Tell Me My Name (8 page)

So I turn around, steeling
myself against the pain, and start running back.

The mist assails me with
renewed force, enveloping my whole body with its blazing grasp, and
a scream bursts from my lips. My foot catches on something, sending
me to the ground, and when I try to get up, the mist’s scorching
tendrils wrap around my arms and legs like chains, anchoring me
down. Crying out from the pain of a million flames pressing into my
skin, I kick and twist with all my might, trying to free
myself.

Then I glimpse my own
foot, and widen my eyes in horror as it dissolves into ashes before
my eyes. I feel nothing where it once was. The ashes creep up my
leg, consuming me bit by bit. I desperately struggle to get away
from the mist, but it’s no use. It’s devouring me, and I’m helpless
to stop it.

I awaken with a gasp to see
the dark iron ceiling staring down at me. The cold floor stings my
bare back, and as I sit up, my head throbs with a dull ache.
It was just a dream
, I
tell myself, breathing deeply in hopes of calming my racing
heart.
Only nonsense.
I glance down at my leg to make sure it’s still there. It is
– of course it is! Nothing actually happened; that was all in my
head. No mist hangs in the air, and even the memory of the
nightmare seems distant, now that I’m awake.

I absorb my surroundings
with my gaze, reminding myself of what
is
real. This cell of ice and iron.
The darkness that fills my mind where memories should be. The Sorci
master who imprisoned me, but won’t tell me why. I close my eyes.
Reality is better than the nightmare of turning to ash, but not by
much. I can’t tell myself that the mist’s infernal touch was just a
dream … I’ve felt it in the real world too, when the magician
cursed me.

The last thing I remember before the
dream is him telling me to be silent, his eyes so hot with rage,
they could have melted glass. The burning mist in the dream must
have been my mind forcing me to relive those moments under his
spell, and I wonder how I’ll ever sleep again.

But there was something prior to that
– something that brought me happiness and peace. I think back to
what I saw in my sleep, grasping the remnants before they can fade
away. A sense of familiarity came over me in the dreamscape, like I
was visiting an old friend whose face I knew, but whose name I’d
forgotten. I want to believe it means the visions were telling me
something … but then again, I had that same feeling about the
nonsense I recalled before – the clock tree and the sensation of
flying. And now that I think about it, the images I saw this time
are just as ridiculous. The sight of branches weaving into shelves
and books perched atop them, outdoors where they’d surely be
damaged by dew and mist, makes no sense. Even if someone could
train branches to form shelves, who would leave so many books
outside like that?

I know for certain that my turning to
ashes was imaginary rubbish, and I’m glad it was. I have no reason,
then, to believe the grove and the books were anything
else.

An abrupt shudder down my spine forces
my mind back to my surroundings. Glancing to the side, I spot
Darien’s black cloak just a few feet from me. I want nothing more
than to wrap myself in it, but I’m too frozen to move. I look for
the ball of light and find it even further away, sitting in the far
corner of the cell. Reluctantly, I fight through the stiffness and
reach for the cloak. My movements are so slow and shaky that I fear
I’ll freeze to death before I can even get a grip on the black
cloth.

Maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad
thing. At least I’d leave this world numbly and quietly, instead of
screaming in the grasp of the Sorci master’s spells. Just recalling
the painful curse he placed on me makes me quiver, and it evidently
affected me enough to invade my dreams. I know he doesn’t mean to
kill me – not yet, at least – because he gave me the ball of light
and sent his apprentice to bring me food. What, then, does he want
from me? Just to torture me? Does he derive some kind of perverse
joy from seeing me suffer?

If my living in torment satisfies him,
then I’d rather die on my own terms. I start to draw my hand back,
but my eyes are caught by what my stiff fingers were trying to
grasp. Or rather, it’s my mind that’s caught – by the thought of
the one who gave me that cloak.

Darien
. The image of his smile flashes through my mind, and I feel
the corner of my mouth lift involuntarily. His existence reminds me
that there is good in this world, and I can’t give up on life just
yet. There’s more than just the four frozen walls of this cell, the
painful curses of the Sorci master, the barren loneliness of not
knowing who I am. Outside, beyond this dungeon, lie wondrous
possibilities – places to see, things to do, and, most importantly,
people to know. At one point, I was part of that world. I had a
place in it, a life, and I can’t abandon that infinite beauty; I
must fight with every shred of strength in me to be a part of it
again. After all, life is a gift given to us all by the Divinity,
and to abandon it would be wrong.

Whatever happens, I
must
hold on as long as
I can. My heart tells me so.

So I cover myself with the cloak and
move toward the ball of light. Knowing the cruel Sorci master was
the one who created it makes me wish I’d thrown it back at him when
he first gave it to me, but my desperation was too great at the
time. Even now I cling to its warmth, and that I need something so
despicable makes me hate myself.

Then I remember that the master only
gave it to me after his apprentice protested on my behalf. This
enchanted sphere doesn’t represent the magician’s actions – it
represents Darien’s.

His smile brightens my mind again, and
I hold on to the image. Brief as that moment was, it’s the only
memory I have of anything resembling joy. I know it didn’t mean
much, being a smile of sympathy or pity. But still, there was
something genuine in his eyes.

The recollection of the master’s voice
booming behind him invades my thoughts. I remember how he accused
me of bewitching his apprentice – why did he say that? I was too
terrified then to untangle the meaning behind his words, but now
they begin to gnaw at my brain. He must think I’m to blame for
Darien’s disobedience, but why? What does he think I can do? Is it
possible that he’s right? Am I … could I also be a magician of some
sort?

My mind churns with possibilities,
some reasonable and others even more absurd than when I thought I
might have wings. The most plausible of these is that boys have
been known to do foolish things around girls, and the Sorci master
thinks I’m intentionally trying to charm his apprentice, though I
have no idea why he’d think a scrawny, pathetic girl like me would
succeed. And the most ludicrous is that I once possessed magic like
his, including the ability to bend others to my will.

I almost want to laugh at that notion.
If I had that kind of power, how could I have ended up captured and
cursed?

Then again, maybe the curse
was placed on me precisely
because
I have magic, and the Sorci wanted to prevent me
from remembering so I couldn’t use it to escape. Is it possible
that I’m more than just a girl?

I look down at my hands, which seem so
fragile. They don’t seem capable of doing anything like what I saw
the Sorci master do. But he did say that looks are deceiving, and
magical powers are unrelated to material ones. A mouse wielding a
great spell could defeat a lion that possesses physical force
alone.

Perhaps there is indeed
more to me than meets the eye. And if there is magic in me, then
I
must
recover my
memories. They would tell me what I’m capable of, and whether those
abilities might help me escape. Perhaps I can conjure the tools to
break down these walls, or transform into a creature small enough
to escape through the window, or transport myself instantly from
one place to another. Even if I can only create illusions, that’s
still
something
,
and
any
ability I
have would help. I
need
to remember, before the Sorci magician can do
whatever he plans to do.

It’s my only chance at
surviving.

Part of me tells me to stop thinking
like this, since I know that trying to bring back the memories will
make that unbearable heat return, and the idea of suffering so much
pain again fills me with terror. Besides, how am I supposed to call
upon a power I’m not even sure I have? But I silence the warning in
my head. I have to at least attempt it, in case there’s any truth
to the notion.

I wrap the cloak tighter around
myself, and, shutting my eyes, probe my senses, trying to get a
grasp on the energy inside and hoping something will stir. I
concentrate on each breath and each heartbeat, making myself aware
of everything within me. I can sense the blood flowing through my
veins and the subtle movements of each muscle, and I search deeper,
hoping something else lies behind even those.

But I find nothing. I don’t know what
I was expecting – maybe some kind of spark or force dwelling in me
– but after several moments of feeling only the mundane details of
my body, I realize that what I’m doing is futile. And foolish – as
foolish as trying to fly without wings.

Despite my failure, a perception that
I’m onto something nags at me, and my mind refuses to let go of the
possibility that I possess something magical. The only way I can
know if there’s any truth to the idea is to search for memories
again. Even though my efforts will likely send that burning pain
lancing through me, I have no choice. And I can’t let my fear hold
me back anymore.

Keeping my eyes closed, I concentrate
inward. My shoulders and neck feel tense, and I’m certain that I’ll
run into the invisible fire soon, but I press on. A strange ache
fills my head – one that’s not so much physical as mental, like I’m
forcing my thoughts into a place they don’t want to go. All I see
is the blackness of my eyelids and the dancing specks of color
behind them.

Suddenly, an image flashes before my
closed eyes – one so blurred that I can’t make out what it is, but
present enough that it must mean something. All I know is that it
was something green. And it gave me a sensation that it was big,
that if I’d stood beside it, it would have dwarfed me. This image
must have surfaced from the buried recesses of my mind, and I
concentrate hard to bring it back and make it sharper, so I can see
what it is.

The green blur returns, and starts to
take on a definable shape. It has a narrow base and wide top … like
a mushroom. I reach for it, aiming to bring it into focus, unveil
the details …

A bolt of heat stabs my mind, and I
gasp at its familiar pain. But I keep exploring that green shape,
trying to find what it is and what it might mean to me. I know that
there’s more heat to come, and come it does, blazing through my
head with the fury of a lightning storm. I squeeze my eyes and grit
my teeth against the powerful hotness, stubbornly holding onto the
image.

In spite of the fire tearing through
my skull, the shape starts to grow clearer. Excited, I watch as it
morphs before my eyes. The narrow base turns the color of wood and
reaches lines of brown into the round green top. I soon realize
it’s the memory of a tree. But what does it mean? Could it be one
that grew near my home, perhaps? Is there a sign carved on its
trunk that could tell me more?

The image sharpens, the tree’s
individual leaves becoming clear. The fiery pain stabbing through
my head hurts so much that I can’t stop myself from sobbing, now,
and tears stream down my cheeks. I try to steady my breaths, but
they come in jagged gasps. Part of me wants to open my eyes and
make it stop, before this spell turns me to cinders. But a stronger
part needs to know what the memory forming in my mind
signifies.

So I cling to the image with all my
strength, ignoring the infernal pain. I attempt to make out more
details of the tree, hoping it will tell me what it means, and why
it’s the one memory I’ve been able to bring to the surface. The
details of the gnarled trunk become clear, and I see no sign or
mark on it. Shifting my focus up to the branches, I notice
something nestled between the leaves. A metal item – actually,
several metal items. Each is round and made of gold, silver, or
bronze. Another surge of heat flares through my head, and a cry
escapes my lips. All I have to do to make it stop is open my eyes
and stop trying, but I need to know what’s hidden in those
leaves.

I hear a rhythmic tapping
sound, and I know it’s coming from the memory, since I’m hearing it
in my head and not with my ears. The tapping grows louder and I
realize … it’s the ticking of dozens of small clocks. That’s what
those things in the branches are –
clocks
. They clang together as wind
disturbs the branches, and a musical chiming fills the air
…

It’s the clock tree from my
dream.

A torrent of anger and frustration
sweeps through me; I haven’t unearthed a new memory – I’ve simply
brought to mind the recollection of the same nonsense I saw in my
sleep. I open my eyes with a wordless cry, fury churning in my
stomach.