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“You’ve never been to a Circle, as far as I can tell, yet you’re remarkably skilled. Were you self-taught?” inquired Lady Vivienne. The question seemed innocuous enough, but to Asaara it was like a spring-loaded trap. “A Tal-Vashoth Saarebas trained me,” she replied automatically. The words felt like ash on her tongue. Saarebas was such a foul word, but it served it’s purpose as a smokescreen. A simple lie for a much more complicated truth.
Saarebas was a kind man with a gentle heart and easy laugh. A man with scars from chains and sewn lips, a gift of the Qun. He taught her to use magic to aid others before herself.
She said Saarebas but she meant father.
Saarebas was a woman of few words and but much wisdom. A woman forever uprooted by the prejudice and fear of others. She taught her that magic is a gift and not a curse.
She said Saarebas but she meant aunt.
Saarebas were apostates sheltering in her parents’ house, hunted because of a gift they never asked for. They came and went, and few were free for long. They taught her that sometimes it is better to run than fight.
She said Saarebas but she meant friends.
She wanted to elaborate, to testify for those she called family and friends. But the world is not kind to mages, no matter where she turned. Even now her own safety balanced on a knife’s edge; she will not risk anyone else. Someday she may speak of them, recount fondly of the mages who have shaped her life.
But not today.