Tell Me My Name (6 page)

My first instinct is to call out to
them, but then, remembering how our last encounter went, I banish
the thought. For now, it would be better to listen and hope one of
them says something that can help me find answers.

Meanwhile, the master continues. “And
remember why you came to us. Our kind led the world in peace and
prosperity for generations during the Age of Magic, and though the
present Age has seen us banished to this frozen wasteland, we will
rise to power again someday. With all the dark prophecies in the
air, that time is drawing close. A great evil is rising, and once
it unleashes its wrath upon the world, we will be the only ones
with the power to protect the living. But to gain that power,
sacrifices must be made, and reluctance is a luxury we cannot
afford.”

“
I understand, Master.”
Despite this, I sense a tinge of rebelliousness in the apprentice’s
tone, as if he’s saying whatever his master wants to hear without
believing a word of it.

The magician must sense it too,
because he says sternly, “You may think I’m being cruel, or that
I’m overreacting to the dangers she presents, but that’s not
true.”

He’s talking about
me!
I lean forward with renewed interest,
hoping he’ll reveal some information about why he finds me such a
threat.

“
I never take action
without careful consideration,” he continues. “You have not dealt
with her kind before, and you have no way of knowing the risk you
take just by speaking to her. You’re not just putting yourself at
peril, but opening the gates for danger to attack our entire
stronghold. Do not make the mistake of thinking you know better
than me.”

“
Of course not, Master.”
The apprentice’s words are dull, spoken without any real
feeling.

Does he not believe the
magician?
I wonder, hoping that it’s true,
that I might still have an ally.

Suddenly a great smacking
sound, like a fist impacting flesh, snaps through the air,
startling me. “
What
must I do to make you understand?” the master asks sharply,
and I realize, to my horror, that he must have sensed disobedience
in the boy’s tone and struck him as punishment. My horror quickly
turns to fury, and I wonder again how anyone could be so brutal,
and why the apprentice doesn’t fight back.

Meanwhile, silence hangs in the air,
and my thoughts teeter between two equally demanding ideas: One,
that I should intervene by calling the master out on his cruelty
again, and the other that I should remain silent, lest I provoke
him further and cause him to take his anger out on the
apprentice.

Before my wavering mind can settle on
a decision, the master gives a loud sigh and says, “I’m trying to
protect you, young one. But as much as I care about you, my
responsibility is to the Sorci, and I’ve already indulged you
enough. Our laws have stood for thousands of years, and I won’t
make any exceptions – not even for you. Now do your job, and
nothing more.”

“
Yes, Master,” the youth
responds, though his voice is too quiet for me to discern whether
any of his previous rebellion remains.

Why do you keep saying
that?
I wonder, shaking my head.
Why don’t you defend yourself?
I yearn to do something to stop the cruelty I’ve
witnessed, but how can I help anyone else when I’m trapped in this
cell, and anything I say would only fuel the abuser?

I hear footsteps retreating; the two
must be walking away. Why were they heading this way in the first
place, if it wasn’t to see me? There doesn’t seem to be anything
else down here.

My stomach grumbles again, and my
throat is so dry it itches, but though they both shout for
attention, my mind is elsewhere, wandering back to what the
magician said: “My responsibility is to the Sorci.”

The Sorci. So that’s what
they call themselves.
Noticing how cold my
fingers have grown, I crouch by the ball of light and pick it up to
warm them. I stare into the golden luminescence in my hands and
ponder the name, feeling like I’ve heard it spoken of before. But I
hesitate to try remembering; the memory of the agonizing heat that
attacked me yesterday is all too acute.

Then another utterance of the
magician’s surfaces in my mind – what he said right after he cast
his torturous spell on me: “I will discover your
secrets.”

What did he mean by that?
He never asked me any questions; is he hoping to …
extract
information
straight out of my mind?

The thought makes me
shudder, and I try to banish it by bringing my focus back onto the
magician’s recent words, the ones that might reveal something. If I
can figure out where I am and why I’m here, maybe I can find a way
to get out. Whatever curse keeps my memories bound seems to affect
only that which is personal, since I was able to recall plenty
about the world. It doesn’t make any sense – why would someone
place such a curse on me? What … never mind. I won’t be able to
answer any of these questions now, I realize, and I need to keep my
thoughts on the ones that I
can
. So I probe my mind tentatively
and contemplate what I’ve just heard the magician say.

He spoke of the Age of
Magic, and
that,
I’ve heard of before. The history of our world is knowledge
that shines clearly in my mind. After seventeen thousand years of
peaceful existence between all the Divinity’s creations in the
Terrestrial Realm, humans grew in ambition, and those who practiced
magic used their abilities to seize power.

And they were called the
Sorci.
The fact hits me like a splash of
cold water, and I wonder how I didn’t recall it the moment the
magician uttered the word. Centuries have passed since they were
overthrown by ordinary humans who, frustrated after six thousand
years of being oppressed by the magical, rose up against them with
their armies of knights and weapons of steel, which is how our
current era, the Age of Thrones, began. People hardly ever speak of
the Sorci, and the name largely faded from history, but from what
the master magician said, they didn’t die out after they fell. I
guess a few of them lingered in this snowy part of the world,
hoping to regain power one day.

But what did he mean by “rising evil”?
Of that, I have no recollections, though I don’t know whether it’s
because I’ve never heard of it before, or because of the curse. And
though the idea of the world being consumed by darkness strikes
fear into my heart, I can’t help but fixate on something the Sorci
master said before that … something about me.

He said that just by speaking with me,
the apprentice was putting himself and the entire order of Sorci at
risk. How can that be? I’m just a girl, trapped in a cell. I can’t
even make a chip in the ice. How could I possibly be
dangerous?

What did I
do
in my
past?

I must know. Even if it means learning
that I’m a monster, I have to try remembering – no matter what kind
of pain the curse causes me. If I do, I might uncover knowledge
that will help me escape this frigid prison.

I squeeze my eyes shut and brace
myself for the heat, but before I can delve into my head, the sound
of footsteps approaches. Eager for the chance to learn something, I
open my eyes and spring up to the window, hoping that whoever is
walking toward the dungeon will do or say something to reveal why
I’m here.

Outside, the apprentice descends the
staircase, holding a brown sack, and I watch in anticipation,
wondering what he’s coming down here for. His eyes are fixed on the
ground, and even though his head is bowed, I find my gaze drawn to
his face. What do those knit eyebrows and firm mouth mean? Is he
contemplating his master’s words, about me being a threat? Does he
regret standing up to him yesterday by trying to help
me?

Then I notice that he’s wearing only a
dark red shirt and black pants, both of which look as thin as paper
– nothing warm. His sleeves are rolled up to the elbow, revealing a
pair of taut forearms, and his neck and head are exposed to the
cold. His tight jaw and balled-up hands betray the fact that the
icy air chills him as much as it does me, though his demeanor is
otherwise calm.

Glancing down at the cloak wrapped
around me, my stomach sinks in dismay. I should never have accepted
it in the first place. Why does my comfort matter more than that of
anyone else?

The cloak suddenly seems to burn my
shoulders, and I tear it off, hating the fact that it warmed me
while its former owner shivered. I must return it – I had no right
to take it.

The apprentice reaches the bottom of
the stairs and crosses the stone room outside, approaching me. He
raises his eyes, meeting my gaze with his ebony stare. Not knowing
whether it’s anger, hatred, or something else clouding his
expression, I draw back. Does he blame me for causing trouble
between his master and him? Resent me for the punishments he
endured? I never meant for any of that to happen, and I sorely wish
that I’d never turned my pleas to him.

I reach through the bars with the
cloak in my hand, and the black fabric drapes over the window’s
frozen edge.

“
Here.” Not knowing what
else to say, I whisper, “I’m sorry.”

His eyebrows crease even further, and
then rise as his eyes take on a gentler expression. He shakes his
head and continues toward the cell. “Keep it.”

Recalling how his master forbade him
from speaking a single word to me, I look around frantically. To my
relief, I see no one, and I push the cloak further out to let him
know that I mean to return it. He shouldn’t go cold because of
me.

But he stops before the window, wraps
his hand around mine, and gives it a gentle push back. “I’d rather
you have it.”

His eyes are fixed on mine, and I
realize he means what he says. I don’t understand why he’d act
kindly toward me after everything his master said and did to him,
but if I insist on returning the cloak, he might think I’m throwing
his generosity back in his face. The last thing I want is to offend
him, so I pull the cloak back in and give him a grateful smile.
“Thank you.”

He smiles back, and I’m surprised by
how much the expression changes his demeanor. When his face was
intense with defiance, he seemed like such a fierce young man. Now,
with his eyes bright and his lips curved with friendliness, he
appears boyish and sweet.

He places the sack on the ledge of the
window. “Here. You must be hungry.”

My growling stomach agrees, and I
tentatively accept the sack. Before I can do anything else, an
angry voice explodes through the dungeon.

“
Darien!”

I gasp and turn to the sound. The
apprentice, apparently also startled, whirls around.

Seeing who has spoken, my insides
tighten. It’s the Sorci master, standing in the middle of the
staircase with one arm raised before him, pointing an accusing
finger at the apprentice. The boy named Darien takes a step forward
and opens his mouth. But before he can speak, the master shouts,
“Forth!” and a bolt of red lighting spews from his finger. It
strikes the youth square in the chest, and though it vanishes into
his body, I know its effects are just beginning, for he doubles
over, clasping his arms. He collapses to his knees with his head
bowed and his expression contorted with pain, but makes no
sound.

“
Stop!” I yell. “What are
you doing to him?”

The magician pays me no heed and
strides toward the other, who remains on the ground in a hunched
heap. “I did warn you,” he growls.

A muscle in Darien’s jaw convulses
with the effort of his clenching, and a sheen of sweat forms on his
brow. He breathes hard, and I know from the agony in his eyes that
he must be suffering a curse as torturous as the one the magician
cast on me.

“
Stop!
” I repeat, yet the master continues to ignore me.

Keeping his eyes on the
apprentice, he lifts the corner of his mouth in a vague smile.
“Good. Very good. You’re doing well, young one. Remember, pain
is
nothing
.
Strength is
everything
. Your endurance is impressive.”

What twisted praise is this? I keep
screaming for him to stop, wondering why Darien doesn’t try to
fight back. He just kneels there, still but for the subtle spasms
in his tense expression. And the master keeps watching with those
cold green eyes, his mouth curving into something smug.

Then he flicks his wrist and says,
“Cease!”

The boy exhales as if he hasn’t
breathed in all this time, and the sudden loosening of his posture
tells me he’s been released from the curse. I let out a breath of
my own, relieved that he’s no longer suffering. He glances up at
the magician, his black eyes hard with a look of
defiance.

The older man meets the youth’s glare
and says, “Consider that your last warning. Disobey me again, and I
will not be so lenient. Now rise, my young one.”

Darien stands without a word, and I
try to interpret what his expression – with his eyebrows drawn down
and his lips pressed together firmly – means. It’s somehow
rebellion and confusion at once, and I wish I could know what he’s
thinking.