The asha talked little that night. While the Heartforger bent over his task, shaping lumps of mud and clay on the strange potter’s wheel, and while the emperor remained unconscious, trussed and bound behind the throne, the girl stared out the window into the city. Her daeva, obedient to a fault, kept a watchful guard. Occasionally, one would draw close to the window and purr, seeking her attention. She would lay a distracted hand on their rough hides and smile, but she never once looked away from the horizon. I wondered what she could see that I could not.

Lord Kalen approached, and her hand sought his. Side by side, they watched the setting sun, and I wondered at their thoughts, at the bond they shared.

I marveled at the Heartforger’s concentration. For two hours, he worked on the dismal lump of clay. No breathtaking design came to life in his hands, no bowls or sculptures deserving of fire or of glaze. I have seen potters craft masterpieces in half the time.

“Name?”

It took me a while to realize he was talking to me.

“Tea never asked for your name.” The Heartforger did not look up from his work. “She wouldn’t.”

“She calls me ‘Bard,’” I said, surprised by how vinegary the words came out.

“Don’t take it personally. This is how she reminds you of your purpose. She has no need for friends—she has lost enough of those over the last year.” He selected a small tool from his collection. “It must be frustrating to see very little results in the time I have spent on this.”

“I have no knowledge of a Heartforger’s art,” I responded, immediately ashamed of myself. “I have had no opportunity to watch one at work before.”

“It’s not worth an audience, as you can see. Unfortunately, I cannot make a living conducting demonstrations in exchange for payment. I remember my own impatience as an apprentice, watching my old master spin for hours without result. I was hot tempered and headstrong, and those are not the best virtues to be found in a forger.” He smiled down at his work. “Patience is the long pause between action and its consequences. Lengthier silences open you up to introspection, and I’ve known a lot of solitude.”

There was no sound, no flaring of light that often accompanied the magic. The pathetic-looking chunk of clay hardened, cracked, and fell away. What remained was not a heartsglass but a strange sliver of a line, a frozen thunderbolt that sparkled like crystal.

“My master called it an urvan, from the old Avestan languages,” the Heartforger said, “one’s ‘soul,’ so to speak.”

“But whose soul is it?”

“Imagine an empty flask. I give it to you, and you fill it with water. I give another to Kalen, and perhaps he would fill it with wine. The flasks are simply vessels that hold the liquid you add to it. It is the same with urvan. It is nothing on its own until I add it to someone’s heartsglass. It serves as a vessel to recreate their souls. I remember every memory that comes through my hands. I can replicate a soul very easily with this.” He stopped for a minute. When he returned to his work, his hands were careful and gentle. “And I thank every god there is that only I know the secrets. There are far too many people who would kill for such an ability, and sometimes, I regret that my master taught me this skill. It makes me a target.”

“They are here,” Tea said abruptly, turning away from the window.

I looked out and saw at a distance, much to my horror, a mass of soldiers converging on the city.

“I see the blue flags of Kion,” Lord Kalen said, “and the greens of Arhen-Kosho, but none from Odalia.”

“But why?” It was a ridiculous question. The answer looked back at me, her smile grim, so I asked another. “How did news of Daanoris’s fall travel so fast? Surely a week is not enough to raise this army.”

“They have had weeks to plan. They must have known the very night I ended my exile.” She stared back out into the throng of soldiers, as if straining to seek out one particular face among them. “It would appear,” she mused, “that the bond I share with my brother is stronger than even I realized.”