Page 59 of Bound By Blood
Then he steps back, and the mask slips slightly. I see him taking inventory of changes three months have wrought: the clan-marks hidden beneath my sleeves, the confident bearing that comes from surviving trials beyond his experience, the way my gaze keeps returning to Drokhan with unmistakable affection.
"Lord Edran." Drokhan's voice carries formal respect as he approaches. "Chief Drokhan of the Stoneborn Clan greets the House of Thorne with honor."
"Chief Drokhan." Father's response maintains diplomatic neutrality, though I catch the slight emphasis on the title. Notcreatureorbeastor any of the epithets normally applied to Orc leadership. "House Thorne acknowledges your service in protecting our daughter."
Service.The word is loaded with implications neither man will voice directly. Did Drokhan serve by rescuing me from rivalclans? By honoring agreements that kept me safe? By accepting alliance terms that benefit both peoples?
Or does Father suspect the deeper truth, that what began as captivity became partnership, then love?
"Your daughter honors both our peoples," Drokhan replies carefully. "Her healing gifts and brave heart saved many lives during recent conflicts."
"So we have heard. So we saw at our last visit." Father's tone reveals nothing. "The tales of Lady Eirian's adventures have preceded her return."
Adventures.Another carefully chosen word that could mean anything from heroic deeds to scandal depending on interpretation. I step forward before the diplomatic dance can grow more strained.
"Father, we need to discuss the refugees from House Eillionne. Lord Beric's proposal offers an opportunity that could benefit everyone."
"Indeed." His gray eyes, so like my own, study my face with uncomfortable intensity. "Perhaps we should continue this conversation inside. Away from observers."
The emphasis makes clear he means the growing crowd of villagers and the Orc war-band currently making camp in our courtyard. Fair enough. What we need to discuss requires privacy and careful consideration.
"Chief Drokhan, your warriors are welcome to rest and refresh themselves. Our kitchens will provide whatever hospitality clan custom requires."
"You honor us." Drokhan's formal bow somehow conveys both respect and unmistakable equality. "We accept House Thorne's gracious welcome."
I catch his eye as we turn toward the keep's main entrance, drawing strength from the steady amber gaze that's become myanchor through so many trials.Whatever happens, we face it together.
The great hall feels smaller than memory suggests, though nothing has changed in three months except my perspective. Tapestries depicting generations of Thorne healers still cover the walls. The massive hearth still dominates the room's far end. The long table where Father held court throughout my childhood still sits precisely where it always has.
But I see everything differently now, through eyes that have witnessed Orc clan-houses carved from living stone, heated by springs that sing with elemental power, decorated with ancestral ink instead of woven cloth. Beautiful in its own way, but representative of just one approach to creating home and family.
"Sit." Father gestures to my accustomed chair at his right hand. "Tell me what really happened."
Where to begin? How do I explain three months of transformation in terms he'll understand without betraying truths too dangerous to voice? How do I describe bonds that transcend political alliance without confirming suspicions that could destroy everything we've built?
"The border raid came without warning," I start with safer ground. "Chief Drokhan's war-band overran our position before we could evacuate the wounded. I was taken captive along with medical supplies."
"And then?" His tone remains neutral, but I know that careful composure. He's preparing himself for painful revelations.
"Then I discovered that Orc healing traditions aren't as primitive as we've been taught. Their knowledge of mineral springs, surgical techniques, battlefield medicine. Father, they saved lives our methods couldn't have helped."
"Interesting." He leans back in his chair, fingers steepled in a gesture I remember from childhood discussions about difficulttheological questions. "And this education led to your adoption into their clan?"
Here the careful territory begins. Too much truth risks everything. Too little truth serves no one.
"I proved useful during clan conflicts. Helped heal wounded warriors, assisted in negotiations, demonstrated that cooperation serves both peoples better than endless warfare." All true, though hardly complete. "When House Eillionne fell, Lord Beric approached Chief Drokhan about sanctuary for his surviving retainers. And we have orc clans needing sanctuary too. Whole families both human and orc need help."
"Sanctuary." Father's voice carries theological implication. "In Orc territory."
"Productive settlement. Farmers, craftsmen, healers working together to rebuild what war destroyed." I lean forward, letting passion show in my voice. "Father, imagine what we could accomplish if that cooperation expanded. Trade instead of raids. Shared knowledge instead of mutual destruction. Alliance instead of?—"
"Alliance?" The word cracks like a whip. "Daughter, do you understand what you're suggesting?"
"I'm suggesting survival." I meet his gaze steadily, drawing on confidence earned through fire and blood. "The old ways aren't working. Fifteen hundred years of conflict have accomplished nothing except filling graveyards and impoverishing both peoples. Maybe it's time to try something different."
"Something that requires accepting Orcs as equals." His tone carries no judgment, but I hear the struggle beneath diplomatic neutrality. "Something that challenges everything the Church teaches about natural order and divine hierarchy. I told you when we visited, the Church didn't know about it."
There it is.The heart of the matter, the foundation of resistance that will make every step forward a battle. Faith provides comfort and guidance, but it can also become chains that bind us to destructive patterns.
