“The one who guards it, is he capable of—”

“A mere servant, nothing more. He is under orders to handle it by its scabbard only.”

“Is it not against Mandrian law to own a magicked sword, your highness?”

Gavril’s mouth compressed itself into a hard line. He shrugged. “What of that?

The law does not apply to me.”

The man bowed. “Does your highness know who forged this blade of extraordinary powers?”

“Yes, a Netheran smith named Lander. He is bound to Thirst Hold in the uplands.” “Not one of the famous smiths,” the priest said thoughtfully. “From whence came the metal?”

“Nold. It was obtained from a dwarf in the Dark Forest. Beyond that, I have no further information.”

“Was the sword made at your request?”

“No!”

“Pity. It would make things easier. How old is the weapon?” Gavril frowned, growing impatient with these trivial questions. “I know not. Two months, perhaps less.”

“Does the sword have a name?”