Tell Me My Name Read online

  “I’m not going to hurt you.” Darien’s voice from the window is almost a whisper. “I know this won’t mean much to you when you’re trapped like this, but we’re not trying to be cruel. Our work … it has a very important purpose, and someday the fate of the world could depend on it. The smallest misstep might cause us to fail, and that would lead to disaster.”

  He sounds like he’s trying to convince himself more than me. I hear the echo of his master’s words in his; I suppose the magician must have finally instilled his lessons into his apprentice’s head. After the brutality I witnessed – the slamming into walls, the curse of pain – I don’t care to imagine what else might have happened to Darien, away from here, that I didn’t see. Hearing him talk about the Sorci as if he’s one of them makes my heart sink. I guess as an apprentice, that’s what he’s working toward, but the thought of him becoming just like the stone-faced figures – or worse, the cruel master – fills me with sorrow.

  My head tells me to say something, or at least ask for a hint as to what this greater purpose could be, but the idea feels so dull that it can’t be called a desire. My very mind has grown numb, and my thoughts drift in a dull cloud of “what’s the point?” Everything I’ve tried has been in vain, and the one viable suggestion I came up with – manipulating Darien to save myself – is too abhorrent, even in my desperate state. Though I yearn to hold onto hope, I can’t stop the voice in my head telling me that it’s just a false promise for something that can never come.

  So I just give another nod and keep my eyes on the ground, hoping he’ll go away. At the same time, part of me wishes he could stay. His is the only company I have, despite the danger his voice brings me, and I can’t help feeling a small measure of comfort in his presence. Once he leaves, I’ll be alone again.

  Alone with my hopelessness.

  A great swelling presses against my heart, and sharp tingling rises toward my eyes. I squeeze them shut, determined to keep the tears back. But for some reason, thinking about my impending return to total solitude brings an upwelling of despair, and the thoughts crash into me from all sides at once.

  I don’t know who I am.

  I have no purpose.

  I have no hope.

  I don’t want to surrender to these helpless thoughts, but they beat against my consciousness like stormy waves upon a stone that, no matter how sturdy, can’t escape the wearing down under such repeated, merciless thrashing. Tears threaten to escape my eyes, and I squeeze my lids tighter to hold them back. But it’s no use – they stream down my cheeks anyway. I quickly wipe them, then turn my face toward the back wall. I’ve lost any chance of maintaining the pretense that I’m all right, and I’m ashamed that someone has to see me like this.

  I hear footsteps ringing against the stone floor outside my cell and know that it must be Darien leaving. I’m glad he’s going; I wouldn’t know what to do if he’d stayed. Still, the air suddenly seems hollow and empty in the absence of the one person I can remember ever being kind to me.

  I inhale, drawing a gust of cold air into my lungs, but it does nothing to steady my head or push back the desolation that’s conquered my mind. I know I should be stronger, should continue searching for a way to escape and focus on my survival, yet I can’t bring myself to keep fighting when I don’t even know what I’m fighting for.

  Opening my eyes, I glance back toward the window, almost hoping he’s still there. Of course, he isn’t. The small sack of food sits on the ledge where he left it, but despite the hollow hunger in my stomach, I have no wish to retrieve it.

  I have no wish for anything anymore.

  The despairing thoughts hammer against my mind, and I gaze dully into nothingness.

  No chance, no purpose, no hope.

  Time rolls by, but I remain still, as frozen and blank as the walls of ice trapping me. Maybe if I sit here like this long enough, I’ll turn to ice as well, and never have to feel pain or sorrow or anguish again.

  Suddenly the sound of quick footsteps patters outside the cell, trying to tug my consciousness out of its cloud of depression. But though that may have worked in the past, I’m too numb now to care who approaches. If it’s the Sorci master coming to curse me again, let him. I can’t stop him anyway. And if it’s Darien …

  He comes into view before I can finish the thought, striding toward my cell. What’s he doing back here? I wonder. My curiosity encourages my mind to sharpen just enough to keep my gaze on him instead of dropping to the floor again.

  He glances back toward the stairs with a worried, almost fearful look, then picks up his pace. Stopping before the window, he holds up his hand, which clutches something wrapped in a brown cloth made of the same material as the sacks he uses to bring me food. He meets my gaze with a stare so intense, it seems to pierce right through me.

  “This belongs to you,” he says, placing the package on the window ledge.

  What? Surprise jolts me out of my melancholy trance, and I instinctively stand, my eyes flying to the brown lump. What is that? How can it belong to me?

  Before I can say anything, the Sorci master’s voice thunders from the distance.

  “Darien!”

  The sound sends a dart of terror through me, and I jump up. At the same time, Darien whirls toward the staircase, then turns back to me, giving the package a slight push forward. “Keep it hidden, or they’ll kill us both.” He races away without another word.

  Shocked and intrigued, I rush to the window and snatch the wad of brown cloth. I back into the corner by the window, where I’m least likely to be seen from outside, and stare at the thing in my hand.

  This belongs to me. It must be a relic from my past, some possession I had with me when I was captured. A tremendous wave of joy and awe overwhelms me, and my knees buckle. This is it – the link to my past that could tell me who I am, where I come from, and maybe even why I’m here.

  It could hold the answers my life depends on.

  With this object in my hands, I can hope again. I can believe once more that there’s something worth staying strong for, worth fighting for. My eyes well, but with tears of happiness and relief this time, and one thought sparkles like starlight in my head: There is good in this world. And it’s not out of my reach – the proof is right here.

  Does Darien even know what this means to me? Did he sense that I was so lost, I was ready to let myself die?

  Does he know that, just by returning this to me, he saved my life?

  After what I’ve witnessed, and from those last words he spoke, I know he risked his own life to give me this one possession. A twinge of guilt stings me as I realize I didn’t thank him. If I ever get out of here, I’ll be sure to repay his kindness in whatever way I can.

  I tighten my grip on the brown cloth package, almost afraid that it will vanish like an illusion. I don’t even know what it is, and yet, it already seems to represent all that I thought I’d lost. Perhaps glimpsing it will bring back my memories, and I can learn who I am and how I got here. And perhaps this knowledge could give me something I need to escape.

  My heart pounds with anticipation, and I move to unwrap the package and see what lies within the cloth. Suddenly, I hesitate. What if it’s not everything I hope it will be? What if it’s another false promise that tells me nothing? What if the ensuing disappointment sends me into an even deeper sense of despair than the one that nearly consumed me?

  Even if that’s the case, I have nothing to lose. I can’t possibly sink lower than where I was just now. So I tentatively remove the brown cloth, and a flash of silver catches my eye. Then a soft noise, barely audible even in the silence, floats up from the object. I recognize it instantly: It’s the sound of a clock ticking.

  I push the rest of the wrapping away and find myself staring down at a timepiece small enough to fit in the palm of my hand. A tiny ring holds a chain as fine as thread, and silver metal, engraved with intricate drawings of flowers, rims an iridescent white face. Black numbers that look like they were lo
vingly drawn by an expert calligrapher encircle the edge: I, II, III, IV … The hour and minute hands, which appear to be slivers of lustrous onyx, point to seven o’clock.

  But there’s something off about this timepiece – the second hand moves counterclockwise. What’s more, when it passes the number twelve, the hand that should have indicated minutes barely moves the width of a hair. That’s so strange. What does it mean?

  Searching for a hint, I turn the clock over in my hand, and my eyes widen at what I see. The clock’s silver back, like the rim around the front, is meticulously decorated with beautiful outlines of blossoms and vines that intertwine like ribbons. But lovely as they are, I barely notice them, for they form a ring pattern around an engraving that causes my breath to catch in my throat.

  Two words: Kiriall Amdyth.

  It’s my name. I know it – as certainly as I know that the ground I stand on exists. Just seeing those words is enough to make the memory blaze like the midday sun, pushing back any darkness or doubt that might surround it.

  I have a name. And it’s Kiriall Amdyth.

  Suddenly, an image pops into my mind: A girl in a flowing, apple green dress. I see her as clearly as if she’s standing before me. She’s about my height and probably my age, but otherwise looks nothing like me. Whereas the lines of my body are as straight as a wooden board, this girl’s curve into full hips and a well-matured bust. Her brilliant emerald eyes, framed by long, dark lashes, dance with joy against a glowing bronze complexion, and her plump, poppy red lips spread into a wide grin. She’s beautiful in a way I could never be, and her melodious laughter rings in my head.

  “Kiri!” she cries, reaching a hand toward me. Her hair, which fades from deep auburn near her scalp to strawberry blond at the tips, whips around her shoulders, and –

  Blazing heat explodes through my head, hitting me with such ferocity that I scream in shock. The image of the girl starts to vanish, blotted out by swaths of darkness.

  No, I have to remember. I shut my eyes, clinging to the image with everything I have and refusing to let the searing pain defeat me. The girl called me “Kiri” – that must be what I went by. So she must know me … But who is she? And what else can the memory of her tell me?

  Still clutching the clock in my hands, I lean against the wall and let myself sink to the floor. I need all of my energy to focus on holding onto this memory and seeing where it leads … and on keeping the strength to press through the flames ravaging my head.

  I concentrate on the girl, and, in my mind, she laughs again and says, “Kiri, come on!”

  “Slow down!” That’s my own voice, responding to hers! My pulse quickens with excitement. This is more than just an image, or a fact – this is an actual memory of something I experienced in my past.

  A fresh column of heat erupts through me, spreading down into my whole body. The pain is so great, I grab my head and press myself into the frigid wall, trying to find relief in the coldness. But I’m getting so close, I can’t back down now.

  “Kiriiiii …” The girl with red hair draws out my name in a mocking whine, then closes her mouth into a pillowy pout and crosses her arms. “You’re the slowest gust of wind I’ve ever met!”

  Wind? What did she mean by that? Was it just a figure of speech? A protest rises from my heart, telling me that there’s more, and I know the only way to find out is to keep remembering. The pain of the curse rages through me, and I bite my lip hard to keep from screaming again.

  “Are you sure we should be doing this?” That’s my voice again; I’m beside the red-haired girl, wearing the same blue dress I wear now. Next to her radiant beauty, I must look like someone’s sickly little sister.

  The girl crosses her arms and lifts one arched auburn eyebrow. “We’re sixteen, Kiri. We can go wherever we want.”

  I’m sixteen years old. Despite the anguish from the curse still burning my being, my heart leaps with excitement. Another truth about myself was just revealed – and I will remember more.

  Then something strange catches my attention: Flames seem to leap from the girl’s hair. Not burning it, as if someone had lit it on fire, but flowing down her waving locks. The blaze is … part of her. Slight panic rushes through me – this can’t be more nonsense, can it? Those other absurd images I saw came in my dreams, while I was asleep. I’m awake now, and this memory was triggered. It came from somewhere; it was brought on by the sight of my name. Are these flames the effects of the curse invading my memory?

  I squeeze my eyes tighter, concentrating. What did the girl do next?

  “Kiri!” My mind flashes back to the first instant of this memory, and I once again see the girl laughing as she reaches out to me. But this time, I catch something I must have missed before – she’s not standing, like I assumed she would be. No, she’s floating in the air. And that’s not all; her legs and torso are surrounded by flames. But they’re not burning her. She’s … she’s appearing out of the fire, as if she’s part of it. The red and yellow blaze forms a translucent veil around her body, leaping with unfettered energy.

  How can this be? I try to keep the panic, now mixed with despair, from taking over, but I can’t help wondering: What if this really is more rubbish?

  “Slow down!” That’s me again, and this time, I get a clearer image of myself – and it’s not what I assumed, either. Like her, I’m floating, but I look … faded. Translucent. Ghostly, as if I’m made of colored wind. Wisps exude from my legs, and I’m horizontal, like …

  Like I’m flying.

  Just then, a flood of hotness crashes into me, and the curse seems to double in strength. I feel myself curling up on the floor, writhing in anguish, but I refuse to scream – or to stop. I’ve come so far, and I can’t turn back now. The metallic taste of blood streams through my mouth, and I realize I’ve bitten my lip too hard.

  But I don’t care. I need to know more. Impossible as what I just saw seems, it must mean something. My soul cries out for the truths in this memory, and I feel them lying there, just out of my reach.

  I focus on the thought of myself and the red-haired girl, willing to accept anything I see for now and puzzle out the meaning later. The scene repeats again, with the girl appearing out of flames and me floating beside her. But this time, I can see where we are: a lush, green grove, identical to the one in my dream. Even the books are there, sitting on shelves woven from live branches.

  The girl and I fly out over the treetops, and she races ahead of me. I slow down with hesitation, and she stops and makes her complaint.

  Then the memory flashes forward to our destination, and I nearly open my eyes with astonishment as I see what we’re standing in front of: The clock tree. It stands alone in a vast meadow. Waves of grass, speckled with white flowers, ripple as we approach. But the grass isn’t green, as it should be – it’s purple and blue.

  I don’t question it. I just keep concentrating, hoping to figure out what my mind is trying to tell me.

  The girl reaches up and grabs a branch, bending it toward me. “Just take one,” she says with a mischievous smirk. A silver clock dangles between the branch’s leaves, and I reach toward it and turn it to look at its face.

  Recognition lights my mind – it’s the same clock I’m holding in my hands, the one inscribed with my name.

  Without warning, a great deluge of thoughts pours into me. The thrill of a hundred forgotten memories returning, of the meaning behind inexplicable images piecing together into a vision, is so clear that I wonder how I ever missed it.

  But as suddenly as the thoughts appeared, the curse’s heat attacks with a vigor more than I ever could have imagined, so painful and hot, it seems the Firelands themselves have opened their infernal gates and consumed me. Searing blades pierce through me from every direction, and I feel like I’ve fallen on a bed of sizzling swords. The shock is so great that I can’t stop my scream this time, and my ears buzz with my own cry. Unadulterated instinct takes over, and I open my eyes before I realize what I’m do
ing.

  The pain instantly fades, but it doesn’t vanish as it did before. I still feel as if a dozen swords, hot from the forge, have stabbed me at once. I remain on the floor, weeping.

  But my tears aren’t from the pain – not entirely. No, despite everything, I feel a smile spreading across my lips, because I’ve won. The curse may have ejected me from my memory, but I already found what I was looking for. Somehow, that one memory, of flying beside a girl of flames and approaching the clock tree, awakened elements of my very self that had been locked behind the curse’s gates. I don’t have everything – far from it. There are still barriers in my mind, blocking me from much of what I once knew.

  But I have enough. I know who I am, now. Though I still don’t know how or why I’m here, I’ve found a reason to keep fighting to recover more. And I will. I’m too exhausted to try again immediately, but with time, I will defeat this curse once and for all.

  I turn onto my back and stretch across the floor, finding relief in its coldness. Meanwhile, the truths I’ve just learned file through my head one by one, brilliant in their clarity.

  My name is Kiriall Amdyth, and I’m called Kiri. I’m sixteen years old. And I have a friend with red hair and a melodious laugh. But she’s more than a girl – she’s a being born of flames. Who can race through the air as a blaze races through dry wood, but without damaging even a scrap of paper.

  She’s a fire nymph.

  And I … I’m not a girl either. As she was born of flames, I was born of wind. And I can fly, even without wings. I can transform myself into a gentle breeze or a forceful gust and soar through the sky as a cloud does.

  Because I am an air nymph.

  That’s why the Sorci master called me dangerous. Though nymphs now reside only in certain enchanted forests, they once wandered the Terrestrial Realm with humans, and there are tales of men – and sometimes women – being lured to their deaths by a nymph’s hypnotizing call.