The runes on the yellowed parchment flickered a moment, then exploded in such brilliance that for a moment Eirwen was forced to look away. The symbols seemed to dance and mesh together, the forms ever-changing and swirling in mad disarray. An eerie glow filled the hall; purples and blues and greens reflected off of the walls, making the stone seem alive.
There was a dull throbbing, though whether it came from the book or her head or the earth itself could not be discerned. Something was wrong. Something, somewhere, was disturbed. Eirwen fumbled with the heavy book in her arms, her fingers shaking and refusing to cooperate as she tugged on the elaborately gilded cover. The light only intensified.
"Found something that interests you?"
At the sound of the calm, masculine voice, both the pulsing in the air and the brilliance of the runes faded and then disappeared entirely. Eirwen lifted her gaze very slowly, up, up, up… past lavish black velvet swathing a narrow waist and broad shoulders, up to the regal visage of the Master Gandling himself.
The girl remained on her knees, as was fitting. Neither spoke. Silence reigned, broken only by the ragged, shivering breath of Eirwen as she fumbled to close the book. Bowing her head, she offered the tome up to him while staring past his feet.
He seized her wrist instead.
The grip was not hard, but demanding as he dragged her to her feet. The tome fell to the ground with a resounding thump that made both wince. "I believe my requests were made very clear," whispered Gandling, the cold calm in his voice more terrible than any rage.
"I am sorry, sir; truly. I found it on the floor, sir, and meant to return it to its place," she breathed, daring a look into his eyes: narrow and stern. "I did not know if it was for the Master Barov; I have seen nothing like it in his libraries, sir."
"What did you think of its secrets?"
"Secrets… sir, I cannot read the normal written works of man, let alone such…" A pause as she weighed carefully her next words, settling with, "Such a masterpiece."
His grip on her wrist loosened and his fingers slid to take her hand, surprisingly gently. "What is your name, girl?"
"Eirwen, sir."
"A pretty name," murmured Gandling, his voice unchanging. Still he did not release her hand, and in the near-darkness she wondered on the virtue of being alone with a man, and so close. He was smiling now. "And what brought you out of your chambers at this late hour, Eirwen?"
"There was a noise, sir."
"There are always noises in the night. It is best to pay them no mind."
Rising up on her toes, she lowered her voice to a confidential whisper. "Someone screamed, sir."
His hand tightened around hers, presumably in reassurance. "This is a peaceful place; I am sure it was only the wind." He, too, was whispering. His breath was on her neck. "Sleep, Eirwen. Do not be troubled."
"You will not tell the Master, sir?"
"You are afraid of him?"
"No," she answered quickly, pulling from Gandling. "I meant no disrespect to him, sir."
He studied her a moment, then smiled. It was a jarring thing to see, but though the smile seemed out of place on his stern features, it was not altogether unpleasant. "I will not tell him."
Eirwen ventured a smile of her own. "You are kind, sir. Thank you."
They bid each other a good night and returned each to their own rooms; Gandling to the lavish guest wing, Eirwen to her pallet in the corner of the servant's quarters. The quiet sounds of steady breathing filled the room; nobody had noticed her brief excursion, it seemed. Only when she was nestled in her blankets did she realize one thing amiss: the cot next to her was empty.
And the wind screamed again.