“The legend had it that a barkeep named Barney had witnessed something he should not have in the course of his rum-serving duties, and the dangerous man whose name was mentioned in what he had heard sent an assassin from a faraway town to find and kill the barkeep. So this Barney left his little town in the dead of night, made his way to Easton, the largest port city in Serendair, and found a job in another tavern, along with putative safety. A year or more went by, but the assassin was patient, and eventually discovered that Barney was now living in Easton, so he made his way to that city, intent on completing his contract. “Word of the killer’s approach arrived quickly—bartenders hear everything first—news that an assassin was coming, looking for a man he had never seen, who was working in a place with a great many taverns, inns, and pubs. Upon his arrival, the assassin went to the first pub he found, a place with two men working the bar. He asked if Barney was about. ‘Indeed,’ came the reply, according to legend. ‘Which one ya lookin’ fer?’ Not only were both men in that establishment named Barney, but in each such place the city over, every man serving ale or spirits from behind a tableboard was invariably called by the same name. Bartenders take care of their own; they work in a business that requires them to hear much and say very little. So when they heard the plight of one of their fellows, they underwent Renaming as a group, to a man, so that henceforth they would be even more anonymous, even more safe from the retribution of nefarious men and assassins. Unless the hired killer was willing to take the life of each man serving spirits in the entirety of the city, he would never find the one his employer sought to have killed. So he gave up and never returned, because even an assassin has standards—and a need for ale once in a while.” Anborn, who had chuckled at the tale, allowed the humor to leave his eyes as they met hers. “Was that assassin Achmed?” he asked quietly. Rhapsody’s face went slack. She released the shell and the Lord Marshal’s hand, and turned away toward the window of the room. “I don’t know,” she said after a moment, her back to An-born. Silhouetted against the setting sun, she seemed even more thin and wraithlike than he had noted upon seeing her after her ordeal. “I didn’t know him in those days. I would doubt it, however. My understanding is that Achmed rarely, if ever, missed a shot or lost the trail of prey.” The last words fell awkwardly from her mouth; she shut it abruptly and pulled at the drape, letting more of the fading light enter the room. And he would have had no compunction about killing every Barney in the town if he had to. Achmed can pour his own ale. “Do you ever stop to think your loyalty to him is misplaced?” Anborn asked, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. “Don’t get me wrong, my dear; I am in no position to condemn any man for the sins of his past. It just appears to me that you are risking much of what you love for someone whose entire view of the world is anathema to everything you profess to believe.” The Lady Cymrian remained silent for the span of seventy heartbeats. “I always thought you liked him,” she said after a moment. Anborn drew himself up taller, then sighed dispiritedly. “I do—but that doesn’t change the validity of my concern for you. You’ll notice I have asked you the same about my nephew and, in fact, myself. You are a woman that treasures things none of us truly care for—and to that end, in trying to see good in us which does not exist, you may undo yourself. And your child.” Rhapsody returned to him and sat by his side. “I was telling you the story of Barney,” she went on as if she had not heard him. “My Barney—the one I knew in Easton. He was a little old proprietor of an inn called the Hat and Feathers. Had a wife named Dee and a generous heart. He was also the first person I ever spoke the True Name of—or, more precisely, I wrote it down when I was learning to graph musical script. I told him to have a troubadour play it for him one day, if one should come along. And apparently one did; he played Barney the song of his own name, though neither of them knew what :r was. Barney found it to be a catchy tune, and so he hummed it to himself every day, while washing glasses and serving ale.” Her eyes grew brighter. “He still does, as far as I know.” She averted her eyes as Anborn’s gaze grew suddenly sharp. “Say what you mean,” the Lord Marshal commanded. “I mean that all those centuries ago in the Third Age of history, a man learned to sing his True Name to himself, day into night, for each of the days of his life forward. His beloved wife grew old and died; war came to the Island, and went, taking a generation with it. Centuries of rebuilding passed, until Gwylliam’s vision of the Cataclysm was revealed, and when the Cymrians made an exodus to this place, Barney went with them. He lived through the whole thing, Anborn—-the exodus, the journey, the building and undoing of the Cymrian empire, the war, the years of silent misery—and to this day, he quietly tends bar in a small fishing village on the western coast, looking exactly like the same man who I kissed on the cheek and walked away from two thousand years ago. The song of his name has seemed to have sustained him; each time he hums the melody, it remakes him, in a sense, to what he was on the day he learned it.” She tapped the shell in his hand. “Grunthor gave me this a few years ago, when we first came to this place. A thoughtful gift; he believed it might help with the nightmares that had been plaguing me since girlhood, thought I might be comforted by the sound of the sea. And he was right, though I think perhaps it was more the kindness that consoled me than the roaring of the waves.” Her smile brightened even as the look in her eyes grew serious. “In that time I have kept it carefully as a reminder of what it was that allowed me to survive all that had befallen me—not my wits, if I have any, or my strength, minimal as it is, but the love of those dear to me. I give it to you now, and in it I have sung the song of your True Name, Anborn ap Gwylliam, son of Anwyn.” She squeezed bis hand. The Lord Marshal sighed. “I am not in need of your comfort, m’lady,” he said as pleasantly as he could. “I am in need of focus and concentration—war is looming. The last thing I wish to be distracted by is foolish consolation.”
“I know,” Rhapsody said. “It is not for consolation that I am giving it to you, but for healing.” Her voice became softer, as if the words caused her pain. “It was I that caused you to be lame, when you caught me from the sky as I fell from An-wyn’s grasp at the battle after the Cymrian Council.” She waved him into silence as he attempted to speak. “It is because of me that you have lost the freedom you once had, the freedom you told me you valued above all other things. I have tried many times to heal those injuries, to make you whole again, but my knowledge, my abilities, are not strong enough.”