That meant the lich-lord had a different reason for wanting the portal to open. It had to be the sword. If Klasmonde wanted it, its evil was useful to the lich-lord, and that was reason enough to keep it from him.
Czrak had wanted the sword as well. He had demanded it when he held Cald in a trancelike state. Was the mysterious weapon also the reason the Gorgon’s forces attacked? Evil attracts evil, Glisinda had said. War and death had come upon Sielwode because of the weapon. He could take it away. If it were out of the forest, the elves would be safe.
No. His skin prickled as he imagined the prince’s dislike of that idea. His senses reached out, searching, and knew the thought had come from his own mind. It came because he had known his foster father’s heart, and the prince would not have inflicted that cursed blade on anyone of any race.
But where could Cald hide the weapon? He took the blade in both hands as he stared at it, and felt the same evil power in his left hand. The cut on his palm suddenly began bleeding profusely. He raised his arm to stem the flow, allowing the blade to slide down onto his gauntlet. His left arm was abruptly shielded from the evil emanations. The power of the weapon did not penetrate the magically runed armor. And if the armor could protect him from the sword’s evil power, it might also mask the sword from the senses of those who sought it….
“No!” He gave an anguished cry as the realization struck him like a blow. His hunch had to be wrong—that he should give up the armor Eyrmin had given him in order to hide the sword. That was asking too much. It was Cald’s last and most precious gift from the prince.
But no one was asking him to give it up, he reasoned. There was only the possibility that elven magic might trap the malevolent forces of the blade. Not even he knew it for certain.
Hoping he was wrong, he stripped off his right greave and, with a silent apology to Eyrmin, placed the sword on the ground and the greave over it. Then he set his hand on the armor and sighed, thinking he had been wrong. He was both relieved and disappointed. He could still feel the evil power. The awnshegh of Aebrynis and the rulers of the Shadow World could still find it easily.
He removed the other greave, and this time he covered the weapon with the two pieces of armor. When he placed his hand on the soil he felt nothing.
His heart felt heavy. He realized he had discovered how to imprison the power of the blade. The method would cost him, but he knew he had to pay the price. He could feel nothing, but what about the powerful forces that wanted the blade? To be safe from them, he would need to use his entire suit to shield it.
He stripped away all his war gear and started to dig a hole in the ground, thinking he would bury it. Bad idea, he decided. Occasionally hard rain storms swept across Sielwode, and the runoff dug gullies in the soil. Once he disturbed the soil, he would leave the hiding pace vulnerable to a washout.
Then where? He wanted to keep the location secret, unknown to the elves. With their sense of honor, they would never understand the evil of the blade, and they might try to use it. To taint the immortal courage of Malala, the knowledge of Glisinda, or the dedication of Hialmair was unthinkable.
He leaned against one of the great trees of the grove, and felt the warmth, the welcome of the giant trunk.
He would leave it in the Embrace of Sielwode!
But not in the Muirien Grove, he decided. The ancient trees had suffered enough. Leaving it there might be dangerous to the elves. They would be watching the portal. They might enter the Embrace during a time of danger and find it.
Where would it be safe? Where were they least likely to go? They were forbidden to go near the eastern shore of the Star Mirror Lake, where it bordered the Star Stair.
Cald retrieved the leaf-covered pieces of his armor along with the sword, and he started north.
The sun had set, and the last of twilight was passing when he rounded the eastern knuckle of the lake and found a huge, ancient tree. It stood at the edge of the swamp that surrounded the Star Stair. He had found a perfect place, he decided.
Mournfully, because he had always valued the armor the prince had given him, he stripped it off. He placed the sword in the smaller pieces, wrapped his mail shirt around them and used the leather straps of his breastplate and backplate to make a tight bundle.
With an apology to the tree, he began the incantation that opened the tree’s Embrace. He stepped into it, holding the bundle in front of him, and released his hold as he backed out again.
“Keep it safe, so your forest will remain free of trouble,” he murmured to the tree. He felt a slight breeze, and a branch, moved by the wind, touched his shoulder as if in agreement.
Out in the swamp, the sounds of the night creatures seemed to hush. Cald’s head filled with a trilling music, so far away his mind could not conceive of the distance. The darkness of the night faded, and lights began rising from the swamp, traveling up the Star Stair.
Knowing no mortal was to watch the ascension of the departing elves, he turned, but the light stayed with him. He looked up and realized he and the ancient tree were being targeted by beams of light. Above his head, the leaves of the old tree seemed transparent in the starry glow. The bark of the tree glistened with a silvery sheen. In his head, the music swelled until he thought he would burst, and then the sound and the beams faded, withdrawing to twinkle in the night sky.
Tallamai itself would guard the secret of the sword.
Only one faint beam remained, shining on his sword belt where his own blade hung in its scabbard. Beside it was his helmet, which he had removed and had forgotten to use in shielding the terrible sword.
The guilt he would have felt if he had deliberately kept the helmet back was washed away by the gentle light that faded when he picked up his remaining belongings and started his long walk back to Reilmirid.
Two hundred miles north, the Gorgon roared in frustration. From the mountain encampment of his marching army, he had felt the use of the blade Deathirst and had focused all his senses upon it. Some strong magic prevented him from discovering the mind of the creature who wielded it, but he had felt the force when the weapon had been used.
Then it was gone!
He could feel no emanations. He decided it had been taken back into the Shadow World, where not even his power could easily overcome the wielder.
He roared again and shook his giant bull head. His horns gored three orogs unlucky enough not to flee in time. His diamond-hard hooves raked the rocky ground, sending out sparks and setting the mountainside alight with small fires. When his rage calmed, he sought the minds of his generals and ordered his armies to return to the mountains.
He was too intelligent to waste his forces attacking the elves when they had nothing he wanted.
Cald walked slowly through the wood toward Reilmirid and arrived before daylight. He joined several others who were also returning. By the talk, the elves had spent their time driving out the remnants of Czrak’s army. They had scoured the forest for any lingering foes, and had found some of their own people, too badly hurt to reach the village.
The tree village had escaped injury. Wounded elves were being assisted up the lemdair—those who could walk. Others were being lifted on platforms hastily fastened to the long ropes that dangled from the high limb-paths.
Hundreds of uninjured but battle-weary warriors were gathered at the base of the Grove Father, where King Tieslin stood on the boulder used by Eyrmin when he wanted to speak to all the inhabitants of the village.
Strange elven faces looked at Cald, most with contempt, but the elves of Reilmirid eyed his lack of armor with unspoken questions. Cald moved close enough to hear the king and stopped.
“… and they’re fleeing faster than we could drive them out,” the king was saying. “I will risk no more Sidhelien lives on them today. Tomorrow we will search the forest again, and we will take no mercy on those who Linger.”