The Descent: Chapter 13, the Finale
The Don's funeral took place a few days after his death, in the stately cemetery by a grand church not far from the estate. Grantuck had once asked Domaric whether he would prefer to be buried on his own property, but for all his sins Domaric was religious to a degree. He had wanted to be buried near a holy sanctuary, so his soul might yet receive redemption. Thus was the occasion removed from the site of his children's weddings, the throne of his power, and the nest of innumerable clandestine plans. Grantuck sat with the rest of the family near the open grave, breathed in the earthy scent, and watched carefully each visitor who've come to pay respect to the deceased crime lord.
The quiet and solemn procession took a long time. Though Domaric had little friends during his lifetime, he had a great number of associates and acquaintances, each of whom has come if only to confirm that the mighty man was indeed dead. The dragonnewt detected little sorrow on the faces of the visitors. Some even wore the expression of open relief. They were perhaps convinced that they have escaped the patriarch's grasping claw, now that it was slackened in death. Grantuck glanced out of the corner of his eye at his youngest brother. He knew Medion will settle all the unfinished business, in methods likely more ruthless than Domaric would have employed. Those who thought they've had a lucky break were in for a rude, and maybe even fatal, surprise.
Behind him, Melinda, Isabella, and Mageron wept quietly. Synbios clutched little Algernon; mother and son mirrored each other's sorrow. But like his adopted brother, Medion did not look especially upset. Not that he didn't feel for his father's death, Grantuck knew—his grief was every bit as terrible as anyone's. But he was the Don now, the symbol of the family's strength. He had to show that Domaric's death did not handicap their capability to do business, to grant favors and exact revenge. He had to prove that the family might could not be swayed, even by death. Grantuck understood the importance of the act, and he played it out as admirably as Medion did. There would always be time for tears later, in private.
He looked on as the other Dons came to bid their worthiest rival farewell. Basanda had the nerve to bring Braff's father, the traitor Fafhard. She was showing, not so subtly, her disdain for Domaric. Fiale and Goriate were a little better, appearing with only the minimum amount of guards. Desseheren has brought with her the green-haired assistant. The haughty woman tossed a rose onto the casket, then glanced in Medion's direction. She bowed her head slightly. Medion didn't bother to return the salute.
The tension faded as the four most dangerous visitors made their exit. In a short while, however, Fidelity made his way over to where the family sat. Grantuck realized quickly what he was up to, and what it meant. Medion had repeated their father's warning considering Desseheren and a traitor in their midst. Together they watched the unsuspecting turncoat as he knelt by Medion's side.
"Medion—Desseheren wants a meeting with you. She's hoping that you can straighten out all your differences with her, for the sake of ensured peace."
Grantuck remembered Medion's false promise to Braff and said nothing. Medion nodded calmly, as if interested, then asked, "You talked to her?"
"Yeah," replied Fidelity. "And don't worry, I can arrange the security. Hmm, on my territory, alright?"
Medion appeared to give it deep thought before agreeing. "OK then, you arrange everything, right?"
"Right, Don Medion," the centaur confirmed. He smiled confidentially at them both, then made his way back to where the other goons were assembled.
The brothers met each other's glance. They both knew what the other was thinking. Grantuck leaned closer to Medion. "I've always thought it'd be Campbell, not Fidelity, if it was to be one of them..."
"It's a smart move," explained Medion. "And Fidelity was always the smarter one. But for Pop's warning, it would have worked flawlessly. But I'll wait. I've decided to be Godfather to Isabella and Crewart's child. I'll meet with Basanda, Desseheren—the heads of all the Families—and finish this business, once and for all."
The grim promise disappeared without an echo in the slight breeze. The two brothers did not converse again, but watched the funeral, and waited.
The baptism took place only a few days later, in the church next to the cemetery. Together with his wife, Medion made his way toward the altar. There were few others present—Isabella and her husband, Melinda, and some guards. It was not that Medion feared to bring the taint of crime into a holy sanctum, or any of that nonsense. Nor was it really because the baptism of a child didn't need a full house to make it seem grand. It was just that most of the others had business to take care of.
Synbios carried the baby boy—named Medion, after his Godfather—with a gentleness only women were capable of. They bowed before the priest, who quietly began the ceremony. It was a simple ritual, one that Medion's father had gone through many, many times. It was the first for Medion, though. He knew it'd be memorable.
Arthur trotted gaily down the street, with Syntesis and Uryudo riding on his back. The three of them wore not their usual leather warrior's garb, but colorful clothing like that of street performers. On their faces were silly, jolly smiles that fitted right in with the costumes. Today they were not assassins, but clowns out for a good time and gold coins. No one could have suspected what their real mission may be.
As they neared the gate to Basanda's estate, the elf and the hobbit took turns standing on their heads and juggling oranges. Arthur opened his mouth and began singing a circus song, purposefully off-key and purposefully loud. In minutes they had a crowd of spectators.
Campbell was dressed in his finest as he approached the grand Hotel Lookover in downtown Destonia. Under his arm was a long, narrow box, which he took care not to accidentally poke passersby with. He smiled at girls, threw coins at urchins, and escorted old ladies across the street. People chuckled and nodded respectfully at this charming centaur gentleman, and he saluted them right back.
Yet however gallantly Campbell went out of his way to assist others, he did not stray from his path. He was soon at the entrance of the hotel.
Medion helped Synbios untie the baby's bonnet. The priest leaned close, breathed gently on the baby three times, then resumed reading strange, unintelligible verses from his book. Medion saw out of the corner of his eye how concentrated on the ceremony his wife was. He tried to pay attention too, but of course his mind was elsewhere.
Bernard hadn't had a haircut in a long time, so it was high time he got one. Carefully he chose a neat, quiet little shop not far from the market. Once in his seat, he relaxed, read the paper, and told the barber to take his time. His bulky bag lay in a corner, neglected and unremarkable.
Julian never preferred to do things secretly, like a coward. But for all his hotheaded ways he knew when to be cautious. The heavy blade on his back did not slow him as he vaulted smoothly over a wall and into Desseheren's private garden. It was broad daylight, but no one saw him.
Campbell entered the hotel, still clinging the package. He explained to a helpful clerk that it was a present for an old friend who was staying at the hotel. He knew the room number, so the clerk needn't worry. A generous tip was given; then the centaur began making his way up the stairs.
The priest made the sign of the cross over the baby, then asked Medion to kneel. Synbios stepped back as Medion complied. The priest's voice rang over the near-empty church as he asked, "Medion, do you believe in the Creator Camelot, He who formed our Heaven and Earth?"
The question was supposed to be addressed to the baby, but of course it was the Godfather who answered. Medion bowed his head humbly. "I do."
"Do you believe in Elbesem, His method and path, and swear to follow it?"
"I do."
"Do you believe in the Holy Child, the Innovator Spirit that shall guide us through folly and into bliss?"
Medion repeated, "I do."
There was a single guard in the hallway, who had the bad fortune to spot him. Before the goon could open his mouth or draw his weapon, Julian's blade was through his heart. He dumped the body unceremoniously into an empty room, ignored the bloodstains in the carpet, and continued through the great mansion.
Campbell climbed another flight, then paused to wipe sweat from his brows. He cursed Fiale for choosing a room near the top floor, but doggedly continued his ascent.
Syntesis danced seductively while Uryudo played a fiddle. The guards at the entrance hooted and cheered. From behind the gate's steel bars, a throng of children stared with wide eyes. Arthur continued to prance about and sing, keeping up his act as the boisterous ringmaster. His eyes, however, were fixed on the house. Any minute now Basanda would be attracted by the commotion and come to chase them away.
He began to sing louder, cruder tunes. Syntesis responded by taking off her thin jacket and removing her shoes and stockings. She tugged suggestively at the straps on her shirt and shorts. The henchmen's hoots became louder; the children's eyes grew wider. Arthur watched, and waited.
Bernard thanked the barber, paid him, and left. He did not forget to take his dirty sack with him.
Medion listened patiently as the priest droned on. His eyes stole to an ancient grandfather clock, dutifully reporting the hour. He saw the time, smiled to himself, then returned his full attention to the ceremony.
Julian kicked the door to Desseheren's office open. A guard was instantly in front of him with weapon ready, but that didn't pause the young mercenary. With inhuman speed and accuracy he slid his blade past the guard's defense and struck a killing blow. Then he turned and zeroed in on the two stunned women in the room.
Bernard found his carriage parked where he'd left it. He climbed in and began a leisurely trot through the morning market. In the distance he saw Don Goriate, out for his morning stroll with a platoon of guards in tow. Causally, unworried that someone might see him, he removed the heavy crossbow from the sack.
Campbell finally reached the hotel room where Fiale was residing. He tapped gently on the door and announced the arrival of room service. Breakfast in bed, courtesy of the hotel.
Steele lay comfortably on the massage table as his private masseur went to work taming the tycoon's strained muscles. He felt drowsy, but enjoyed the massage too much to fall asleep. Instead he hummed a little tune to himself and recalled pleasant memories of driving opponents to bankruptcy.
The priest finished another string of meaningless chants, then thundered grandly: "Medion Son of Crewart—do you renounce the Bulzome teaching of mayhem and discord?"
Campbell knew Fiale was bound to have at least one guard by his side; he also knew that, given the Don's love for privacy, chances were there would only be one guard in his room. From the package he drew a short but wicked blade. Without preamble he stabbed it through the chest of the person who opened the door.
It was, of course, not Fiale but his henchman. His only henchman. Fiale himself had jumped up from his bed, where he had been napping. The Don looked pitiful in nothing but his nightclothes. He grabbed frantically for his staff while Campbell calmly unwrapped the main content of the 'gift'—his steel lance. In the small hotel room there was no place for Fiale to run or hide. Campbell charged in, impaling his helpless victim. The force of the blow crushed Fiale against the wall like a squashed insect. Blood splattered everywhere, but the centaur hardly minded. Following his custom, he did not bother to retrieve his weapons. He stepped over the bodies and sauntered arrogantly back into the hallway.
Medion knew the proper answer by heart. His reply was equally loud and convincing. "I do renounce it."
Steele heard the door open, heard his masseur gasp. Lethargically he looked up—and caught the point of a featherless steel shaft in his right eye. He fell back to the table without a whimper.
The priest continued smoothly, "And all the followers of the Bulzome teaching—do you renounce them?"
It was child's play for a sharpshooter like Bernard to pick out Goriate among his underlings. The single arrow sailed straight and true, piercing the back of Goriate's skull and reemerging between his eyes. The Don toppled to the pavement. His henchmen shouted, screamed, and ran after the carriage, but not one came close to touching Bernard. He rode away without a scratch on his body.
"I do renounce them."
Finally Basanda came to the gate, shooing away the children and yelling for her men to get back to their posts. She then stormed up to the clowning trio and demanded to know what they thought they were doing.
In reply Arthur reared up on his hind legs. He raised his arm and intoned: "Burn now, the flame!" Without hesitation Syntesis and Uryudo dropped their act, chanting in unison: "Let me send you to hell!" "Take this!"
Caught in the midst of the elemental furies, Basanda had no chance. Even as her scream of rage and disbelief left her throat, a salvo of spells struck her full force. In seconds, her body was reduced to an unrecognizable, smoking husk. The elf and hobbit hopped onto Arthur's back, and he galloped hastily from the place.
"And all their pomp?" The priest wanted to know.
Medion repeated in a sincere tone, "I do renounce them."
Desseheren managed to pick up her staff and began chanting an offensive spell, but at close quarters even her powerful magic was no match for the finality of a cold steel blade. The weapon shattered her staff. Remorselessly Julian kicked her to her knees, then brought the edge down swiftly, beheading her.
The other woman in the room—Desseheren's secretary, probably—let out a shriek. Julian turned toward her and raised his bloodied weapon. The green-haired girl backed away fearfully, raising her own staff as she tried to defend herself. Once again metal cut through wooden shaft with hardly any trouble. She tried to retreat further, but the cold stone wall blocked her escape.
Their eyes met as Julian moved in for the kill. But something in her innocent and frightened look made Julian's icy heart pause. A strange unwillingness to hurt the girl coursed through him. The young but hardened mercenary shook himself, unsure of what to make of his sudden weakness. Attempting doggedly to regain his bloodlust, he lifted his weapon high. She did not cower, scream, or even close her eyes. With her empty hands pressed against the wall, her expression one of understanding, she just watched him.
Julian dropped his hands in frustration. "This was business," he told her as a way of explanation and apology. Then, unable to meet her probing glance another minute, he kicked open a window and slipped skillfully away.
Satisfied that the young Don has answered all his questions properly, the priest raised his voice to all its holy grandeur once more. "Medion Son of Crewart—will you be baptized?"
Medion turned his eyes from the clock and said, "I will."
The priest nodded encouragingly. He prayed as he poured holy water over the baby's forehead: "In the name of the Creator, and the Child—"
The relatives of Don Basanda gathered about her mangled, burnt corpse, and whispered among themselves. A few of the more softhearted ones wept, but there were satisfied grins on the faces of many. The bastard son, then the mother. Both dead and gone for good. They couldn't have asked for better luck.
With all the guards pursuing the assassins, there was no one nearby to interfere with them. So there, right over Basanda's still-smoldering body, the prospective successors began debating among themselves how best to take over the business, and how they should split the family fortune. No one even mentioned taking Basanda's corpse indoors.
Slowly but unceremoniously, the town guards hauled Goriate's body away. One of the men pointed questioningly at the broad trail of blood. Never mind, the captain told them. The rain will wash it away.
"—And the Innovator Spirit—"
Her whole body shook as she looked upon the gruesome scene, but Jane managed to step to the door without fainting. She stumbled into the hallway, and began crying for help. Though of course she knew Desseheren was long dead, just as her killer was long gone.
The priest was finished, and he spoke his blessings. "Medion—go in peace, and may the Creator be with you."
The family crowded together on the front steps of the church, chattering and laughing. Everyone congratulated the child's parents, and joked about Medion's title of Godfather. Melinda hugged her son proudly, recalling when he was but a beautiful baby boy with blond hair and blue eyes, much like little Medion. Synbios giggled at the image, and Medion blushed.
By and by, three of Medion's 'employees' came up to the church. They laughed when they heard Melinda recounting their master's childhood—they remembered it well, for they have worked for Domaric even before Medion was born. They have been Medion's babysitters, childhood friends, guardian angels—now, employees. They joked about the paradox that the brief human life is, and everyone laughed with them. After so many years working for the Family, they were family.
No one noticed the white centaur whisper to Medion; no one saw Medion smile in satisfaction.
Isabella reminded them that they still had a train to catch. Medion has decided that they all deserved a holiday, now that they've gone through so much. Courtesy of Mageron and Grantuck, the entire family will be touring the bustling port city, Saraband. It will be a long, relaxing, much-needed period of rest, and they all looked forward to it.
As everyone was preparing to leave, however, Medion spoke to Crewart: "Crewart, wait—something's come up. We won't be going to Saraband yet. Everyone will leave without us."
Immediately Isabella's face became fearful. She looked carefully from her husband to her brother, before interrupting, "But Medion, it'll be our first vacation together as a whole family. Surely the business can wait..."
"Isabella, will you—please," Crewart growled. He seemed to have learned the lesson about not abusing his wife, at least not in public. Or at least not in front of her brothers. He turned pleasantly back to Medion. "So what's up?"
"Go back to the house," Medion instructed. "It's something to do with the Dormant deal. I'll be there shortly to discuss it with you."
Crewart nodded. "Sure."
As he turned and left, Medion went to his wife and son. He kissed both of them, promising, "It's nothing serious. I'll only be a couple of days."
Synbios shook her head. "I know about your promises. I'll see you in a week." Then she smiled playfully, kissed his cheek. "But if you make it on time, I'll reward you."
"Then I'll be sure to make it," Medion told her, and he meant it. After all, it really was just a bit of leftover business to take care of.
Grantuck and Fidelity stepped from the house to the waiting carriage. With the entire family off to Saraband, the vast estate and mansion will be rather empty for a few days. The two of them have just finished arranging for some of their men to watch over things; now they too were headed for the train station.
From the carriage stepped Bernard. The elven archer's eyes met Grantuck's; he nodded a fraction of an inch. In response the dragonnewt smiled. Bernard spoke to Fidelity, "Excuse me, sir—but the boss sent me to tell you he's got some other business to take care of. He won't want you to accompany him, and he's canceled all deals with Don Desseheren."
"Huh?" The centaur looked bewildered, then annoyed and scared. "But that will screw up all the arrangements!"
Another henchman appeared from behind them, stopping directly behind Fidelity. Grantuck ducked his head apologetically. "Sorry about this, Fidelity. I'll be with Medion."
Fidelity looked from Grantuck to the two assassins, realization dawning gradually on his face. Yet another henchman appeared from behind the carriage. This one was dragging a broad sword that conveyed only too clearly the Don's order of execution. Fidelity looked helplessly about at the faces he's known for decades, now unfeelingly sending him to his death. He gave a last, desperate try: "Tell—tell Medion it was only business, only business. I've always liked him—he knows that."
"He does," confirmed Grantuck without smiling. There would be no compassion for a traitor, even one that has been his father's old friend and like an uncle to the children. The dragonnewt turned and started toward the gate.
Fidelity called pitifully after him, pleading, "Grantuck—can't you get me off the hook? For old time's sake..."
Grantuck did not look back. He replied in a cold, business-like manner that would have made Domaric proud: "Can't do it, Fidelity."
Crewart sweated, mumbled, but otherwise tried as hard as he could not to remind the others of his presence. It was, of course, in vain. He knew, just as Medion wanted him to know, exactly why they have come to see him. He was the last piece of business to take care of, before Medion left for Saraband.
In the room which has been the stage of Crewart's abusive behavior toward his wife, Medion, Grantuck, and a couple of henchmen formed a semicircle around him, watching him sweat. Crewart detected no pity on their faces. He cowered in his chair and awaited their verdict.
Medion pulled a chair for himself, sat across from his brother-in-law. He stared at Crewart until the coward looked up. His voice was like the night wind on winter nights. "You have to answer for Arrawnt, Crewart."
The dread that had frozen Crewart's guts was making it hard to speak, but he managed, "You've, you've got it all wrong Medion. I wouldn't..."
Medion slapped his hand across his thigh in anger, shutting Crewart up. The young Don leaned close; his breath chilled Crewart's damp brow. "You set my brother up for Desseheren. The little play you performed with my sister—did you honestly think it would fool us?"
"No, Medion, I'm innocent," Crewart insisted weakly. He tried to stand, to regain some measure of dignity. "I know you're upset about how I treated Isabella—I was wrong—but I've changed. You shouldn't blame Arrawnt's death on me. I swear on the kids I'm innocent." He looked at their steely expressions and knew he was not convincing. His composure broke down again. "Medion, please, don't do this to me..." He whispered.
Medion responded by tapping the chair. "Sit down," he ordered calmly.
Crewart dropped back down, but did not stop his pleading. "Medion, please don't do this..."
Medion shut him up with a glare. "Desseheren is dead, Crewart. So are Basanda, Fiale, Goriate, Steele, and Fidelity. My father spared you, spared them all, for the sake of peace, but that's not my way of doing things. Today's the day I settle all the family business—so don't tell me you're innocent. Admit what you did."
The bloody list of victims whose corpses were still warm shook Crewart. With each word he trembled more violently, until he seemed about to faint. Medion watched him critically, snapped his fingers. "Get him a drink."
He continued in a slightly softer tone, "Come on, Crewart, don't be afraid. You think too badly of your in-laws. I'm not about to make my little sister a widow. Your son shares my name, Crewart, and I'm his godfather. Why do you think I'll harm you? That I'll eliminate you like my other rivals?" His gaze remained on Crewart, however, and it did not soften a bit. Unable to face any of them, Crewart kept his head bowed, looking up only to accept the drink one of the stony-faced henchmen poured for him. He put the glass to his lips, paused, then looked doubtfully at the young Don.
His brother-in-law grunted in disgust, pointed. "Drink." Hastily, Crewart complied, downing the liquor in one gulp. Medion continued, "Crewart, your punishment is simple—you're out of the family business. After you arrive at Saraband with us, you'll be staying for good." He took the ticket Grantuck held up and showed it to Crewart. "I've arranged for you a simple little job there, one that will enable you to take care of your family but keep out of my way. Grantuck and Mageron will watch over you for me. If you stay there and behave, you'll have little to fear from me." He stuffed the ticket into Crewart's hands. Crewart managed a feeble smile, but Medion's tone suddenly turned deadly again. He was not through yet. "Only don't tell me you're innocent. Lying when it's so obvious—it insults my intelligence. And that makes me very, very angry." His voice has become quiet, yet it rumbled in the small room like approaching thunder. "Now tell me, who approached you—Basanda or Desseheren?"
Crewart swallowed. "It was—Desseheren."
"Good." Medion appeared satisfied with the answer, as if it proved that he was justified in his actions. Though, with all potential enemies dead, there was little chance he'd not yet avenged his brother. He stood. "I don't want to see your face a minute longer. There's a carriage outside that'll take you to the station. You can explain to your wife, or I will—it doesn't matter. Now get up."
The coward stood shakily. He reached out, trying to clasp the hand that could so easily determine his life or death. "Medion, please..."
The young Don turned away with only one last contemptuous glance. "You try my patience. Get out of my sight."
Cowed, Crewart followed them wordlessly outside. The carriage waited by the footpath. A red-haired mercenary was loading Crewart's things into the back; another goon sat in the driver's seat. They looked intimidating, but as Crewart studied his two in-laws and their bodyguards he realized he had no choice. He certainly didn't dare complain. With Medion's promise not to harm him, it would be wise to follow his orders, and get out of his sight, as soon as possible. Maybe one day Medion would meet his downfall...maybe it was still possible for Crewart to get his revenge, and win back the dignity and prestige he sacrificed today.
He climbed in besides the driver. The red-haired mercenary sat behind him. Crewart took one last look at the young Don, who was watching him intently, and breathed a sigh of relief as the carriage started moving.
He caught the eyes of the mercenary. The boy, who looked hardly Medion's age, nodded coolly. "Hello Crewart."
The next instant Crewart felt a burning, tearing sensation in his chest, and warm liquid on his stomach. He stared down, horrified, at the blood-covered blade that has erupted from his chest. His voice locked in his throat as darkness descended over his eyes; the last words he heard were those of the man who's killed him. "Goodbye, Crewart."
Synbios watched as a posse of goons and hired hands loaded their things into a caravan of carriages. Merely a day after their return from Saraband, Medion has begun the grueling process of moving house to their new place in Dormant. The beautiful estate that was his father's throne was being sold. What could be taken away was being handled by the men; what could not go would stay, as a tribute to Domaric's reign.
When Synbios had asked her husband whether he regretted having to leave, he smiled coolly. "I'll be happy anywhere, as long as my family is with me." When she laughed and hugged him, he added, "Do you regret having to leaving Destonia with me?"
No, she'd assured him. Her sister will take care of her father, and she will often return to visit. She looked forward to a new setting. What Synbios didn't mention was that she secretly hoped to leave the sinful taint of wrongdoing behind. Perhaps crime was like a curse on Domaric's estate, a place built on blood and death; perhaps, once they've settled in their new home, Medion would begin his journey back to innocence.
And yet, another voice, deep inside her, doubted her cherished hopes. More and more she felt that her husband was hiding things from her. He never forbade her to ask about his business, yet became annoyed when she probed too deeply. He told her that there were things too complicated and troublesome to burden her with, and that all she needed to know was that he was committed to protecting the family. She believed him, of course—but what she dreaded was the methods with which Medion shielded his kin. She wondered how many lives her husband has ruined for their sake. Medion has become the reincarnation of Domaric. How he was going to weed out the seeds of evil he planted himself, and right the wrongs—Synbios had no idea.
Lost in her thoughts, she didn't notice a carriage shoot through the gate and pull up to the house until it was right in front of her. Isabella jumped from the driver's seat, stormed toward the house. From the passenger's side Melinda climbed slowly down. She tried to stop her daughter, calling, "Isabella, dear—I'm telling you, you're wrong!"
Isabella returned an angry, disbelieving laugh. "Mama, please!" She banged on the front door, yelling, "Medion! Medion!"
Frightened, Synbios came up behind her and tried to calm her. "Isabella, what's going on?"
Isabella shot her a baleful glare, but refused to answer. A henchman opened the door, and Isabella shot through like a bolt. Synbios could barely keep up as she ran through the house. "Medion! Medion!"
They came to the door to the Don's office. Synbios hesitated uncertainly; Isabella all but tore the door down. She charged up to the desk, where Medion was conferring with a couple of his men. Without preamble she slapped her brother across the face.
The men jumped up to shield their boss. Medion looked from his sister to his wife, then beckoned for his men to back down. His voice was calm and unsurprised. "What is it, Isabella?"
She let out a shriek of anger. "What is it? You bastard, you killed my husband! You waited until Pops was dead, so no one could stop you, then you killed him! You blamed him for what happened to Arrawnt—everyone did—but you never gave a damn about me and my son! What am I going to do now? I am a widow already, you bastard!"
Synbios could not believe what Isabella was saying. She put her arm around her, tried to shush her. "Isabella, please. We know you feel terrible about what happened to Crewart—we all do. But what happened was an accident. His carriage drove off a bridge..."
"Ha!" The frenzied woman laughed a single note of scornful disbelief. "You believe that? You honestly believe that? Why do you think he kept Crewart at home when we were on our way to Saraband? All the while, he knew he was going to kill him!" She directed her fury toward her brother. "And to think you stood Godfather to our baby! You lousy, cold-hearted animal!" When Medion responded with only an innocent shake of his head, she turned back to Synbios. "Read the papers. Read the papers and you'll see how many people he killed along with Crewart! This is whom you married! This is your husband!"
Caught up in the throes of her hateful passion, Isabella fainted clean away. Synbios barely managed to catch her. Her husband nodded at his goons; they stepped forward to remove Isabella from Synbios's embrace. He ordered. "Put her in a room upstairs, and call Uryudo to check on her. She's just broken up with grief. She'll be alright."
The men left with his sister. Synbios stared about the empty room, and for the first time felt a sense of fear to be alone with her husband. She watched wordlessly as Medion leaned back, apparently unperturbed with his sibling's accusations. Synbios tried to remain calm as well, but couldn't. Her sister-in-law's words had been like an arrow that finally pierced her bubble, bringing forth all her hidden doubts and suspicions. She wanted to leave, to forget about what happened—but now she had one question. One question to ask her husband, to tell her whether she's been a fool all along.
When he looked puzzledly at her, she ventured, "Medion—is this true?"
Immediately his face became a cold and angry mask. "Don't ask me about my business, Synbios."
But she had to. For her own peace of mind. "Is it true?"
He stood, towering intimidatingly over her slight figure. "I said don't ask me about my business!"
She persisted. "But is it?"
"Enough!" His hand came down, hard and heavy, banging on his desk. She backed away fearfully, stupefied by his anger. Was this the real Medion? The man she married? She began to wonder, in earnest, whatever happened to the Medion she knew, and whether it was still possible to bring him back. She could almost hear Isabella's jeers.
He appeared to notice her fear. For a second he looked a little ashamed, then saddened. But all the weaker emotions vanished before she could properly identify and understand them. His face became noncommittal as he sighed, pointed. "Alright. This once—just this once—I'll let you ask me."
She didn't know whether she had enough wits left to hear the answer. But before her dread could stop her, the words rushed out. "Is it?"
He shook his head and replied simply, "No."
Synbios stared at him, doubtful. But then he smiled, hugged and kissed her—and became like the Medion she knew, the Medion she married, again. It was enough to make her forget his anger and coldness. She laughed in relief, suddenly embarrassed that she'd suspected her husband. She leaned into his arms, vowing to never harbor ill feelings toward the man she loved ever again.
"I'm sorry..." She whispered. He responded by holding her tighter. She relaxed, touched by his love and forgiveness. After a bit she eased herself from his arms. "I guess we were all pretty shook up by what happened. I'll get us a drink, OK?"
She strode from the office with renewed confidence. At the door she ran into Campbell, Bernard, and Julian. They bowed respectfully before her as she passed. Remembering their profession, she ignored them as best as she could. They were the reminder of Domaric's criminal empire; they were the ones who would mislead Medion and seduce him into straying from the righteous path. In the battle to wash her husband clean of sins, the goons were her enemy. She would have nothing to do with them.
A few steps later, however, curiosity got the better of her. She stopped, glanced back.
Campbell was kissing Medion's hand. "Don Medion," she heard him say in reverence. Bernard followed suit.
The demonstration of loyalty made her start. She remained standing there in the hallway, trying to see what was happening, to figure out what this meant. But then Julian shut the door in her face, and she saw no more.
The End.