Chapter 30: Mother’s Blood

A decision was made to take the discussion on the road after all, away from prying eyes eager to discover what kind of an embarrassing ailment a ‘debuff’ actually was.

As they put some distance between themselves and the town of Silver Crag, it was strange for Miro to admit that it felt right being on the road again and heading in the right direction. For better or for worse, this trek towards the northlands was the only sense of normalcy he’d experienced the last few weeks. He just wished the conversation was about anything but him.

“Do you think there may be a way to lift it?” Nydra asked, as Miro let the two of her and Hima keep pace slightly ahead of him.

“I don’t know,” Hima answered as if pondering an arm’s-length academic query. “I spent a few rotations in the Akademiya’s medical ward, and all I can say is that no two debuffs are exactly alike. I’ve known those who were born with one, who were cursed with one, and who developed one spontaneously.” She paused, and in the quiet that followed Miro could hear the crunch of her footsteps on the dirt road and when he looked down he saw that with each step, a thin layer of cracking frost formed under her boots. “I’ve also seen those we’ve cured, and those that have spent their lives in the care of the Akademiya, but,” she glanced over her shoulder at Miro, “I believe nothing is so broken that it can’t be fixed.”

Somehow her assurance did not assuage the image Miro had of himself growing ancient in some dusty attic of the Akademiya, being poked and prodded every month or so to satisfy some mage’s morbid curiosity.

“What about the specific one that Miro says he has?” Nydra asked, keeping her face low and looking at the ground, which did nothing to make her voice less audible, “Do you know anything about that one?”

“‘Mother’s Blood’? No, I haven’t encountered anything like that.”

Miro felt a hand clasp his shoulder and he was once again impressed by Peteri’s ability to sneak up on you even when you knew he was there.

“Like a bug under a curious child’s eye, Miro?” the archer whispered.

“Yeah, something like that,” Miro grumbled.

“If I had access to the Akademiya’s archives, I might have been able to find something useful,” Hima continued, “Out here though, my best guesses are about all we have going for us.” She paused. “Not that that’s not significantly better than nothing.”

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Miro really did feel more like an oxcart with a busted axle than a patient. If this was the bedside manner of the masters at the Akademiya, no wonder so many of their wards never recovered. It wouldn’t have even surprised Miro if they purposefully withheld a cure in order to prolong access to their case studies.

“Hmm,” Nydra murmured into the sky, “I also may not know anything about what it is or what can be done about it, but I think I can guess where it came from.”

Miro raised his eyes and found that Nydra was looking at him, slowing her pace to fall in step with his and leaving Hima alone at the head of their group, respectfully giving distance but very obviously listening.

“What do you mean you know how I might have got this?” Miro asked, heat rising behind his ears.

“There was something I hadn’t told you yet about the day your parents died. I thought it may have been too much all at once.” When she spoke of it, Nydra’s voice grew distant, and Miro couldn’t know then that every time she remembered, she was transported back to that day, as if she was experiencing it all over again, each sight, smell and sound. “You were there, too, Miro.”

Nydra took him back to that crisp sunny morning in Arkensk, when his mother insisted that she bring him, saying that if the baby had to be away from his father for so long, there’s no need for them to be apart during his father’s greatest moment. Nydra told him how Miro’s father Jalvyn had smiled when he touched Miro for the last time before walking to receive the medal from the King, and also of the last glance Nydra had of his mother, watching her husband with pride, holding tight onto the precious package in her arms.

“In the commotion we’d nearly missed you,” Nydra said, “But when one of us found you, you were wailing your little lungs out.” She paused, and for both their sakes Miro chose not to look at Nydra’s face. “You – you were completely unharmed, but your mother …”

“‘Mother’s Blood’. Yes … I get it, thank you,” Miro said and silence descended on the road like a suffocating blanket. The terrain made for sparse trees, and the ones that grew here tended to be bent and crooked, and perfect perching spots for lone ominous birds. One such crow cawed, and Miro felt that it had done so at him specifically.

Maybe some of the past was best left buried. Miro couldn’t say he was any worse off when he had known nothing of the dark times that came before than he was now, imagining himself at six months old lying on the cold paving stones of the plaza in front of the palace, clinging to the body of his dead mother. Miro needed to stop and catch his breath, bending forward to keep the nausea from overtaking him.

“Are you okay?” he heard, and the realization that this was Hima’s voice asking knocked some of the crushing feeling out of him.

“Sorry, I just need a minute.”

“Take your time, lad,” Nydra said, though he could hear how much effort it took her to acquiesce to a delay.

He looked up again, choosing to ignore the faces that must have been staring at him with more concern than he could have handled at the moment. Ahead of them, the road forked, as if split in half by the knife of a massive slab of gray rock that rose up from the dark green grass.

“Does that road lead east?” Miro asked.

Nydra pursed her lips and glanced behind her. “The right one appears to, yes. Why do you ask?”