Page 60 of Bound By Blood
"The Church teaches mercy, compassion, service to those in need." I choose my words carefully, walking the narrow path between heresy and truth. "If Orc children starve, should we refuse them bread because of their birth? If Orc warriors bleed defending human refugees, should we deny them honor because of their heritage?"
"And if an Orc war chief claims the heart of a human noblewoman?" Father's question cuts to the bone, spoken so quietly I almost miss it. "What does the Church teach aboutthat?"
Silence stretches between us. Everything hinges on my response, not just my future, but the fragile alliance we've built, the refugees seeking sanctuary, the possibility of peace extending beyond immediate necessity.
Truth or lies? Safety or risk? Love or duty?
"The Church teaches that love sanctifies all things," I finally whisper. "That bonds forged in service to others carry divine blessing regardless of worldly circumstance."
Father closes his eyes, suddenly looking every one of his sixty years. When he speaks again, he sounds like the man watching his carefully ordered world crumble.
"Show me these refugees, daughter. Let me see for myself what your alliance has wrought."
The refugees arrive at sunset, a procession of exhaustion and hope that stretches from the valley road to our courtyard gates. Forty-three souls who lost everything when House Eillionne fell—human families walking beside Orc clans, children of both races sharing bread and water, warriors who fought eachother for generations now standing guard together over the vulnerable.
Lord Beric leads them, his once-pristine noble attire replaced by practical traveling clothes that speak of hard weeks on dangerous roads. Behind him walks Gathak the Ironjaw, an Orc matriarch whose clan defended Eillionne's walls until the very end. Their unlikely partnership should look absurd—the courtly diplomat and the scarred warrior-mother. Instead, they move with the synchronized purpose of people who've learned to trust each other through shared trials.
Father stands beside me on the keep's main steps, his face a careful mask as he watches the procession enter our courtyard. I feel his attention, the way he studies each interaction between human and Orc refugees, searching for signs of deception or coercion.
"Lady Eirian!" A familiar voice calls out. Tam the Miller's son breaks from the group, running toward us with eight-year-old enthusiasm. When I tended his broken arm last winter, he was just another village child. Now he wears a small Orc charm-braid in his hair and chatters easily in two languages.
"Tam, you've grown." I kneel at his level, struck by how natural this mixing has become for the children. "Are you well? Is your family safe?"
"Yes, my lady. Chieftess Gathak taught me how to set snares, and I've been helping feed everyone." Pride radiates from his thin frame. "And look!" He holds up his arm, perfectly healed. "Strong as iron now, just like you said."
An Orc child peers shyly from behind her mother's legs, young Briska, whose fever I broke during our evacuation from the border. When she sees me, her face lights up with the same recognition and trust that transcends racial boundaries. She approaches carefully, offering a small carved bird as a gift.
"For the Stoneborn Healer," she whispers in accented Common, using the clan title I earned through blood and fire. "From Briska's hands to yours."
I accept the carving with ceremony, recognizing the significance of the gesture.Gift-giving between clans seals bonds of mutual respect.The adult refugees watch our interaction closely, measuring my response, confirming that I understand and honor their customs.
"Beautiful work," I tell her, then switch to the Stoneborn dialect. "This bird flies with the strength of young hands and clever heart. I will treasure it."
A ripple of surprised approval moves through the Orc families. Few humans bother learning their language. Still fewer speak it with correct formal inflection. Father's attention sharpens beside me, noting this linguistic development.
"Lord Edran," Beric approaches with diplomatic grace, offering a proper bow. "House Thorne's generosity in considering our petition brings hope to desperate hearts."
"Lord Beric. Our condolences for House Eillionne's fall." Father's response maintains appropriate sympathy while revealing nothing about his private thoughts. "These people have traveled far under dangerous circumstances."
"Indeed. We've lost seventeen souls to ambush and disease since fleeing the capital." Beric's voice carries genuine grief. "Without Chieftess Gathak's warriors providing protection, without Lady Eirian's diplomatic connections enabling safe passage, we would have lost many more."
Diplomatic connections.Another careful euphemism that skirts dangerous territory while acknowledging reality. Father understands perfectly well what those connections entail, my bond with Drokhan, my acceptance into clan structure, my transformation from captive to advocate.
Gathak steps forward, her presence radiating the authority of someone accustomed to command. She wears battle-scarred leather and iron, her graying hair bound in warrior knots that display decades of victory braids. When she speaks, her voice rings with the gravitas of ancient honor.
"Lord of House Thorne. Gathak the Ironjaw greets you with respect." Her Common is heavily accented but grammatically precise. "Your daughter saved my grandson's life. This creates debt between our houses."
"Gathak," I interject gently, "may I present my father, Lord Edran Thorne, keeper of this valley and guardian of its people."
The formal introduction allows both leaders to acknowledge each other's status without uncomfortable precedent questions. Father nods with dignity while Gathak offers the Orc warrior's salute, right fist to heart, then extended palm-up as a gesture of peaceful intent.
"Chieftess Gathak's clan defended Eillionne's walls with legendary courage," I explain to Father. "When the city fell, they chose exile rather than surrender. Their honor intact, their loyalty proven."
"And what do they seek here?" Father's question carries no hostility, but I hear the underlying concern.What do you expect us to provide? What will it cost us? What are the risks?
"Sanctuary," Gathak answers simply. "Work for firm hands. Land for children to grow. Peace for old bones. Time for us to rightly restore our clans and houses." She gestures toward her extended family group, warriors, crafters, elders, youngsters. "We offer service, skills, protection. We ask only chance to rebuild what war destroyed."
The silence stretches as Father considers the implications. Forty-three refugees require food, shelter, and integration into existing communities. Human families pose challenges enough, different customs, possible political complications, resourcedemands. Orc clans add layers of complexity that could destabilize carefully maintained social order.
