THIRTY-TWO
KRONUS OFTEN SOUGHT the comfort and solitude of the gardens during the middle hour. There he would rest, enjoying the simple yet exquisite bounty of nature’s wonders, idly pecking at whatever nourishment he had brought along. It was his private time, his ‘picnic’ as they had called it in the time of Pre-Cloister.
It was a beautiful spring turn bright with sun, yet not so hot it overpowered the gentle breeze flowing in and around the gardens, or the cool shadows lying down beneath the trees.
Kronus had brought along his porto-scribe. He was not one to waste a moment in idle thoughtlessness—even for the sake of food. As he munched on his stuffed roll, he scribbled down the interesting tidbits of gossip and fact that had filtered down to him from around the Pentarchy. He would add these to the Codex at his leisure. The unimportant and humdrum happenings—infinite in their number and diversity—the legion of scribes under his command could handle.
He paused in his endeavor and eyed the food in his hand. Even the spiced roll sadly lacked flavor. He knew this was not the fault of the culinar who had prepared it, but his own desensitized palate. So it had been since the death of Shaan Sid. Even his writing had suffered, no longer exuding the colorful prose so long his trademark. Instead, it was lackluster, yet more than apt for the mood of these woeful times.
He raised eyes now blurred with a maudlin mist of memory. He had not attended Shaan’s burial ceremony, and it was unforgivable. Yet under the circumstances, with the mood of the archduke being what it was, how could he have gotten away? He only hoped his dear friends would understand and forgive his dereliction.
With a sigh of capitulation, he stuffed the last mouthful into his orifice, more for the sake of propriety than any further demands of hunger.
He then noticed the Flitter descending near the entry portal of the palace’s west wing. The sight made him pause, though he was not overly concerned at first. The craft—a sizable troop transport—bore the unmistakable emblem of the Gardai, and such comings and goings were commonplace at Castle Mondragon. Even more so in these times of heightened stress. Yet when he saw the Adepts disgorge from the exit ramp bearing three litters, he leapt to his feet and scurried after their retreating forms.
He could not be sure from his distant position, yet it had looked as though the bodies resting motionless upon the litters had worn the robes of Adepts. This made no sense. Such a thing was impossible—though remembering Jordane’s untimely demise, and how the recent Great Moot had taken Shaan Sid, he realized the assumption was no longer a certainty.
The Adepts moved swiftly, even carrying their burdens. Kronus’ breath turned to great gasps as he struggled to match their pace. He determined they were heading for the chambers of the archduke and took a shorter route.
He exited in the hallway fronting the archduke’s antechamber and saw the Adepts standing in a solemn ring around a figure lying on the floor. Kronus strained his eyes to see through the press of bodies, but he could not. Yet the remaining two figures were visible, left alone as though somehow forgotten.
His eyes grew round with disbelief, which quickly turned to horror. D’ia Mor! He recognized them as being the Kern, the very two who accompanied Zel.
Zel!
He moved closer, frightened now. His heart pounded, a throbbing pulse hammering against his temple. As he circled, seeking a way through the cordon of Adepts, he saw the face of Victor Mondragon and froze. It was as though he looked at a different man. The eyes of the primus were a mixture of rage and anguish, a misted wall of agony threatening to dissolve into madness. From his throat came a sigh that was almost a wail. His voice warbled and died, even as he turned to stare directly at Kronus.
The Lord Chronicler saw it then...the blasted body of Zel. The grizzly sight shocked him to his core, even as his body shook beyond his control.
“Why?” Victor pleaded, as though Kronus were some deity who had suddenly appeared. “Have I not enough to bear that I must now suffer the death of my son?”
Something changed then. Kronus felt his fear thicken and solidify. The madness he had recognized now took shape: a malevolence that flew outward and clutched Argus in its grip.
“How did this happen?” Victor asked.
Argus’ jaw worked, though no words came at first. His characteristic grunt was like a dam bursting, and the accusations flowed swift and sure. “The Code-breaker. It was him...on the sea path…”
“Sire…” Kronus heard the trembling in his voice but forced himself to speak. “Reason dictates you hear all evidence before passing judgment.”
It was as though he had not spoken.
“Why is he not here before me?”
Victor’s voice was level, yet something was missing. It was as though all humanity had drained from it, rendering it cold as death.
“Your Grace, I could not bring him. Fortunatus and the Magi would not permit it. Even your sister supported them. And adding their voices were also Ashara and Mendiko Sid, both of the High Council…”
Argus’ voice trailed off, yet still the archduke made no sound. The Lord Marshal swallowed once and his Adam’s apple bobbed. “They come now to the Star Chamber. The Pat’Riark gave his word.”
The lips of Victor Mondragon smiled. Yet the smile did not reach his eyes. “That is good. We shall await them.” It appeared as though he would turn away, but he paused to once more look down at the corpse that had been his son.
“Remove it to a clean place. Bathe it. Anoint it. Let it remain in full view for all to see.” He raised his eyes, and once more they caught Kronus. “Summon the council to witness. Witness only! The judgment shall be that of the Swordkind. Judgment upon he who is surely Code-breaker!”