***
They were paying their rent in copper instead of gold now that they moved out of the inn, but that was fine with everyone: both the landlady and the Lifekeepers team. The flat the boys now lived in was in a crooked building clinging to the inner side of the city wall like a swallows nest. Only one of their rooms had a window and that window opened into a small enclosed pocket of space between the house and the wall. A tiny balcony bridged the gap. You wouldnt fall from it even if you wanted to so no one minded Jarmin sitting there for hours, busy with his painting.
Slowly, one small patch at a time, the boy was filling the grey canvas of the wall with beautiful things, weaving a tale of an alien world. There were immense towers of glass and steel, each as tall as Vladas or Seregs, metallic, machine-like birds with angular wings, and a maze of bridges and roads.
Jarmin bought his paints and brushes himself, using the pocket money Kangassk Eugenia had given him. Juel scolded the little boy at first but even he came to like the alien landscape eventually. He didnt take his words back, though, for the paints were expensive and the team was on a limited budget.
Jarmin knew what he was doing when he chose the best paints that Firaska could offer: with the paints of such quality, his alien landscape was going to stay there forever and neither rain nor sunlight, neither time nor flames would be able to ruin it. It was going to stay there no matter what, outliving its master for centuries to come.
Ambassa makes any talent shine and Jarmins was no exception. But, unlike his brethren, he was the quietest of the ambasiaths around.
Time passed slowly. While Pai and Milian were busy with learning Transvolo, the rest of the boys found something to occupy themselves as well. Oasis dived into Firaskian urban life, making friends and enemies, breaking old street rules and establishing his own. After Lainuver, who was older and more experienced in the way of shadows, had joined him, the duo turned into a force to be reckoned with.
Juel and Irin spent most of their days training with young Crimson Guardians. All Lifekeepers are skilled warriors, often being taught to fight since turning three, so the boys guidance was very welcome at the college training grounds. Several young mages, impressed with Juels swordplay, removed the handguards from their swords. Several days later, they were already calling the Faizul master and followed him everywhere like ducklings, eager to learn anything he was willing to teach them.
Irin became a regular at the college shooting gallery. He gained some fans but not apprentices like Juel as well. Every Crimson Guardian, young and old, wanted to see him shoot. Irin never missed. Wind, fog, darkness nothing could stop him from hitting his target. But, despite his shining talent, no one liked the grim boy. Ambassa makes many things shine, and some of them are not nice. There was an aura of cold, menacing danger around Irin and people subconsciously felt it.
While most of the team kept their activities consistent, Orion, Bala, and Kosta didnt. Orion could join Juel and Irin at the training grounds (young Crimson Guardians enjoyed his company) or Oasis and Lainuver at their shadow business, or Pai and Milian in the library. Sometimes, his wanderers spirit became so infectious that the other boys followed his example. Then you could see Pai and Milian spar with the college students or Juel and Lainuver spend a day in the library (Einar Sharlou gave them his permission to do so). Those two always sat in opposite corners of the reading hall but borrowed the same books from time to time.
Bala and Kosta spent their days differently from the rest of the group.
Bala, who was always hungry for stories, dedicated his time to gathering all the stories Firaska could offer. Since he always valued listening to stories over reading them, his main hunting grounds were Firaskian taverns. Soon all the tavern regulars, travellers, and barkeepers knew and welcomed the cheerful dark-skinned boy. Bala had little money to spend but was always generous and irresistibly charming when it came to sharing stories. He told people of his travels with his master, of North and South, of Ebony Islands and Chermasan Sea; he sang foreign songs and narrated foreign legends; he knew a good number of teasing verses too, both from Mirumir and Adjaen. Whenever Bala Maraskaran visited a tavern, curious folks followed him and the tavern owners business got a pleasant boost because of all the drinks and food they bought.
Kostas case was more complicated.
At first, hungry for knowledge, young Ollardian used to spend his days in the college library with Pai and Milian but then his illness got worse. On his last visit to the library, he borrowed a book titled Tome of Dark Creatures. That was how he spent his time now: bedridden, coughing, and reading the darkest textbook imaginable. Kostas breath was wheezy, superficial, difficult; if he tried to breathe deeply, his cough returned, making the boy painfully bent double in his bed. It seemed that his lungs were slowly filling with liquid with every passing day.
Kostas teammates, concerned with his condition, didnt hear a single complaint from the stoic boy.
Its all right, he always said. It happens to me sometimes but it will pass.
One can only guess how painful his life must have been that he had learned to accept such suffering as normal.
Kosta's condition worsened with each passing day. First, he put his book of horrors aside because even reading became too difficult for him, and then he stopped talking.
Bala brought a foreign healer to him once, a powerful mage who had happened to visit the city tavern Bala was a regular at. After examining the patient, the mage healer said, perplexed,
Physically, he's fine. His illness resembles a severe case of magical addiction but its unlike any case Ive seen. He turned to Kosta. Tell me, my boy, have you ever been to the No Mans Land or the No Mans Waters?
Kosta nodded. He indeed had travelled with his father a lot.
Did you enter any anomalies? Handled magical objects beyond the stable territory?
Kosta shook his head.
The healer asked him many more other questions after that but failed to determine the source of his magical addiction. In the end, the mage had to give up. He chose to be honest with the brave boy.
There is no cure he began and wanted to add something hopeful and soothing, but stopped when Kosta just nodded knowingly.
The powerful mage and renowned healer, Balas guest left the dark apartment deeply sad and defeated. He refused to accept any payment for his wasted time.
A week had passed after the healers visit. Kosta looked like a ghost now, so pale and thin he had become. There was no way to help him. Even returning to the Temple of Life would not solve the problem, for magical addiction is a mysterious illness without a known cure, not something you can treat with potions or magic.
There was no more fun and laughter in the little flat that the team was currently calling home. Every morning, the boys woke up early and left as quickly as possible. They trained and learned twice as hard as they used to, grateful for any distraction that could take their minds away from Kostas situation, even for a little while.
Only Jarmin always stayed by Kostas side, keeping the silent boy company, reading to him, brushing his hair, and bringing him tea. Bala forgot all about his story-hunting and switched to recipe-hunting instead. Soon, he knew all the healers in the city and all the merchants at the market. He bought himself a bag of medicinal herbs and a cauldron and started brewing a new potion every day.
Ive just learned this recipe today! Its awesomely strong stuff. It must help, he said every time he brewed another one and added when it failed to work, Dont worry, I have another recipe right here
Balas optimism was the only thing that made Kosta smile now.
Clumsy as he was, Bala was good at potion-making, just as good as he was at cooking, maybe because those two things had a lot in common. His potions did produce some effect, just not the one he was hoping for: a bit of colour returned to Kostas cheeks, his cough became softer, and his hair grew long and shiny.
Still, the invisible disease kept filling the boys lungs with liquid, slowly but steadily.
***
In the beginning, that morning seemed no different from many previous ones. Jarmin tucked the blanket around Kosta to keep him warm and got back to painting. The little artist worked on its magnificent steel bridges today. Balas cauldron was merrily bubbling on a small stove fuelled by Pais Fiat-lux. Bala added the last ingredient to the mix, stirred it for a while, took a sip from the spoon, and decided that the potion was ready. He filled a cup, dropped a small cube of diadem sugar into it to sweeten the medicine, and brought it to Kosta who drank it obediently, in small sips, as he always did.
Everything was just like it had been yesterday, everything but the look on the sick boys face. There was fire in his eyes that Bala had never seen there before.
His cup of medicine finished, Kosta got out of his bed and started to dress. And not just dress: he put on his sword belt as well.
Where are you going? exclaimed Bala. He clumsily waved his hand as he did that, making a pile of pans and pots tumble down from the table with a crash.
Kosta unsheathed his sword, gave it a long look, then sheathed it again.
Ill be back soon, he said, very quietly but with determination. It was the first time he had spoken in weeks.
No, you cant! cried Bala, throwing himself between Kosta and the only way out of the room.
Jarmin had left his balcony and was peeking from behind its door now, frightened by the scene.
Bala my friend said Kosta with a weary sigh. Ive been waiting for weeks. My illness used to pass by itself before but looks like it wont now. If I wait any longer, I will die in my bed. I must do something. Just trust me, please. I will return healthy. Or wont return at all.
Whats on your mind? Suicide?
No. Im going to deal with what is torturing me. Please, let me go.
Bala was silent for a long time and under this silence, his doubts were having a mortal fight
Fine he gave in at last. But Im going with you!
The Crimson Guardians would have had a lot of questions to a child leaving the city alone, but a child accompanied by an adult warrior was okay in their book. No one had stopped Kosta and Bala from leaving Firaska.
Free from the claustrophobic labyrinth of the city, both boys were glad to enter a huge, green, open world of Southern wilderness. The air was so fresh there! Kosta even tried to draw a deep breath but regretted it right away: his cough returned.
He could not stop coughing for a long time. Kneeled on the grass, he pressed his hands against his chest and patiently waited for the coughing fit to pass. When Kosta stood up, he had no voice and a horrible wheezy sound accompanied his every breath now.
I shouldve done it a week ago, he thought as he saw pity in Balas eyes. It may be already too late.
Lets go, he said in a wheezy whisper. We have a long way ahead of us.
They followed the main road at first but left it after an hour. Their pace was slow but Kosta already breathed heavily and could not go any faster no matter how much he wanted to. Moving forward in a steady, non-stopping pace was the best he could do now, and he did. Hours passed but they had not stopped to rest even once. Had not exchanged a single word either.
Finally, they reached the Firaskian forest, a dark, ominous mass of ancient cedars.
Despite being so close to the city, the forest seemed wild and untouched by people. There were plenty of cedar cones scattered under the trees; every glade was full of berries. Obviously, no one picked local nature's candy that alone should have made Bala suspicious but it didnt. He enjoyed the forest too much for his own good. He picked herbs, nuts, and berries along the way, stuffed the herbs into his pockets, gorged on the forest gifts himself and fed them to Kosta.
For the first time in weeks, Kosta didnt refuse food, knowing that he needed all his strength to meet what he was going to meet.
But strength was what he had not. Four hours after entering the forest, Kosta had to stop to rest and catch his breath. He resumed his journey shortly, as stubborn and methodical as ever in his efforts, but his next sprint lasted barely three hours. Then and only then, it dawned on his careless companion that they would not be able to return to the city before dark.
Kosta, he said in a terrified, hushed voice, we have to go back, now!
Young Ollardian, sprawled on the ground, opened his eyes, bloodshot and watering because of his endless cough, then made an effort to get up and leaned against the nearest cedar tree for support. His wheezy breath was painful to hear.
Of course he whispered. We will go it doesnt matter where to now Please, sit with me I have to tell you
But he didnt have the chance A terrified, wailing cry interrupted him mid-phrase. It must have belonged to a young child scared out of their wits.
Stay here, pleaded Bala, torn between his helpless friend and the helpless little stranger. Ill be back in a minute.
Dont wheezed Kosta, trying to grab his sleeve, but Bala was too quick for him.
Late once again, he thought bitterly. And then he got up and tried to run after his friend.
Two seconds into the run, Kosta started to cough again. His lungs could not take it anymore. His heart was close to its limit as well; it pounded so fast in a desperate attempt to keep up with the sick bodys demands that Kosta felt close to blacking out. His vision dimmed, blurred, overcast with dancing green specks. He had to slow his pace to stay conscious but didnt dare to stop, knowing that any delay could cost Bala everything.
Breathe breathe breathe the boy chanted in his thoughts.
Bala was running through the forest in the direction he had heard the childs cry from. The undergrowth was thick there; that made Balas long sword a real burden that slowed him a great deal. Luckily, the child, a little boy, jumped out of the bushes right in front of Bala.
Marascaran went down on one knee and tried to calm down the kid and learn what had happened to him. The boy looked about five years old: he seemed younger than Jarmin. He was scrawny, dirty, and dressed in filthy rags; his arms and cheeks were red with scratches that running through the undergrowth had left him. The boys little face was a mask of utter terror; it made all the horrors of the No Mans Land that Bala had heard of from his teammates flash before his minds eye in a split second.
What happened to you? he asked, trying to sound as calm and confident as he could.
They killed mommy whispered the child, his voice gone, probably from crying so loudly.