“And Garienel’s pet dove has disappeared,” Cald said. “We expected him to be upset over it, but he pretends not to worry.”
“He never admitted it was his pet,” Eyrmin said. “Perhaps the little creature did not consider Garienel his particular friend. One stands with one’s friends or loses them,” the prince added.
Their stroll had taken them up the watercourse to the edge of Star Mirror Lake, and Cald paused, gazing at the reflection of the Star Stair on the smooth surface. He felt as if he were being held under a spell of peace and beauty. Eyrmin had continued to walk a few paces before he realized the human youth was no longer with him. He retraced a couple of steps and watched Cald.
“What bothers you?” he asked, and when Cald did not answer, he moved quickly to stand behind the young man.
The Star Stair was four miles away, but its size, height, and reflection in the water made it seem to stretch from their feet to the sky. The stone anomaly that rose out of the swamp at its base was not a single rock, but a series of huge granite columns of different heights. Glisinda had told him they stood completely alone. No small boulders or rock scree surrounded them.
The human had never been closer than the lower end of the lake. Eyrmin had always forbidden it.
“Come away,” Eyrmin said, putting a hand on Cald’s arm to urge him to move. “I know you’ve always been curious, but the tale is not for human ears, not even yours.”
Cald resisted the pressure and remained where he was.
“I must know about them,” he said quietly, though the voice hardly seemed to be his own. “Before it was only curiosity, but now it’s something else. I don’t know why, but now I must know.”
“I’d need a better reason,” Eyrmin said. His low tones did not quite mask his objections, but as always, he gave Cald the benefit of a doubt.
“The fortunes, whether for good or for evil, have made a lie into truth,” Cald said. “During the last battle at the portal, I really did see the ghost warriors.”
“You…”
Eyrmin’s eyes had widened, and for a moment he was at a loss for words. When he fully understood the meaning of Cald’s admission, his face hardened with his hatred of a lie. Then understanding and a hint of laughter lit his eyes.
“Years ago, you spoke falsely because you thought I needed your assistance,” he said.
“Or because of my need to assist you,” Cald replied. “Once caught in my lie, I could not find a way out of it.”
“Such is the way of the false tongue,” Eyrmin agreed. “It weaves a web stronger than steel and leads to mazes that have no escapes.”
“But during the last battle, the lie became truth,” Cald said. “I know they look to us to help them.”
“I feel the same, but I don’t know how,” Eyrmin stared out over the water. His shoulders drooped, and he lowered his head. The change of stance was so slight no one except an elf or a human trained to see with elven attention to detail would have noticed. Still, there was a world of sadness in that movement.
“Yes, you do,” Cald snapped.
Eyrmin’s head jerked up, his eyes dark with angry denial.
The youth would not, could not keep silent. “They would not seek your help unless they knew you could give it. You have the answer—probably in some old tale you have forgotten—probably you have known it so long it no longer has meaning. It would have to be an old song from the most ancient of days, else the memory of their passing, the memory of a time when attire like theirs was worn by all your people …
“It has to do with the Star Stair and Star Mirror Lake. The sense of it is pounding in my head and through my veins. I don’t ask from curiosity only. The spirits of the grove are forcing this on me.”
“And why on you? Why not on me if they seek an answer?” The prince sounded uncharacteristically sharp, and with a shock, Cald saw a glint of jealousy.
“Perhaps they did,” Cald said slowly, trying to think of a reason to sooth Eyrmin’s ruffled feelings. This need was one he had never before been called upon to fill. Eyrmin’s mind was too disciplined to give in to petty feelings. He realized no feigned excuse was necessary; in the strengths of the prince lay the true answer.
“Human minds and wills are not as strong as elven ones,” he said. “It was easier for the spirits to reach me.”
The prince seemed to accept the reason. His anger fled, and he turned away from Cald to stare out over the lake. His stillness seemed to affect the forest, and to any human eye but Cald’s, trained in the tricks of elven sight, the prince would have blended with the wood to become nearly invisible.
Knowing Eyrmin was deep in meditation, the human waited patiently. Half an hour later, the elf moved, glanced around, and espied a fallen tree. He led the way, and they sat down on the moss-covered trunk, looking out over the lake. They sat for several minutes before the prince spoke.
“Every race knows that the forests, trees, sunlight, and dapplings of shade are loved by the elves, but it is the night we revere. It is in the night we see Tallamai.”
Cald was well aware of what the prince was telling him, but the retelling seemed to satisfy the need pounding in his veins.
“When our firstborn walked the world, there were no lights in Tallamai. They saw the first glimmer you call starlight a sennight after the first immortal life of an elf was cut short in a fight with a roving dragon. There were many of the beasts then.
“More stars appeared in the sky, and we came to know that we were given two lives, the first here among the trees. When that is finished, we go to Tallamai. There we try to assist those we left behind.”
“The fortunes,” Cald said as Eyrmin stopped to take a breath.
“The fortunes,” Eyrmin repeated the human term. “If the gods of humans really exist, they would be the fates, but in Tallamai they are the fortunes. An arrow that should have struck an enemy and is affected by the wind so it misses its target may have been deflected by the fortunes. Perhaps they can see into the future and know that the enemy may by some later deed aid us. Not all the stars are elves who have left this world. It is thought the dragons also become stars.”
This thought was news to Cald, and he looked up quickly.
“They fought the elves in life, so …”
“The old enmity remains.” Eyrmin nodded. “Many battles that begin on Aebrynis continue on other planes. We see that at the portal. So, too, they continue in the night sky.
“There was a time when the Star Mirror Lake was a primary focus of our lives. The mages of Siellaghriod would make a yearly journey to the Star Stair and climb it while the light was bright enough to see their way. During the night, they would watch the reflection of the stars in the still water, and from the patterns of the reflections, they could read omens of good and evil. Thus, many ills that would have injured our people were avoided.
“Then, as time went on, the ability of the readers of fortune dwindled. It is said some were chosen not for their ability but for their standing at court. There are many tales of that time, most muddled and full of half-truths. It could even be that the enemies of our good fortunes were distorting the patterns. The false readings of the omens led to deaths through battle and disease.
“After many deaths because of false readings, the elves of Sielwode no longer trusted the predictions and forbade the climbing of the Stair.”
“But someone climbed it,” Cald suddenly objected.
Eyrmin gave him a sharp look. “Who has been telling the forbidden tales?”
“No one …” Cald paused and shook his head. “It is not from an elf’s telling that I speak, but something in my head.” He rammed his two hands together, fingers interlinking, and made a double-handed fist to thump against his knees. Then he understood the revelation. It came partly from the strange sense of knowledge that had invaded his mind and partly from logic.