Raised to Kill

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.

Never shall your Song be free…Never shall your Song be free…

“She is in a vulnerable state,” she heard the priestess tell Brand. “She is reliving the memory of what was done to her when she was only twelve cycles old. When you touch her, you will see it.”

“I will?” Brand was frowning uncertainly. “What can I do?”

“Touch her and see,” the priestess murmured. “Go on—do not be afraid. Touch her and you will know what to do.”

Brand put his big, warm hands on her shivering shoulders and Allara heard him suck in a breath.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured and there was horror and compassion mixed in his voice. “It’s worse…so much worse than I imagined,” Allara heard him tell the priestess. “She’s naked and frightened and so small. She’s crying and shivering and they’re throwing blood at her and telling her she’ll never be free! How can they do this to her?”

“Her past has great evil in it, warrior, but you can make it better. Look at your wife and see what she needs,” the priestess urged gently.

Brand was silent for a long moment and the chanting of the Song Leaders seemed to grow louder. They dipped their long fingers into wooden bowls of the sacrificial blood and flicked it on Allara’s bare skin, covering her in filth…smearing her in the awful crimson streaks that would never wash off…

“Oh, now I know,” Brand murmured at last, squeezing her shoulders lightly. “I know what you need, sweetheart.”

His big hands left her shoulders and Allara heard a splashing sound as he dipped them into the fountain. Then, starting with her face, he began to smooth the clear, silvery water over her skin.

At first Allara flinched—inside she was still the frightened, crying child, rubbing at the blood on her face and skin, sobbing when her attempts to be clean only smeared the ugly crimson and made the stain worse.

But then, something began to change. The slimy droplets of blood on her face were gone. The water was washing them away—Brand’s big, gentle hands were cleaning her—cleaning away the dirty stain of her past.

“More,” she whispered, looking up at him. “Oh, husband—please, more.”

“Yes, sweetheart. Of course.” Brand’s deep voice was hoarse with emotion as he dropped to his knees to reach her better. Dipping his hands in the fountain again, he began to smooth the clear, cleansing water over the rest of her body.

As he did, Allara looked down and didn’t see the blood anymore. He was washing it away and with it, the pain and hurt and guilt of her past. She could feel them disappearing as the water did its job and her husband gently bathed her with love and understanding, his big hands touching her everywhere and washing away the stains.

“Turn around, sweetheart,” he murmured. “Let’s make sure we get you all clean.”

Obediantly, Allara did as he said, turning to let him wash the rest of her. As he did, the chanting of the Song Leaders grew softer and the memory of that old trauma seemed to grow fainter. At last, Allara couldn’t hear them at all and the voices in her head faded too.

Suddenly, a new voice took their place—a strong, feminine voice filled with power and love and compassion.

“Daughter,” it said, “Be free of your past. Your guilt is forgiven and your pain is purged.”

As the voice spoke, a wind scented with trees and flowers whirled around Allara, drying her skin and causing her hair to whip around her face.