Heir of Fire and Ice

Nameless

Pain shot through the girl's body. She braced herself, forced herself not to panic. It would get worse than this. She could smell the flames licking up her hair, burning her scalp. The pain was not her enemy. She could not avoid it, could not fight it. But, as she had learned many moons ago, if she yielded, then she would loose consciousness. The pain was too great to disappear completely, but it wasn't quite so bad. So, the girl let herself slip into oblivion.

It couldn't last. It never did. When she awoke, the girl's body was raw, but healed. Up to a point. The healers never took away the scarring. Her face, as always, was unmarred. The servant girl gestured for her to get up, out of the bed that hurt her skin so. Auntie Maeve had forbidden them to talk to her. She was dressed in a blue shimmering gown that flowed down to the floor, with long sleeves that covered all of her scarring. And iron. Not chains, like when she was in her room, or the fire room. Earrings, necklaces, bracelets, anklets. To keep the thing that prowled under her skin away. It worked. Most of the time. But sometimes, it would escape. When she had a nightmare, when she was scared. She must never let Auntie Maeve know.

Auntie Maeve wasn't cruel, just fair. The girl was punished when she did wrong, and privileged when she was quiet, obedient. If she got hurt, that was her fault, not Auntie Maeve's. She was merciful, she had let the girl live, when many would have killed her. All of this, Auntie Maeve had told her. She had been told of her evil mother, who had tried to burn down Doranelle, how Auntie Maeve had killed her for her crimes. How lucky she was that she had been spared.

The girl was tired. Her job was to welcome guests, to smile and look pretty. She thought she had done well. In fact, almost everyone had commented on how pretty she looked. Of course, her replies were all variations of: Why thank you, you look lovely, too. I really love your broach. She hoped it would suffice. One time, a guest had told Auntie Maeve that the girl hadn't smiled at her, and she had been punished. Even though her head ached and her scars chaffed, she must look the part. Finally, the guests had all left, but the girl knew that she must still go back to Auntie Maeve before she could return to bed. Or the fire room.

Auntie Maeve beckoned, and the girl came to kneel before her throne.

"Am I correct in thinking that many people called you pretty?"

"Yes, Auntie Maeve."

"I think we will have to change that. We don't want it going to your head, after all. Do we now?"

"No, Auntie Maeve."

"Come here. Now I think just a little cut. That's all. Now, every time you look in the mirror, it will remind you. That I have the power. That you are helpless against me. Nameless." The Auntie Maeve drew a bejeweled dagger, and slashed a line from the girl's brow to her jaw. "There. All done."

The girl barely felt the pain. Not of the cut, anyway. But as she climbed up the many flights of stairs, brushed her hair out, collapsed into bed, that one word repeated in her head. Nameless, nameless, nameless.