Avelynn by Marissa Campbell Page B

place at dawn, but we had to set up camp and gather enough wood for the ceremonial fire. The moment we left Wedmore, the sky clouded over. By the time we reached the coast, a misty drizzle veiled the land. We tethered the horses and assembled our tent on a relatively flat area of ground, just within the thick overgrowth of ancient forest. The canopy was dense. Ferns, their delicate fronds reaching out to capture the fleeting daylight, dominated the ground cover.
    The light rain barely penetrated the trees, and we had little problem finding a large quantity of good, dry timber. We lit a fire to keep the chill at bay and ate a small snack of dried meat, cheese, and bread, treating ourselves to freshly roasted fiddleheads picked from the burgeoning shoots around us.
    If I had been traveling with an entourage, my tent would have been grand. A bed, several chests, tables, and benches would have been brought and assembled inside. But with only Bertram and me, our lodging was primitive. I rolled out the woolen bundle that served as my bed and pulled the hood of my cloak up and over my head to stay warm, nestling between the covers.
    Despite the meager comforts, I reveled in the freedom of being alone with Bertram—a woman in charge of my own destiny, away from the men who threatened to control my life. They were engulfed by ignorance and fear, and it was a blessing to know and experience my own power. And I would embrace that power tomorrow as a daughter of the Goddess.
    I turned to Bertram to thank him for helping me, expecting to find him cocooned in his own bedding, but he was sitting against a log, his back rigid. “What is it?” I asked.
    â€œI will not help you tomorrow.”
    I sat up. “What do you mean? It’s the equinox!” As druid, his role in our rituals was just as important as mine as priestess.
    â€œI mean, you will have to do this alone. I’ll not encourage this any longer.”
    â€œEncourage what?”
    â€œFollowing the Goddess is a path fraught with danger. The Christians do not tolerate our faith. I would see you turn your considerable talents and energy to something else.”
    We’d had this argument before, when my father wanted me converted. Bertram had refused my father’s wishes, but only because I had been adamant. I would not be coerced into becoming a Christian. I had thought the matter closed. “You promised my mother to continue my learning.”
    â€œYes, I did, and I’ve taught you all I know.”
    I doubted that and glared at him.
    He shrugged. His mouth was set in a thin line. “With my drum, I will keep the rhythm. I will chart the pace, but you will have to do the ceremony alone. You do not need me for this.”
    I had watched my mother dance as Bertram chanted; I had even joined in, dancing as I grew older, but … “I’ve never done this alone.”
    He smiled. “You will know what to do.” He wriggled into his covers and rolled over, his back to me.
    I grumbled my dissent and begrudgingly settled down to sleep, my mind alternating between fits of confidence and doubt. I frowned, wondering if this was some sort of test. In fairness, I’d have to do this on my own eventually. I just expected more notice, more time to prepare. I had a rough outline of what was expected. The rest I would just have to improvise.
    The drizzle stopped at some point in the night, and as the first hint of morning infused the darkness with the potential of shape and form, it revealed a heavy, impenetrable fog. Tripping over roots, rocks, and a terrain that had somehow sprouted treacherous mounds and divots overnight, we staggered back and forth from the camp to the beach, arms laden with firewood.
    Protected within a small inlet, the air was still. Not a breath of wind stirred the thick wall of gray. Even the sea itself was calm, its soft murmur expanding and fading as the gentle waves ebbed and flowed. We arranged the wood to