Page 11 of Bound By Blood
"What happened to end it? The meetings, the cooperation?"
"Politics." The word tastes sour. "Your king's successor took a harder line on orc relations. Border patrols increased, diplomatic channels closed. Your mother's visits became too dangerous to continue."
"But the knowledge remained."
"Hidden. Guarded. Passed down through channels both our peoples would consider treasonous." I let her see the decision forming behind my words. "Which brings us to your choice, Lady Eirian. What will you do with what I've shared?"
She looks down at the heartsease leaf still cradled in her bound hands, its silver veins catching light like captured starfire.
"I don't know," she admits quietly. "This changes everything I thought I knew about my mother, about our peoples' history. About what might be possible."
"Change often feels impossible until it becomes inevitable."
The afternoon passes in careful conversation, building understanding one word at a time. I tell her about clan healing traditions, about herbs that grow only in specific mountainsoils, about techniques passed down through generations of clan mothers. She shares knowledge of lowland medicine, of surgical procedures refined through centuries of warfare, of alchemical principles that could enhance natural remedies.
Neither of us mentions the obvious truth hanging between us like a sword. This exchange makes us both traitors in our peoples' eyes, that discovery would mean death for her and exile for me.
When shadows lengthen across the grotto floor, I escort her back to the lower chambers. She walks with quiet dignity despite the chains, asking thoughtful questions about the carvings we pass, about clan history rendered in living stone.
"Tomorrow," I tell her as Marek locks the cell door. "We'll continue this discussion tomorrow."
"Will we?" Her gray eyes hold mine through the iron bars. "Or will reality intrude, remind us that I'm your prisoner and you're my captor?"
"Reality has many faces, Lady Eirian. Perhaps we'll find one that serves us both."
Night falls across the stronghold with mountain swiftness, stars emerging in brilliant profusion against the black sky. I attend to the chief's duties, with reviewing reports from border scouts, settling disputes between clan families, discussing supply needs with the quartermaster. Routine business that keeps a community functioning while larger questions simmer beneath the surface.
But my thoughts keep returning to the grotto, to conversations that could reshape our peoples' future or damn us both as traitors to everything we've sworn to protect.
After the evening meal, after hearing the last petitioner and making the last decision, I walk the lower corridors despite having no specific business there. Just checking security, I tell myself. Ensuring the prisoner remains safely contained.
Liar.
The truth cuts deeper than any blade. I'm drawn here by something I haven't felt in years. Curiosity about another person's thoughts, interest in perspectives beyond clan boundaries. Lady Eirian represents possibilities I'd abandoned as impossible, paths forward that honor both tradition and progress.
Her cell door stands solid and secure, iron banded with mountain stone, designed to hold the most dangerous prisoners. But through the viewing slot, I see light flickering within. A small oil lamp, technically against regulations but permitted because she's proven cooperative.
I position myself in shadow where the corridor curves, close enough to hear if she calls for help, far enough to avoid detection. Just being cautious, ensuring our valuable prisoner remains healthy and secure.
Liar.
Her voice reaches me faintly, words I can't quite distinguish but tones that speak of prayer or meditation. Lady Eirian communes with whatever gods guide her steps, seeking wisdom or strength for trials ahead.
What would she do if someone removed these chains from her wrists? Return to her people and report everything she's learned? Use clan knowledge to develop weapons against us? Or would she honor her mother's legacy, continue building bridges between divided peoples?
Trust doesn't come easily to those who've buried brothers, who've seen enough betrayal to understand its many forms. But mistrust chains the spirit as surely as iron binds the flesh. My mother learned that lesson too late, dying wrapped in suspicions that strangled hope before it could draw breath.
The lamplight flickers and steadies, casting dancing shadows on stone walls. In that gentle radiance, I see my reflection inpolished metal as a scarred warrior wrestling with choices that could save or damn us all.
Tomorrow will bring new tests, fresh challenges to whatever understanding we've begun building. But tonight, in these quiet moments stolen from duty and tradition, possibility feels real as mountain stone beneath my feet.
The corridor grows cold as night deepens, but I remain at my post, guardian and prisoner both, waiting for dawn to reveal what fate we'll choose together.
3
EIRIAN
Sleep comes in fragments, broken by the sound of metal against stone and the murmur of voices in a language I don't recognize. When consciousness finally claims me fully, the first thing I notice isn't the ache in my shoulders or the cold seeping through my bones. It's the light.
