Tell Me My Name (3 page)

His lips part, as if he’s about to
speak, but then he turns his face toward the man who cast the spell
and shuts his mouth. He lowers his chin, and though I can’t see his
eyes, I know he must be staring at the ground.

That’s more of a response than I’ve
received from anyone else. His actions tell me that he wanted to
reply, but something about the man stopped him. That magician seems
to be the leader … does he hold some kind of power over the others?
Did he order them to capture me? Why would he do that? And who is
this youth in the plain cloak?

I watch him anxiously for a sign, and
a glimmer of hope lights my mind as he lifts his chin and turns his
face toward me. He opens his mouth again, but pauses, as if midway
toward forming a word. Then he exhales and presses his lips
together.

“
Please,” I repeat,
yearning to know what that word might have been. “I … I don’t
understand why I’m here. If you can’t tell me who you are, then I
beg you, at least tell me who
I
am.”

He remains still for a moment, but
then his jaw clenches visibly and he takes a step closer. Desperate
hope creeps into my heart, and I keep my pleading eyes on him,
wishing I could meet his gaze.

But then the leader abruptly whirls
toward the younger man and grabs him by the arm. “Where are you
going?” he asks.

The youth bows his head. “I was only
going to tell her–”

“
I told you not to speak to
her!” the magician snaps. He throws me a dark glare and I shrink,
terrified that he’ll cast his spell on me again. Thankfully, he
keeps his arms by his sides. Instead, he whirls to face the other
cloaked figures around him and says in a commanding voice: “I
forbid
all
of you
from speaking to her, am I clear?”

Why?
The idea that this man trapped me and then tortured me,
without even giving me a reason or justification, rekindles my
anger. And now he’s destroying my only hope for an ally. A fresh
surge of energy flows through me, overpowering my fear, and I give
voice to my questions. “Why? What– What do you want with
me?”

But nods and murmured assents have
already rippled through the small crowd, and nobody even glances in
my direction. Except one: the youth in the plain cloak, who briefly
turns to me before facing the magician again.

“
With all due respect,
Master,” he says, “she at least deserves to know–”

“
Silence!” The magician –
evidently the youth’s master – takes a threatening step toward him.
Though the younger man is taller by several inches, his master’s
authoritative expression and broad, barrel-chested build make him
radiate power. “She may look like a mere girl to you, but you must
remember that this creature is
not
one of us. Have you learned nothing of what I
taught you about her kind?”

My kind? What does that
mean? Why does he forbid the others from speaking to me at all?
What are they hiding? Are they … Could they be afraid of me? But
why?
I want to ask, but I’m shaking so
hard from the cold that I can barely breathe, and my jaw, clenched
to keep my teeth from clattering, is no longer capable of obeying
my will.

The young man starts to speak, but his
master holds up one hand and forms a fist, and the youth’s mouth
snaps shut as if it’s been compelled by magic.

“
I make my decisions based
on generations’ worth of collected knowledge,” the magician says in
a low growl. “No one here is worthy of challenging its wisdom,
least of all a seventeen-year-old apprentice.” His expression
relaxes, taking on a gentler, almost fatherly look. “You have much
to learn, young one. I know this is difficult for you to
understand, but what I’m doing is for the greater good. Someday,
the fate of the world could rest on our work here. As for the
creature–” He shoots me a brief glance. “–Never forget the
destruction her kind has wrought in the past. She’s dangerous, and
for your own safety, you must not speak to her.”

He unclenches his fist, and the young
man inhales sharply through his mouth. I’m now certain that this
man used magic to prevent his apprentice from speaking. If he can
hold such power over one of his own, what would he do to me? And
why would he think I’m dangerous? I back into the wall, wishing I
could disappear into it. The ice stings my skin, but I barely feel
it through my anger.

It has dawned on me that I must have
been imprisoned for a reason. Does he mean to use me for some
wicked purpose of his? What did he mean by my “kind”?

Suddenly, he raises his hand toward
the gap in wall. Thick ice crawls down from the ceiling and up from
the floor, slowly filling the window between us with its frozen
crystals. Realizing that he means to close me off again, I rush
forward.

“
Stop!” I cry, grabbing one
of the bars. The metal is so cold it’s painful to touch, and I
quickly draw my hand back. “Don’t leave me here! Please, tell me
why you’ve trapped me! Tell me what I’ve done!”

The magician ignores me and continues
his spell, but his apprentice turns and faces me. Does he still
feel some kind of sympathy toward me? Or have his master’s words
turned him cold as well? My heart protests the latter thought,
telling me that he was the only one with the courage to speak up,
instead of blindly obeying the master, and that kind of courage
can’t possibly fade so quickly.

“
Please,” I say for what
feels like the hundredth time, and my voice trembles. “Please
…”

He firms his mouth, then steps in
front of his master. He must block the spell, for the ice stops
growing, leaving a jagged, almost square window, bisected by a
single iron bar.

The magician scowls at him, and it
contorts his face into something so hideous that I almost draw back
from it. “How dare you!” He throws his hand toward the apprentice
in a forceful gesture, his fingers curved like claws, and the youth
slams into the cell’s wall as if blown by a hurricane. His head
crashes against the metal bar before me, and the sound of the
impact rings in my ears.

I cry out as he collapses to the
ground, and for several moments he appears to be unconscious, lying
in a heap with the thick hood of his cloak covering his face.
Finally he sits up, but before he can stand, the master stretches
one finger toward him. The boy freezes, caught in an invisible
spell.

“
What was the meaning of
your insubordination?” the magician growls.

“
We can’t leave her like
this, Master.” The apprentice’s words are strained with forced
deference. “She–”

“
Weakling!” The man punches
his hand forward, hurling the apprentice into the wall again, and a
second crash reverberates through the dungeon.

“
Stop!” I yell. Though I
can’t see what happened from my current angle, the sound was more
than enough. The punishment seems unreasonably cruel, and my anger
rises at the injustice, filling my heart with a crackling force. I
glare at the master, wishing I could slam
him
into a metal bar. “He didn’t do
anything!”

But the magician ignores me, keeping
his wrathful green eyes fixed on his apprentice. “Do not question
my orders. Or do you really think that your measly knowledge of the
magical is a match for mine?”

The mocking lilt in his
voice ignites a fresh spark in me, and I shout, “Is this what you
do? Hurt people for no reason? You
monster
!” But my voice might as well
be a whispering breeze for all the reaction he gives.

The apprentice picks himself up again,
and this time the master doesn’t interfere. As the youth stands, I
catch a glimpse of a dark bruise creeping down his face from under
the shadow of his hood. But if the punishment intimidated him, he
doesn’t show it, for he holds himself erect, steps toward the
magician, and keeps his voice steady. “Master, what good will she
do you if she freezes in this cell?”

Guilt gnaws at me, and I
bite my lip. Why would he still try to help me, when he’s already
provoked his master? For a moment I fear that the magician will
hurt the young man again, but instead he says dismissively, “Cold
does not affect her kind as it would you or me.” Before I can
protest – for whatever I am, this is most certainly
not
true – he gives me
an appraising look and says, “But perhaps this one isn’t as
strong.”

He steps around the apprentice and
waves his hand in a circular motion. A ball of yellow light
appears, hovering above his palm, and the warmth it emits brings
immediate relief. I want to take that warmth and wrap it around me
like a cocoon from which I’d never emerge.

The magician draws a long breath, then
blows at the ball of light, which flies through the window in my
cell. I instinctively reach toward it. A warning rings through my
head, telling me that anything this monster sends my way can’t be
good, but it’s too late – the glowing orb is upon me, and I hold up
my hands to protect the rest of my body. To my surprise, I’m able
to catch the light, and its soft warmth sends a rush of comfort up
my arms. Though I feel nothing solid, its presence is undeniable. I
tentatively press my hands toward each other, and the force of the
magic resists my push.

I pull the sphere close, speechless
with gratitude, and let its warmth flow through my frigid arms and
chest. For a moment, this source of heat is the only thing I care
about.

Then I recall that it was given to me
by the same monster who tortured me with his fiery spell, and I
almost fling it away, just to spite him. But much as I hate that
man, its heat is the one shield I have against the cold. And he
only gave it to me after the apprentice said I might freeze … so
the magician must need me alive. Why? What does he plan to do with
me?

I look up at the window, seeking him,
but he and the other cloaked figures are marching away, toward the
stone staircase on the other side of the wide room.

“
Wait!” I cry. If they
leave, there’s no knowing when – or if – they’ll return. I have so
many questions, and they’ve yet to answer a single one. I know it’s
useless to ask, but I have to try. “Just tell me why I’m
here!”

The apprentice, unmistakable in his
plain black cloak, even when his back is to me, stops. The others
continue, but he turns and walks toward me. I watch him hopefully.
He’d meant to answer me before; will he really defy his master
again after what just happened?

“
Stop!” The leader’s voice
thunders through the room, and he glares down at the young man from
the step. “If you speak even a single word to her, I guarantee
you’ll regret it.”

I suddenly fear what
punishment he would inflict upon the youth; if he threw him into a
wall because of a protest over the cold – a protest he then
agreed
with – what will
he do for outright disobedience? I know how much agony his magic
can cause, and I can’t stand the thought of that boy enduring more
pain because of me. So I bite back my questions, my heart
sinking.

The apprentice looks back
at his master and pauses. I watch anxiously, hoping he’ll
choose
not
to
provoke the other further. To my dismay, though, he continues
toward me. The man keeps his eyes fixed on him and raises his hand
in an ominous gesture, as if to cast another spell.

I open my mouth to tell the youth to
stop, to obey his master, to leave me – I’ll be fine. But then he
unhooks the clasp of his cloak and removes it in a single, sweeping
motion, revealing his face. Struck by the sight, I forget what I’d
meant to say.

The golden light from the ball in my
hands glints off his black hair and highlights a pair of
well-defined cheekbones, and I almost don’t notice the two bruises
– one on his forehead and one stretching down his cheek – marring
the otherwise even complexion. His eyes are darker than midnight,
and the angles of his thick black eyebrows add to their obsidian
intensity. The fierceness in his expression is almost frightening,
and yet I find something strangely beautiful about it.

Firming his mouth, he throws a glare
back at his master, who suddenly looks like a mere shade of a
person in comparison. There’s something powerful about this boy,
something that makes him appear older than his seventeen years, but
at the same time, he radiates a kind of bright energy only the
young could hold. Had both faces been revealed before I knew of
their relationship, I might have assumed the younger man was the
master.

He walks up to the window of my cell,
his expression softens, and it hits me that the fierce look it held
a moment before had been meant for the man giving him orders. It
was a look of defiance, a challenge. As he reaches through the
bars, the cloak in his hand, I realize that he means to give it to
me. Not knowing what else to do, I accept it.

“
Thank you,” I whisper,
closing my hand around the thick black cloth. I don’t expect him to
respond after his master’s threat; in fact, I hope he
doesn’t.

And though his mouth remains hard, his
eyes take on an apologetic tilt, and I can hear what he wants to
say as sure as if he’d voiced the words himself: “I’m sorry I can’t
do more.”