CHAPTER TWELVE - THE LOST ORCHARD

From the site of Drake's pyre, DeKellia walked southeast. Sorcha and DeSilva followed him, with Vashta and Fethne trailing after. Kam and Kalidor patrolled the edges of their group. While the red knight was a conspicuous deterrent, his drawn sword resting on one shoulder, the Dacoit Master was a deadly shadow rarely glimpsed even by his companions. Almost as stealthy was Hnasi, prowling around DeKellia, scouting ahead or circling the group, sometimes walking like a woman on two legs, her hips swaying, sometimes moving like a cat on all fours, equally graceful in either mode.

Sorcha knew by DeKellia's stride and the resigned manner of their companions that they would march all night. Only when the first lightening of the sky signalled the approach of dawn did DeKellia stop, selecting a clearing in the woods where he crouched down to build a fire.

Sorcha dumped herself down gratefully, too exhausted to care what anyone thought of her endurance, not quite so shattered as to not notice that Vashta and Fethne were more worn out than she. DeSilva groaned and cricked his back but restrained a yawn. Hnasi, typically, curled up beside DeKellia and went immediately to sleep. Kalidor showed no sign of fatigue at all, as serene and composed as when Sorcha had spoken to him on the lawns of the Winter Palace. Despite having marched in full armour all day across rough terrain, Kam Daishen did not so much as sit down or sheath his sword but stood on guard while the others rested.

They did not sleep, however; DeKellia made tea to chase away the last of the night's cold, and when they had the sun, they set out again, walking roughly south beneath the trees. They had gone barely a mile before a thick hedge of undergrowth rose up, barring the way forward. The men drew their swords and set to work cutting a path, but soon encountered a more substantial barrier; encased within the dense foliage stood a high drystone wall. DeKellia stayed his sword and glanced at his companions.

“Does someone offer me a boost, or do we look for a door?”

“A boost?” DeSilva echoed. “Aren't we all a bit old to be going scrumping?”

“It's only scrumping if this is an orchard wall,” DeKellia said, beckoning Kam to give him a leg up. The knight grunted and knelt to make a step for DeKellia's foot with both hands. DeKellia got both arms over the top of the wall and swung a leg up to sit astride it.

“Damn,” he said cheerfully. “You're right, son; it is an orchard.”

Vashta caught the apple that DeKellia threw at her and stood eating it while Kam assisted DeSilva and Sorcha over the wall. Kalidor and Hnasi required no help, both agile enough to make the jump from a standing start. Only when she stood alone with Kam outside the wall while DeKellia still sat astride it did Vashta throw the apple core aside.

“It's all very well for you,” she said, “but I won't have Fethne trying to climb that, it's far too dangerous. Besides which, no one could boost Kam anyway.”

Whether she might have been persuaded that Fethne could safely navigate the wall, there was no arguing the point that Kam Daishen could make the climb in his armour. There was nothing for it but to trek on; with the orchard wall between them, the divided party went on southwards.

The orchard side was less overgrown, and they were able to stay close by the wall, soon discovering an old, rotted door in the stonework. Vashta, Fethne and Kam were pushed away from the wall by the undergrowth and only found the door when they heard Kalidor kicking it down from the far side.

Reunited, they stood on the remnants of a white gravel path all overgrown with weeds that took them east towards the dawn, surrounded always by the smell of apples. DeKellia walked like a man lost in dream between the trees, and soon the strange trance spread to DeSilva.

“I know this place,” he said, seeking Sorcha's hand with his as they walked. “But I've never been here before...”

The white gravel path twisted and turned through the orchard, leading eventually to a wide lawn surrounding a once grand Silvan ziggurat. Neglect had crumbled the terraced ramparts and dissolved the hanging gardens into a riot of overgrowth. Flowers and weeds clogged the balconies, ivy and honeysuckle competed for the walls. The porch was being slowly devoured by blackberry bushes that had once grown neatly alongside the path to the door. The edifice seemed like nothing built by human hands, but rather an Otherworldly structure vomited up out of the earth.

The front door opened to reveal a Darian standing on the threshold, a tall man, powerfully muscled and ugly with scars. A grey tabard stretched taut across his chest and his white shirtsleeves were rolled up to the elbows.

DeKellia had been leading the way, Kam Daishen on his right with Kalidor soundless and unseen further out. DeSilva and Sorcha were on DeKellia's left. At first sight of the looming Darian, Sorcha lurched backwards; only DeSilva's grip on her hand prevented her from bolting entirely.

“No! No!” She clawed ineffectually at DeSilva's hand, barely noticing in her panic when he gathered his arms about her and half carried her back from the doorway.

His fierce whisper pierced the fog of terror. “What the hell is the matter with you?!”

“I'm sorry, m...” she almost called him 'master', choking the epithet off in time. “I'm sorry. It's him, the Darian...”

“Lendar?” DeSilva laughed. “I'm as amazed as anyone to see him here but...”

“You know him?”

“Sure.” DeSilva laughed. “He looked after me when I was a kid during the war. He's the only Darian doctor alive. But look, you didn't react like this when Kern walked into Vari's party, what's changed?”

The question froze Sorcha's mind for several seconds. “I don't know,” she said at last, her voice shaking. “I can hardly think... it's alright, I'm calm, just don't let him too near me or I'll go into hysterics, I'm warning you.”

“Fair enough, but I have to talk to him at least once, he's almost family.”

Sorcha nodded reluctantly and went with him back towards the door, all but hiding behind him when he approached the threshold.

“It's been years, Len,” DeSilva said in Darian. “What are you doing here?"

"Living," the Darian said, briefly. "Good to see you doing the same. I don't need to invite you in; this is your house. Excuse the mess."

DeKellia and his son blinked at each other, then said " What?" in baffled unison.

"The Clan Savistri estate," Lendar said, gesturing at the gardens and the house. "This here, where we are; the estate of the Clan Savistri. In the absence of any female heirs, it belongs to the eldest child of Tamaris Savistri. That's you, Master DeSilva. Welcome home."

Turning, Lendar went into the house and left the door open. Only when he showed his back did Sorcha find the courage to look directly at him. Her fear yielded somewhat to curiosity when she marked that Lendar's shoulders sloped unevenly and he walked with a pronounced limp. Darians, she knew, were possessed of regenerative powers to overcome almost any wound; she had never seen one of their race suffer disability through injury.

DeSilva was talking excitedly to Lendar as they passed through the main hall, but Sorcha managed to get his attention again when they entered the drawing room. Lendar shuffled over to the hearth and began banking up the fire while his guests made themselves comfortable.

The room was large and well-furnished, but dust covered the overstuffed couches and hung thickly in the air. The carpet was grey, with dusty tracks worn by Lendar's shuffling steps around the room. The dust came down in clouds as the adventurers threw down their packs and equipment; the fire guttered in the hearth and Fethne began to cough until DeKellia forced open a window. Ivy had grown over the frame to hold the pane shut; DeKellia had to employ a dagger to lever the window open. Night air flooded the room, blowing out the musty smell of long neglect.

"Why didn't you come here before?" Sorcha asked DeSilva. "When my clan chased you, why go to Daricia when you had an estate much closer in the north?"

"I didn't know," DeSilva confessed, perching himself on a window-seat and motioning Sorcha to join him.

DeKellia had already sat down by the fire and was packing his pipe. DeSilva took out his own smoking kit and soon the smell of tobacco mingled with the scent of the garden wilderness outside. Sorcha coughed politely and DeSilva sniffed the air, glanced over at his father in time to see Vashta taking a turn on the pipe.

"What are you smoking over there?" DeSilva called, but DeKellia only sniggered until Vashta broke down giggling. Kam Daishen hesitated but accepted the pipe on DeKellia's second offer. The knight turned away as he lifted his visor, but smoke seeped out from the chinks of his armour and soon a baritone chuckle rumbled in his breastplate. DeSilva left them alone, repacking his pipe with one of the more unusual mixtures he had picked up along the way.

Sorcha had experienced drugs in the harem, but she declined when DeSilva offered to share his pipe. “No, thank you, Monte, I...”

DeKellia's voice interrupted her apologies. “I do hope you'll have a drink, though.”

Sorcha looked up in surprise; he had approached unnoticed. DeKellia had three wineglasses in one hand and a bottle under his arm. The glasses had been hastily wiped clean of dust, but the bottle was encrusted with grime. DeKellia opened it with his teeth, spat out the cork and poured the drinks. Vashta and Kam were still by the fire, the knight sitting as comfortably as a suit of armour could while Vashta fussed over her daughter. Hnasi had curled up in front of the hearth, asleep now but waking every few minutes when the dust made her sneeze.

“And I'm curious too,” DeKellia added, echoing Sorcha's question; “did you really not know about this place?”

"No," DeSilva said. "No one ever mentioned it. I was told my mother's family were all dead.”

"Maybe no-one remembers this place,” Sorcha said. “And how can a Darian be crippled?" She stared past DeSilva at the shape of Lendar huddled close by the fire.

"I saw Odacon and Rathelon recover from horrible injuries," Sorcha went on. "I stuffed the innards back into them both and watched the wounds close, they just got better. What happened to Lendar?"

"There's a spot on a Darian's neck," DeKellia explained. "Cut that, and the Darian's muscles become nothing but dead weight. It's usually a deathblow; any Darian unlucky enough to survive is maimed. It's one of the few wounds they can't regenerate..." he paused, then addressed Lendar; “I'm sorry to ask you this, but I doubt there's another man alive who could tell me; exactly why does that one specific injury not regenerate?”

“Basic anatomy,” Lendar replied, turning in his seat to face DeKellia. “Of course I made a study of it, but there is nothing our current medicine can do. The spot on the neck is the anchorage for the tendon that supports the muscular canopy...”

Sorcha tuned out the discussion that followed; she had more than enough direct experience of Darian anatomy in multiple contexts. She only realised she had dozed off when DeSilva gently shook her awake; she had fallen asleep on his shoulder.

“Hey,” he murmured in her ear. “Wake up. We're off to explore the house.”