Disclaimer: It's probably quite clear that I have no ownership claims to the characters, world, etc. I'm simply playing in the world Ms. Pierce created.
Author's Notes: Written for the Seanfhocal Circle, Challenge #28 at The Dancing Dove.
"On Ponies"
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I wanted to do it. I really, really wanted to, so much that the temptation was almost beyond my resistance. Only the little reminder that dumping an entire keg of spiced cider over the head of the Commander of the Queen's Riders would not be conducive to my continued existence kept my feet put.
But it didn't stop me from wanting to do it.
"Just imagine it, Miri. The Riders could do so much more if we started mounting groups on horses instead of ponies."
At Midwinter of all times he picks me to start lecturing at. Me! Funny how being promoted can make a person's ego swell to about ten times its normal size. Evin Larse—pardon, that should be Commander Evin Larse—still hasn't gotten off his high horse.
Gods, that was a horrible pun. He's starting to rub off on me. Spending eleven years with a person has that unfortunate side affect.
He has recently become enamored with the concept of warhorses. It must have been the image of gallant heroes leading victorious armies on their huge black steeds that caused him to lose all common sense whatsoever. I suppose "With banners flapping and pony prancing he rode to war" doesn't sound all that terrific in the history books.
His family was Players, after all. They like all that extravagant nonsense. I try not to hold it against him, but he makes it difficult at times like these.
"They almost had to give me a horse when we were trainees, remember?"
How could I forget? It had been the most terrifying and liberating year of my life. I make proper noises of agreement, but he doesn't seem to hear. He's gone off into another spiel on the finer points of using horses.
"Evin!"
A worried look comes across his face and I remember why I'm still friends with this flamboyant man. I almost let him keep talking.
Almost.
This infatuation with horses needs to end.
"The Riders use ponies for a reason," I try to crush his dream as gently as I possibly can. "They're small enough to get in places horses can't. They eat less. They don't go lame as often. Sure, some of them are nasty little buggers, but you have to admit they're more clever."
He seems to consider this. Then he says, "The Bazhir horses are small. Perhaps we can convince a few tribes to sell us a string or two."
Curse it, I've lost him.
"There's nothing wrong with our ponies! You want warhorses, but what's wrong with…with…" I nearly lose my entire drink while waving my arms about for emphasis. "What's wrong with warponies!"
The moment it leaves my mouth I wished I hadn't said it. Brilliant, Miri. Really brilliant. Best little gem you've come up with yet.
" 'Warponies?' " Evin laughs. From the grin that splits his face I know I've turned a shade red enough to match the decorations. "Miri, that's ridiculous. I think you've had a little too much of this." He plucks the glass of mulled wine from my hand.
I haven't touched a drop of it since he cornered me at this end of the mess hall. Someone, anyone, I don't care who, save me! This is perhaps the one and only time I've ever wished he was paying attention to the latest court beauty and not me. The situation has sunk that low.
"You know I appreciate your opinion, Miri, but I think I might have something going here. What if we bred Bazhir horses to our ponies? Or something else, maybe the Arenaver racehorses for speed?"
Honestly, there is no arguing with this man. That keg of cider is calling my name. Time for a different tactic—one that doesn't involve upended beverages.
"Since there's no talking you out of this," I say with a sigh, silently adding, yet, "Why not try to buy a few Conmaris?" I give him my most innocent smile.
"Conmaris?" he asks.
Wavewalker, is he seriously considering it? "That breed they have on the coast. I heard they're very dependable," I answer vaguely.
He beams at me. "Dependable. Dependable is good—like you. I'll look into it. I knew you'd start to see things my way. This is going to work out, just you wait."
He turns to leave, tipping two fingers at me in salute, but with an actor's sense for time he spins back around and presses a quick kiss on my lips. A flourish of his hand and a flower appears in front of my face.
"Midwinter luck, Miri."
Then he's gone. I stare stupidly at the flower, a yellow rose—a symbol of friendship.
I wonder if he's going to take it back when he finds out Conmaris are ponies.
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