keep my hand steady. It hurts, but appears otherwise unharmed.

  Then, I realize: This is a dream.

  No – more than a dream. Those chimes are too familiar … They must be from a memory.

  The great desire to know something, anything, about my past overtakes any hesitation I might have, and I press forward.

  The mist surrounds me, and with it, the invisible fire. I feel as if someone has taken a sheet of metal that’s been sitting under the summer sun and pressed it against my body. But hot as it is, I can tolerate it. I must.

  The sounds of the chimes grow closer, and through the haze, I catch a glimpse of green. Knowing it must be the source I seek, I dash toward it eagerly.

  The object comes into view, and I stop in my tracks. An old, gnarled tree stands before me. It’s not very tall for a tree, and yet its broad, deep brown trunk and myriad of twisting branches give it an air of majesty. Emerald green leaves dance on its boughs, rippling under a slight wind. But I barely notice them, for between them is a sight that makes no sense: clocks.

  Where a tree should grow flowers, this one grows clocks. Little silver, gold, and copper timepieces sit nestled in the leaves. A gale sweeps through the tree, disturbing the branches, and the clocks clang into each other. These, I realize, are the chimes I heard. The wind dies down, and I detect the faint tick-tocks created by hundreds of tiny gears.

  The heat of the mist continues pressing into me, but I barely feel it as I stare at the bizarre thing before me, dismayed. I thought the chimes would lead me to something that
could tell me who I am. Instead, all I see is an image I can’t interpret.

  Maybe there’s something more to the tree. I approach it, hoping to get a closer look, but then a wave of mist crashes toward it, blocking it from my view.

  “No!” I cry, sprinting forward. I need that tree. A powerful force inside me is yelling that I must find out what it means, saying that if I don’t, something horrible will happen.

  Invisible flames bite my flesh, and I do my best to ignore them, but I can’t see the tree anywhere. Even the sound of the chimes has vanished. My heart races with anxiety, and I refuse to believe that I’ve lost it. I must find that tree – and find it soon, before … before what?

  The feeling of foreboding tears at my soul, and my anxiety is so great that I can barely breathe. Only mist fills my vision; I sweep my arms, trying to clear it away, but no matter what I do, it keeps pressing against me. A faint ticking sound creeps into my ears, and the great yet inexplicable sense of urgency and fear returns. The noise grows louder and faster, and my heart seems enslaved to its rhythm –

  I awaken with a start, my heart still thumping. Sweat clings to my skin, and I push back the cloak I wrapped myself in. I’m almost glad for the chilly air, since it brings me relief in my fevered state. Wondering how a dream could have such a profound effect on me, I close my eyes and try to bring back the images I saw.

  A tree that grows clocks.

  What does that mean? Or was it just a dream? Now that I’m awake, the vision seems even more bizarre, and I feel like a fool for believing it could be anything more than nonsense. How can a tree grow clocks?

  I huff, frustrated at myself. I need to remember something real, not the fanciful imaginings of the dreamscape.

  A shudder wracks my body, and I wrap the cloak around myself again. The thick fabric brings immediate relief to my frigid shoulders. Looking around, I search for the ball of light the magician gave me for warmth. It sits in the far corner – I must have shoved it in my sleep. I stand, aiming to get it, but find my attention instead drawn to the small window. The rosy dawn brightens the world outside, and its beauty takes my breath away. The snowy vastness glows under the flush of the sky, and golden clouds swirl above in delicate patterns that remind me of lace.