Black Wizards by Douglas Niles Page B

cried, scrambling forward on all fours to lunge at her before she could stand.
    She punched him in the face, but he still tackled her, his eyes gleaming madly. He pinned her to the ground and grasped a handful of her gown.
    Terror galvanized Robyn and once again she twisted free, but this time he ripped half her garment away. He paused, staring stupidly, and in that split second she recalled a piece of her training: a fast, simple spell.
    “Stop!”
    The command was a physical attack, slamming into the crazed man and holding him in place, poised to leap. Slowly, the light of madness died in his eyes.
    She stared at him in hatred and anger. She wanted to strike him or kick him—to somehow cause him pain. But something, perhaps it was pity for his degraded state, stayed her hand. She was shaking with fright and tension and rage, and she didn’t even want to look athim again.
    Gasping, she gathered her gown about her and stumbled toward the cottage, leaving him bound by the spell.

    “Come on!”
    Tristan was propelling himself toward the castle even before Daryth spoke, too surprised to wonder if the grand structure was illusion or reality. Canthus and Pontswain swam beside them, their weariness forgotten. Soon the men and the dog reached the foot of the massive, smoothly hewn wall. The shining pink surface rose straight into the air above them and seemed to continue underwater as far as they could see.
    “Rosy quartz,” muttered the Calishite. “There’ll be no climbing it here.”
    “Where—?” began the prince, dismayed at the thought of succor so close at hand yet possibly unreachable.
    “Let’s try the gate,” suggested Daryth, swimming easily along the base of the wall. Pontswain followed, while Tristan and Canthus sputtered and splashed in the rear.
    The Calishite reached the gate first. The prince watched him rise slowly from the water, pulling himself gradually up the wall. With a supple swing, the Calishite carried himself over the gate and out of Tristan’s sight.
    Tristan heard nothing for a few seconds, but then the portal began to drop with a steady creaking. In a moment, he could see his friend operating the smooth iron winch that patiently fed chain to the lowering gate. In another moment, Tristan, Pontswain, and Canthus had pulled themselves onto the flattened entryway and squirmed quickly into the castle proper.
    “Is it real?” asked the lord.
    “I don’t know,” replied the prince, unconsciously whispering. A sense of awe possessed him. The rosy stonework of the castle was bathed in a pale mist, shot through by slanting rays of early morning sunlight. The place was mystical yet somehow welcoming.
    “This place is amazing!” commented Daryth, looking around at the high balconies, ornate columns, and sweeping stairways that surroundedthe small courtyard before them. “What is it?”
    “I remember a legend I heard once. I was just a child, so I can’t vouch for the details,” Pontswain said slowly, his voice unusually subdued. “It was about a young queen, bride of Cymrych Hugh. I think her name was Allisynn.
    “The king erected a mighty castle, full of wondrous towers and lofty balconies, for her as his wedding gift. But she died soon after they were married. This was why Cymrych Hugh did not leave an heir.
    “The king was so distraught by her death,” Pontswain continued, “that he ordered the castle to become her tomb. It stood upon a tiny island between Gwynneth and Alaron, and, with the aid of the Great Druids of all the isles, he commanded the castle to sink below the waves, forever hiding and preserving the resting place of his beloved.”
    “The very stone feels sacred,” said Daryth. “Like a shrine.”
    “Legends tell of fishermen and sailors occasionally sighting a castle here in the strait, but none have been verified. I don’t recall hearing about it happening during my lifetime.” Pontswain still spoke with quiet reverence.
    “How do you know so much about