A billow of ocher robes heralded Thennjay’s arrival in the doorway. “Nao.” He crossed the room rapidly as Mokoya pushed herself up to sitting, ignoring the protests made by her slowly healing body. Her left wrist hurt. Thennjay pulled her into a half embrace, his arm around her shoulders, pressing her head into the cloth of his belly. She inhaled, smelling incense and sweat as he sighed, a deep rumble through his bones.
“Why was I surprised to find that you’d run off to martyr yourself?” he said, when they broke from the embrace. He put a gentle hand on her cheek.
She leaned into his touch. “Where is everyone?”
“Everyone?” Akeha said. “Hmph. Phoenix is busy frolicking with her new best friend. Adi and her crew are helping with reconstruction and annoying the wits out of my people. Or she’s annoying me, at least. The raja and his daughter have been enjoying some quality family time.”
“But that’s not the question you’re asking, is it?” Thennjay said.
She wet her lips and swallowed. “I want to see them,” Mokoya said.
“Come.” Thennjay held out an arm.
Akeha narrowed his eyes. “The doctor said her spine will take time to heal. Should she be walking around?”
Mokoya made a dismissive noise. She braced her weight with her arms and pushed her legs off the bed. They moved sluggishly and unevenly. Distinct lines of pain flared across her back and the muscles of her thighs. She was aware of bandages wrapped tight around her left leg, and her right ankle was encased in a solid, molded cast. She closed her eyes and examined her injuries through forest-nature. Healing bones, torn flesh slowly knitting whole. There were metal implants in her right ankle. Walking would be difficult.
She planted her feet on the cool stone floor, pressed her weight onto Thennjay’s arm, and stood.
Thennjay looped one arm around her waist as pain threatened to fell her again. Mokoya pushed her own body upright through water-nature. Thennjay dissipated earth-nature from around them, lessening the weight of her body. “Lean on me,” he said. “Don’t put pressure on that ankle.”
Akeha tutted as Thennjay led her into the first staggering step. Her legs were disobedient, unwilling to bend. “You suffered some nerve damage,” Thennjay said. “Training your body to move properly again will take time.”
“I’m going to get the doctor,” Akeha said in disgust.
Thennjay grunted. “You know where to find us.”
They made their way snail-paced through corridors, between the hanging tapestries of the raja’s palace. Sound bubbled up from the city below, carrying with it a vivid jumble of emotions: happiness, anger, excitement, sadness. Life moving forward. Mokoya found that the pain was manageable, and the unevenness of her slow steps began to take on a regularity. The floor was solid beneath her. She was here. She was present.
“What will happen to the Machinists in Bataanar, now that Protectorate troops have moved in?” Mokoya asked.
“They’ve gone to ground for now,” Thennjay said. “But I suspect this won’t be the end of it. It’s funny, you know. Raja Choonghey could have reported them. He had so much evidence on his hands.”
“But he didn’t. Why?”
“Maybe he saw their usefulness at last. After all, if not for them, that night might have turned out very differently. Or maybe Akeha’s words finally had an effect on him. Who knows?”
“I’m glad.”
They shuffled on. Mokoya could feel a cramp building in her left calf, the one supporting the bulk of her weight. She said, “You know, if you just told me where they are, I could save us both a lot of trouble.”
“Yes, but you need to get used to walking. You can’t jump from place to place forever.”
“Rider has jumped from place to place all their life. Walking is overrated.”
Thennjay chuckled. “We spent a lot of time talking while you were asleep. They tried to teach me their trick, but I couldn’t do it. You had an unfair advantage.”
“You mean my prophet nature?”
“That’s what they suspect. The way they explained it, there are also prophets among the Quarterlanders, but they are very rare. One in a hundred thousand, maybe fewer. Over there, they think of it as a curse. No mortal should be expected to control fortune, intentionally or not.”
“It is a curse. I’ve never felt otherwise.”
“Well, at least now we know it isn’t a death sentence. Prophecies can be undone. That’s more than we had before.”
“I want to know if it’s possible to stop them forever.”
“We’ll have time to find out.” Thennjay gently squeezed her closer. “I like Rider. I’m glad you met them. You make a bright picture together.”
Mokoya smiled. Her arm flushed warm and red, a mellow sort of joy.
“Almost there now.” Thennjay gestured with his chin to a circular door ahead of them.
Within that room a zither was being indecorously and inexpertly played, a fierce joy extant in the dissonant twang of its strings. As the tangle of music drifted down the corridor Mokoya remembered golden, perfumed summer days in the Great High Palace, giggling as she learned the art from her mother’s courtesans.
The doorway framed a wide, rosewood-toned room basking in the lucid glow of midday sunlight. In its middle, on a stack of yellow cushions, Princess Wanbeng and Rider sat in the company of a zither. The latter had their back to Mokoya, hunched over in concentration as their amateurish fingers skipped and stumbled through Wanbeng’s instructions. Mokoya studied the earnest slope of their back and imagined the look on their face, brow creased in completely sincere focus. She rested against the curved edge of the doorway with a soft sigh. She could stay here indefinitely, watching and listening.
Wanbeng looked up briefly, and a small exclamation passed her lips. “Tensor!”
Rider turned around, startled. Then their eyes met, and in that moment Mokoya could not have cared less about the world around them, about woven fates and political desires and things that were left behind. In that moment, all that mattered was the halo of light around their head, the smile on their face, and the movement of their lips as they said one word:
“Mokoya.”
Keep reading for an excerpt from The Black Tides of Heaven, the twin novella to The Red Threads of Fortune, available now.
Chapter One
YEAR ONE
HEAD ABBOT SUNG of the Grand Monastery did not know it yet, but this night would change the course of all his days.
He stood at the foot of the staircase leading to the Great High Palace of the Protectorate: that sprawling, magnificent edifice that few across the land would ever gain the privilege of seeing up close, much less entering. Tonight the Protector herself had summoned him.