The Heart Forger (The Bone Witch #2)(62)
The First Daughter’s shoulders slumped. “I apologize, Khalad. I just feel…helpless. Is there nothing we can do for Kance?”
“I’d like another look at his heartsglass.” Khalad squinted at it. “See here? There’s an empty space between his heartbeats. It’s small and very easy to miss, but I’m not mistaken.”
“I don’t see anything,” Likh confessed.
“I do,” I said. “He’s right, but I wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t pointed it out.”
“I told Lady Tea and Sir Fox how the victims of this sickness are descendants of each of the Five Great Heroes. Something was taken from them—Master called it an urvan, the soul.”
“A soul?” Kalen sounded skeptical.
“It’s the essence of who you are, so to speak. It’s your memories that define and shape your soul, mold it into the person you are. Drawing Heartsrune nourishes your soul further. People have longer lifespans with heartsglass, are less prone to diseases.”
“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.”