The Five Stations of Song’s Initiation into the Terrestrial Circle of Sorcery
The Station of Fear tells the story of how Song faced fear as a young girl when she first met Selene after the death of her mother.
The Station of Tutelage takes place as Song seeks wisdom from an old teacher.
The Station of Humility takes place in the town of White Fort after Song has a run in with some unsavoury types.
The Station of Journeys is a revelation about her place in Creation.
The Station of Sacrifice is a scene involving the revelation of a secret held close to her soul.
The Station of Fear
Now she was gone the little circus wagon had a still, solemn air to it. Her daughter sat alone in her shadow, surrounded by memory. It suffused every pore, wrapping the girl in a blanket of remembered motherly love. A single tear ran down her face. It had been several days since her mother passed on and while she continued to tend to the little bubbling pots of herbal magic on the stovetop she did it mostly without thinking, lost in despair.
She had no words. Fear had crept into her throat and stolen them. All she had was here. She’d been born in the wagon and it contained everything she knew and now someone was coming to take it all away.
There was a knock at the wagon door before it was gently pushed open. Song of Falling Rain had her back to it and didn’t look around. She squeezed her eyes shut in the hopes that it might put off the inevitable for a few more precious moments. She didn’t realise she was shaking and gently rocking back and forth. So she didn’t hear the voice to begin with. It had to repeat itself a few times.
“Did your mother teach you anything? I need to know if I should get recruiting. I can’t have this wagon standing idle – it needs to be put to use.”
She fought fear for her voice. The war inside her chest seemed to last an age and took all her strength but when she finally won, she had precious words. “I... can... m-make medicines,” she said. “Maidens tea and arrowroot balm and extract of firethorn. A-and I can mix and distil henbane, and brew numbweed for salve. I – I have the cure for ornery lesions, a potion to enflame the passions of a lover and a tonic to soothe the soul.”
She had dropped into her mother’s traditional cant, the story spun to circus goers seeking potions and alchemical cure-alls.
“Good,” said the figure by the door. “We arrive in Ashcroft in three days, and I need someone who can ply the alchemist’s trade. Do your work, charm the crowds, bring in some jade – and you keep your place here.”
Song mutely nodded. It was more than she could have hoped for. The door quietly closed and Selene walked away. Song carefully wiped the final tear from her cheek before letting it drip from her finger into a small glass-stoppered jar. Tears were precious. This one she would keep.
The Station of Tutelage
It was a pilgrimage she made every year when they passed this point and as the wagons drew level with the barely-visible track, Song called out a cheery farewell to the circus and a promise to catch up with them in a couple of days. She’d packed her usual travelsack of provisions, plus a few more arcane items, but this time instead of battling the branches along the overgrown path she shifted into lynx form when she was only a few feet from the road and loped silently along under the green foliage.
She’d been coming to see Grey Arran for years, ever since she’d met the old man as a young girl while out picking sweetberries. He’d cautioned her against eating the poisonous fruit and she’d laughed and told him she planned to distil the extract into a tonic to relieve flatulence in mospids. It was a fine conversation opener and after a merry afternoon spent exchanging recipes she’d promised to return the next year.
Grey Arran lived alone, two days walk from the nearest village – though he often had visitors who made sure his needs were met. He practiced alchemy as Song did but she’d often suspected he knew more than just the thaumaturgical arts and this time, she hoped he’d show her.
On silent paws she padded up to the cabin and leapt onto the wide windowsill to peer inside. She didn’t want to disturb him if he was sleeping.
“Hello, Song-of-Falling-Rain,” called a voice from inside. He’d always used her whole name, never shortened it, and always ran the syllables together like a waterfall. He was sitting on the bed, blue eyes twinkling.
“So,” he said, looking up at her. “You’ve changed a bit, haven’t you? Mmph. Well? What do you think of it, eh?”
“Hello,” said Song, still in lynx form and deciding to employ a Charm just to try and get at least one surprised look from the old man. “Think of what, exactly?”
It got a raised eyebrow, and he waved a hand at her. “Ex-al-ta-tion,” he spelled out, as if addressing a young child, and squinting at her when she hesitated.
“I... am not sure there are words which would do it justice,” she said, finally.
“Good,” he said. “Right answer. Well, one of the right answers, anyway. I’m sure you’ll figure the rest out in good time.”
Song jumped down from the sill and shifted to her human form before stepping back inside. She knew it probably made little difference but under Grey Arran’s stare she felt somehow as if she were naked between shifts.
“Here,” she said as she removed her rucksack and put it on the table. “I brought food, plus the trades we’d agreed on last time.”
“Thank you, my dear. Very kind, as always,” he said. “Now, I don’t have a lot of time, I’m afraid. You’ve come to ask me about Sorcery, and while I’d normally expect a student to spend many months studying at my knee, you’re going to have to make do with the quick version. I know, I know, you brought payment. Silly girl. I’m not interested in jade, not at my time of life. Pah!”
Song had indeed opened her mouth to broach the subject, but as usual the wily old codger was two steps ahead. She’d never figured out quite how he seemed to know everything, all the time; but she was sure there was some trickery going on. There was indeed a pouch of jade in her pocket – which she hadn’t expected him to accept - but had brought it anyway.
“Why such a hurry?” she asked, surprised.
“Mmph,” he shrugged. “Man of my age, can’t be expected to spend all my time on things like that. Time’s precious, see? Now, come look at this. I drew it for you, makes everything nice an’ clear...”
And so it was that in the little cabin tucked away from the world, Song learnt about sorcery, of the Terrestrial Circle, of the lessons built into the fabric of Creation and how she too could become an initiate of the arcane arts. It was dusk by the time she finally lifted her head from the books and she couldn’t help but yawn as it felt like she’d been studying for weeks.
Grey Arran looked content. “Well done lass, that’ll do for now. You’ve got to get your head around a lot there, so don’t rush at it. Mmph. Who’s the likes of you to listen to an old man like me? Of course you’ll bloody rush it. Just you try not to cause too much damage when you do, eh?”
“Believe me, I’ll do my best...” said Song, still tired and with a head full of wonder.
“Well I ought to get going,” he said to her surprise. She’d never known him travel. He stood up, picked up the rucksack she’d given him and shuffled into a pair of shoes. He gestured towards the doorway, inviting her to leave first, and as she stepped outside she turned to ask him one last question... but he was already gone.
The Station of Journeys
Sitting on the top step of her wagon with her feet dangling off the edge, Song watched the road go by slowly as the circus rolled at yeddim’s pace from one town to the next. They’d been on the road for over a week and were nearly at the next destination: the profitable town of Glassfort. Recognising the ground on which the wagon rolled she braced for a lumpier ride as it pulled off the track and onto grass, and as one of the waggoners unhitched it she slid to her feet, caught the rope he threw her and began tying up and pitching. It was a habit of many years now and she did it without thinking. Travelling was all she’d known. She’d fixed the brake against the wheels and poked a stone out from the spokes when she looked up to find someone watching her familiar routine.
They’d pitched up close to the town, where a few houses had sprung up beyond what was once the wooden palisade of old Glassfort. A woman with a child in a sling was hanging washing along a line stretched beside her house and she regarded Song across the intervening fields. Song could imagine what she was thinking as she bent down to pick the next wrung cloth from the basket at her feet – that the circus spelled trouble, thieves would be about, and the usual fears over children who went missing after the circus had visited. (To Song’s knowledge, the circus had never made away with a child though she suspected more than a few of the circus folk had left a few growing in the bellies of the womenfolk over the years).
Song watched her as she hung the rest of her clothes and turned to tend to the turnips and corn growing in neat rows in the vegetable patch adjacent to the house. With deft fingers she weeded the rows before plucking a couple of fat cobs, stripping the husks and tossing them into a barrel of compost destined for the next crop before disappearing into the house. How strange it must be, Song thought, to live all your life in one place, where the ground never rolled slowly away from you and your home never rocked with a yeddim’s feet. How strange to always know what to find upon waking, to never experience new sights, sounds, places with every morning.
Perhaps this was the lesson, Song reflected. While some had to seek out new adventures, hers were arrayed before her and she’d sampled them all her life... it was just that she’d never experienced the stability of an existence tied to one point on the land. She turned back to the circus, wondering if she was missing something by never having put down roots.
In the centre of the pitching ground a firepit had been dug and several people were piling in wood. With the caravans secure, the yeddim handlers had unharnessed the great beasts and were busy filling a trough of water for them. One of the new recruits was vainly making an attempt to brush one as Ylang and two of the acrobats tried to contain their laughter while Kenina cast a critical eye over Ittur’s latest act. Song realised with a start that her roots were right here. Travelling the land – or not – was not the point. Understanding what was around her was the true lesson.
She closed her eyes and concentrated within. There. For just a moment, she felt herself to be at the very centre of the world, the motionless point around which everything spun. She opened her eyes and saw with renewed understanding how small she really was, a speck within the bounteous mass of Creation. And she permitted herself to dwell, briefly, on how great she would become.
The Station of Humility
This was not how it was supposed to end up. Song winced from the deep cut which ran along one arm: the thug had been faster with a sword than she’d credited. She’d assumed the men were just that – men. She, as Chosen of Luna, would be easily able evade them, right? Not so. They may just have been men, but they were angry men and more than a match for her. She winced again as the coarse rope which bound her wrists bit into skin. If she’d had Olvir’s healing ability... but no. Well, that was a lesson for her, he’d told her often enough she ought to learn, but she’d passed over his suggestion. Why?
Lesson One: Listen to your friends: rating pies over potions doesn’t invalidate their wisdom in other areas.
She’d been curious to know if Caelan had found any potential recruits in White Fort. She’d estimated he must have passed through only a few days before the circus rolled up – perhaps she could catch him; she had something she needed to speak with him about anyway. The sellsword had listened with interest as she gave him a description and he’d suggested she might find what she was looking for at the Shackled Wench tavern. She hadn’t: Caelan wasn’t there but he had been recently as she soon gathered from the angry gang of men who surrounded her and expected retribution.
She’d fought back but it was all over so quickly: they were armed, trained and ready. She’d been beaten, captured, tied up and didn’t know how long she’d been unconscious for when she woke, aching and cold on the stone floor of a large, dark room.
Aside from bruising and the sword slash on her arm she could feel one ankle swelling – only sprained, she hoped – and a pain in her chest from at least one broken rib. She wasn’t alone either, a scar-faced man was leaning against the one and only door watching her like a particularly hungry rhino. She tested the bindings on her wrists and ankles. Ouch. Caelan should have recruited these guys, they knew how to tie good knots.
She could, of course, shift shape to something smaller, but the thug had a large and bulbous spiked mace which he waved at her menacingly when she moved too much and she didn’t think she could shift fast enough to avoid it. Most of her small forms were more fragile than she was a human and she was already in bad shape from the earlier assault.
Lesson Two: Know when you’re beaten.
There was a scuffle behind the door and the mace-wielding thug moved to one side to let three more inside. She recognised them all from the bar. The biggest seemed to be in charge – he was the one who’d punched her in the chest in the fight and she suspected cracked her ribs.
“Shame your pretty boy ain’t here, isn’t it?” he leered, leaning down and dragging her to her knees. “We’ve ‘ad just about enough of strangers round here making fun of us. We gun’ teach them lessons,” he said, with a nasty smile as he grabbed her chin and yanked her face up towards his. His breath smelled putrid even through the foul-tasting rag tied over her mouth and his teeth were a greenish shade of yellow. He had a dark puckered scar on one wrist which looked like it was still healing – evidence of the line of business he was in, Song assumed.
“So how about we have a little fun now, jus’ you an’ me?” He presumably wasn’t counting his friends who were now leaning on the door, eyeing her up like a particularly tender piece of meat. “An then when I’m done you an’ Slimeball here can get to know each other as well.” Oh. He was. She doubted ‘getting to know’ any of them meant a friendly chat over tea. Slimeball and his cohorts grinned greedily as he undid the buckle of his trousers with one hand and pinned Song up against the wall with the other.
Lesson Three: Don’t think it can’t get any worse.
No weapons, tied and gagged, four against one. She couldn’t let them... but she couldn’t fight them, either. Panic welled up and she screamed into the gag. It only seemed to make them keener.
The door slammed open with sudden force, knocking the closest thug into the wall. Before he’d hit the floor the ringleader had turned to see who was interrupting his fun – and took a fist full in the face from the newcomer who shouted something angrily at him in a language she didn’t understand. The demeanour of her would-be rapist changed suddenly.
“Grafner, I didn’...” His sentence was cut off by a second fist to the face as Grafner sent him flying and released a stream of epithets directed to the room in general. Song closed her eyes against the flying spittle until the swearing ran out.
“This... is not what I pay you for! You mangy, pox-ridden little turds! I do not pay you to pick up filthy whores!”
He grabbed Song by one arm and heaved her onto his shoulder and she yelped in pain as ribs crunched. Swinging her round and lifting her in one easy motion he turned to kick the door open again. Well, if this was being rescued, she supposed, it was better than the alternative but gods... it hurt. Her thought was still half formed when Grafner heaved her bodily out the door and into the alley beyond where she hit the flagstones with a meaty sounding crack and crumpled against the wall of the building opposite.
He hadn’t finished with his men, evidently, as he slammed the door on her, turned back to his men and the tirade of abuse continued. Song lay in the street and tried not to pass out from the pain as Grafner berated his minions. She felt dirty, and sick, and ashamed.
Lesson four: Shameful it may be, but it’s a battle survived.
Crawling away is better than not crawling at all. Finally, with no-one in sight and mustering considerable will, Song slipped from her bonds into the form of a snake and slithered slowly and painfully back to the circus and to the safety of her wagon, where, shivering, she bolted both door and window and curled up in her hammock and lay awake for a very long time.
The Station of Sacrifice
She’d asked him to go with her where they wouldn’t be overheard, so they’d headed out a little way into the woods and settled themselves in a mossed clearing. He wasn’t sure what she wanted to tell him, but she’d not seemed particularly happy about it, whatever it was. The night was warm but they set a small fire for light and as they sat, he allowed her time to compose herself.
"Caelan."
Song's eyes were oddly downcast and her usually determined expression was tinged with worry. Caelan looked at her, perplexed, waiting.
"There is something you should know. Something I have..." and she paused, "...kept from you."
Caelan sat up, a little suspicious.
"It is nothing you need concern yourself with," she added quickly, in clipped tones. "I just feel... you should know."
She waited too long, and frustration was apparent in Caelan's expression. Song's brow creased a little as she steeled herself. It was thus in typical fashion and with deliberate perspective that she revealed her truth.
"As we have learned, Lunars - each of them - have a Solar mate. I know who yours is."
Caelan had a sneaking suspicion he knew what she was talking about, but he waited to see if she would tell him. The look on her face spoke volumes: she knew he knew, and all it took was a word spoken.
“...me?”
“Yes.” It was said with a half growl.
He tried to repress inappropriate laughter and was mostly successful, hiding it behind a question: what exactly did it mean to have a Lunar mate? Song didn’t know much, but as the firelight flickered she revealed what she’d learned from Strikes as Thunder and her own investigations.
As revelations went it was – interesting. Something to ponder on, he decided, but not here and now. Somewhere away from Song, probably, he thought as he made his excuses and left, riding back to the circus to rest for the night before travelling onwards. She didn’t follow him – or at least if she had, he didn’t see her.