“I was never abused,” Allara protested. “My aunt slapped me sometimes when I was impertinent, but only when I deserved it.”
“I studied the Ceremony of the Unbreakable Oath, you know,” Brand said in a low voice. “I know how it’s done. I know they stripped you naked and covered you in blood and broke down the layers of your mind’s defenses to implant a suggestion you couldn’t fight against. If that’s not abuse, I don’t know what is.”
“Don’t talk about it!” Allara clapped her hands over her ears, her mind filled with visions of the Song Leaders in their hooded black robes chanting and chanting over and over as they flicked the sacrificial blood on her bare skin.
Never shall your Song be free…Never shall your Song be free…
“I’m sorry. Allara, I’m sorry!” Brand moved her hands gently away from her ears and looked at her earnestly. “I’m just trying to tell you it’s not your fault. Your aunt and your father tried to force you to do something awful just to gain your family status. They used you to advance themselves. But they’re not here now, baby—I’m here and I love you.”
Allara felt like crying.
“I…I wish I could say I love you too,” she whispered as hot tears stung her eyelids. “But I don’t deserve to.”
“Yes, you do,” Brand said firmly. He sighed and raked a hand through his hair again. “I only hope the Ceremony of Cleansing tonight will prove that to you.”
Allara didn’t see how anything could get rid of the voices in her mind and their constant urging to kill herself. But maybe Brand knew something she didn’t.
She hoped so. If she had to live like this much longer, she was going to go mad.
Forty-Six
The Sacred Grove by moonlight—or rather, by the pale moon-like glow of the dimmed artificial sun that powered the Mother Ship—was different than it was in the day. The shadows of the sacred trees were thick on the ground and their cool rustle seemed to soothe the troubled, rough edges of Allara’s mind. The grass under her bare feet felt slightly damp, as though with dew, and a fresh breeze scented with some night-blooming flower ruffled her hair.
Brand was with her, holding her hand, but he said nothing as they stepped into the shadow of the trees. Allara suspected he had said everything he could earlier at their suite. Now he was hoping that his Goddess—the female deity that all Kindred worshipped—could help her.
Suddenly there was a rustling of leaves and a priestess appeared between the trees. It was the same priestess who had performed their wedding ceremony, Allara saw. The one who had looked at her with suspicion after she said her vows.
At least now she knows all her suspicions were confirmed, she thought dully. I am every bit as bad as she believed me to be—and worse.
But there was no condemnation in the priestess’s green-within-green eyes.
“Daughter,” she said, holding out a hand to Allara. “I understand you are in need of mental cleansing and clarity.”
“I do not know.” Allara looked away, ignoring the hand. “I do not think you can help me.”
“You will not know unless you give me a chance to try,” the priestess said gently. “Come, daughter—come deeper into the Sacred Grove. Let the Goddess speak to you.”
“Go ahead, sweetheart,” Brand urged her. “Just give it a try—please?”
The pleading in his deep voice and the weary look in his golden eyes suddenly seemed to pierce Allara’s heart. Her Kindred husband had been incredibly patient—incredibly forgiving. She had already tried to kill his body—would she also kill his soul by refusing the treatment he had begged her to take?
“I…will try,” she said at last. Hesitantly, she reached for the priestess’s still-extended hand.
“That is all we ask,” the priestess said. She looked at Brand. “Come with us. As the one who loves her best in the world, you will be needed in this ceremony.”
He nodded respectfully.
“I will help in any way I can.”
“Thank you. Come, both of you.” And the priestess led them deeper into the grove.
Allara didn’t know how big the Sacred Grove was—from the outside, it seemed to be no more than a hundred or so trees, growing closely together in the approximation of a small forest. But it seemed they walked for hours before the priestess at last brought her and Brand to the same flowered arch where they had been married, what seemed like a lifetime ago.
The white chairs for the wedding guests were gone now but there was something Allara had not seen before—a stone fountain almost as tall as she was.
In the center of the fountain was a statue of what Allara assumed must be the Kindred Goddess. She had a stern but kind face and she was holding a chalice in both hands. Silvery water bubbled from the cup of the chalice and poured into the basin below.
“This is the Fountain of Cleansing,” the priestess told them. “But before the ceremony begins, I must Look Into you,” she told Allara.
Allara nodded her ascent. She didn’t know what this part of the ceremony entailed, but she wanted to at least try to cooperate.
Closing her eyes, the priestess pressed her fingertips lightly to Allara’s temples. And suddenly, the strange feeling of someone else rifling through her memories filled Allara’s mind.
She felt the priestess looking at all the times her aunt had harangued her about her duty, all the times her father had withheld his love and spoken only of the mission she had been born to complete—the Blood Feud she had been raised to satisfy.
All the old hurt came with the memory—the fear that she was not good enough, the feeling that she was worth nothing if she didn’t comply with the wishes of those who were supposed to love her but only wished to use her instead.
You were abused, Brand had said and now she saw the truth of it.
Parents aren’t supposed to hurt you and use you for their own ends. They’re supposed to love you—the way Brand loves me, she thought.
And then the priestess came to the memory of the Unbreakable Oath.
Allara recoiled as the mental image became so clear she could see it all over again. Once more she was only twelve—terrified as the hooded figures circled her—horrified at the slimy sacrificial blood running down her arms and legs, streaking her bare body.
Never shall your Song be free…Never shall your Song be free… they chanted.
“Never,” Allara heard herself whispering. “I will never be free…I will never be clean…”
“You will, my daughter,” the priestess murmured gently. “I promise you that you will. I need you to strip in order that you may be cleansed.”
“Who…who is going to cleanse me?” Allara asked, looking uncertainly at the priestess.
“The hand of the one who loves you shall be the hand that cleanses you.” The priestess turned to Brand. “Roll up your sleeves and get ready to cleanse the female you love.”
As Brand did as he was told, Allara slipped off the simple white dress she wore. She stood naked and shivering in the moonlight, still feeling that she was only halfway there.
Half of her was in the Sacred Grove with the priestess and Brand but the other half was in the past—in the Song House of the Seven Great Houses, naked and afraid, smeared in blood and guilt as the chants of the Song Leaders chained her to a fate she had never wanted or welcomed.