"As the Prophet wills," he said impassively, apparently unmoved by Sandon's threat.
Sandon growled in frustration. "Damn you. You will talk to me. You can't hide behind your blessed Church any more."
"We all have our place. As the seasons change, so does the order of things. The season has changed." Kovaar shrugged, turned and simply walked away to the other side of the room.
Sandon ground his teeth and closed his eyes, struggling hard to resist the urge to grab the man and shake him. He couldn't afford a confrontation now. The priest would wait. His priority was Men Darnak and making certain he was all right. He crossed back to the fire and crouched in front of Men Darnak's chair.
"Principal?"
The old man tore his gaze away from the fire, where he seemed lost in thought. "Ahh, my children around me." He reached out a hand on either side, taking Sandon's hand in one, and Fran's in the other on the opposite side. "But you're not my children. I know you. Where are my children now?" he asked, looking blankly, pleadingly, into Sandon's face.
"Principal, you know. We have lost Roge. Tarlain has gone. Karin is who knows where. Probably at her estates with Yosset."
"Lost." He nodded slowly. "Yes, lost. Everything. They are gone, all of them." He leaned forward. "And you. You have left me too."
Sandon frowned. What he was saying didn't seem to be getting through to the old man. He shifted position. His robe was still dripping water on to the floor beneath him, but that didn't matter now. The fire's warmth would soon have him dry. He looked across at Fran, clearly uncomfortable with his hand gripped firmly by the man he knew as his Principal. Sandon gave him a slight shake of his head, but the young man just returned the gesture with a confused look. Trying not to let the gesture be seen, he motioned Fran to rest still.
"Principal, you need to listen to me. We need to get you somewhere safe. Your estates. We will have to stay here tonight, because of the storm, but we will have to move as soon as we are able."
Men Darnak frowned. "I have no place. Those that have everything become those that have nothing. Everything gone. Roge. Tarlain. Everything. Karin is not my daughter. How can she be, eh? What did I do? No, I will stay here. There is nothing for me anywhere else."
Sandon tried to keep his voice calm. "Principal, this is no place for you."
"There is no place for me," he spat in response. "The Prophet has shown me. He would cast me from the world. I have failed. I don't care. I don't care." He withdrew his hands, closed his eyes and shook his head. "No. There is nothing left to hear."
Sandon stood and looked down at a frail, confused old man. Kovaar sat on a couch at the other side of the room, watching Sandon. Fran still crouched beside the old man's chair. Sandon sighed, a deep emptiness welling up within him. How could this be the man to whom he had devoted his life? He had to try and make this right. He ran his hand across his forehead, through his hair and then rubbed the back of his neck. There had to be something he could do, something to alleviate the Principal's condition. The hollow within him was a weakness he couldn't afford. The old man needed him, needed him to be strong.
He ran the possibilities through his head, and the only answer he could come up with was Tarlain. With Roge gone, Karin being Karin, and all other support having faded away like the light of the Major Twin, there was no other choice. Briefly, he toyed with the idea of the Atavist community, but that was no real answer. No, it had to be Tarlain. Tarlain, young, impetuous, and hiding out somewhere near the mines. It wasn't much of a choice. He glanced at Fran. The boy would leave in the morning and try and find him, depending on whether the storm had broken by then. That, at least, was a start. Perhaps with Sandon's help, the Men Darnak boy might be able to do something to help his father. And meanwhile, the storm still howled and grumbled around them. He glanced across at Kovaar, and the priest was still watching him. He looked away again. Just for a moment, he wondered, was it Kovaar or the Church that had the agenda?
An insistent pounding on the door cut Sandon's thoughts short. Without waiting for an answer, the door was flung wide with a sudden blast of moisture and cold air. In the doorway stood a figure, covered in wet weather gear and holding a lantern. The man stepped inside, leaving the door open behind him, oblivious to the weather that followed him into the small space.
