"... and take this pain from me. I have lived long enough. I have served you well, or tried to. Though I know you watch us, and we cannot hope to fathom your Will, there has to be a balance. Take me. But bless my son. Markis has always served you well. He does not deserve the wrongs that have been done to him. As you are our Prophet, take this evil and shape it with your Will. Restore my son to his rightful place."
The old man was praying. Markis, overhearing the words, understanding what his father was asking, was uncomfortable. Prayer should be a private thing.
He cleared his throat. "Guildmaster," he said.
There was silence.
"Guildmaster," he tried again.
The voice was hesitant when it finally came. "Yes, what is it?"
"I can't see as how you'd be doing any good wishin' harm upon yourself. What's there to gain by that, eh?"
Again the silence, then finally a response. "You cannot understand," said the old man.
"And how's that?" said Markis. "Don't you think we all have troubles? What do you think will be served if you simply give up? Look at my people. What do we do? We travel from place to place, trying to find work, trying to find enough to keep us going through the worst of the Seasons, and yet we go on."
There was a deep sigh from the other corner, then a cough that trailed off into silence. Finally, the old man spoke again. "I have wronged my son. Everything I've done is wrong. Had I listened to what was real, what my gut was telling me, then none of this would have happened. Too interested in the politics, in the intrigue. I saw betrayal at every instance, but there was nothing." A pause. "The only betrayal was right under my nose."
"And what of it?" said Markis.
"What of it? Because of what I've done, my eldest son is somewhere, I don't know where. I don't even know if he's still alive. The younger of the two has manipulated things in such a way that he will probably inherit the Guild. I can see nothing else. All of it was because I was so caught up in the changes that I couldn't see. And now. And now I cannot see at all. It's the Prophet's punishment. I don't deserve to live."
"And why should you deserve to die? Is not the Prophet benevolent? Doesn't his Will guide us?"
Aron Ka Vail gave a half-hearted chuckle. "You're the only one guiding me now."
"All right. What about your son, then?"
"What about him? It's funny. Your voice sort of reminds me of him. Even more to punish me by the Prophet's Will." He gave a low moan, and then subsided into silence again.
Fearing that the old man was truly in pain, Markis made to get to his feet, but the old man spoke.
"No, stay where you are. There's nothing you can do. I will die here this night."
"You will not," said Markis. "I may be naught more than a simple worker, but it seems pretty clear to me. You're boy's pretty important to you. I'm sure that he cares for you as well." He fought back what he was feeling, struggling to continue. Finally sure that he had his voice under control, he continued. "You won't be helping your son by lying here and dying. If you want to do something for him, the only way you're going to do that is by fighting against what's been done to you. Then you can help him, eh? Then you can help him. You won't do nothing for him lying dead in some hut in the middle of nowhere. Let us get to Darthan, and then we'll see, eh?"
There was a faint noise from the opposite corner, and then silence. Markis hoped, prayed that his words might be getting through to the old man. He could only wait until morning to see. Somehow, knowing his father over all the years, through countless struggles big and small, he thought there was a strong possibility. Silently, looking up into the darkness, he made his own, hesitant prayer to the Prophet. He didn't really know whether he'd be heard, but he thought it was worth the chance that he would.
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Markis and his father had been traveling for a mere two days when they finally came upon the first signs of the camp. They must truly have been a pathetic sight; not one challenge did they receive as they approached, though they passed miners and Kallathik alike, clearly gearing up for some sort of battle. Markis led the old man, carefully, slowly. He was still weak, and as each day had passed, Aron Ka Vail seemed to be fading in strength.
