The Last Stand

by Pati Nagle

  Soon the muted roar of the falls could be heard. The path wound around protrusions of black rock, sometimes narrowing to a mere armspan between the cliff wall and the river’s edge. The Asurindel murmured quietly here on its way down to the plains. Careyni could already feel the heavy damp breathed by the falls.

  She remembered walking this path with Marasan when she had first come to Alpinon. The first thing he had shown her upon her arrival was the Three Veils, the like of which was not to be found in Eastfæld.

  The river was split by twin rocks at the top of the cliff, falling in three long, misty streams to be rejoined far below in a wide, deep and turbulent pool surrounded by broken black rock. Clouds of fine spray billowed at the foot of the falls, making the pebbly ground beside the pool chilly even on the warmest summer day. Marasan had kissed her there and held her close, keeping her warm as she watched the churning pool.

  Shivering, Careyni turned her thoughts away from the memory. She was alone now, and must see to her own warmth.

  The damp was increasing as they neared the Veils and she could feel the thunder beneath her feet now. Glancing back, she saw Ghivahri hand in hand with Diranan, her silks billowing about her. She looked a pale, fragile thing against the black cliffs, her dark veil a pursuing shadow. She would be chilled at the falls, so lightly dressed. Careyni pulled her own veil closer, as if its slight protection could shield her against the might of the Veils.

  A few more turns of the path, and Careyni saw ahead the final jut of rock beyond which lay the falls. The river was fat here, wide and murky where it flowed from the pool. They rounded the rock’s edge and Careyni caught her breath anew at the sheer, raw power of the falls.

  The sound was an assault upon her ears. Every breath was heavy with mist. Billowing clouds obscured the sharpness of the rocks, drifting along the cliff and curling amid the tumble of boulders at the foot of the falls. High above, a pale glow in the mist told Careyni that the sun had risen. Midsummer celebrations would be getting underway in Highstone’s circle.

  Josæli did not pause, but walked straight to the path that scaled the cliff beside the falls. The rocks were slick and the climb treacherous, especially here at the foot. Careyni turned to see if Ghivahri was still there, and saw her embracing Diranan.

  He would wait here, then. That was a wise choice. Careyni doubted Josæli would welcome him at her vigil. She smiled at Ghivahri as they followed Josæli up the cliff.

  The climb was slow at first. Though the path was well kept it was steep and required the use of hands as well as feet, if only to steady oneself in the ascent. As they climbed higher the mists thinned and the air took on the warmth of summer sweetness once more. The water’s roar was muted to a quiet thrum. Toward the clifftop, clumps of hardy shrubs found precarious hold in the clefts of rock, softening the harsh blackness of the cliffs to which they clung.

  Josæli reached the top and strode on along the path to a wide, flat boulder whose edges were worn smooth by the touch of countless hands and feet. She climbed atop it and sat gazing northward.

  Careyni joined her, sighing as the sunshine washed over her and eased the chill of the Veils. The North Road was a gray ribbon winding through the forest, cutting a swath through the pines, following the curves of the mountains. No sign of travelers could be seen upon it.

  Ghivahri came and sat beside them. For a time they were all silent. They had come to Alpinon together little more than a year ago, sharing the bond of kindred among strangers, though each had soon found her own pursuits in Highstone.

  A year ago they had been filled with the joy of a bright future. Careyni would not have imagined how far they could drift apart in so short a time.

  “Josæli.” Ghivahri’s voice was soft. “I honor your choice. I ask only that you honor mine as well.”

  Josæli looked troubled and shook her head slightly. “They live. We would have had word otherwise.”

  “No one has had word.”

  Careyni glanced down, her heart thumping sharply with sudden pain. Her hand strayed to a fold of her veil, fingers toying with the embroidered flowers at its edge.

  Ghivahri spoke again. “I understand your desire to believe he will return.”

  “I do not think you can.”

  “Yes, I can. I spent many a cold night denying that Firithan was gone, for I could not bear to think of living without him.”

  Josæli made no answer. Careyni watched the muscles of her throat move in a swallow as she gazed steadily northward. After a time, Ghivahri stepped down from the boulder and moved toward the path, toward where Diranan waited below. He must be chilled by now, Careyni thought.

  “I wish you peace, Josæli. If we learn aught of Siruvon in Fireshore, we will send you word.”

  She waited a moment, but Josæli did not move. At last Ghivahri turned away. Careyni watched her go, listened to her footsteps after she was no longer visible, until the distant rush of the falls swallowed them.

  Quiet settled on the clifftop. A warm breeze stirred Josæli’s veil. Careyni wondered how long she herself would wait before yielding hope. Not yet—she could not give up yet—but neither could she bear to become like Josæli, living only to wait and watch for a love who might never return.

  “The creed commands that we should live in the world.”

  Josæli turned sharply to her. “It says also that we must keep faith. I will not be forsworn!”

  “I do not say you should, but it saddens me to see how you have withdrawn from us. Can you not honor the living around you, as well as—”

  She stopped, realizing what she had been about to say. Josæli’s eyes burned in silent accusation. She turned her head away, toward the road again, returning to her vigil.

  Careyni drew a long, careful breath. “I am going down to witness Ghivahri’s handfasting.” Her voice shook a little on the last word. “I will return in the afternoon to sit with you.”

  Josæli gave no sign that she had heard. Was this the breaking of their friendship? The thought saddened Careyni as she slid from the boulder to the path.

  Cold enveloped her as she descended into the mists again. She shivered, moving carefully among the slippery rocks. Pausing to steady herself, she glanced down and saw Ghivahri just arriving at the foot of the falls, Diranan coming forward to meet her. They looked up and waved at her, then stood waiting.

  She descended as quickly as she dared. The path turned on itself again and again, winding down between tall outcroppings of black rock, slick beneath her hands. Her face was damp and chilled with spray from the Veils. All at once she felt the hot tracks of tears running down her cheeks.

  She had not Josæli’s certainty. Neither had she Ghivahri’s courage, it seemed. She wished she knew her heart. For a long time she had avoided thinking of Marasan’s fate, she realized. She remembered him, fondly remembered the sweet moments they had shared, but she had shied away from searching for the truth.

  She let out a gasping sob, inhaling cold mist and coughing. Half-blinded, she stumbled to the level ground beside the pool. Hands caught her arms, held her up. Arms folded her close for a moment, but she pushed them away.

  Ghivahri stood blinking at her, face pale in the shade at the foot of the cliffs, silks billowing about her in the turbulent mist. Careyni shivered. She was angry, she realized. Not as angry as Josæli, but she did feel that Ghivahri had given up too soon.

  Diranan, watching them from a pace or two away, suddenly looked upward. His lips moved, but his shout was deadened by the roar of the falls. Careyni turned to look toward the clifftop.

  Josæli stood there, gazing at the Veils. She was close enough to reach a hand out into the water as it sailed off the cliff’s edge. Her veil floated restlessly about her shoulders. She looked at peace.

  Fear seized Careyni, gripping her heart. It made no sense that Josæli should leave her vigil, break her habit of two seasons’ standing. She called out Josæli’s name, futile though she knew it was.

  Josæli could not he
ar. She stood staring at the triple cascade, her face calm. A moment later she stepped into the plummeting water.

  A cry tore at Careyni’s throat, though even she could not hear it. Josæli fell swiftly, a wisp of violet in the foamy veil of water. She vanished into the roaring maelstrom, then a moment later appeared drifting in the turbulent waters of the pool.

  Ghivahri darted forward, diving into the water before Careyni or Diranan could move. Her pale form was swept downward at once, vanishing into the black waters.

  “No!”

  Even as Careyni screamed, Diranan started toward the pool. She caught his arm, clinging with all her strength.

  “No!”

  She knew he could not hear. She tugged at his arm, pulling him back with all her weight.

  He turned a face of horror toward her, eyes wide and hair whipping wildly in the billowing mist. She shook her head. He must not follow.

  He knew that; this was his home, and he must know that the pool was deadly. Marasan had warned Careyni of it even before he had first brought her here.

  She felt Diranan’s resistance falter. He collapsed to his knees on the cold rock, and she let him go. She stood gazing in numb grief as Diranan crawled to the edge of the pool on his knees, searching in vain for a sign of either Ghivahri or Josæli.

  Ghivahri had tried to save Josæli, Careyni realized. She had acted without thinking. Had she paused to think she would have known that even if Josæli had somehow survived the fall, the maelstrom at its foot would have killed her.

  Ghivahri would not seek death. She had every reason to live.

  Something moved in the water. Careyni stepped toward Diranan, who had crawled onto a rock at the pool’s edge and now reached his arm into the cold depths. He pulled it back with a sodden mass of dark blue twined round it. Ghivahri’s veil.

  Bits of pale color drifted in the churning pool. Flowers from the wreath Ghivahri had worn. Flowers for her handfasting.

  Careyni crouched beside Diranan and gripped his shoulders. She no longer feared that he would go into the water. She held him as he shuddered with wracking sobs, their sound lost in the roar of the cruel, pounding cascade.

  At length, he allowed her to help him stand. Together they walked slowly back to Highstone. He carried Ghivahri’s veil clutched tightly in his hands, his face a mask of grief.

  She led him to his house and stayed with him there, knowing there was little she could do for him, but determined to do that little. He would not speak, but numbly obeyed her instructions to get out of his damp clothes and into his bed.

  He would not let her take Ghivahri’s veil, even to lay it nearby. He would not drink the tea she brewed for him. She left it beside the bed and returned to his workshop to await the coming of his friends and kindred.

  She had not the courage to go out and seek them, to interrupt the Midsummer celebrations with tragic news. She acknowledged this failing, and to atone for it stayed in the shop, gazing at the conce that Diranan had made for Firithan. The handfasting ribbons drooped limply against it. It must have been her imagination that made them seem dull. Surely it was too soon for them to fade.

  At length, near noon, they came: Diranan’s kindred and friends, Ghivahri’s friends, Almahri who was to have performed the handfasting ceremony, others who were merely concerned or curious. Careyni told them what had occurred at the Three Veils, then left, seeking consolation in the silence of her own home. Diranan’s kin would care for him and grieve for Ghivahri. They promised to search the river for the bodies, and to take word to Siruvon’s family of Josæli’s crossing.

  Another failure of courage, her unwillingness to seek out Siruvon’s kin. She was managing poorly.

  She pulled the outer door of her house closed and stood for a moment in the hearthroom. It was rare that an ælven home did not offer the hospitality of a welcoming hearth to visitors, whether or not the visitors were invited into the house itself. Still, Careyni thought that any who might come would understand her wish for solitude.

  She went through the archway into her house, feeling its silence close about her like a comforting shawl. She was alone, yet not alone. Marasan was here, in the paintings he had made for the walls, in the rugs they had chosen together, in the ribbons that hung over the doorway. Releasing the tight control which had sustained her until now, Careyni sank into a chair before the cold, empty hearth, and wept.

  The next morning she returned to Diranan’s house. She thought perhaps he would not wish to see her, but she must at least assure herself he was well.

  The welcoming hearth was cold. Ashes stirred within it at her entrance. She rang the chimes as gently as she might and still make them heard. After a moment the curtain was pulled aside, and a green-eyed Stonereach female looked out. Careyni thought she looked familiar, but did not know her name.

  “I came to see how Diranan fares.” Her voice sounded thin to her ears.

  The Stonereach’s face twitched into a frown. “He is not here. He has gone to the Three Veils. He would not be stayed.”

  Careyni’s heart gave a heavy thud. “Did any go with him?”

  The Stonereach nodded. “Aye. To help carry the stones.”

  Careyni thanked her and went away, frowning. She was comforted that he had not gone alone, but still worried. She did not want to return to the Veils, but felt compelled to assure herself that Diranan was all right. If he could bear to face the falls again so soon, then so could she.

  She met two of his kindred returning across the bridge. Their faces were grim.

  “Diranan?” She was unable to say more for the tightening of her throat.

  “He would not come away.”

  Careyni hastened onward to the falls. He was there, on his knees, hammer and chisel in his hands as he shaped a small pillar of stone on the flat beside the pool. Another, its twin, stood beside it, rough-hewn into the shape of a conce. Careyni recognized the rock as from the quarry at Clerestone, light gray in color, pale against the black cliffs.

  Slowly she approached him, watching the tension of his muscles beneath the wet cloth of his tunic as he worked. His hands were white with cold. Careyni quietly stepped into his view, standing between the two unfinished conces. He continued chiseling at the stone for a moment, his face drawn into a frown of concentration. At last he paused, looked up and met her gaze.

  They could not have conversed had they wished to. The thunder of the Veils was overwhelming. Careyni let her eyes and her thoughts speak for her.

  Diranan swallowed once, then returned to his work, the frown deepening. His face glistened with moisture, mist obscuring any trace of sweat or tears.

  Though the tumult of water made it impossible to sense khi, she thought she saw a little less pain in his eyes as he worked. This one thing he could do—make a conce for Ghivahri, and one for Josæli. A memorial of a comfortless, violent death. A remembrance, so that any who stopped here would pause to send a silent wish of solace to the spirits of those who had crossed here.

  That he had chosen to make them here, beside the water that had killed Ghivahri and Josæli instead of in the comfort of his shop, bespoke the depth of his pain. He bore no fault, yet he sought atonement. Careyni silently acknowledged the courage of this, even as she fled at last to sunlight and warmth, unable to bear the cold any longer.

  She brought back food and a heavy jug of hot tea for him. He acknowledged her gift with a nod, but would not stop to take sustenance. She returned again at nightfall, with an armful of blankets. Others had brought similar aid, she saw. Blankets and food lay neglected and sodden nearby while Diranan worked on. He had taken one folded blanket to kneel upon. He must be aching in every joint by now.

  Careyni set down the closed lantern she had brought to light her way back on the dangerous path. Mist streaked its glass panes, and the turbulent air stirred the flame within. Diranan paused and looked up at her, then suddenly smiled in gratitude. He pulled the lantern closer to light his work.

  The first conce was nearly
finished. Ghivahri’s name was carved deep in the stone, surrounded with a woven knotwork of ribbons. Handfasting ribbons, Careyni realized. They seemed to dance in the flickering light of the lantern.

  Her gaze traveled to a dark, roughly bundled mass on Diranan’s left forearm, metal threads glinting in the lantern light. She had assumed it was Ghivahri’s veil, but now saw that he wore the veil wrapped about his neck. On his arm he wore the ribbons that would have bound him and Ghivahri in handfasting. Made by the mage Almahri, woven with blessings. Careyni swallowed in sudden grief.

  She felt a deep misgiving as she watched Diranan work, though his face was more peaceful now. He had found solace in doing something to honor Ghivahri and Josæli. She should seek to do the same, she thought, but no inspiration came to her. She had not touched her own work since Midsummer morning.

  At last she left, regretting the weakness that drove her, shivering, back down the path toward the comfort of home. She left the lantern for Diranan, hoping that it might lend him some small bit of warmth. Tears flowed hot down her frozen cheeks as she climbed the road toward the warm lights of Highstone. She felt she had failed Diranan, though she did not know what else to do. She had failed her two friends as well. And Marasan—she had also failed him.

  Such was the bitterness that drove the immortal ælven to leave their flesh at last. The bitterness of loss, the helplessness to mend it. Over the centuries, the losses accumulated until few could bear them. In the end, death was a comfort, a hope of being reunited with their loved ones who had crossed into spirit. It must have seemed so to Josæli, Careyni thought as she stumbled into her home.

  Had it been her words that had convinced Josæli that Siruvon would not return?

  A sob escaped her. In darkness she went to the main hearth, where with shaking hands she laid a fire. It took several attempts to strike a spark to it, and she shuddered with cold and grief as she knelt on the hearthstone to blow life into the tiny flames. She remained there, watching the fire, still shaking long after its heat had penetrated her flesh.