Tell Me My Name (5 page)

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.

Energy rushes through me,
and I feel a smile spread across my face.
The Divinity is in the sunrise
.
Whoever told me that was right, and in this one, blissful moment,
it doesn’t bother me that I can’t remember where those words came
from. All that matters is that the Ayr of Sunrise, the most joyous
of the Divinity’s celestial servants, has once again bestowed her
wondrous gift upon the world.

A flash of blue, startling in its
brightness, appears in the corner of my eye. I glance toward it and
see that it’s a small butterfly, flitting toward me. It lands on
the edge of the tiny window and gently spreads its wings. Though
they’re translucent, the richness of their color almost makes them
glow, and a delicate pattern of black spots line their edges. The
presence of this tiny creature is strangely comforting, and I
smile.

“
Hello,” I whisper. I sense
a strong affinity to it, like it’s an old friend, and wonder if
wherever I came from was home to blue butterflies like this
one.

It takes off toward the sky, its azure
wings twinkling under the dawn light as it floats and darts along,
and I watch it, envious of its freedom. The sense of familiarity
grows uncanny.

I … I feel as if I’ve flown beside
it.

I recall the cool breeze against my
face and the rush of joy from being above the world. It’s not the
memory of a moment, but of a sensation, unattached to images or
sounds. The only reasonable explanation is that I’m imagining what
it’s like to soar like a butterfly … and yet the strange impression
is so potent that there must be more. My nerves hum, and my
discomfort grows. What does all this mean? Could I possibly have
flown once? But that’s not possible, since I don’t have wings
…

Even though the image in my head
clearly depicts an ordinary girl, I can’t resist reaching behind me
and feeling my back, just in case there’s something to this
sensation. But my fingers brush only the bareness of my skin; there
are certainly no wings there. Nor the scars that would surely
remain if they’d once existed, and I’d lost them.

A rumble in my stomach
brings me back to reality, and I suddenly notice how dry my throat
is. I turn away from the window, my frustration arising anew. More
nonsense! Only fairies, sprites, and ayri have wings. I’m too big
to be either of those first two, and to contemplate being an ayr
feels like sacrilege. The ayri are holy creatures, demigods and
goddesses who maintain the Terrestrial Realm for the Divinity. Even
the most powerful practitioners of magic, combining their forces as
one, couldn’t capture a celestial being. So how could I even
think
I once
flew?

This rubbish is the last thing I
should be contemplating, especially when I have more immediate
needs, such as hunger and thirst. Why is it that my head can fill
itself with ridiculous notions – like clock trees and wings – but
refuses to let me recover a single true fact? Instead of imagining
that I flew like that butterfly, I should observe the outside world
more carefully, in case there’s anything new in the landscape, or
something important I missed in my panic yesterday evening. I start
to turn my attention back to the window, but just then, the distant
sound of voices floats toward me from behind.

Someone’s approaching the dungeon and,
wondering who it is, I scurry across the cell and peer curiously
through the bars.

“
Remember what it means to
be one of us,” a stern, familiar voice thunders from the staircase.
It’s the magician – I’m certain of it. He must be standing at the
top, because I see only the tip of his shadow on the steps. “Our
loyalty to each other is absolute and unbreakable. You swore that
oath when we took you in.”

“
Yes, Master.” The second
voice, bright with youthful energy, belongs to the apprentice. I
press against the bars of the window and angle my head, trying to
catch a glimpse of either speaker, but they’re too far away.
Chilled by the coldness of the metal, I draw back.