Traitor's Son: The Raven Duet Book #2 (26 page)

“This conversation is being recorded,” the dispatcher said. “I’ll play it for them verbatim.”

“Good,” said Jase. “Thanks. That’s all I need.”

“If you’re sure.” The dispatcher sounded dubious.

“I’m sure,” said Jase firmly. “I’m leaving now. I want to check the damage to my car.”

And to check on something else that had caught his eye—a strand of brown leather dangling from a crack in the rock.

He went for the medicine pouch first, because he’d earned it, because it was easier than looking at his car.

It lay in a deep crevice in the rock that had opened when the car hit it. The pouch was dry and whole—how had they gotten it into the rock?

Clutching the medicine bag in his hand, Jase turned to face the rest of it.

The Tesla’s hood was smashed back almost three feet; the carbon fiber skin had ripped, its jagged edges fringed with fine white filaments. That might have been repairable. Or replaceable. The one good thing about his expensive insurance was that everything about the Tesla was fully covered. But looking at the impossible tilt of the tires, Jase was pretty sure the aluminum-alloy frame was sprung as well.

That too could be repaired, along with the broken fans, and the shattered pipes of the battery-cooling system from which coolant dripped like blood into the sand.

But if he replaced every component in it, it would no long-er be his car. He might as well try to track down another Mark 14—and even if he could find one, it wouldn’t be the same.

The Tesla was gone, and Jase’s heart ached for the loss. But as much as that loss hurt, Gima’s death would have hurt much worse.

No matter how much he’d loved it, it was only a car. And its destruction had saved much more.

Was this what they meant by dying with honor? If so . . . it sucked.

Jase made his way slowly up the bluff. He’d paid the price; he might as well get the benefit. Now, before anything else went wrong.

The sun hadn’t risen. Without his com pod—which really had vanished—Jase had no idea what time it was, but the misty overcast was clearing off. The sky over the sea shimmered with luminous grays and blues, like the inside of a pearl.

When he reached the top, Jase looked out over the bay at the tidy lines of breakers and the dark slopes of the low hills.

He could hear the breeze in the trees behind him, feel it ruffling his hair—the parts that weren’t matted with dried blood.

Every inch of his body ached and stung, particularly where the bees had got him, and the cuts on his chest still bled. But he put that aside, and let his mind reach out to the ocean of air around him. This thin skin of atmosphere that circled the world gave life to everything that breathed. Jase drew it into his own lungs and gave himself up to it.

When he was certain he had the sense of it, he opened the pouch and pulled out a generous pinch of Atahalne’s dust.

He understood more about magic now, and didn’t bother with words. But as he cast the dust into the air he let the pain of breaking the Tesla into his heart, and willed for everything that was broken to mend, and heal, and be whole.

He was ready for the power surge, though this time it felt as if it was filling, inflating, lifting him up—so much that for a moment he thought his feet had left the ground.

But when Jase opened his eyes he was standing right where he’d been before . . . and northern lights danced in the sky above him.

You almost never saw them in the summer; conditions were wrong and the sky was too bright, even in the middle of the short summer “night.”

These weren’t the brilliant neon curtains that lit the winter darkness, but green and gold wisps that flickered across the gray vault . . . and then winked out.

Jase thought of Frog People and Goose Woman sensing a surge of ley power running all the way to the node, and his heart lightened. He thought of Otter Woman and the football squad’s fury and grinned outright.

He thought of Gima’s spirit, fleeing home through the dawn, and knew that no matter how high the price, it was worth it.

He turned, and almost ran into Raven.

Her glossy hair was tumbled, her stretchie rumpled and grubby, and her slender feet still bare. But she probably looked better than he did. Jase put up a hand to cover his shredded shirt, then let it drop because even a light touch hurt. He’d have to do something about those gashes eventually, but he preferred to put it off.

“I’m a mess.”

“You were glorious.” Her eyes were brighter than the northern lights. She stepped forward and reached up to touch his bruised face, then, very gently, pressed her lips to his.

After a moment Jase forgot about his cuts and bruises, and everything else. When he finally had to lift his mouth, in order to breathe, his arms were around her and she was pressed against his chest. He didn’t even notice the pain till she stepped back, and blood-sticky fabric pulled at the cuts.

“Ow. No, wait. I didn’t mean that. I—”

“I’m not going to sleep with you,” Raven said. “You deserve, you’ve
earned
more respect than that. I won’t treat you as a toy.”

“Why not? This isn’t like . . . I don’t . . . Uh, what do you mean,
respect
?”

“You know what respect means.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean you can’t sleep with me! The reason I objected so much the first time was because you
didn’t
respect me. You’re supposed to respect the people you sleep with. It would be all right, now.”

She was laughing.

“Right for you, maybe,” she said. “But for me . . . No human ever fought for me before. No one ever saved me. And I like you, too. That’s not something I’m used to with a human. I’m going to have to think about it.”

“Which means you
can’t
sleep with me?” Jase didn’t see the logic of that at all.

“For now,” said Raven firmly. “Besides, you really are a mess. You wouldn’t enjoy it nearly as much as you think you would, particularly after you get over the joy of that healing and your aches set in.”

They were beginning to set in now, though Jase thought he could ignore them given some encouragement. But despite that incredible kiss, Raven didn’t seem to feel encouraging.

“I’m lucky they hid the dust in that particular Olmaat rock,” he said, trying to sound suave and modest. “Or I’d be running all over Alaska looking for it.”

Raven shook her head. “Jase, that pouch would have been in whatever rock you broke to kill the Olmaat. It was in all of them, and none, until you killed it.”

“No!” Jase protested. “I’m not up for your weird physics. The ley is healed, right?”

“Flowing like crazy,” Raven told him. “Down and through Denali, and out elsewhere. This will give me a great start on the next healing.”

The next healing.

“You’re leaving,” Jase whispered. “You’re going to leave right now.”

“I don’t have to leave
right
now,” she admitted. “I’ve won, so Bear and the others will keep Otter Woman out of my way. But I do have to go. Since you’re all right under the mess, it might as well be now.”

He’d always known he wouldn’t be able to hold her for long, but . . . “Will I see you again? Someday? When the leys are healed?”

Maybe she wouldn’t respect him quite so much by then.

“Oh, you’ll see me again,” said Raven. “In your dreams.”

She stepped forward once more. This time her kiss was softer, more a matter of promise than passion.

He could feel her growing lighter, less substantial in his arms. When he opened his eyes she was gone.

“Hey, before you go, where’s my com pod?”

The only sound was the whispering wind.

Jase was halfway down the bluff before he realized that the medicine bag had vanished with her.

***

He hiked back into Whittier. He’d looked around the car again for his com pod, but it wasn’t there. It was going to be interesting telling his parents that he hadn’t lost it, it had turned into a beetle and flown away. If he didn’t want to go through a lot of testing for a concussion he didn’t have, he’d better claim he lost it.

His injuries weren’t as bad as he’d originally thought, though the night clerk at the flash charge center stared when he came in. He found all the first aid supplies he needed on its shelves, and added a cheap stretchie to the growing pile, because the bloody rents left by the Olmaat’s claws were a bit too obvious.

“Do you need some help, son?” the clerk asked as Jase swiped his charge card. “There’s a med-tech down at the harbor. He won’t mind waking up if he’s needed.”

“I can handle it,” said Jase. “Thanks.”

He’d bandaged and treated his accumulated cuts, stings and bruises, and eaten breakfast before the ferry arrived.

Jase took the ferry down the coast to Cordova, watching the sun creep over the mountains to the northeast, which told him it was around four in the morning. He missed his pod—but he was beginning to understand why some passengers stood at the rail and watched the view.

After some discussion with the ticket clerk, he hitched a ride on a mail boat that was headed for the resort and points south. In the early morning, he walked down the main street of the village his father had struggled so hard to leave behind. People were setting out for their boats or the resort. A few of them smiled or said hi as he passed, and even those who glared showed only their normal annoyance at seeing him.

They’d have to get used to that, Jase thought. They’d be seeing more of him.

On this sunny morning the front windows were open. Turning up the path to the house, Jase could hear his grandfather saying something about getting checked out anyway, and Gima’s firm voice proclaiming, “I’m fine, you stubborn old coot! And you might as well stop pestering me. I’ve already said I’ll tell you all about it when my witness gets here. And not a moment before. Not even you would believe this story without someone to back me up.”

Jase would have hesitated to tell the story if she hadn’t been willing to back him up, too. The thought of his grandfather’s probable reaction made him grin, though his smile faded as he knocked on the familiar wooden panel.

His grandfather opened the door and stood, blocking the way. The lines on his face were deeper, harsher, but something about his expression looked softer than before.

“Father wasn’t right,” Jase said, before the old man could speak. “But he wasn’t wrong, either. He took his own path, and he tried to build a bridge for anyone who wanted to follow him.”

His grandfather’s gaze swept over him, catching on the rent and bloodstained knee of his jeans.

“But he was wrong to try to blow up the bridge for people who didn’t want to take that path,” Jase went on. “I know that, now. I think the bridge needs to be made wider, so people can go both ways.”

The bridge that had already been blown up? He wasn’t saying this right. He was too tired, too confused to find the words. Jase reached up to rub his face, and his grandfather noticed the bandage on his arm. He looked at Jase and then—Jase could see it now—he looked at his grandson with a shaman’s eyes.

Jase couldn’t tell what the old man saw, but his eyes widened. His grandfather opened his mouth and then closed it, staring as if he’d never seen Jase before.

Astonishment gave way to an expression Jase hadn’t seen for a very long time.

“Come in,” he said.

And the door opened.

She hadn’t thought she could feel this way about a human. A human who wasn’t a plaything, or a pet, but someone . . . real. Equal.

Someone she cared about.

Who’d have dreamed that confused boy would take the warrior path?

Oh yes, he’d see her again. And she probably owed Kelsa a visit too.

But that would have to wait, till the task was done.

Raven flew steadily south, with the rising sun behind her, and the medicine pouch flapping around her neck. It made flying harder, wasted energy, but she needed it. Not for the catalyst, but to keep the memory bright. Her kind wasn’t good at remembering.

This would remind her, not only of him, but that humans could work, could heal, and with her guidance mend the damage they’d made. Kelsa and Jase had proved that, and with no enemies to stop them, the humans who would follow could complete that healing in peace.

No other human she guided would have to face the challenges they had. No other human would ever match the two of them.

But Raven had a world to heal. And now, only the doing remained.

***

The End

I find that science fiction and fantasy doesn’t usually require me to write an author’s note—because science-fiction and fantasy authors make stuff up. Most fantasy research consists of reading the ancient tales of whatever mythos you plan on stea—ah, borrowing, and that doesn’t usually require an explanation. And science-fiction research (at least the way I do it) usually consists of tracking down articles in science magazines, which also doesn’t need a lot of acknowledgment.

To write
Trickster’s Girl
and
Traitor’s Son,
I had to drive from Utah to Alaska—though I probably shouldn’t say “had to” because the trip was a fantastic experience from start to finish. And even in
Trickster’s Girl,
most of what Kelsa sees and does are things I saw and did (except for the stuff I made up), so there was still no need for an author’s note.

Traitor’s Son
was another matter, largely because in this case I planned on “borrowing” from people who are still alive, and from a culture that still exists—which is always a tricky proposition if you’re not a member of that culture. Writers often set stories in places that exist today, in the real world. But when a mystery writer sets her story in a small town and then realizes that the twists and turns of her plot require her to make the only son of the local sheriff a drug dealer, and that sheriff blackmails the mayor to keep his son from being prosecuted . . . that’s when the mystery writer makes up a different name for her small town so she doesn’t get sued . . . or even just make life difficult for the mayor and the sheriff’s son.