I hope you can forgive me.
Do not be alarmed. I have gone to face the naga by myself; that is my choice. I have discovered the truth that you, I think, were trying to save me from. I saw in the Slack how to undo the knots of the prophecy that I created. I saw that it was possible to save you.
Even if it costs my life, I have decided to do it. More than anything, I want you to live.
Do not feel sorry for me. I am not angry, nor am I sad. This has come as a relief to me. In fact, I feel joy.
Since the days of my childhood, when these prophecies started to plague me, I have struggled with helplessness. Oftentimes I felt trapped at the bottom of a frozen pond, watching things happen through the ice, unable to touch them, unable to change anything. I felt nothing but hatred: toward myself, toward my visions, toward the world. It was as if fortune itself were mocking me.
After my daughter died, I decided the only way to avoid more pain was to leave. I knew I was running away when I left the capital, but I cared little. I kept running. If I wasn’t around anyone, if I didn’t care about anything, then there could be no hurt, and no one to hurt.
Living like that, it would have been a matter of time before things came to their logical conclusion. So do not feel regret for my sake. By ending this way, at least something positive will be gained from my death.
I wish we could have met under better circumstances. Perhaps in a time to come, in another world (as you said), we will. To have known you, even for one day, was a gift to me, fortune’s penance. I have only one wish for you:
Live on, dear one. Embrace what fortune has bestowed upon you. Look ahead with no regrets. And carry a memory of me into the future.
Mokoya
Chapter Nineteen
SHE TOOK NOTHING WITH HER, as one does when one does not intend to return. Her cudgel she left in the tent; she would not need it against her foe.
She would serve as a distraction, a focal point for the naga’s slackcraft, to give Wanbeng time to get to safety. She would surprise the creature, break its neck with earth-nature to limit the damage it could do.
If she could, she would kill it. Either way, she did not expect to survive.
She was ready.
Outside her tent, Mokoya closed her eyes against the lightening sky and folded the Slack.
The naga had nested in open air on the far side of the oasis, where water cascaded down massive boulders to a reflecting pool below. A raised plateau about two hundred yields across stood between the oasis and the sunken pool. That was where Mokoya came out of the fold, tumbling over her own feet and into a roll, dry dust filling her mouth. Her head struck something lumpy, and sand-noise dizziness flared as she stood. She was right in front of the naga’s massive bulk, radiating animal stink.
The creature struggled to its feet, nostrils flaring, a growl building in its throat.
So much for surprising it.
“Who goes there?” demanded a voice.
Wanbeng was alive, imperious as ever, standing between the creature’s winged front limbs.
“Wanbeng! It’s me.”
“Tensor Sanao?” The girl’s eyes widened.
The naga bared its teeth and lunged its head forward. “No!” the girl commanded.
Her hand snapped up as she tensed through forest-nature. The naga froze, then backed down.
The creature’s breathing was labored. Blood oozed from its sides and marked wide smears on the ground. The Machinists’ fire cannon had struck deep. The naga was dying, its wounds slowly draining its blood, the great rot setting in.
Mokoya said to the girl: “It’s me, Wanbeng. I’ve come to help.”
“You’re not dead.”
“Not yet.”
“Then I’m not a criminal.” Her voice shook with relief.
Unreasonable hope seized Mokoya: What if this ordeal was survivable? “Wanbeng, we must end this creature’s misery,” she said. “Look at its wounds.”
“Those murderers did this.”
“You saw what it did to the city. You know it’s dangerous.”
The girl couldn’t answer the accusations. She didn’t argue with Mokoya, did not insist on the naga’s humanity. The delusion had been wrung from her in the hours since. In a way, Mokoya almost envied her. Wanbeng’s eyes shone with bright frustration, the lines around them evidence of her exhaustion. “I don’t want to go back. I don’t want to be my father’s little puppet.”
“You don’t have to be. Wanbeng, I promise I will do all I can to help you. But there’s nothing out here. I know, because I’ve spent the last two years of my life hiding in the wilderness. It won’t help.”
The girl bit her lip. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m—” Mokoya exhaled. “I’m going to undo what has been done,” she said. “I’m going to untangle the soul-graft.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Keep it still while I work the slackcraft. Can you do that?”
Wanbeng’s shoulders moved. “I’ll try.”
Mokoya calmed her mindeye and read the creature in front of her. She could see what had been done to the essence of the wild naga. Raja Ponchak’s soul pattern had been grafted on, precisely and artificially, a profusion of Slack-connections fastened to the naga at five points, like a pentagonal tumor. The naga’s body had grown to enormous proportions in response to the injury that had been done to its soul, accumulating matter and complexity to balance this unasked-for addition.
The deed had been done with calculated artlessness. She despised the ones responsible.
She had to work fast: she didn’t know how long Wanbeng could keep the naga still once she started. She began to unravel the first knot, dissolving the connections that held it together.
The Slack resisted. The prophecy tangled around her pulled back against her efforts, choking her slackcraft. Refusing to let her unfix what had been fixed.
Mokoya, existing half outside her own head, saw a path through the snarl. She twisted the Slack. Bright connections sprang free. The first knot disintegrated.
The naga screeched and tried to rear up on its hind legs. “No! Don’t!” Wanbeng pulled through forest-nature, holding the naga back. The creature’s anger and pain disrupted slackcraft, rippling in waves, making everything more difficult.
Mokoya reached for the second knot and twisted the fabric of the world. The knot came undone to another cry of pain, another seismic spasm through the Slack. The third slipped from her as the naga bucked, trying to break from Wanbeng’s control—
“Tensor, hurry!” The girl’s voice was strained. “I can’t hold on—”
Mokoya undid the third knot. The naga bellowed and swept one wing forward. Wanbeng shrieked as she was knocked backward.