"Oh, really!" Matt looked a little more sharply at her. "That's our aim, too—and that's why we've gathered here. Don de la Luce is kind enough to grant us his hospitality, though he knows it increases his own danger—and the rest of these brave folk are as determined as I am, though we haven't the faintest idea how to get into the king's castle."
"Are you truly!" The lady stared, then smiled with delight. "Yet there are few enough of you."
"Only a hundred or so," Matt admitted, "but that's more people united against the king than you'll find anywhere else in Ibile."
"True, and well spoke." There was something a little more guarded about the lady now, a bit more wary. "Yet allies should meet and talk. Will you come to converse with my great-father?"
Matt stared, and stood frozen while panic rolled over him. Finally; he shook it off and croaked, "Under water? Uh, thank you very much, ma'am, but I don't breathe liquids too well."
"Nor do I," she assured him. " 'Tis the Sea King's spell that withholds the water from my lungs and lets the air surround me—yet I can extend that spell to anyone I wish, simply by touch." She held out her hand. "Will you come to meet the king of Ys?"
Matt stared, thoroughly aware of the corollary—that all she had to do was let go, and he would drown.
"Wizard, 'tis too great a risk!" Sir Guy exclaimed. "Without you, we are lost, and our cause is dead." He turned to Sinelle. "I shall go in his place, milady."
"You are not asked," she retorted, a merry glint in her eye, "in spite of your hidden station. Nay, Lord Knight, it must be leader to leader here—and valiant though you are, you have not come into your kingdom."
"That's okay, we'd be shot without him, too." Matt nerved himself up and took her hand "But as you say, milady, this is something that I have to do." He raised his other hand to quiet Fadecourt's and Yverne's protests. "Never mind why. I got myself into this, and there's only one way out. My lady, will you walk?"
CHAPTER 25
The Castle of Ys
She did, as it turned out, though how she kept her feet on the ground with so much water pressure around her, Matt didn't know. For that matter, he didn't know what was keeping him down, but he chalked it up to magic. He had expected to swim, but he found that, as he stepped into the water in the cave, he sank like a stone. He shivered like an iceberg, too, but forced his way down into the water, took a deep breath, then took the plunge and was in over his head.
And, suddenly, he was surrounded by air. He looked around him, startled, and saw fronds of seaweed drift up past him. That's how he knew he was sinking—but where was the light coming from?
There—the mouth of the sea cave. Daylight filtered in through the murky water. He looked about for the demoiselle, saw her in front of him, beckoning, and followed her down the pathway.
For it was a pathway—very narrow, but very clearly laid out. It was covered with white gravel, and bordered by corals and sea anemones. Matt could see clearly for a foot or so on either side, before the murk of the sea took over—and he moved freely, without the resistance of water. The path, it seemed, was the bottom of a tunnel of air, winding down along the sea floor.
And down, and down, following the sea-maid. She had released his hand as soon as his feet had touched the gravel, and he had to hurry now to keep her in sight. There was no light here, other than what filtered down from above—and less and less of it came through as they went deeper and deeper. Matt was just beginning to wonder if he was going to lose sight of the maid, when a light burst forth from her upraised hand. Looking closely, he saw that the light came from a huge, fantastic seashell, shaped like a cornucopia. He felt a thrill of apprehension as he realized that the mollusk that had made that shell had been dead for millions of years.
At least, in his world.
They were hundreds of feet down, and the path wound its way among the hulks of sunken ships—the rocks surrounding de la Luce's castle must be treacherous. In fact, Matt suddenly realized, that's why de la Luce's keep was a tower, and was so much taller than the curtain wall—it had been a primitive lighthouse!
They rounded the bulk of a rotting trireme galley—just how long had this port been in use, anyway?—and there it was before them, in all its eldritch splendor.
The royal castle of Ys may not have been terribly spectacular in its day, but it was extremely impressive down here. A central keep thrust up from the center of a vast bowl, cylindrical, and surrounded by four more cylinders that grew out of it—but so slender that they seemed to be needles, with long lancing tips, instead of the towers they were. A low wall, perhaps twelve feet high, fenced in a wide courtyard all about the keep, decked with corals and other bright sea life, while the central keep glowed with the phosphorescence of the deep.
Matt caught his breath, then forced it out and reminded himself how unimpressive this stronghold would look on land. It didn't do much good, of course, because he wasn't on land—and within that circular wall, the absence of seaweed and the glow of the stone told him that a dome of air protected the castle and its environs. Whatever the magic, the sea did not enter the royal stronghold of drowned Ys, but formed a circle around the palace and its gardens.
And inside, true to legend, the ancient king still lived, preserved by the magic of the Sea King.
Matt followed the maid through the open gates.
Suddenly, the pressure of the water was gone, and he felt air all about him, saw trees and flowers nodding in the faint breaths of convection currents. He shuddered with the release of tension—he hadn't realized just how much stress he'd been under during that submarine passage. Then he realized that there were people around him, boys with switches loitering near herds of goats and sheep, men and women working in sheds along the insides of the walls, girls stitching embroidery under the trees. He looked again and realized that the men and women were painting, sculpting, fashioning musical instruments, and playing them.
Strains of music murmured all about him. A sudden, piercing longing struck him—to be able to spend his life working at his art!
Then he remembered that he was doing exactly that, more or less—only under greater pressure. His art just wasn't the tranquil sort that could be pursued in solitude. He sighed and followed the maid through the great leaves of the keep's portal.
There was a short passage of glowing, semiprecious stone that ended in two smaller doors of cavern wood with gilded highlights. Two courtiers loitered before them, long rapiers at their belts, exchanging gossip.
"No, good Arien, that is not Plato's meaning!"
"Meaning? Forsooth, Ferlain, 'tis his very words!"
"Nay, for you've translated the Greek very poorly! His true meaning is..."
Just idle gossip.
"Gentlemen," the lady murmured.
They looked up, startled, then drew themselves up. "Milady!" Then they saw Matt and stared, forgetting their poise.
Also their manners. "He is a guest," Sinelle reminded them, and they shook themselves out of their amazement. "Why, certes! Be welcome in the castle of Ys, O stranger!"
"We would speak with his Majesty," the demoiselle hinted.
"Certes, milady! He is within, debating the merits of the dulcimer and the lyre with the musical brethren!" His deprecating smile revealed the philosopher's old condescension toward the musician.
Sinelle tactfully forbore to mention it and gestured toward the doors. The courtiers drew them open.