It's the logical question to ask, after an opening like that. It's logical--but no one's ever had to ask it of Myr, because everyone around him knew. Word spread fast in a Circle; rumor had wings, even more so among a population cut to a third by rebellion and runaways, forced to draw in on itself for survival. He takes a sharp breath in before he can catch himself--but that's the only indication of emotion that gets away from him.
His answer is equally careful: "After I was blinded, my mentor declared I would be more a liability than an asset in battle. She decided--and I agreed--to cease my training."
It had been a matter of months. He'd been near enough to full-trained to stand the line with Hasmal's templars when the uprising began--hoping beyond hope even then that a violent solution wouldn't be necessary. (Thank the Maker he'd never had to learn whether he could raise blade or spell against one of his Circlemates. But for the rest--)
"I didn’t argue with her decision; she was right. But she'd have nothing to do with me after." There were reasons for that, he'd told himself. She'd other apprentices to rush through their training--to relieve their templars in guarding what remained of the Circle--and they'd all been stretched so thin with the needs of survival it was a miracle she'd found time to instruct anyone at all.
Yet it didn't explain her conspicuous avoidance--how she'd be polite with him and no more whenever he'd cause to speak to her. It didn't explain the chill in the voice that had once instructed him in duty and chivalry and tactics, the loss of the woman who'd had more hand in shaping him than his own mother--
(And then one night she'd gone with any apprentice who'd follow her--and not a word of farewell to him.)
He shakes his head, once, and shoves the thought away. "So. I don't claim the title I never earned--she'd be disappointed in me, I think, for clinging to it. But," and here he manages a smile, wry and painful all at once, "powerful as her disappointment is it's not like she can discipline me now; she gave all that up when she left."
no subject
His answer is equally careful: "After I was blinded, my mentor declared I would be more a liability than an asset in battle. She decided--and I agreed--to cease my training."
It had been a matter of months. He'd been near enough to full-trained to stand the line with Hasmal's templars when the uprising began--hoping beyond hope even then that a violent solution wouldn't be necessary. (Thank the Maker he'd never had to learn whether he could raise blade or spell against one of his Circlemates. But for the rest--)
"I didn’t argue with her decision; she was right. But she'd have nothing to do with me after." There were reasons for that, he'd told himself. She'd other apprentices to rush through their training--to relieve their templars in guarding what remained of the Circle--and they'd all been stretched so thin with the needs of survival it was a miracle she'd found time to instruct anyone at all.
Yet it didn't explain her conspicuous avoidance--how she'd be polite with him and no more whenever he'd cause to speak to her. It didn't explain the chill in the voice that had once instructed him in duty and chivalry and tactics, the loss of the woman who'd had more hand in shaping him than his own mother--
(And then one night she'd gone with any apprentice who'd follow her--and not a word of farewell to him.)
He shakes his head, once, and shoves the thought away. "So. I don't claim the title I never earned--she'd be disappointed in me, I think, for clinging to it. But," and here he manages a smile, wry and painful all at once, "powerful as her disappointment is it's not like she can discipline me now; she gave all that up when she left."