Indik confined himself to pitiless witticisms on her martial stupidity, although by the third day Maerad no longer dropped her sword when she tried to parry his thrusts, and once almost made it through his defense. On that occasion, he merely doubled his sarcasm, and Maerad’s lips set in a grim line. She wished she had the swordcraft to make a fool of him, but he could disarm her as easily as if she were a five-year-old child. Although she always enjoyed her hour’s ride on Imi, Maerad much preferred her mornings with Dernhil, which were opening a new and exciting world. Dernhil was delighted by her quickness; within a few days she could read a short passage or poem with relative ease. It was as if, he said, he were merely reminding her of something she had forgotten, rather than teaching her something she didn’t know. He was a very different teacher from Mirlad: not nearly so stern, and more apt to encourage with praise. Maerad blossomed under his tutelage. She would look around his study and sigh.
