He could not be trusted.

He did, however, have the power to control the sword.

A vague, uneasy thought occurred to Garth; he considered it, let it grow and take form.

Perhaps it was in truth the Forgotten King who controlled the sword's actions entirely, and not the mythical god of destruction. Perhaps Garth's entire mission to Dыsarra had been an elaborate charade the old man had contrived for reasons that remained unclear.

Such a theory seemed unlikely, but could not be completely discounted.

Carrying his imagining a step further, Garth arrived at another possibility. What if the sword and the Forgotten King were both being controlled by some other unseen power? It might be Bheleu, The God Whose Name Is Not Spoken, or just some mighty wizard.

What if everything that had befallen him was part of some vast plot? Could his depression and resulting quest for eternal fame have been the result of some spell? Could the entire sequence of events that followed have been planned, his every action guided?

Had he ever had any choice at all in his actions?

He shook his head. This was all getting too complicated and farfetched; he doubted that there was any such conspiracy at work. If there were, it was obviously far beyond his own capabilities to do anything about it.

"O King," he said, returning to the subject at hand, "I would like to make you a gift of this sword. It was at your request that I brought it from Dыsarra, and I feel it right that you should have it."

The Forgotten King said nothing.

"You will not refuse it?"

"I will not accept it," the King replied, "until you swear to serve me by bringing me the Book of Silence and aiding in my final magic."

"You have said that this magic will kill many people; I cannot in good conscience aid you in it."

"Then I will not accept the sword." He did not say anything more, but it was plain to both what was implied; while Garth kept the sword, he would be in constant danger of having further death and destruction on his conscience. He faced a choice of two evils, neither clearly the lesser, and both, in fact, quite large.

Garth reached up to his breast and picked at the knot that held the scabbard on his back. As he had expected, he was unable to work the strands at all.

"Will you not reconsider?" he asked.

"Will you?"

Defeated for the moment, Garth sat back and thought.

It seemed clear that the Forgotten King would not help him; the overman had feared as much. The sword had not obliged him by driving him into a frenzy that the King would have been forced to quell; a glance over his left shoulder showed that the gem was glowing moderately, yet he felt no particular anger, no great compulsions. The thing was biding its time. Perhaps it knew something of the future and was waiting for something specific; perhaps it was aware of the Forgotten King and had learned that he was able to control it, and so was restraining itself.

Perhaps, should it attempt to wreak havoc in the future, he could contrive to bring it here and threaten the King, so that the old man would be forced to dampen its power in self-defense.

No, that would not work; what need did the King have to defend himself? He was immortal and wanted to die-at least, so he claimed.

That might be a bluff, Garth thought, to convince him that there was no point in threatening the old man. Next time the killing fury came, Garth decided, he would make an attempt to find the King and test out his invulnerability again.

For the present, though, there seemed nothing more to be gained here. He rose and left the tavern.

The streets were dark, but torches lit the marketplace directly in front of him on the far side of the cellars of the Baron's destroyed mansion. He paused and looked again at the knot that held the scabbard in place.

It was a very simple, rough knot; he had tied it himself and knew that to be the case. Ordinarily it would have been hardly adequate to hold the sword; normal jarring would have worked it loose in an hour or two. The sword's power, however, could apparently be spread beyond the weapon itself; the knot was tight and solid.

He picked at it again, but could not work the strands loose.

There was an ancient legend about a knot that could not be untied. The story was that after many wise men had tried to undo it, a simple warrior had cut it apart with his knife. If Garth could not untie the scabbard strap while the sword was sheathed, perhaps he could cut it.

He made his way around the cellars and approached the nearest overman he saw. It was Fyrsh, relaxing by a campfire after his supper. He had no objection to loaning Garth his dagger. "After all," he said, "you've already got that sword if you want to start trouble."

Garth agreed, smiling, and thanked him. Then he found a quiet spot to sit and tried to cut the strap.

It was difficult slipping the blade under the strap at all; where a moment before it had seemed comfortably loose, it was now drawn tight across his chest. Finally, though, he managed to force it in and turned the blade, working it against the leather.

The blade was notched almost immediately, as if meeting steel.

Garth shifted it and tried again, sawing at the leather.

The blade snapped off completely, gashing his chest with the broken edge and cutting a long slit in his tunic before falling to the hard ground with a rattle.

The broken stump was of no use. He returned the pieces to Fyrsh with his sincere apologies and promised to pay for a new one.

It was growing late, and he had no further ideas that could be readily tried. Disgruntled, he set out to find somewhere to sleep. He did not care to be near other people; he was afraid that the sword might make him murder them while they slept.

After much walking, he settled down for the night in the shelter of a relatively intact stretch of the town's wall, midway between the North and East Gates. His sleep was calm and dreamless.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The first to arrive at the High King's castle was Karag of Sland, which was somewhat surprising; Stand lay almost two days' ride to the west of Kholis, and Shandiph knew there were other councilors closer at hand.

Furthermore, Karag did not come alone. The Baron of Sland had accompanied him, with a party of half a dozen black-clad soldiers.

The presence of the Baron made the arrival a matter of state; the High King was roused and formal presentation arranged. While this went on, Chalkara reported to the Chairman that a ragged stranger dressed in brown and carrying a staff had arrived at the scullery gate, refusing to give his name but insisting that Shandiph had sent for him.

"That's all right," Shandiph told her as he watched the High King accepting Karag's obeisance. "That would be Derelind the Hermit; he lives just south of here."

"Why wouldn't he tell me that?"

"Oh, he's a secretive young fool. Don't mind him."

Karag was rising now, and the six soldiers were being presented, together with a list of names and the honors they had received. Shandiph wondered how warriors could acquire so many marks of distinction on their records when the kingdom had been at peace for almost three hundred years.

"Should I find Derelind a guest chamber?"

"I don't know; ask him. He would probably prefer to sleep on the kitchen floor with the lower servants, and we may not have enough rooms for everybody, if we get a good response to the call."

Chalkara nodded and slipped away.

She was back by the time the soldiers had finished their ritual presentation. Now, by custom, the High King and the Baron would retire to the King's private council chamber for a report on the state of the Barony of Sland, and Shandiph would be able to speak to Karag without the Baron's presence.