Avelynn

by Marissa Campbell

  * * *

  Sometime later, drowsy and content in his arms, I asked, “What’s Gotland like? Is it very different from England?”

  He stretched his arms and clasped his hands behind his head. He was naked, sprawled out on the forest floor, his legs twined with mine. “It is beautiful. Towering cliffs rise above rocky shorelines, windswept grasslands roll into neatly tended farmland, and forests of ancient oak are blanketed with orchids and wildflowers in the spring.”

  “Were you born there?”

  “Yes. I was born near Visby, on my grandfather’s manor. My grandfather, Herraud, controls most of northern Gotland. He was furious with my mother’s treatment, but my father always placated him with gifts of livestock, ale, and slaves. He quickly stopped complaining.”

  I chased away an inquisitive fly from his chest and let my fingertips brush the toned ridges of his belly. I smiled as his muscles tensed and flexed. “Did you spend much time with your father growing up?”

  “As king, he spent most of his time in Lejre, and when he was not in his hall there, he was busy invading and conquering other countries. For the most part I was left to my own devices. Though my mother was implacable when it came to my learning, she called my father an ignorant heathen and demanded the opposite of me.”

  My fingers stopped their explorations. “You’re not pagan?”

  “I was reared by my mother and a Christian priest who taught me Latin and English, astronomy, mathematics, spiritual morality, and jurisprudence. My father discovered my learning and fell into a rage. He beat my mother for making me soft and killed the priest. I was twelve.”

  Several birds hopped from branch to branch above us, happily chirping amongst themselves. “From that point forward, my father ensured I was raised properly. He dragged me to his hall to learn a real man’s education of fighting, drinking, and cruelty. He also insisted I embrace the faith of my forefathers. I am as pagan as any other heathen barbarian you are likely to meet.” He smiled broadly.

  I laughed. “Good.”

  He kissed my neck and blew softly into my ear. I shivered. I could feel my body awakening again. “So, that was it? You went to Lejre and became a ruthless warrior?”

  “I wanted to be a shipbuilder.” He rolled onto his side and looked at me sheepishly. He caressed my arm, running his finger slowly up and down. The soft, delicate, downy hairs stood on end with each pass.

  “I made my ship.”

  “Why did you stop? It’s beautiful.”

  “A ship is an extension of a man’s soul. Raven’s Blood is my most valued possession. I would die before I let another man sail her. But owning a ship is different from building one. Shipbuilding is an honorable craft in most men’s eyes, but not in my father’s or my brothers’. It was a warrior’s life or no life at all. When my father was killed, my brothers swore vengeance. To them, a shipbuilder was weak and useless. They left me behind, unable to avenge his death.” A shadow passed over his eyes.

  “Their intent was to dishonor me. But their cruelty made me stronger, and their impressions of my weakness were gravely mistaken. I have since proved them wrong.”

  I wasn’t sure I wanted him to elucidate that, and he didn’t. Instead, he shook his head, as if emerging from under water, and brought his attention back to my naked flesh. A twinkle once again sparked in his eyes.

  “Tell me about England.” His finger resumed its course, moving up my arm, over my collarbone, and down between my breasts. He traced the outline of one breast, circles moving higher and higher, closer to my nipple.

  An orange-tipped butterfly flitted overhead.

  “I was born in a manor called—” His finger reached the nipple and he tugged gently on the tip. His finger brushed back and forth. “—Wedmore,” I managed to push out.

  “What was it like growing up in Wedmore?”

  I inhaled deeply as his mouth replaced his finger. He had disentangled his legs from mine and climbed on top of me, his legs straddling my thighs.

  “I’m the daughter of a powerful … earl.” His teeth grazed the tightened skin, and he pulled gently, taking my nipple into his mouth. Wetness surged between my legs, and I shifted my body as tension mounted.

  “I have a younger brother. Both my father and brother left some time ago for Rome.” “Rome” came out as a squeak. I didn’t want to think about where they were or what might have happened to them, for I’d still heard nothing of Edward’s health or received any missives corroborating Demas’s claim that my father had encountered Vikings. Fortunately, Alrik’s tactics were very distracting, and I pushed the uncertainties from my mind.

  “Mmm-hmm,” he mumbled, his tongue charting a path lower until he was lying between my legs.

  “I just found out I have a grandmother, and maybe even a cou—sin.” His tongue probed between my legs.

  He lifted my leg onto his shoulder. His fingers slid through the moist heat and his tongue worked furiously. My body arched. My hips rose.

  His fingers slipped inside, stroking, pushing deeper. He lifted his head. “You were saying?” His pace quickened.

  “Oh, gods,” I cried out but then was unable to utter one coherent word more.

  * * *

  Just before dusk, we made our way back to the beach. Alrik had asked me to intercede with the gods and bestow a blessing upon his crew, granting them success in battle. I stood, a roaring fire at my back, and had each man line up and kneel before me. I whispered a charm over every sharpened blade they presented to me. Axes, spears, swords, knives, and arrows each received their own blessing. Then I laid a hand on each bowed head and called on Macha and Badb to bring swiftness to their blades and fearlessness to their hearts. I added an appeal to Odin and the Valkyries, Odin’s maidens of death, to take the fallen to Valhalla so that they might dine amongst the valiant warriors at his high table.

  The entire crew came forward, save one. He loomed near the ship, a hulking shadow outlined against a darkening sky. Alrik, having caught the man’s absence, stormed toward him. I couldn’t hear what was said, but it wasn’t long before the man stalked over, his face hard, his body tense. He knelt at my feet and thrust out his sword. I looked down at a crop of wayward brown hair tamed only marginally by a ragged middle part. I drew my eyebrows together.

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “Ingvar.”

  My next words caught in my throat. It was the dead man’s brother, the man who had met his death by Alrik’s axe when we first met.

  “Get done with it, wyrt-gaelstre.”

  Witch! He had called me a witch, and in my own tongue. “Who are you?”

  He looked up, cold hatred in his wide-set eyes. “You killed my brother, wyrt-gaelstre. Do you know what we do with your kind? We break their legs and tie their hands. Then, one shovelful at a time, we bury them alive, gritty earth filling and choking their open mouths as they scream.”

  I knew only too well what the Saxons did with a woman they suspected of witchcraft. Alrik saw I was shaken.

  “What has he said?”

  “He’s Saxon.”

  Alrik nodded. “He was a slave and should have been killed, but he surrendered to my brother and swore allegiance.” There was a hint of disgust in Alrik’s tone. “He has fought well for us and has not caused any trouble until recently.”

  “You may trust this wyrt-gaelstre, but I do not.” He made to rise, but Alrik put a hand on his shoulder and shoved him back down.

  “She has assured us victory and safe passage. You will not jeopardize that. Kneel and accept her blessing.” He gripped the handle of his axe, cutting short any further objections from Ingvar.

  Ingvar knelt, and I invoked the Goddess. A deep unsettling crept through my veins. I couldn’t explain it, but at that moment, I wished Alrik’s brother had killed Ingvar when he’d had the chance.

  After the ritual, they invited me to dine with them. We sat on logs around a roaring fire, sharing mead and rabbit stew. Nervous after all they had seen me
say and do, the men relaxed as the consumption of drink increased. By the time the moon descended in the sky, they had regaled me with stories of valor and mishap from their travels, the laughter and ribald comments growing more boisterous as the hour increased.

  At length, Alrik and I left the beach and sought the privacy and solitude of the clearing. We dozed off now and then, slipping nocturnal sojourns in between fervent and desperate lovemaking. Knowing that this might be the last time we were together, we clung to each other, imprinting each moment, savoring each sensation, each touch, each kiss, each word.

  He would try to come back at the full moon in September, but couldn’t promise. His brother’s struggles in Ireland would keep him occupied for quite some time. And then, after September, the seas would start to get rough and the window for sailing would soon close. And in the undercurrent of silence and desperation that swirled around us lurked four words that were never spoken. I would be married.

  Come morning, dark clouds threatened on the horizon, black against the brighter sky before it. Standing on the prow of his boat, Alrik waved, his blond hair lifting in the rising wind. The bloodred sail, the raven’s wings outstretched, its claws hooked, ready to snare the souls of the dead, billowed as it caught the lusty gales. I watched long after the boat had sailed out of sight.

  Behind me, the forest danced in anticipation of a coming storm. The leaves quivered in the moisture-laden breeze. The parched landscape rejoiced as the rain came. It lashed and it wailed, but I stood there, a wall against its torrent, dry and barren as a desert, with no hope of relief. Thunder clapped. Lightning flashed and a blazing fork landed nearby. My heart pounded, beating out the thunder in its clamor. The sea turned a dark, angry gray. The waves frothed and crashed to the shore.

  Be safe, Alrik, I pleaded into the fury. Please come back to me.

  FIFTEEN

  August and September came and went without incident. The harvest was plentiful; grain was collected, threshed, and winnowed. The granaries were bursting, the inventory balanced. Orchards abounded with ripe, juicy fruit, their succulent yields overflowing in baskets and crates; nuts were collected, larders were filled. Abundance swarmed around me. Everyone smiled, their mood joyous and thankful. I searched but could find nothing to smile about—the full moon waxed and waned, but Alrik did not return.

  There was one flicker of light, however. I had not seen Demas since the confrontation in the forest, and Sigberht had also remained absent, keeping to his estate in Kent. While I was not one to overlook my blessings, when autumn passed without any word from my father or news of Edward’s well-being, anxiety mingled daily with my already dark and melancholy mood. Any crossing of the channel now meant the men would be taking great risks. Winter storms were savage and swift, coming out of nowhere to drag a ship down to an icy grave.

  I had taken to visiting Muirgen often, as she was teaching me how to develop my gift of prophecy, but I had not been able to see—in the bones, or the water, or the fire, or the Ogham—what had become of them.

  With the fae night of Samhain approaching, Muirgen summoned me. It was a powerful time of year for divination, and perhaps I would finally get some answers. Chasing the setting sun north and then westward, I arrived at her cottage late in the evening to find it in complete disarray.

  “What are you doing?”

  She shuffled about, dragging and setting aside numerous crates and boxes, sorting through their contents.

  At last she stood and held up a red gown.

  It was a beautifully woven garment with gold and silver thread twining along the hems and up the sleeves, which fluted slightly.

  “Should fit nicely.” She circled me, studying, her eye critical. I felt like a prized sow at market. “Try it on.”

  “Was it yours?” I removed my kirtle and slipped the dress over my head. The neckline scooped low and the waist hugged tight to my body. I brushed down the fabric with reverence, smoothing the skirt as it settled lightly around my thighs.

  “This was made for your great-great-grandmother. Each woman of our family has worn this dress during her initiation as high priestess.”

  I ceased admiring the dress and stared at Muirgen.

  She nodded. “It is time.”

  “But I’m not ready!”

  “You are eighteen, Avelynn. This can wait no longer.”

  “But I have so much left to learn.”

  “You know what is necessary. The rest will come. In time.”

  “That’s not good enough. You said you would take over my learning, guide me.”

  “And I have.”

  “Give me until the spring. I’ll work harder, visit more often.”

  “No. It must be tonight.”

  “Why?”

  She sighed and motioned to the table. “Sit.”

  I relented and she pulled up a stool opposite me. “What does it mean to be a high priestess?” she asked.

  “It is the greatest honor in our faith, bestowing upon the anointed the ability to commune and intercede with the Goddess Herself.”

  “But you can divine the future, see visions, and you are but a lowly priestess.”

  “Yes.” I wasn’t sure what she was asking.

  “The Goddess already speaks to you, reveals to you the future. Where then is the difference?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “The difference is responsibility. In times of old, people came to seek the counsel of the high priestess. She would oversee all ceremonies and rituals, she would initiate young women into the faith, and she would use her gifts in the service of others. Never causing harm, she was a guardian of the earth, protector of her people. Her visions were respected and sought by kings. And while times have changed, our numbers diminished, there will always be those who seek the truth. As high priestess it is essential, now more than ever, to keep our faith alive—to find believers, to teach and inspire by example. Your faith is strong, Avelynn, your heart true, your gifts divinely given. If you are ready to accept the responsibility, then you are ready to assume the role you were born for. I will not force you. But after tonight, the opportunity will not present itself again.”

  An ominous warning. Like frost, frigid and swift, it spread under my skin.

  “You must choose.”

  I wanted to sound strong and assured, but my pitch wavered, the volume barely above a whisper. “I accept.”

  “Good.” She rose. “From this point onward, you may not speak until I call upon you at the sacred well.”

  I nodded.

  She loosened my braid and grabbed a fine bone comb. Brushing out the soft curls, her fingers were soothing, her touch gentle. An aching familiarity clamped around my heart, the scene reminding me of my mother. She should have been here. A tear slid down my cheek.

  “Shush now. Your mother is with us.”

  I searched the room, desperate to see her face, to look into her eyes once more. Why couldn’t I see anything? If she was truly here, wouldn’t I at least be able to feel her presence? I slumped on the stool.

  Muirgen laid a hand on my shoulder. “One day, your gifts will surpass even mine. Give it time.”

  She had taught me that gifts like divination and the ability to commune with the dead were akin to an artist surrendering to the muse in order to create epic poetry or sculpt wondrous pieces of art from simple metal or clay. Each of us is born with the innate knowledge to learn these skills, yet some possess a higher degree of aptitude and hone and practice their craft until they become masters. Effort and persistence would pay off, she’d assured me. I need only be patient.

  Starting near my temples, she braided two sections of hair, the strands circling my head like a garland. The ends she tied with ribbon, and then she placed several dried rose blossoms in the wreath of hair, weaving another red ribbon throughout. After poking and primping, she must have been satisfied with the results, for she left off fussing and retrieved a bone cup, its murky liquid sloshing within.

  “Drink.”
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  I inspected the contents carefully, wrinkling my nose at the strong alcoholic smell.

  “To prepare you for the ritual.”

  I eyed her dubiously.

  She smiled. It was such a rare occurrence that my stomach clenched. This couldn’t be good.

  With an impatient lift of her eyebrow, I swallowed my reservations and downed the measure, the substance burning a trail to my stomach, where it sat hot and heavy. I breathed deeply, my eyes watering.

  She removed the cup and placed in my shaking hands the stone Goddess figurine that always sat squat in the middle of her table. Without another word she left, shutting the cottage door behind her. Several candles on the table flickered as the air stirred, and the hearth fire, burning warm and steady, filled the room with a soft glow.

  I turned the figurine over in my hands. A great weight settled on my shoulders. I always knew this moment would come. I was raised to become a high priestess, but now that the time was upon me—I was at once terrified and exhilarated.

  I glanced along the shelves and caught the spine of Muirgen’s book. Bound and glued with thick sheets of parchment, it was the illuminated equivalent of a pagan bible. It was filled with detailed accounts of rituals and chants, and I had spent the past several months poring through its pages, yet the more I learned, the more questions unspooled. An intricately detailed cipher, it had taken me several visits to grasp the meaning behind the gibberish, let alone conceptualize and memorize the array of knowledge the tome contained.

  I set the figurine down and slid the book free, opening it carefully. One of the larger sections was dedicated to the rituals and festivals revolving around the sun and moon. I leafed through, stopping at the entry for Samhain. The ceremony called for a great fire and a blood sacrifice. Cattle were the offering of choice, a gift to Danu. Samhain heralded the coming winter, resting halfway between the autumnal equinox and the winter solstice, and marked the transition to longer nights. Badb was especially revered on this hallowed eve when the dead could walk freely amongst the living and the fae slipped through the worlds eager to trick humans, ferrying them away to be lost in the mists forever. I shivered. It was not a night to be traipsing around in the dark. I closed the book, placing it back upon the shelf, and walked to the door, suddenly anxious for Muirgen to return. Before I could reach the handle, the room tilted away from me. I stumbled, gripping the frame for support.