Free Avelynn: The Edge of Faith by Marissa Campbell Page A

now. Homeless and wandering, I craved direction and guidance.
    My ancestors believed in one Goddess with four separate and distinct personalities. I could appeal to a particular aspect when I was praying or celebrating, or I could embrace and entreat the whole. Starting at Samhain on November 1st, there were nine major observances—auspicious times to connect with Her. I leafed through the thick pages. When I was younger, I emulated my mother as she performed the rituals. I recalled only a few formal rules for observing the sacred days. I could hear my mother’s voice. “We must always cast a circle. Invite the Goddess to attend our ceremony by honoring each aspect of her personality at each of the four directions. Weapons are not permitted within the ritual space, and we must always close the circle. Thank the Goddess for her presence.”
    My mother used to tell tall tales of ancient rites. Acts that involved animal guides, horned beasts, and blood—lots of sacrificial blood. The ceremonies elicited frenzied ecstatic states amongst the participants. At the time, the surreal images and stories didn’t make any sense to me. I understood now that they involved acts of wild sexual congress. That was how my mother had been conceived. The outcome of Muirgen and Bertram’s union determined the success of the crops, the harvest, and the health and vitality of the people and their livestock.
    I grabbed a mug and filled it to the brim with mead. The book was written in code. When Muirgen had first shown me the tome, the scribbles looked like nothing more than gibberish. It had taken me a while to figure out the cipher, but as I looked at the sweeping script now, the words formed in my mind’s eye.
    According to the book, there were specific ways to honor each of the sun or moon days. My mother had followed her own path. Sometimes we would drum; other times we would dance. Often we would just sit and hold hands in silence. The world would hum and buzz around me until I floated in the pulse of it all. Muirgen had said there was no right or wrong way of honoring the Goddess. Perhaps I could meld a little bit of everything.
    I sat back and swirled the golden liquid in my cup, my gaze flitting across the stoppered urns. I suspected the drink helped the seeker reach a sacred place, creating terrifying and fantastical visions. Under those circumstances, it would give access to the dark carnal places sanctioned by societal norms. I saw things when I drank Muirgen’s potion. I didn’t know what exactly, but I swore the Goddess appeared before me in all her forms: child, young maid, wise woman, and crone. I’d never experienced anything like that before.
    I drained the contents of my cup and set it down. It was time to go.
    I wrapped Muirgen’s book back in its silk shroud and tucked it away, fingering the terracotta urns, their mysterious and potent contents concealed within. Muirgen had said she would meet me in the Otherworld. What could that possibly mean, and how was the wine supposed to transport me there? I shuddered and tucked one of the jars into my satchel.
    I lifted the pouch containing my divining bones. The last time I’d used them they foretold doom. I had asked about my future and if I was to marry the new suitor who had sought my hand. I marveled that I had once considered giving Demas a chance.
    The silk was soft and smooth in my palm, pleasant. Did I want to cast the Ogham again? Did I really want to know? Everything predicted had come to pass. I hesitated, hovering over the chest. I wanted to drop them back inside and lock them away.
    What was the point of knowing the future if I couldn’t avert my fate? I had asked myself this question over and over again. Once, I had challenged Bertram. He told me little could be done to change the course of events. He questioned whether we were meant to. At the time, I had obstinately refused to listen. I wanted to believe we were in charge of our own destiny, each decision,