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.