The Last Stand

by Pati Nagle

  and

  Two Ælven Stories

  Pati Nagle

  Evennight Books/Book View Café

  The Last Stand

  Copyright © 2010, 2013 Pati Nagle

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

  ISBN: 978-1-61138-255-6

  Cover Designer: Pati Nagle

  Cover Art: William G. Hegardt memorial, Tiffany Studios, 1926

  Published by Evennight Books/Book View Café

  Cedar Crest, New Mexico

  April 9, 2013

  "The Three Veils" first published in Many Paths, 2010, Evennight Books/Book View Café

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.

  Introduction

  As any writer knows, cutting material from the draft of a novel can be painful. So it was with the story presented here now as “The Last Stand,” which I had to cut from the first draft of The Betrayal, the first novel in my Blood of the Kindred series. I was very fond of Felisan's relation of the events in the Battle of Skyruach, but it did not move the novel forward and so had to be discarded. It gives me great pleasure to share it with my readers now in the form of a new ælven short story.

  Also in this volume is another short story about Alpinon's history, “The Three Veils,” which details a legend that is mentioned in The Betrayal, that of the waterfall near Highstone, later known as the Three Shades.

  Finally, because they are closely related, a sample from “The Eighth Successor” follows “The Last Stand.” That novella, available as a separate ebook, covers the events that immediately followed the Battle of Skyruach.

  I hope that readers of The Betrayal will enjoy these additional stories, and that readers new to the ælven will find them an interesting glimpse of their world.

  —Pati Nagle

  Walk many paths, leaving no mark behind but of beauty.

  Honor the ældar and spirits who watch over all.

  Serve in good faith, with true heart, those who share the bright journey.

  Live in the world, giving thanks, speaking truth, harming none.

  —Creed of the Ælven, first stave

  Before dawn on Midsummer morning, Careyni sat at her worktable holding a small box of whitewood. She had just finished lining it with dark blue velvet against which the carved flowering vines fairly glowed. It was a good example of her work, wrought with khi that made the wooden leaves and blossoms seem to tremble in a breeze. She was no mage, but she could work khi enough for such little pleasantries.

  She had also used khi to lay blessings into the box for Ghivahri and Diranan, for whom it was intended. She had not been able to bring herself to carve their names into it, but she had thought of them all the while she was making it, hoping for their happiness as she polished the wood to satin smoothness. It was a hope shadowed by concern.

  A sound from outside made her glance up at the window. In Highstone’s public circle young ælven females were hanging garlands of flowers, young males carried tables out for the Midsummer feast. The sight woke memories of a year ago, memories that made Careyni’s throat tighten with sadness.

  She and her friends, Josæli and Ghivahri, had worn the three Midsummer veils a year ago today. In Highstone it was considered good fortune to be handfasted on Midsummer’s day, and they had all three been handfasted to their loves a year ago, there in the circle below. Good fortune had not followed.

  Careyni turned away from the window, only to see her handfasting ribbon and Marasan’s hanging above the curtained arch that led to the hearthroom, the entrance to their home. The threads of silver and gold were as brilliant as they had been a year ago, the colors as vivid, all preserved by the magecraft that had gone into the weaving of the ribbons. They should never fade, as long as she lived and her khi was nearby to renew them. Hers or Marasan’s.

  She stepped to the archway and reached for the ribbons, running her fingers along them, seeking a whisper of Marasan’s khi among the bright images of wood and field, stars and ocean. He had been gone two seasons now, half the year of their bond.

  Careyni blinked back a tear and turned away. This was not a day for grieving. It was a day to celebrate, a day of light, a day for the living. It was only the loneliness in her heart that whispered sadness to her. She missed Marasan dreadfully, but the loss might be temporary. He might yet return from the war, even today.

  She reached for her veil, the same she had worn a year ago, and draped it about her head. It was rich blue and broidered about the hem with violet flowers. Stonereach colors, for she had become a member of Marasan’s clan upon handfasting. Her own clan’s white and gold shone on in their handfasting ribbons, to honor her former clan, Ælvanen, the governing clan of Eastfæld.

  Strange that she should miss her homeland of many years less than she did her companion of two seasons. Strange and not strange at all, she thought, softly smiling.

  A sharp jangling of the hearthroom chimes made her turn. Draping the ends of her veil about her shoulders, she hastened through the archway to greet the early visitor.

  “I knew you would not be at rest, not on this morning.” Josæli paced before the hearth with quick, impatient steps.

  “And a joyous Midsummer to you as well.”

  Josæli halted and glanced up sharply, blue eyes bright beneath her violet veil. They were much of an age, though age left few marks upon the ælven, who might live as long as they chose, barring misfortune. Because Careyni, Josæli, and Ghivahri had the black hair and fair skin of Clan Ælvanen, many in Highstone assumed they were sisters. In fact they were not, though they were kin through clan connections. They had come to Highstone a year ago to pledge themselves to the three Stonereach lords who had wooed them in Hollirued.

  Wooed them at a council of war, Careyni reflected. Had it not been for the war with Darkshore, they might never have met.

  “Do you come with me to the Veils?” Josæli demanded.

  “I had planned to attend the Midsummer celebrations.”

  “They do not begin until noon. Surely you will watch with me until then?”

  Careyni frowned slightly. She did not wish to offend Josæli, but neither did she wish to offend Ghivahri, who had asked her attendance this morning.

  Every morning since Midwinter, when their lords had departed for the war, Josæli had gone to the high waterfall near Highstone and climbed the slippery path beside it. From a vantage point at the top of the falls, the North Road was visible for a league and more, winding its way along the pine-covered eastern slopes of the Ebon Mountains, toward the Steppe Wilds and Fireshore beyond. Midwinter morning they had all three been there, to watch their lords riding northward. On that road they had last seen their loved ones. On that road they would first see them again, so Josæli insisted.

  Careyni had watched with her every day at first. So had Ghivahri, but when winter had ended and spring laid a softer green upon the forests, Ghivahri’s visits to the Three Veils had become less common. Careyni had kept up the vigil until Spring Evennight, at which time she had decided to watch no more than once in a tenday.

  That one day in ten she would stand atop the black cliff with Josæli, brambles dancing in the wind beside her and the soft murmur of the river Asurindel nearby, its quiet heaviness slipping over the cliff’s edge to fall long and slow before crashing upon broken rocks far below. That one day she would think of Marasan, silently asking whatever spirits watched over him to lend him strength and hope. At sunset she would climb down the cliff, down into the clouds of cold mist at the foot of the Veils, and follow the path back to the bridge over the lower Asurindel, back to Highstone. There she would take up the threads of l
ife, plunge once more into the activity of Alpinon Province’s chief city, turning her attention to her work and the people around her.

  At times, she forgot to miss him. That was almost as great a sadness as his absence.

  Josæli was in no such danger. She still climbed the cliff every morning to watch for Siruvon, and often stayed all day. She spent little time at her weaving, though Careyni knew she had several commissions waiting.

  Josæli seldom smiled any more. Her face had grown serious and strained, and her eyes burned intently as she looked at Careyni now, as if she was willing her friend to take up the vigil again. Careyni turned to her worktable, placed a small bundle of sweet sage into the whitewood box and wrapped it in another piece of the velvet.

  “If you will come with me to offer good wishes to Ghivahri, I will go with you to the Veils.” She tied the gift with a bit of violet ribbon.

  Josæli frowned. “You would have me honor an oath-breaker?”

  “Josæli—”

  “Firithan has not been gone a year! Even a cup-bond is honored that long. She pledged herself to him for life!”

  “And she believes herself free of that pledge.”

  The thought was painful. She herself thought Ghivahri was being hasty, for the only word that had yet reached Highstone of the great battle in the north was rumor. Refugees and merchants had brought scraps of news, and some told of a terrible defeat, but none knew specifics. None had seen Firithan, Siruvon, Marasan, or any of the warriors from Highstone.

  Ghivahri had taken the absence of news as a sign that her lord had been slain in the battle. She had reason to want to believe it. She had found a new love.

  Careyni kept her voice calm. “I am going to see her. You may do as you please.”

  Without waiting for an answer she stepped past Josæli, through the open door and out into the predawn. The eastern sky was blushing, and many had already gathered in the circle to welcome the sun on its day of longest glory.

  Between the governor’s hall high upon the cliff above the town and the public circle below lay an open meadow where games would be held as long as the Midsummer sun shone. Careyni felt a pang as she remembered Marasan coming to her after a footrace, laughing and slick with sweat, brandishing his prize of a cured duck. They had supped on it that night, a private handfasting feast.

  The games would be smaller this year. Many folk, males and females both, had gone to war. Most were from Alpinon’s Guard, but others had taken up the march against the traitors and oath-breakers of Clan Darkshore. A bitter conflict, setting ælven to fight against their brethren. None such had happened before.

  Neither had an entire clan gone against the creed before, Careyni reminded herself. It was Darkshore’s violation of the creed that had inspired Marasan to join the war, for the creed was the foundation of ælven life. Without it, they would be no better than savages.

  And I cannot stand to think my love a savage. She recalled the words Marasan had whispered to her on Midwinter’s Eve. For the love I bear you, I will go and fight for our creed.

  Yet part of the creed was to honor life. Those gone to war for its sake were, in a sense, also breaking it.

  Careyni shook her head, not wishing to dwell upon such questions today. Another time, a quiet day, would be better for such musings. Today was for celebration.

  She hastened down toward the center of Highstone, making her way to Ghivahri’s house, which was tucked against the woods a few rows back from the circle. She heard quick footsteps behind her and glanced back to see Josæli following, her lips pressed into a thin line of disapproval.

  As if to counter this, Careyni smiled as she approached Ghivahri’s door. It stood open to the hearthroom, a golden Midsummer candle burning on the hearth in token of a welcoming fire, sending up a sweet fragrance of honey and summer grass. Careyni stepped inside and rang the chimes, then waited in silence with Josæli.

  Ghivahri drew aside a tapestry to beckon them into the house. Careyni saw her hesitate, a look of surprise crossing her face as she noticed Josæli, quickly followed by a frown.

  “A joyous Midsummer to you, Ghivahri.”

  Ghivahri’s face softened. “Thank you, and I wish you the same. Please come in.”

  She held the curtain aside, saying nothing as Josæli followed Careyni into the house. It had been decorated with flowers, and many candles stood ready for a celebration. Ghivahri intended to be handfasted this day to Diranan the stonecutter, who lived two doors away in the same row.

  Josæli stood just inside the door, her arms crossed. “I see you have already taken down your ribbons.”

  “Before you accuse me of forgetting Firithan, would you care to see what I have done with them?”

  Ghivahri’s voice was tight with displeasure, yet she faced Josæli calmly. She was already dressed for her handfasting, in flowing silk of palest blue and lavender. The veil she wore was by contrast dark—much darker than that she had worn a year ago—a deep blue the color of the midnight sky. Careyni thought its quiet hue might be a remembrance of Firithan. The wreath of fresh flowers she wore over it marked her as one of those to be handfasted today.

  Ghivahri stepped toward the door. “Come.”

  Josæli made no answer. Careyni followed Ghivahri out and down the row to Diranan’s house. Here the welcoming hearth held a small bed of coals, banked against the day but still glowing. Careyni stretched a hand toward its warmth while Ghivahri rang the chimes. The clean-swept hearthstone was carved with vines in intricate detail, an example of Diranan’s craft. Careyni, though herself a carver of wood rather than stone, could appreciate the delicacy of the work.

  Diranan came out at once, and his smile as he greeted Ghivahri struck Careyni to the heart. His green Stonereach eyes glowed with love for her, his voice was gentle and warm. Despite misgivings, Careyni could not but be glad for her friend. To have found such happiness again must be considered a blessing.

  “Welcome, Careyni, Josæli.” Diranan bowed formally to each in turn. “Please come in.”

  The front room of his house was filled with an orderly clutter of tools and slabs of stone. In the center of the floor stood a small pillar, half-height, three-sided, its top gracefully tapered to a curving peak. Firithan’s name was carved into it, and two shining ribbons bound it round.

  The handfasting ribbons. Careyni gazed at them, feeling a pang of sadness.

  “A conce is meant to mark the site of a comfortless deat.” Josæli’s voice was cold. “Where do you plan to set it?”

  “In Fireshore. We leave in a tenday.”

  Diranan stepped up beside Ghivahri, speaking quietly. “We mean to find the battleground, if not the spot where he fell.”

  Careyni gazed sadly at the conce, doubting she would have had the courage for such an undertaking. “It is a long journey.”

  Ghivahri laid a hand upon the conce and let her fingers drift down to the ribbons. “Yes, but as Josæli will no doubt agree, it is his due.”

  “I wonder, then, that you do not postpone your ceremony until after you return. It might save you considerable embarrassment.”

  Ghivahri raised her head sharply, eyes flashing with anger. Careyni glanced at Josæli, hoping to catch her eye, but she stood staring at Ghivahri as if in challenge. Ghivahri held her gaze for a long moment, then sighed.

  “He is gone, Josæli.”

  “You cannot know that.”

  “I do know it. If you would look within your own heart you might find similar awareness.”

  “No!” Josæli took a step toward her, fists clenched tightly at her sides. “We cannot know their fate by listening to the whims of our hearts!”

  “This is not a whim, Josæli. I have spent days in meditation—”

  “Days you should have spent watching for his return!”

  “There will be no return!”

  Ghivahri’s chest moved with her sharp, quick breaths. She faced Josæli with defiance. Careyni could feel the khi crackling in the air between them,
and feared they would come to blows.

  She glanced at Diranan, who stood quietly apart. It was not his argument. Gathering her courage, Careyni stepped forward, placing herself between her two friends.

  “Ghivahri, would you consider coming to the Three Veils with us this morning? One last time?”

  Ghivahri looked displeased, then swallowed. “Very well. I will come to say farewell. Let that appease you, Josæli.”

  Josæli frowned and looked about to reply. Careyni prevented her by speaking first.

  “I have brought you and Diranan a small gift.” She offered the velvet-wrapped parcel to Ghivahri. “A wish for your future happiness.”

  Ghivahri’s face softened into a quiet smile. “That is kind of you, Careyni. Thank you.”

  Diranan came forward to add his thanks. Together they unwrapped the velvet from the whitewood box.

  “Beautiful work.” Diranan traced his fingers over the carving. “A fine gift.”

  Ghivahri opened the box, revealing the sage. She lifted it to her face to inhale its sweetness.

  “Thank you.” She met Careyni’s gaze. All trace of anger was gone.

  “The sun is near rising.”

  Josæli had returned to the doorway. Ghivahri and Diranan exchanged a glance. Careyni moved to join Josæli, and the others followed.

  The public circle was crowded now. Turning away from the gathering, they went southward, down the road that led to the eastern plains and onward toward Eastfæld. Not far beyond Highstone’s last houses a path turned east and crossed the Asurindel on a bridge of carven darkwood. On the far side the path turned north again, following the foot of black volcanic cliffs toward the thunder of the Three Veils.

  Josæli strode ahead with determination, all her will focused on the vigil. It made Careyni think of Alpinon’s Guardians, who patrolled the mountains, guarding the passes against the intrusion of kobalen from the west. Josæli would make a fine guardian. Perhaps she would suggest it. A new vocation might help to turn Josæli’s thoughts from her loss.