Page 18 of Daughter of the Ninth Line, Part Three

Seventeen

Vox

I hated that 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 are starving. We need help.”

Baron Ingmire of the Fifth Line was tapping his glass impatiently. “And what kind of aid is it you require?” His tone was 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 time with 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.

Beside him, looking angrily at the table beneath his hands, must have been one of Avalon’s older brothers.

I’d never paid much attention to him before, but now, I appraised him critically.

Though there was nothing of Avalon in her father, there was definitely a small familial resemblance with the brother.

I’d forgotten his name, and it was irritating me. Bart? Brett?

No, Bach. As if he could feel my eyes on him, he looked up, his irises the same dark blue as Avalon’s.

His lips thinned, and he gave me a cool expression.

I gave him my own haughty one in return.

I couldn’t let on that I knew his sister.

If my father got even a whiff of an idea that anyone mattered to me, he’d make their life hell.

Finally, the Conclave concluded. We all stood quickly—the urge to be away from this place and the other Barons was almost universal.

I watched the Ninth Line as they left, and it looked like the younger Halhed was trying to convince his father to offer aid, but I knew from my spies there was no aid to offer.

They had no discernable crops, and Baron Halhed had drunk most of his Barony’s coffers dry.

At least Bach Halhed was trying to do the right thing. It took everything inside me not to steal the air from Roman Halhed’s lungs and let him suffocate to death, but now wasn’t the time. Not in front of the rest of the Conclave. Not with a power that was so easily traced back to my Line.

But he was living on borrowed time.

My eyes slid to Hayle again, and I saw he was also glaring at the Halheds, his eyes flashing with a rage I knew viscerally.

Following my father down the hall, I could tell from the posture of his spine that he was angry.

Livid, even. He didn’t like it when the Conclave moved against him, even if it was to save the lives of other citizens of Ebrus.

In his mind, he’d made a declaration, and what Viktor Taeme had done was tantamount to treason.

Our palace was connected to the Hall of Ebrus by a long marble walkway.

In between the two buildings was a courtyard, complete with large fountains and topiaries so high, it felt like they spiraled into the sky.

Manicured gardens perched in neat square beds and were maintained almost to death.

Not even a stray leaf dared to grow out of place.

As soon as we were through the doors of the palace, my father swiped a hand and launched a vase across the room. Selling that vase would have fed a village in the West for a month. My father really was a psychopath.

“Those fucking leeches, ” he seethed. “Always wanting more. They shouldn’t even have their own Baronies. If I wanted some fucking wasteland in the middle of nowhere, I’d take it from them and burn it to the ground.”

I pushed down the disgust I felt about sharing DNA with this man. “At least the Conclave ended in a win-win. They get their aid from someone else’s pocket, and we don’t have to lift a single finger.”

My father whirled on me, and immediately, I knew I’d said the wrong thing. I felt his air snake around my throat, lifting me high, until only the tips of my toes touched the ground. Enough to strangle me, but not kill me. It was his favorite position to punish me in.

“Win-win?” he growled. “What part of that fucking fiasco felt like winning to you?”

I was prepared for the airlash—one of hundreds I’d received in my life—but still, I flinched. I hated that I flinched.

“They went against me, their ruler. Their First Line. They forget their place, but I can bide my time. A couple of misplaced ships full of food going down will end this dissension once and for all.” His air power gripped my throat tighter, and my vision started to go splotchy around the edges.

“You forget your place too. But reminding you will be much easier and far more enjoyable.”

The lashes began in earnest, one after another with no reprieve in between, and I screwed my eyes shut. I couldn’t be sure when they ended, because consciousness escaped me first.