Page 97 of Daughter Of The Ninth Line
“I think the whole Third Line knows that Hayle is my boyfriend, but only Lucio knows that I’m their version of, like, a soulmate. Neither of them know that we suspect some kind of magic is at play. They wouldn’t take that well.”
Viana let out a long whistle. “Adopting you is the most interesting thing the Twelfth Line’s ever done.” She wrapped me in a hug. “Just know that whatever happens, we’ve got your back.”
Acacia hugged me from the other side. “Even if we do think you’re fucking insane.”
chapter fifty-nine
Vox
I hatedthat I was expected to attend the Conclaves. I had no input into the outcomes; I was just a ceremonial weapon my father trotted out to all the other Barons.Look at my son.Even he is more powerful than you can ever imagine.
It was true. I was probably stronger than all the other people in this room, and though I wouldn’t admit it—even under punishment of death—that included my father. I was probably stronger than even my brother, though I’d never attempted to go head to head with him, mostly because I didn’t want his First Heir mantle any more than I’d like my cock chopped off with a rusty spoon. So I showed my magic at seventy percent of my full capabilities and never fought back when my father exercised his own against me.
Irrespective of all my family baggage, today’s Conclave was worse than most. The Eleventh and Twelfth Lines had called it concurrently, and the topic was the effect of the extended drought in the Western Baronies. As usual, my father was being a condescending prick about it, even though he considered himself the ruler of all of Ebrus. He only ever wanted to rule the people he deemed worthy, and no one after the Sixth Line made the cut in his eyes.
Maybe once upon a time, I’d been the same. Apparently, Avalon’s little friends had softened me to their plight.
No, possibly even before Avalon. It was hard to sit in the food hall every Conscription Day and not be affected by their sunken cheeks, or the way they fell on their food like they might never see it again. You’d have to be a monster not to have pity, at least.
Unfortunately for the Eleventh and Twelfth Lines, my father was indeed a monster.
“The management of the Baronies are the purview of each Line, Baroness Ulsen. We don’t want to start a precedent of interference,” he said with faux sympathy.
Ingrid Ulsen might have been the only female Baron on the Conclave, but it didn’t make her soft. She was a ballbuster who would happily go into battle for her people, and wasn’t cowed by the fact she was the only person around the table who had no magic. Although most of the Lower Lines had barely discernible magic, the Twelfth Line had none.
My father hated Ingrid Ulsen. Partly because he didn’t think the Twelfth Line should even have a place at the Conclave, partly because she was a woman, but mostly because she didn’t cower in his presence. I respected her all the more for it. If only I could exhibit that much spine.
Baron Jacob Abaster, of the Eleventh Line, glared with barely concealed venom at my father and his closest cronies. “Devastating weather conditions can hardly be considered a management issue, Baron Vylan. This is a once-in-a-hundred-year drought that affects us mainly in the Western edges of Ebrus. If you could send us even a moderate amount of aid, we could survive until the drought breaks. People are dying—the elderly, the sick, and the young. Our livestock are starving.” He looked stricken. “Our people arestarving.We need help.”
Baron Ingmire of the Fifth Line was tapping his glass impatiently. “And what kind of aid is it you require?” His tonewas bored, like he was trying to hurry this all along. A sentiment I might have agreed with, once upon a time.
Jacob Abaster looked between all. “Food would be ideal, especially things like grain, dried legumes, anything that can last for a long time in dry storage. Dried meat. Powdered milk for the young. Money, if that is simpler.” He looked at Baron Rovan from the Fourth Line. “Barring that, we’d like to borrow some strong magic users from the Fourth Line to break the drought over the western peninsula.”
Roderick Rovan was a weasel of a man. Powerful enough to have ideas of grandeur, he was of the same ilk as my father. He curled his lip at the Barons of the Eleventh and Twelfth Lines. “Once-in-a-hundred-year drought, you say? What did you do last time this happened?”
Baroness Ulsen speared him with a glare so hot, it was a wonder he didn’t incinerate on the spot. “We died, Baron Rovan. Both Lines dwindled to barely a hundred people from each Line.”
Someone muttered about them not taking long to replenish their population, and I did my best not to frown. It was a bias long held by the Upper Lines—that the Eleventh and Twelfth Lines had no talents, except lying on their backs and procreating.
Baron Rovan gave her a smarmy expression. “Perhaps that’s the Goddess’s will. My Line is loath to interfere in the plans of a higher power.”
He was taunting them. The Upper Lines didn’t really care about the will of anyone except themselves, but the Lower Lines—especially the Twelfth Line—rooted much of their society in their honoring of the Goddess Ebretha.
My eyes slid to Hayle and his father, Viktor. Hayle’s jaw was clenched, but he was doing a good job of burying his real thoughts deep down. It was only because I’d spent so much timewith him recently that I knew he was imagining flaying Rovan alive, or perhaps letting his hounds feast on the man’s entrails.
He looked at his father, and once again, jealousy pierced me in the chest. A person would have to be blind to miss the way Baron Taeme adored his sons. He was proud of them, not just as extensions of himself, but of the men they were.
Hayle and his father had a silent conversation, their eyes meeting, but I was paying close enough attention that I saw Baron Taeme give a nearly imperceptible nod. Maybe they could speak to each other mentally? Maybe they just knew each other well enough to convey their thoughts with an expression alone?
“I find it hard to believe that the Goddess would wish her progeny dead, Rovan. And if she did, I find it hard to believe that it would be her most devout followers. Others, perhaps, would be more understandable.” Well, you didn’t have to be a genius to hear that jab at the Fourth Line by Baron Taeme. “The Third Line will send aid to the West. If the Baron of the Seventh Line is amiable, we could send food directly across the ocean from our stores in Hamor and save weeks of transportation.”
Everyone turned to look at Baron Lunderov. The Seventh Line lived on the island of Bine, in the middle of the Alutian Sea, right between the Eastern and Western portions of Ebrus, yet somehow, not a part of either. They were enigmatic people, prone to staying in their own world and leaving politics to the rest of us. They were mostly fishermen, who caught the vast majority of Ebrus’s seafood. With their ocean-reading abilities, even their small amount of magic kept their Line prosperous.
Lunderov narrowed his eyes on Baron Taeme. Clearly, he didn’t like being put on the spot. But I could see his eyes soften as he looked over at the Barons of the Eleventh and Twelfth Lines. “Of course. The Seventh will also provide aid and transportation.”
After that, more and more of the Lines offered aid, and I watched my father’s face get stormier and stormier. In the end, almost everyone from the Fifth Line onwards offered aid, with the notable exception of the Ninth Line.
Avalon’s father was a large man with a sickly pallor, probably from years of heavy drinking. I couldn’t see any resemblance to Avalon at all. She was beautiful and light, yet this man looked like he sucked the goodness—and the ale—from every room he entered.
