Leaving the Master Behind

That autumn, when the weather finally broke toward winter, Blaise and I returned to my long-abandoned lessons. I studied with greater intensity now because I had the hunger, and because I so wanted to make up for lost time—committing the stories and songs of our people to memory; sharpening my powers of observation; increasing my store of knowledge about the Earth and her ways, and those of all her creatures; practicing the harp; delving deep into mysteries and secrets of earth and air, fire and water.

But it soon became apparent that in the realm of things men call magic, my knowledge outstripped his. Gern-y-fhain had taught me well; what is more, the Hill People possessed many secrets even the Learned Brotherhood did not know. These I possessed as well.

The winter proceeded, one cold leaden day following another, until at last the sun began to linger longer in the sky and the land to warm beneath its rays. It was then that I reached the end of Blaise’s tutelage. “There is nothing more I can give you, Hawk,” he told me. “On my life, I cannot think of another thing to teach. Yet, there are many you might teach me.”

I stared at him for a moment. “But there is so much—I know so little.”

“True,” he said, his lean face lighting in a grin. “Is that not the beginning of true wisdom?”

“I am in earnest, Blaise. There must be more.”

“And I am in earnest too, Myrddin Bach. There is nothing more that I can teach you. Oh, a few of the minor stories of our race perhaps; but nothing of import.”

“I cannot have learned it all,” I protested.

“True again. There is much more to be learned, but I am not the one to teach you. Whatever else there is, you must learn it on your own.” He shook his head lightly. “Do not look so downcast, Hawk. It is no disgrace for pupil to leave master behind. It happens….”

— Merlin, Chapter 14