Disciple of War Disciple of War (Art of the Adept #4) - Michael G. Manning Page 0,147

“I suppose that makes you my little sister, eh?”

She frowned. “Don’t put that in my head! I don’t want to be your family in quite that sort of way.”

Tiny puckered his lips and winked. “Give us a kiss, sis!”

“I’m never kissing you again if you keep that up, you great lout!” she snapped. She used the reins to slow so she could drop behind them, then she kicked the mare forward so that she was riding on Will’s other side, away from the squire. Then she returned to her previous point, “What I’m trying to tell you is that you wouldn’t have taken such a risk if she wasn’t already an important part of your life.”

He sighed. “I get what you’re trying to say, but I don’t think you understand how truly alien she is.”

“I’m not saying she isn’t dangerous,” said Janice. “But change comes from connection.”

Will almost stopped his horse. He could feel a deeper importance in Janice’s last line. “Explain that.”

“People change each other through their connections. Strangers don’t really affect one another. Connections come from emotions, from relationships, and they’re fundamentally based on love or hate, which is sort of the same thing really. You’ve told me in the past that the fae don’t change, but just a minute ago you said she did. All this time you’ve been insisting that she’s your aunt, even though everyone told you otherwise. Today’s the first time you said she wasn’t, and it didn’t sound believable. You made it real. You made her your family, even if it was just through stubbornness.

“The fae can’t change. That’s what they taught us, and it was true until now. The vampires didn’t change her, you did. Somehow you touched her heart,” finished Janice.

Will let the words sink in. He’d have to think about it more. Glancing over, he saw Tiny looking proud. While Janice was looking away from him, his friend mouthed a few silent words at Will, ‘She’s smarter than you.’

An evil thought came to Will, and he didn’t waste time acting on it. Holding his friend’s gaze, he took on an air of outrage. “Damn, Tiny! What are you staring at? Don’t leer at her like that!”

Janice’s head whipped around, and Tiny’s face went red as he stammered and tried to defend himself, “I-I wasn’t! I swear!” For a split-second his eyes darted toward Will, promising painful retribution.

“What were you looking at?” she asked, already fully aware of his innocence. Janice loved to torment Tiny, and she wasn’t about to pass up the chance Will had given her.

“Not you!”

“What then?” she demanded.

Tiny’s eyes roamed about for a moment, then settled lower.

“My hips?” suggested Janice.

“Your horse!”

Will snickered and Tiny glared daggers at him. “Look at her withers,” Will enthused. “You don’t see lines on a mare like that very often.” He let his eyes linger on Janice’s horse, or perhaps her legs, making his gaze deliberately ambiguous as he affected a lewd expression. “A lovely filly indeed.”

Thunderturnip snorted and tossed his head, seeming to agree.

Tiny gave his mount a confused look. “You aren’t helping.”

“So, it wasn’t the mare?” asked Janice.

“It was,” declared Tiny.

“You find my horse more interesting to look at than me. Is that what you’re saying?” she teased.

Tiny growled in frustration, and Janice couldn’t keep up the act any longer. She laughed, Will laughed, and Thunderturnip nickered along with them.

Chapter 40

Night fell, and they continued to ride. “You really intend to ride all night long?” asked Tiny for perhaps the fifth time.

Will’s lips formed a quiet smile. “You didn’t have to come with me.”

“Don’t make me knock you off that pony,” returned his friend.

Will’s horse was not a pony. She was a plain brown mare of perfectly average size, the same horse he’d primarily ridden since losing his first horse to the trap on the mountain road to Klendon. They’d tried to convince him to take a more hot-blooded courser for speed, or even a destrier, similar to the one Tiny now rode, but Will had refused. He had no intention of running races or taking his steed into battle. He had no idea what the mare’s name had been originally, but he called her Plum for reasons he couldn’t identify.

Plum wasn’t a standout in any particular way. She wasn’t nervous or flighty like a courser, nor did she amble with a smooth gait like the expensive palfrey Janice now rode. Plum was what the stablemen called a ‘rouncey,’ a simple all-rounder who did well whether you put her in