As they neared the outskirts of where Markis thought the encampment proper must lie, he noticed a small cluster of men, standing off from a solitary figure huddled on the ground in front of them. He knew their dress, their colors. Men Darnak's livery and an old man with them, it could be nobody else. There was something not quite right about the scene. As they neared, the details became clearer and Markis felt his heart lurch with the first true sight of the old man hunched on the ground before them. Stained pale robes, torn in places, fell around an almost emaciated form. Straggly hair fell in clumped strands about an unkempt beard. The old man rocked back and forth, muttering to himself, drawing patterns in the mud with one hand. Occasionally the voice rose, the words becoming comprehensible, but there was little sense in them. It was Men Darnak, he knew, but the transformation...
"That is Principal Men Darnak's voice," Aron said. "Take me to him."
"Sir, we're heading that way, we are."
Aron Ka Vail grunted to himself, seemingly satisfied with the response.
Markis was in two minds. With his father's frailty, and the condition of Men Darnak, he didn't know what effect it might have, but for once he was thankful that his father could not see the full extent of the Principal's state.
"Principal Men Darnak," said Aron, as they neared.
The old man looked up, his face questing for the voice as if he didn't know who had spoken.
"Who is that? Is that Roge? Roge, what are you doing here? Have you come to join me?"
"Principal, it is I, Aron Ka Vail."
Men Darnak turned away. "Leave me, Roge. You have no place here, as I have no place. You should be gone. I know about you, about your lies. The storm told me. It told me everything. Everything." He continued rocking back and forth. "You, Karin, all my children. All of them."
Aron Ka Vail swiveled his head, trying to focus on the voice. "Principal? It is you, Leannis, isn't it?"
Men Darnak leaped to his feet. "Here!" He pounded at his chest. "It is the father, the man, the Principal." He swung his arms wide. "Every bit. Can you not see?"
Men Darnak's sudden aggressive stance prompted Markis to step hurriedly between them. Aron lifted a hand to feel in front of him, met Markis's arm and slowly ran his hand up to the shoulder. "Why are you standing there?" the Guildmaster asked. "Let me go to him. We need to talk."
"No, wait, please, Guildmaster."
"Guildmaster?" said Men Darnak. "What do you think? Do you think that action achieves its own reward? By the Prophet, it is strange. The actions you perform run without control through your offspring. That's the way it works. It doesn't matter what you do. It doesn't matter. Your children take your message to existence." He threw back his head and laughed.
Markis looked to the other men standing nearby; a couple of them were watching interestedly, the rest had their attention elsewhere. There was no help or explanation to be had from that quarter.
Men Darnak had lowered his face and was peering at them again. "You," he pointed at Aron. "You, hiding there. Do you know where it comes from? Is it the evil that comes from a man, springs forth from his seed and runs through the world? Is that it? Where did my children come from? Where did yours come from? I know. I know. There is no answer there. I have looked you know." He took another step closer. "I have looked. The world is our child, our manifest destiny and the flesh that walks we put there through our actions. But what about the Prophet, hey? What about him? Where and why and how and when? It's justice, not will. Not will, not justice. They're sent to taunt us you know. Our children. Our children are our punishment. See, see here!" He pointed at Markis.
Markis drew his father back a step. "Come, Guildmaster. We should go."
Aron resisted the pull. "No," he said. "What has happened? Leannis, my old friend, what have they done to you?"
Just for an instant, Men Darnak stopped the wild swinging of his head, held himself steady, and fixed his gaze on the man who had spoken to him.
