Once back at their suite, she took a shower, hoping to scrub the feeling of the cold, slimy blood off her skin. But it did no good—no matter how hard she scrubbed, she still felt it running in scarlet ribbons down her arms and legs.
Giving up, she dried off, put on a nightgown, and crawled into bed. The skora around her neck felt like its weight had tripled—it was like an anchor around her neck, pulling her down, tying her to her old life.
Allara wanted to take it off so she could sleep more comfortably, but every time she reached for the clasp at the back of her neck, her hands seemed to go astray and she found herself smoothing her hair or straightening her nightgown instead. At last, she gave up and rolled herself in a blanket because she felt horribly cold for some reason.
What is wrong with me? she thought, her mind moving sluggishly through the gray fog that surrounded her. Why am I so cold? Why can I not take off the skora? Why am I so sad?
She had told her aunt and her father she would not complete the mission—she ought to feel joyful—free. Instead, her heart was heavy in her, as though some malevolent hand had reached into her chest and turned it to lead. Why was she feeling this way? Feeling so strange—so wrong?
Unable to answer these questions, she at last drifted off into an uneasy sleep.
She woke in the middle of the night and sat bolt upright in bed. It felt as though someone had slapped her awake and was now moving her body and controlling her muscles. The unseen presence forced her up—compelled her to act.
Where am I? What is happening?
Looking around, she saw a large shape beside her—the Kindred was sprawled on his back, one arm thrown over his head. His face was peaceful with sleep and his broad, bare chest was exposed and vulnerable.
It is the evil one, her aunt’s voice whispered in her head. The enemy—draw your skora and kill him, Allara! Do your duty—complete your mission!
Yes—she must kill him. Allara saw that now. She didn’t understand why she hadn’t before. She seemed to be waking from a dream she had fallen into—a dream where she thought the Kindred was her friend—her lover—that he cared about her, even loved her. But that dream was false, she suddenly understood. It was the mission that mattered—it was the only reason she was here—the entire reason for her whole existence.
Kneeling over the sleeping form of her husband, she pressed her thumb without hesitation to the Blood Stone at the top of the jeweled scabbard around her neck. The stone bit deep and drank of her blood and the scabbard released the skora at last.
Allara pulled it from its sheath and the long, oiled blade unhinged itself, becoming a dagger as long as her forearm. Its tip was sharper than a needle’s and its edge could slice through steel. It was a most formidable weapon.
Holding the hilt in both hands, she raised it high above her head. Her target was in clear sight—the bare, muscular chest of the Kindred. It was as though he was opening himself for her attack—awaiting the inevitable.
But why is it inevitable? Why must he die? whispered a tiny voice in the back of Allara’s head. He loves you, Allara, and I thought you loved him.
For a moment, her resolve wavered and she lowered the skora uncertainly. Was the voice speaking truth? It seemed to be talking to her from a vast distance—from a long-ago past in which things were different. A time when Allara’s choices were her own.
He paid for you to have music lessons, the voice went on. He encouraged you and mingled his Song with yours. He loves you and you love him.
Little fool! snarled a different, stronger voice. Listen to me, Allara—he is the evil one—he does not love you. He must be killed—the mission must be completed and the Blood Feud satisfied. You must kill him now—TRAB!!!
This last word was so loud it was like a shout in her ear. It jerked Allara into motion. She raised the skora, which she had been clutching to her chest, high over her head once more.
At the last moment, Brand’s golden eyes flew open and he stared up at her with sleepy surprise.
“Allara? Baby?” he murmured. “What—?”
KILL HIM! screeched the voice in her head. Her arms and hands jerked as though she was a puppet and her strings had been pulled.
“I must fulfill my Oath,” Allara said, the words sounding like someone else had spoken.
Then the skora plunged down and buried itself to the hilt in her husband’s chest.
Thirty-Six
“A-allara?” Brand’s eyes widened in disbelief, his big hand scrabbling at the hilt of the skora which she had buried in his heart. He coughed and droplets of blood flew from his lips and covered Allara’s face in a fine mist, just as they had during the ceremony of the Unbreakable Oath.