Avelynn: The Edge of Faith Read online

  In a heartbeat, I stood on the beach, the sea behind me, the world dimming. A croak filled the void. The raven disappeared. I closed my eyes and reached my arms up. My face lifted to the moonless sky, and I fell forever backward, into the ocean, into the motionless sea. It pulled me under, bringing me back to the cave, back to my body, back to the cold, harsh promise of reality.

  I groaned and groped around where I lay sprawled in the pitch dark on the floor of the cave. Cold rock met my palms. Had I fallen asleep? Had it all been a dream? I pushed myself onto hands and knees. The world tilted and swayed, my stomach dropping and flipping along with it. My teeth clenched, and I closed my eyes, counting my breaths as the nausea passed.

  I trudged forward, hands fumbling in the dirt until they settled against the altar stone. After a few more uncertain and shaky steps, I made out the pile of firewood. My knee connected with a log, and it rolled out beneath me. I fell back. Pain stabbed through my tailbone. It lanced straight up my spine and careened into my skull, wrapping its pincers around my forehead. I winced. It felt like I’d drunk an entire cask of strong wine. Muirgen’s potion proved once again to be both powerful and intriguing. I fumbled with the ties on my satchel and retrieved my fire starter kit. I tried to coax the fire to light. The darkness both inside and out was so complete I couldn’t tell the difference between the hole in the ceiling and the pitch of the chamber. How long until dawn?

  I managed to light the fire and grabbed one of the pine torches. Using the altar stone for support, I stood on quaking legs. My insides squirmed and roiled. I felt wrung out, my head cleaved in two. I trudged up the hill to the entrance of the cave. The hare started the moment my ambling footfalls came within earshot. I leaned against the stone entrance, breathing in gulps of fresh sea air. The waves thundered below, and the wind wailed as it whipped along the coast. The night was cool. I’d left my cloak with Alrik, assuming the bedroll would be warmth enough in the cave. I shivered and sat, resting my back against the curved wall. I drew my knees into my chest and watched, waiting for the first signs of dawn’s imminent arrival in the starless, overcast sky.

  I could almost imagine I was still in that strange ethereal world with Muirgen, except here I felt the nip in the air and smelled the brine and damp of the ocean. Was that the Otherworld? Had I traveled to the threshold, crossing some sort of invisible line into the world of the unseen? Or was it all a figment of my imagination? I shook my head. Wherever I had gone, whatever that place was, Muirgen had seemed real. Her words pierced in their brutal honesty and prophecy.

  I thought of the Ogham symbols, Nuin driving Alrik and me apart. Was Marared the darkness Muirgen spoke of? Or was there something more sinister at work? The beast in the dream took on new meaning. The creature had swallowed me whole, plunging me into a gaping abyss. I remembered the grit of dirt in my mouth. I had choked on it.

  I studied the sky. It would soon be dawn. The altar stone was hungry for blood. The cavern pulsed, the air unsettled. The Mother, the ghosts of the ancients, the beings of the Otherworld, all swirled around me, intangible and gossamer. It seemed as if I could reach out and slip into their world or pull them into mine. But I was not about to do either.

  Back inside the chamber, I decided it best to be consistent. I poured chalk from a cured bladder and marked a generous circle in the dirt around the room, including the fire within it. The altar stone, ominous and patient, loomed dead center. Once I initiated the circle and stood safely within its boundaries, I would be protected from the restless energy and spectral beings vying for a taste of the sacrifice.

  I banked the fire until only a few hot coals glowed. I placed the cage on the broad surface of the altar. It was dark, but my eyes had adjusted enough to make out the walls surrounding me. Using them as my guide, I stayed inside the circle and glanced at the hole in the roof. The sky had a dark charcoal tinge, just enough light to be discernible. I gauged the time to be close enough to dawn to begin.

  I raised my arms. “In the name of the one true Goddess, I cast this circle.”

  I walked to the first aspect. “Aine, Northern Swan, weave your magic. Enlighten your daughter, release my burdens, and clear my mind. Gift me with wisdom and sight. Goddess, I welcome you.”

  I shuffled a quarter turn around the circle. “Macha, Eastern Mare, ignite my passions and strengthen my faith; incite me to lead, and guide me in love. Gift me with righteousness and temperance. Goddess, I welcome you.”

  I stopped at the halfway point. “Danu, Mother, Southern Boar, teach me humility—to honor without prejudice or judgement and forgive those who trespass against me. Gift me with compassion and abundance. Goddess, I welcome you.”

  I moved to the last quarter of the circle. “Badb, Western Raven, shape-shifter, Sword and Shield, grant me your strength. Harden my will, guide me through the waters of transformation, and support my steps as I forge ahead down my path. Gift me your courage and perseverance.” I shuddered. The weight of each word settled on my shoulders. I would need her support in the months ahead. “Goddess, I welcome you.”

  I placed kindling over top of the coals. In seconds, the tinder caught and roared to life. It crackled as it devoured the dried fungus and twigs. I set a few larger billets over the greedy flames and set my sax beside the cage, the blade’s deadly purpose obscured by the gloom. I grabbed the ring I’d found on the stairs and placed it on the altar, uncertain whether to wear it or gift it as an offering.

  I reached into the cage, cajoling the spooked and trembling beast. I caressed its soft coat, murmuring soothing words until it relaxed in my arms. “Goddess, I beseech you. Hear my prayers. Watch over the people of Somerset. Benevolent Mother, munificent Loaf-Maker, enrich their fields and fatten their livestock. Fill their larders and line their shelves with abundance. Stock their sacks and barrels with plenty.”

  The hare stirred. I stroked its fur and it settled. Why didn’t it struggle? Why didn’t it squirm and try to flee? Trust. It trusted me with its life. I held the balance, its fate in my hands. The Goddess had already decided the creature’s death the moment it had been snared. I felt a kinship with the animal. I was the hare. Ripples of consequence crashed and careened into a predestined shore. The Norns—the witches of fate—pulled and tugged the strings, cackling as they danced me into dangerous waters, heedless of my desires.

  I had the sudden impulse to set the creature free. But as quickly as the impulse blossomed, fear replaced it. What if I didn’t sacrifice the hare? What if no blood wet the stone? Would my pleas for Somerset go unheard? Would it speed the course of devastating events in my future? Would it make them worse?

  I held the beast tighter to my chest. “Protector, Battle-Axe, Death-Bringer, I beseech you. Keep Alrik under your mighty shield. Guide his sword; make his actions in battle strong and true. Stay the blade of dissolution. Keep him by my side. Safeguard his heart. Protect mine.”

  Certainty spread like a plague in my chest. The longer we tarried in Wales, the wider the wedge would gape between us.

  “Mother, advisor, nurturer, sustainer, I beseech you. Watch over and guide Edward. Help him understand; open his eyes and heart to forgiveness. Tell him I love him—that one day, I will come back for him.”

  I thought of all the times the raven had appeared to me, letting me know that Alrik was near—that She, the Goddess, had not forsaken me. “Our pleas are but drops in the ocean. I understand you must balance the needs of a few against the desires of many. I am grateful for your eternal presence and unwavering love and support. Thank you for hearing my prayers and for attending this ceremony.”

  Blades of violence were not permitted within the ritual space, but tonight, my sax would carry the sacrifice to the Goddess. I grabbed the knife from the altar stone. The iron glowed for a moment in the coals’ dim light. I took a deep breath and passed the knife cleanly across the hare’s throat. A jerk, then surrender, as the blood dripped onto the stone.

  Death presented a constant face in our world. Everything was
transient, yet we believed the illusion that we could hold onto it. Like the blood slipping through my fingers, I could neither hold onto this life nor protect the lives of those I loved. Despite my best intentions and efforts, all life came to an end. But I would not let the Norns determine every moment of my journey. I would tug the strings and choose the steps. I would chart my own course. I might not be able to alter the larger picture—every story had its ending—but I would not go willingly into complacency. Fate was not resolute.

  I lay the sacrifice on the altar and slipped the ring on, fumbling with slick fingers. Once the ceremony ended, I would skin the hare and bring the carcass up to Alrik and Gil. We would break our fast together with the roasted meat, and then I could place the cleaned bones inside one of the catacombs.

  The world buzzed, a strange distant humming. I stopped and listened. The steady drip of blood pooled and plopped onto the dirt. Outside the cave, the wind and surf roared, but the sound couldn’t reach the innermost chamber. Yet there was something there, just beyond the reach of understanding. The buzzing continued, growing louder.

  The air pulsed with charge. The hairs on my arms stood on end. I looked through the hole in the roof, fearing lightning, but the rumbling didn’t come from the sky. It was deeper, burbling beneath me. It grew sharper, the thunder building and rising. The ground shook. It unleashed a terrible din as if the earth was being rent apart. The cave shifted, and I stumbled backward. A fissure opened beneath my feet. I straddled a crack as long as the chamber itself. I stared at the altar stone cleaved in two. The sacrifice caught, snared in the wedge between the halves. Should I close the circle? Was the Goddess angry? Had I done something wrong?

  The earth roared. Rocks pelted the roof of the cave, crashing, their echoes deafening. I closed the circle, thanking each Goddess in turn, and scrambled to the entrance of the chamber. The fire roared; a gush of fresh air fed the flames. The roof ripped asunder. A large portion collapsed. It crushed the altar stone into the dirt.

  I ran, stumbling, gasping for breath. Dirt and dust swirled in the air. Another major heave sent me sprawling to the ground. I didn’t think. I clambered to my feet and raced up and out of the cave. When I reached the stairs, the sun shone as if nothing at all were happening to disrupt the peace of the day. Alrik and Gil paced the edge of the cliff. They threw down a rope. I grabbed onto the lifeline as the world roared around me. A terrible wrenching seized the cliff. Rocks smashed and crashed as projectiles broke free. I held onto the rope for my life. The men pulled faster than my legs could climb. Halfway up, I turned and spared a glance downward. The cave was gone, crumbled into itself. The Mother’s womb—the chamber of life and death—lay shattered on the boulders at the base of the cliff. Waves carried the bones of the ancestors to the world of the dead beyond the sea.

  March 25

  Back on level ground, there was no time to take inventory. Alrik’s face was ashen white, a hue I knew mirrored my own, and he clasped my hand, giving it a squeeze. We untethered the spooked horses and galloped at breakneck speed away from the cliff, the beasts as eager as we were to get far away from the edge. The rumbling stopped shortly after we left the sea, but no one slowed the pace. It was as if we ran for our lives.

  The earth shaking wasn’t confined to the coast. Each dwelling we passed showed some form of damage. People congregated outside, talking animatedly amongst themselves. A squat stone church had lost its roof. One side of the building lay in ruins, the rocks crumbled, the walls falling in on themselves.

  It took several hours to reach Mathri, and by the time we arrived, the day’s feast was almost underway. I ducked into my cottage to rinse the blood off my hands and change. Gil entertained Alrik in his private cottage, giving them both a chance to brush the dirt from their clothes and wash the day’s strain from their minds.

  Exhaustion and the stress of my ordeal caught up with me. I looked at the bed longingly. Despite a strong desire to wrap myself in the furs’ embrace, I steeled my resolve to maintain appearances and joined the festivities.

  Hyffaid’s hall was near to bursting with gossip and news from the countryside. A man had died, crushed by rock and debris from an old Roman villa, and several people were missing and unaccounted for. Word spread of travelers seen near the old pagan temple at the coast. Christian condemnation and dire warnings abounded. Gil kept his head down, but occasionally I caught an anxious glance tossed my way. I couldn’t tell if he feared for me or was afraid of me.

  In truth, I didn’t know how to reconcile what had happened. Every time I performed a ritual, something odd happened: a sudden pelting rainstorm; snow caught in a tumultuous wind funnel; a surge of fire that burned down a weaving shed; and now the earth shaking. Each time it happened, I pushed the connection aside. There was always an explanation. Bertram had once warned me of believing in the power of the gods. He said I would be no better than the Christian priests who claimed their God could smite armies, cause plagues, and release the hounds of hell on our threshold.

  But what if Bertram was wrong? I’d felt the Goddess’s presence. I knew She was powerful. What if it wasn’t just coincidence? Was I somehow able to call upon unimaginable power? And if I could call upon it, could I control it? I thought of Marared. Unease crept under my skin. Could she control it?

  As if the thought conjured her presence, Marared bustled up to Alrik, her face alight. “Did you feel it?” She looked like a child given a new poppet.

  Gil joined our party and clapped Alrik on the shoulder. “Aye, we did. It was unsettling.” Gil’s eyes swept the crowded hall. “Where’s mother?”

  “She’s fine.” She pointed to one corner of the hall. “She’s speaking with Gwgon’s chamberlain.”

  “From Seisyllwg? What’s he doing here?” Gil asked.

  Marared scowled. “Most likely advancing her sinister plots.”

  “Was anyone here hurt?” I asked.

  She turned, as if noticing me for the first time. “I heard you were near the coast when it happened. They say the ole church in Pencaer has fallen to ruin and that pagans brought this about with their devil worship.” She eyed me critically. “The whole island knows you’re traveling with a boatload of heathens. They’ll be likely to point fingers. Are you heathen too, Avelynn?”

  The look in her eyes and menace in her voice raised the hairs on my forearms. “I’m from England, and last I understood, it was a Christian country.” I met her challenging glare.

  Alrik cleared his throat. “We have had a long day. Let us all sit.”

  Marared returned her gaze to Alrik. “Of course. The feast is about to begin. Please.” She motioned to the head table.

  Alrik felt my hesitation and whispered in my ear. “Hyffaid wishes to affirm our alliance to the guests assembled.”

  The last thing I wanted was to sit near Marared. Fortunately, our place was to the left of Hyffaid, his wife and sons. Sigy, Marared, and Gil fanned out to his right.

  We sidestepped several children engaged in horseplay, but one small body collided with Alrik’s legs. The momentum of her run stopped her dead, and she landed with a soft thump in the rushes at Alrik’s feet. Two golden eyes lifted, taking in the giant in front of her.

  “Whoa there, little one.” Alrik looked down at her. “Are you all right?”

  She blinked at him.

  He leaned down and lifted her as if she were a feather, settling her on his left hip. “And who might you be, I wonder?”

  “This is Sigy’s foster child,” I clarified. The last time I’d seen her she was running amok, naked. She looked the dignified little lady in a light yellow kirtle edged with cyan lace.

  “My name is Branwen.” She spoke in Norse. “It means raven,” she clarified.

  “For your pretty hair,” I said, assuming so, given that her long, black locks were brushed to a brilliant sheen.

  She shook her head. “I’m named after the most beautiful ship in the world.”

  “Are you, now?” Alrik looked at her closely
. “How old are you, child?”

  “Branwen. Come,” Sigy’s voice called with authority, and the girl squirmed.

  Alrik set her down and watched as she scampered off to Sigy’s side.

  “She seems to be a handful.” I watched as Branwen flopped onto the vacant seat beside Sigy and earned a slap on her hand. She straightened her shoulders and pursed her lips, mimicking Sigy’s austere countenance.

  Alrik motioned to the head table, and I followed, accepting a fine bone horn of mead from one of the many servants bustling to and fro.

  At first, conversation was limited to news of and reaction to the quake, but after the fourth course, Hyffaid stood and addressed the assembled crowd. Given the variety of languages spoken, a man translated Hyffaid’s words into Norse and English. It was a little touch, but it spoke to his thoughtfulness.

  “Rhodri is a coward. Word arrived today of an attack on a group of emissaries. They were set upon whilst traveling under the veil of safety in Gwgon’s lands. The dogs sent arrows through the trees, deigned to show their faces. Forty men died. The mice shouted, ‘Long live the one true king of Wales.’ Rhodri hides behind women’s skirts, choosing to stab a man in the back rather than face him in battle.”

  I glanced at Alrik. How were we to fight an army we couldn’t see?

  “In retaliation of that craven act, I have fortuitous news to share on this day.” Hyffaid motioned to Alrik, who in turn nodded to Cormac. The table of Northmen stood.

  “Jarl Alrik and sixty of his bravest men have pledged their allegiance to our cause. Combined with Gwgon’s men, we will return the victors of the field and send Rhodri cowering back to Gwynedd.”

  A few claps burbled through the hall. Hyffaid continued. “Join me in welcoming our friends to my table.” He held his horn high, waiting. The pause was palpable. Finally, in fits and spurts, Hyffaid’s men stood.