The day was cold when the stranger arrived in Caer Darrow, and the sun was far away. Rain had come but only briefly, leaving behind a rainbow that hung in sharp contrast to the angry skies. Darker even than the stormy clouds was the attire of the stranger and his attendants: inky black, edged in silver. The procession was long. Every face in the crowd was of a regal countenance; proud, if not haughty. Each looked in their own right like royalty, though it was the stranger who held the attention of all.
From her place among the gathering crowd, Eirwen drank in the scene with eyes bright and hopeful. Her girl's mind was a blur of questions and her heart was teeming with excitement. Whoever these grave strangers were, they were far removed from the refined pleasure-seekers that were known to visit the sprawling island. The sternness of their eyes spoke of great power and greater purpose. Next to them, the woman in drab servant's robes was cowed by her insignificance.
It seemed but a moment before they were gone, ushered away to a private audience with the Master. Those who remained -- the lesser people, the maids and butlers and farmhands -- dispersed each to his own duties to ponder on the mystery of it all. They were not left long to wonder, however; soon they were called to the main hall of the keep where Master Barov himself was waiting. His children fanned out behind him in a half-circle and his wife stood by his side, beautiful and serene as always. Both the lord and his lady were smiling; something of a rarity since their recent moods and rages.
"My children," he said fondly, his voice laden with sweet deference, "Illucia and I are honored to open our home to Master Gandling and his people. They have chosen this as the location for a school; an exclusive academy for only the most gifted; a place for a select few to learn and thrive…" In the usual manner of rich or important persons, he continued in his speech for some time without saying anything that was not already known. At length, he concluded, "They are not to be disturbed. It is our hope that you show each member of his party with the same loving respect you have always given us."
Deep in the night came the first scream. It pierced the still darkness to be cut short half a moment later, leaving a few disgruntled sleepers to wonder if they had really heard anything at all. But Eirwen had not been sleeping; she knew what she had heard. Shaking hands groped for a candle in the darkness but found nothing. It was a challenge picking her way through the crowded sleeping quarters with nothing but a thin ray of moonlight to guide her, but at last she reached the corridor leading to the rest of the keep.
The warped oaken door protested loudly as it swung on rusted hinges into the passageway. Belatedly she regretted not having brought her blanket, for a chill breeze drifted through the hall and settled into her bones. One hand settled lightly on the wall to guide her, passing over paintings and sconces and cold stone. She found herself stumbling on the uneven ground, and an unexpected flight of stairs found her fallen to her hands and knees beside what felt like a tome; very thick and heavy.
A wiser soul would have left the book untouched. One less brave might have retreated to her quarters. But Eirwen, driven by the simple innocence of curiosity, took the great tome into her arms and carefully opened it to its first page.