“My name is Wind,” she whispered. “And Rain. And Bone and Dust. My name is a snippet of a half-remembered song.” He chuckled, a low, delightful sound. She was drunk, and silly, and so full of the glory of being young and alive and in the capital of the world that she could hardly contain herself. “I have no name,” she purred. “I am whoever the keepers of my fate tell me to be.”
