I was born on the night of the double moon nearly forty years ago, cold and lifeless. It was spring, and the snow had just melted. My mother, Clemence, had been sitting next to the stream well into the evening she had gone into labor. My father Rudel, a woodsman, had made a fire next to the stream to keep my mother warm as they waited. It was when the moon rose high above the mountain cypresses that my mother called for the medicine woman, Synwye.

Synwye had prepared for stillbirth, and forced a warm tincture down my throat. She then told my mother to bathe my body in the stream every hour until the moons were at their apex. My mother, while not educated in magicks, was wise and heeded Synwye’s directions. She bathed me every hour in the stream next to the mountain cypresses until her hands were numb and she could no longer bear the pain. It was only after the sixth time she bathed me that my flesh gained its color and my lungs could take in the air. I would be my parents’ only child, and it was only after tasting the first yew did I understand the nature of my re-birth.

Being born under the double moon, a sign of auspice for many of the kingdoms of man, certain expectations were held of me. My mother would often gossip to the other women of the village “Perhaps she’ll become a medicine woman or the mayor.” It is from her I learned how to barter and how to count, and the names of the twelve saints that man does not scorn. It is from her I first heard the stories of how magic came to be when Knowledge’s tears turned to rain and made the first oceans and lakes and streams. It is from her that I learned to spin thread on the wheel for the roughspun cloth of shrouds and the wax-covered coats which repelled the rain during the spring and autumn.

I would walk with my father and he would teach me about the woods. It was from him I learned that the tree which acorns come from is the oak, and that it was best for firewood. It was he who first showed me the yew, and told me I must never chop that tree. It was from him I learned to tap the maple for its sap, and to boil it for syrup to use in medicines and eat with breads.

Using our spare threnits my parents paid Synwye for early tutelage, as they had great expectations for me. The last child born under the double moon had become a successful merchant in the West and had brought much prosperity with the gold hilants he had given to the village in recent years. Because of my parents' investment I could read by the time I was eight, making me the only literate person in our family of three.

My parents would purchase me books from the passing merchants and peddlers, and when asked why a child might need this book they would reply “she is a child of a double moon and because of that good things are fated for her.” In my eleventh year I was apprenticed to the apothecary, Synwye, who had brought me into this world. I learned to concoct tinctures for headaches, pain, and for coughs. It is from Synwye I knew which plants I was to tell children to never touch. It was during this time I first learned about the saints, beyond what mere children are told during the feasts of Icegrowth and Sunslength.

I had observed Synwye would pray to a saint for every poultice made and medicine ball she coated. Soon I too learned to pray to Mentilian when grinding iron and boiling bandages for wounds, for as the servant of Justice he cares the most for those wounded undeservingly. I learned to pray to Paronian when the young expectant mothers came to us with ails of nausea, for she serves Fertility and wishes for all things to multiply. I learned to pray to Hazalian for those without threnits, for he seeks for all men and women to prosper. There were prayers for the other saints. Kalitian for unknown ailments, Urostian for those who had been crippled, and Borinean for the people who came to us out of desperation.

It was my fourteenth year that sealed my fate, that I am certain of, for the chords of the wretched song decreed it to me as I lay in the space between life and death on the black altar. For in my fourteenth year I did hear Synwye pray to Yourinis. It was late in the evening, on the night of a double moon, that a noblewoman came to us crying.

I remember her well. Her hair was long and blonde, and her robes were velvet and silk and decorated with golds and silvers of I had only ever seen on the moons. On her hands she bore rings of platinum and rubies, but it was her face I remember most. It had been warped by a foul potion her husband had thrown upon it in a rage. She lived in the keep nearly a week to the south, and had lied to her husband saying she was going home to visit her family. She pleaded with Synwye to help her. ‘Please’ she said “This cannot go on. He yells at me when he is drunk, he hits our children. He has killed dogs for small indignities. I cannot live like this. Either I must go, or he.”

Synwye silently opened the windows, and quenched the fire. The only light by which to work came from the twin-mooned sky. She waited to speak until the wind and mist slithered into the apothecary. ‘Lady of this land’ her voice sounded almost like wings of dragonflies ‘I will not take your gold, your money, or favors from you. You have already given the payment of your beauty to Yuorinis.’ Synwye snapped directions at me to get nightshade, yew, hemlock, and the seed of an apple. I gathered all of these things, and ground them together with the pestle. Synwye took the pestle from me before I was done, and spoke a prayer under her breath.

“Maiden, singer of wretched songs. A price has been paid. Thou who serve the planter of the first yew that brought death, and with it life, will call upon beetles and wasps and maggots to the body claimed by this seed. From it will sprout a stunted tree that births only fetid fruit by which thy creations may eat, and remind those not yet buried that one day too they shall meet thy patron, Decay. For this seed is not one of justice, but of fate.”

She handed the woman the ball of poison and told her to give it to the husband the next time he was drunk so she could tell her husband that it was a cure for hangovers. The noblewoman left the village that night. In two weeks we received news that the marquis was dead.

“You must never speak of what you saw here” she said “for the thirteenth saint is feared and scorned. She does not serve the mortal realm, and for this man does not worship her. In her wake comes rot and death and all things bitter, as these are the things that come to us from Decay, the planter of the first yew. You may be the child of a double moon, but that does not mean you cannot fail your dreams and fall into a life that only knows bitterness. You must be steadfast in your discipline, for hubris is often the flaw of those born under your auspices.” It was not until my sixteenth year that I spoke the name of the thirteenth saint aloud.

It was also in my fourteenth year that I saw magic for the first time. It was during the winter before the year melted anew that a skald and his sled dogs came through the village peddling fireworks, sweets, and toys. It was only during the feast of the last night of Icegrowth that the skald performed small magicks and told stories for the amusement of the village. The snowflakes molded into the shapes of butterflies, and passing by the laughing children shone yellow from the penetrating firelight. The stars sank to the ground as if they were held on thread as he sang the story of Ghalstorin, the saint of promises and oaths, who vowed to cut at the blanket of night until only daylight remained. It is from his oath that we have stars to look upon to guide us through the night.

The skald spoke of his own travels to the court of Heurlynth where he sang and danced with magicks for the Laustuun and the other, lesser-courtesans of the Granite Court. He poeticized the magicks that could heal wounds and disease. He spoke of witches that could conjure water from the aloe plant. It was because of this night before Firstmelt that I desired to learn these magicks before I became the medicine-woman of the village.

I spoke to the skald once, before he left, to request that he teach me his magicks. “These arts to you I cannot beget. Dangerous are the powers that reach behind the curtain. Besides, my magicks are simple trickery, and will be of no use to you. If you truly desire these things, head across the border to Moringia, to the city of Arimens and seek those who praise Kalitian. A practitioner may apprentice you there, if you show coin and skill.”

Until my sixteenth year, did I save the threnits Synwye paid. I did not spend them upon trifles any longer, for I had to save them for apprenticeship. However I did not laze in my studies of apothecary. Seeking Synwye’s recommendation, however hesitant it might be, I worked to learn everything she knew. For if I was to leave for Arimens I must be knowledgeable enough to impress the most powerful wizard. Yet, she would not let me touch the bark of the yew, the leaves of the nightshade, nor water hemlock. So until my sixteenth year I did not touch the yew, nor nightshade, nor water hemlock. I avoided eating apples, for they are the favored wombs of Decay.

I was to be a mage, and must avoid the forbidden magicks. Synwye often lectured me on geography and culture, for she had traveled much when she was younger. I dreamed that I too would meet the elves of the Deep Woad, and glimpse their porcelain masks they dare not remove around mankind. I believed that one day I might petition the Laustuun and the other courtesans of the Granite Court for their patronage. I dreamt because I was a child, and did not yet understand what dreams meant. Synwye was critical of my dreams.

“Child you mustn’t study magicks because for you it will only lead to bitter things in life,” she would tell me time and time again.

Until my sixteenth year, did I dream, practice, and save. Until my sixteenth year I did not speak the name Yuorinis; nor did I touch the bark of a yew, nightshade, or water hemlock. I believed I would never learn the bitter and forbidden magicks of the necromancer, for I knew that for as long as I did not touch the yew, the nightshade, or hemlock that I would not bring Decay to me. I would only make medicines for coughs, headaches, and wounds. I would only create tinctures for pain and nausea. It was not until one fateful day in my sixteenth year that I touched these poisons again. It was not until one fateful day in my sixteenth year that I did speak the name Yuorinis in prayer. It was not until one fateful day I fell to the hubris that troubles all men born under the double moon.