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Hot Obsidian. Olga McArrow
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“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, Bala’s 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 healer’s 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 Kosta’s situation, even for a little while.
Only Jarmin always stayed by Kosta’s 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.
“I’ve just learned this recipe today! It’s awesomely strong stuff. It must help,” he said every time he brewed another one and added when it failed to work, “Don’t worry, I have another recipe right here…”
Bala’s 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 Kosta’s cheeks, his cough became softer, and his hair grew long and shiny.
Still, the invisible disease kept filling the boy’s 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. Bala’s cauldron was merrily bubbling on a small stove fuelled by Pai’s 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 boy’s 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.
“I’ll be back soon,” he said, very quietly but with determination. It was the first time he had spoken in weeks.
“No, you can’t!” 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. “I’ve been waiting for weeks. My illness used to pass by itself before but looks like it won’t 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 won’t return at all.”
“What’s on your mind? Suicide?”
“No. I’m 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 I’m 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 should’ve done it a week ago,” he thought as he saw pity in Bala’s eyes. “It may be already too late.”
“Let’s 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 didn’t. 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 didn’t 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 doesn’t matter where to now… Please, sit with me… I have to tell you…”
But he didn’t 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. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
“Don’t…” 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 body’s demands that Kosta felt close to blacking out. His vision dimmed, blurred, overcast with dancing green specks. He had to slow his