The Descent: Chapter 11
He didn't run, trot, stand stock-still and stare, or even pause when he finally returned. The Medion that descended from the carriage and walked stolidly through the gates of his father's estate was neither the rash youth who spilled blood to avenge his father, or the dreamy lover who shed tears over happiness slain. He was older now, far older than he looked, and much more careful. The journey he'd begun years ago, leaning against the door of a toilet stall, has reached its end. Along the way two versions of Medion were shed and abandoned, like snakeskin, and his true nature has been born—or rather, revealed. He has become a man not only worthy, but capable, of succeeding his father, the Don Domaric.
He didn't waste time speaking of the grievances that have befallen him when he finally met his father. It was not only that Domaric must have already known, but because Medion himself has forcefully put it behind him. Like the killing of Braff and Garzel, Hedoba's death was but a nightmarish episode of his journey. There was no use looking back in regret, now that he's made it to the end. Maybe one day he would be able to avenge her. However, one way or another, it didn't concern the family's business, so he did not mention it.
Medion was still capable of sorrow, though. And as he walked with Domaric through the well-kept gardens, he felt it wash over him. For his father was certainly much weaker than before the assassination attempt. Death has not snatched Domaric, yet its claw marks on the old man were woefully clear. Medion looked about the estate and knew that it would last longer, much longer, than the man who almost single-handedly built it, then transformed it into a throne of unrivaled power. Perhaps it'll last longer than he himself, or even his children. For all he knew, the sturdy structure would still be standing the day Domaric's descendants forgot their forefather's name. Mortal lives and achievements rarely survived time and tide like stone and dirt—this inevitable and unavoidable truth, when linked with the sight of his tottering father, gave Medion a secret anguish that rivaled his heartache.
If his father felt his sadness, he didn't comment. After all, business must be put first. It was the way men like Domaric lived. So father and son spoke only a few words of greeting before the elderly man began a detailed description of the deals with the Dons, and what Medion must do to ensure the prosperity—not to mention survival—of the family in the future.
They spoke a long time, walking the grounds of the vast estate. Medion listened and commented little. There was really nothing new to learn. The facts and figures would be memorized in time; what was essential was cunning combined with ruthless determination, and that could never be taught. Fortunately, of all the children Medion was the one who truly inherited the quality that had put his father on top. It was child's play, then, to understand the underworld business. Medion sucked in his father's lifetime of experiences and insights in one afternoon, often surprising Domaric with innovating ideas. At such times Medion would notice a strange mixture of emotions—pride tinged with regret?—pass over the older man's wrinkled face. Apparently, the irony of the situation affected Domaric more than it did his son. Still, the time passed smoothly, if not pleasantly, though the business discussed was grim; soon, the setting sun signaled the end of the discussion, and the two headed in for dinner.
But Medion had one question left, as he trailed his father up the stone path: "Pops—what about Arrawnt?"
Domaric bowed his head, sighed a world-weary sigh, but declined to answer. His avoiding the topic of vengeance, however, only made Medion's blood boil, bringing a temporal revival to the angrier side. He might accept that some things would have to wait, but he could never forgive the wrongs done to him. Medion caught up with his father, stared almost accusingly, and added, "And what happened in Stamp? What about that?"
The fatigue was evident on Domaric's brow as he replied, "Medion, my son—let it be. No good will ever come out of this exhausting business. I, uh, I promised never to break the peace."
The new Don shook his head. "Pops, won't they take this as a sign of weakness?"
Domaric looked squarely into his son's eyes and confessed: "It is a sign of weakness."
Medion lowered his eyes, both sympathetic and impatient. He understood his elder's reluctance but disdained it all the same. There might come a day when he, too, would be willing to forgo all for the sake of peaceful rest—but that day has yet to come. He wasn't tired, he wasn't weak, and he would be damned if he allowed his enemies to walk over him. The wrongs must be set right.
He told his father, "Then I will take care of everything. I never made such a promise, Pops. You don't have to get involved—I'll take full responsibility, and deal with the consequences."
The pride mingled with sorrow passed over Domaric's face again; he said nothing, and simply ushered Medion into the house.
Synbios was honestly happy for her older sister, and throughout the wedding she laughed, sang and danced like everyone else. It took no effort to maintain her cheerful attitude during the whole joyous but slightly tedious party. Yet the occasion stirred within her buried memories—how could it not?—and when the tables have been cleared, when most of the guests have left and her father has retired for the night, she felt the memories overwhelm her joy. She said goodnight to her sister Margaret and her husband Tristus, then slipped out into the night.
In the fading twilight she walked quickly along the outer wall. She allowed herself to think about him, again—to think about and miss him as she hasn't allowed herself to do for more than a year. The wedding at which he'd promised to marry her; the wedding today that might have been her own if fate hasn't been so cruel; those marred memories and shattered dreams pierced her heart like red hot needles. She should have just forgotten him, so she could be spared of the pain and go on with her life, marry a better man, and live happily ever after. But no, she was unable to ever let go of his memory. Thus was she doomed to this lurking sorrow and gnawing hunger.
She neared the gate of her father's estate, and saw a lone man standing there beside a dark carriage. He appeared to be waiting for someone. As she drew close to ask if she could help him, however, she recognized with a start the long blond hair, the sharp blue eyes, the serious brow.
She stared, utterly speechlessly, and he stared right back. Synbios was certain it was but a product of her own tormented heart—how could it be possible that he was here, after all that time? It was wildly impossible. Yet Medion didn't speak, run to embrace her, or even smile. He just watched her. The strange way he acted convinced her that he was in fact real, and not a delusion sprung from her mind. It was indeed Medion.
All the lines she's rehearsed for this encounter left her mind. Her words came out rushed and low. "How...how long have you been back?"
His answer sounded almost indifferent. "A year, I think. Or maybe a bit longer..."
But then he smiled, and added, before Synbios's disappointment in their reunion became too unbearable: "It's good to see you again."
She walked at his side as they aimlessly patrolled the darkened grounds, content if only to hold his hand. He wouldn't answer most of her questions, so for the most part they walked in silence. Gradually, however, he began to tell her what he was doing now, about the role in the family he's be chosen to succeed. He tried to soften the impact with explanations about his father's health, yet his meaning was only too clear to Synbios.
She gripped his hand tightly. "Medion...you once told me, you're not like your father. You promised never to become a man like him. That's what you told me..."
He sighed and said plaintively, "The fact is, Synbios, my father's not much different from any other powerful man. Like any lord or king...maybe even a bit like your father."
Synbios had to laugh at the incredulous thought. "Please, Medion, do you have any idea how naïve you sound?"
He professed to look puzzled. "What do you mean?"
She gave him a light slap on the thigh. "Kings and lords don't have men murdered!"
"Oh, Synbios—who's being naive now?" Medion's tone was not only confident and sincere, but mingled with a hint of pleading. "In any case, the old way of doing things is over. Even my father knows that. It will take some time—maybe five, six years—but one day soon, all the Family's dealings will be completely legitimate. It's the goal I'm reaching for, my love."
She couldn't face him anymore. If he'd come to simply convince her of his father's innocence, or to claim he could dab in the black river of crime and remain untainted, she could have firmly rebuked him and tried to steer him straight with her infinite loving patience. But no. There was obviously something more, much more, in those words. He was telling her all this as if preparing to ask her something. Synbios knew what that something was: it was what she could never refuse him, however different he might seem, however twisted his ideals have become. It was the wine that made her helpless to refuse anything he said; she would trust him, and suffer any consequences there might be, to hear him ask her this.
Yet she still had her dignity—that and all those days of heartache—left to sustain her. She faced him squarely, demanded in a quivering voice, "Medion—what do you want? Why did you come back to me, after all this time? I wrote to you, but you never replied, and now..."
His voice was husky, full of emotions. "I came here, Synbios, because I need you. I care for you..."
She tried to turn away. "Please stop it, Medion."
"Synbios—I want you to marry me."
The pure joy that should have come was now bittersweet, tainted like his soul. But it was joy, nonetheless—joy, to make up for her lonely nights; joy, to offer her a way out of this gray existence. Her protests sounded feeble, even to her own ears. "It's too late, Medion..."
"It's never too late." He caught her in his arms, and embraced her with all the passion and energy Synbios remembered from their happier days. "I'll do whatever it takes to make up for the time we lost, Synbios. I'll do whatever you ask. You will guide me, and save me, whenever I go wrong. All that's important is that we're together—that we share our lives with each other." She sobbed and buried her head in his chest. "I love you, Synbios."
There was just no way she could resist the raw, masculine power that radiated from his core. And the promise that her most cherished dream will come true, after all this time—how could she turn away from that? There was nothing Synbios wouldn't do in order to stay by her lover's side; she would succumb, forget and forgive everything, if only to have the happiness and fulfillment she has always envisioned become real. Wordlessly she allowed Medion to lead her away. Together they left Conrad's estate, climbed into Medion's waiting carriage, and were gone.
Fidelity was extremely vexed, and he obviously wanted his new master to know it. Back and forth through the darkened den he paced, grumbling curses at nothing in particular. Campbell stood by the door, looking not much more pleased than the other centaur. Domaric sat looking out the window, admiring the serenity of late night, and said nothing.
Medion watched them all from behind the grand oaken desk. He knew Domaric was acting uninterested and refraining from coming to his rescue because he wanted to see how his son would deal with the situation. He also understood that the older man did not understand some of Medion's new proposals himself, and was waiting for him to elaborate. No matter. Medion had everything in this room, and in the whole criminal empire, under control. Unhappy henchmen, shaken loyalty—those were all things he had expected, and could deal with. He knew how to reward the patient and loyal, just as he knew how to make object lessons of the insubordinate and rebellious.
"Desseheren's men are taking over more and more of our territory, and she isn't doing anything to restrain them," began the fuming centaur. "If we don't do anything about it, she'll soon swallow us whole!"
Medion gave a sigh of weary patience. "Just bear it, Fidelity. Be patient."
"Look Medion, I'm not asking for help. Me and my boys can show those no-good bastards. Just—just give the order."
In reply the new Don repeated, "Be patient."
Fidelity grunted in disgust and resumed his pacing. From the door Campbell spoke up: "At least let me recruit some new men. We lost plenty when your brother was in charge. We need new muscles, so we can defend ourselves."
Still Medion refused. "That won't do—it'll only give Desseheren an excuse to start fighting again."
"I can't believe this!" Fidelity exclaimed. "Medion, I've been in this business as long as your father, and I'm telling you, you're wrong."
"Don Domaric," said Campbell, intentionally ignoring Medion and addressing the retired patriarch. "You once told us that, one day me and Fidelity could break off and form our own Family. Until today, I've never even considered it. But now I must ask permission..."
Deliberately Domaric motioned toward his son. "Medion is the Don now, Campbell. If he approves, you have my blessings."
Medion regarded his father's two oldest henchmen with a steely glance. His tone was quiet but menacing. "After we move our operations up north—near Maya, Dormant—then you can form your own Family and make you stand here. If you still feel like going separate ways at that time, that is."
Campbell stared wordlessly at him, but whether the weathered centaur was intimidated or merely disbelieving Medion could not tell. Finally he asked, "And when will that be?"
Medion did a few calculations in his head. "I'd say six months, at least."
Both centaurs made exasperated noises. Fidelity addressed the older human, "Forgive me, Don Domaric—but Desseheren fears no one now that you're retired! Sooner or later we'll all come under her thumb..."
"And I hate that whore Desseheren!" Campbell chimed in. "In six months there will be nothing to build on! She'll have us eliminated, or enslaved. One way or another there's no way we can wait six months!"
Domaric watched them carefully, then asked, almost casually, "Do you have faith in my judgment?"
The two henchmen shot each other surprised looks, but did not dare hesitate. "Yes, of course..."
"And your loyalty—do I still have that?"
"As always, Don Domaric," Campbell hastily assured him.
"Then be a friend to Medion, and do as he says," instructed Domaric. He said nothing more, and resumed staring out the window. Unhappily, the centaurs turned back to their new master.
Medion gazed intently at them from the master's chair, then explained: "Things are being negotiated that will solve all your problems, and answer all your questions. That's all I'll say for now. You'll come to learn what those things are in due time—if you remain true to the Family. You'll find no reason to regret following my orders, I assure you. But you'll find woes aplenty should you disobey me—this too, I can promise you."
Medion has finished what he had to say to them, and right on cue, Grantuck entered with Crewart in tow. Medion addressed the new arrivals directly: "Crewart, you grew up in Dormant and know your way around. When I move my operations up there, I'll make you my right-hand man. Grantuck," he continued, "You will no longer be our war counselor. I want you to go to Saraband, and take care of our business there, as well as keep an eye on Mageron. It's not that I doubt your skills as an advisor, just that—" Here he finally smiled with a trace of genuine affection. "Who will be a better counselor than my father? Well, that's it."
The centaurs grunted noncommittally and left, choosing only to shake Domaric's hand as they made their exit. Grantuck and Crewart hesitated, both apparently surprised by the abrupt way in which Medion has given their instructions. After a few moments Crewart bowed politely, shook Medion's and Domaric's hands, and made his way out as well. Only Grantuck stayed rooted to the spot, unwilling to leave just yet.
He spoke up when Medion looked questioningly at him. His voice was hesitant but defensive. "Um, Medion—why am I out?"
Medion regarded his adopted brother a bit sympathetically. "You're not a wartime counselor, Grantuck. You're best at keeping things running smoothly during peaceful times. It's going to get rough, with the move we're planning, and I feel that you'll serve best keeping an eye on things in Saraband."
"I advised Medion on this, Grantuck," explained Domaric. The older man looked affectionately at the two sons who were to carry on his business. "It's not that I thought you were a poor war counselor. I thought—that Arrawnt was a bad Don, may he rest in peace. Like Medion, you will always have my full confidence. But, uh, it would be best if you took no part in what's about to happen."
Grantuck still looked hurt. He turned back to his younger brother and said plaintively, "But you know, Medion, maybe I could—"
Medion's reply was curt and final. "You're out, Grantuck."