“I don’t know much about repairing and making heartsglass,” Princess Inessa confessed, “but why would anyone want to steal a soul?”
“According to the Faceless’s book, it’s an important ingredient for making lightsglass, which in turn can create shadowglass. And with their victims asleep and unresisting, heartsglass won’t fade. Without knowing where the Five Heroes’ graves lie, taking their descendants’ urvan is the next best choice.”
The white-haired boy gestured at the bottles behind him. “Why do you think the master and I spent years collecting them? They are to us what cloth and silk are to ateliers, what herbs and spices are to apothecaries. Souls remain, even when our heartsglass have been taken. But take away the soul and I can do nothing. What good is a heartsglass if memories can’t form around a soul to make them real?”
“Excuse me? Master Khalad?” A young boy peeked in, flustered by the crowd inside. “I saw your sign and was wondering… Broke me mum’s good vase by accident, and she’s all put out. I was hoping I could get her something nice, but if you’re busy…”
“That’s all right, Jobie. Let’s get your ma a new vase.” The forger gestured at us to keep our silence. The young boy sat down, and Khalad produced an empty vial. “Don’t be so nervous, Jobie,” the white-haired boy said soothingly. “You’ve done this enough times before.”
“I know, but it gets me worried every time. Can’t you take my worry with my guilt too?”
“Close your eyes. You’ll feel more relaxed that way.”
The forger traced two of his fingers across his forehead before withdrawing. A small strand of something thicker than smoke and heavier than fog curled around them. He tipped it into an empty vial, and I caught the faintest whiff: Jobie looking stricken, hovering over a shattered vase on the floor. But Khalad pushed the cork in, and the image was gone.
“It’s done, Jobie.”
The boy slid off the chair, grinning. “I feel much better!”
“Do you remember anything?” the forger asked. “Do you remember the vase?”
“The vase? What vase?” Jobie frowned, trying to remember. “Buying me mum a vase, wasn’t I?” he asked, after a moment.
“That’s right, Jobie. Here’s the money for it.”
“Don’t know what Mum needs with two vases. She’s got a perfectly good one at home.” Shaking his head, the boy left.
“I had no idea you could do that,” Likh breathed.
“It’s easier than it looks.” Khalad took out a heartsglass from a cupboard. Its colors were faded, not quite as clear as they should be.
“I don’t have enough of my own memories to create heartsglass for everyone who needs them. The master and I can’t pay much, but the people here are grateful for every bit we can give. Guilt’s a popular ingredient. Everyone’s always looking to unburden their guilt. It’s the other emotions people have trouble parting with. Happiness, always. Even sadness. Most people don’t want to part with their sadness, surprisingly enough. You’d think it was the opposite. Guilt is cheaper, but I try to give a fair price.”
“Old memories for new,” I echoed quietly, thinking about the ones I had given to Khalad over the last couple of years. How many of them had he used for new heartsglass? I had never thought to ask before, but seeing his workshop made me wonder. Would his patients remember traces of the memories I’d supplied? Of dancing around my father’s forge, of curling up by his feet as he told me stories? Of me as a child, sitting on Fox’s shoulders as he raced through the streets, my brothers and sisters giving chase? And what about my time at the Willows? When they fell in love, would that love bear a trace of my crush on the prince? My friendships with Mykaela and Polaire and everyone else? Would their nightmares come with raised skeletons or three-headed dragons?
“This is for an old man who lives a few streets down who is suffering from dementia,” Khalad continued. “I’m building him a new heartsglass. Can’t do much with his mind—old age will do that. But I’ve placed some happy memories here: of being loved by a wife and by children. There’re some sad ones to balance everything out and then guilt that goes well enough as conscience. Each heartsglass is different. You can’t fit people with the same heartsglass every time.”
“But they’re not his memories,” Fox said. “Won’t he remember a different wife, different children?”
“That’s the beauty of forging. You don’t always need the memory itself, just the emotions that go along with it. Memory’s always been tricky—you think you remember a brown dog with a white spot on its nose, but years later, when your mind isn’t as sharp, you could easily believe it was a white dog with a brown spot. He’ll be confused for a day or two, but his own memories will reassert themselves and take their shape. Those old memories I’d bought will be gone, of course. It’s why I keep the newest memories for a while, to make sure those who sold them won’t have a change of heart and want them back, though most of them have trouble remembering what they’d sold.”
“Did it help?” I found myself asking. “My memories?”
“Absolutely,” Khalad promised, almost reverently. “You helped a lot of people, Tea, and they know. I made sure of it.”
“You’re doing good work,” Likh was wide eyed with admiration.
“I’m still an apprentice,” the forger said, smiling. “But I’ve managed complicated hearts on my own. People think Master’s an old codger, but he’s really kind.”
“I’m going to do you both better,” Princess Inessa said. “Kalen, please return to the palace. Tell the commander I require the sturdiest wagon he can find, enough horses to pull it, and two dozen of his best soldiers.”
“What are you planning?” the Deathseeker asked her.
The First Daughter set her jaw. “Odalia will be after you, Khalad, and your small house will make a poor defense. You don’t know your master’s cure, but our enemies don’t know that. You will be safer in the palace, so I am bringing all your tools with you.”
“Master won’t like that.”
“Your master isn’t here, Khalad. That’s part of the problem.”
The army made its move at dawn, approaching the unguarded gates. Despite being heavily outnumbered, the Daanorian soldiers in the palace began their preparations to repulse the enemy, their bravery shining brighter than armor.
Lord Kalen drew their leaders aside, speaking to them in their language. The men looked uncertainly at him and then at each other.
“They will not be fighting today,” the Dark asha said from behind me. “My daeva will be more than adequate for the task.”
“But they draw too close to the palace.” I did not believe that the incoming army would spare the Daanorian civilians the way the bone witch had, and the daeva were too large to be careful should the city be overrun.
The smile she shot in my direction was almost cruel. “You forget that I too have an army.”
Her hands drifted lazily, sketching runes I could not see. The wind died for a few brief moments, and a strange hush fell over the palace, extending out toward the city and past the gates.
An earthquake rocked Santiang, the force pitching me to the floor.
The Heartforger calmly snatched a falling vial in midair, setting it on the floor before returning to his forging. I grabbed at the windowsill and chanced a look outside. The daeva remained where they were below, still waiting placidly.
Beyond the gates, I could see the army struggling to regain footing. And then another wave hit us, and the ground around the soldiers broke apart. I saw skeletal hands reaching up to clasp the now-frightened infantry by their legs. I saw horses rear up, throwing off their riders as the undead clawed out from the soil in easily twice their number.
And then the screaming began.
I dashed from the window and fell to my knees, vomiting.
“They’re eating them,” the Dark asha said matter-of-factly, “though I don’t suppose the undead have much appetite.”