Page 9 of Daughter of the Ninth Line: Part One

Hayle laughed, looking at the animals near our feet. “You have yourself a loyal companion. He came to find my hounds when he realized you were stuck. You should name him, though. It’s a show of respect.” With that, he let out another low whistle and turned. “I’ll be seeing you, Avalon Halhed. Stay out of trouble and away from the bastard prince.”

Then he was gone, yet again.

I looked down at the stolt curiously. Was it more sentient than I gave it credit for? “Should I name you, or are you returning to the wild now?” As if answering my question, it picked up a piece of ham and stuffed it in its mouth. It was a wonder any more food would even fit. “I’ll take that as a sign you’re staying. I guess Hayle is right. You need a name.”

I started walking back toward the entrance of the food hall toward my dorm room. I guess I couldn’t call himIt. Or Stolt. Or like, Fuzzy, or anything that lame. He reminded me of the purple and white epsirialle flowers that grew in the cook’s garden back home. Epsirialle might be a little girlish, though. Hayle had suggested it was a he, and as a Master of Beasts, he’d probably know.

“What about Epsy?” I suggested to the tiny creature.

He flicked an ear at me and ran up the side of my pants to perch on my shoulder. When had he gone from terrified of me toan unintentional fur scarf? “Epsy it is.” Tentatively, I reached up and scratched his ear. “Thanks for the save. I appreciate it.”

Epsy just curled his long, fluffy tail around my throat and dug his little claws into my shirt, still chewing on the food stuffed in his cheeks.

Apparently, I had already accrued one friend in this shithole. But that was my limit.

Six

Vox

The girl from the Ninth Line was a distraction. I couldn’t put my finger on what exactly it was about her that riled me so badly, but every time she was in my presence, my blood burned hot with irritation.

Like right now, in the weekly briefing from the headmaster of the college, Master Proxius, my skin itched as my eyes burned into the side of her face. She wasn’t doing anything, per se. No, her disinterest in me bordered on disrespect.

My brothers would roll their eyes at the fact that I was riled by a person not showing me the due amount of respect and awe. It was vain and ridiculous to feel this way, especially as I’d spent the better part of my childhood trying to avoid the crowds of people who were desperate to make a connection with an Heir of the First Line.

I growled at myself and focused on Proxius’s welcome speech. “This year, we’ve had one of the highest enrollment numbers ever in Boellium’s esteemed history. Thirty-seven students from across all eleven eligible Lines have begun training to protect Ebrus far into the future…”

Blah blah, so on and so forth.

I’d once asked my parents why we had the conscription laws when we were never actually at war, and my father had merely given me that disappointed look he was so fond of when it came to me. It had been my mother who explained that the conscription rules made sure the people felt connected to the safety of Ebrus, and it also kept the other Lines from getting too unruly. Because mounting a coup was all fun and games until you were facing your nephew across the military fronts.

We also weren’t stupid enough to think we were the only civilisation out there, with First Line astronomers creating countless books about planets and moons beyond stars. It was good to be always ready for an attack, because as soon as you let down your guard, that was when the enemy emerged. Or something like that.

Proxius continued. “And for the first time in quite a few decades, four out of the eleven eligible Lines sent us their best and brightest, with Heirs from the Lines themselves within our college walls. The First, Third, Sixth and Ninth Lines have all sent direct descendants, and we appreciate their Lines’ sacrifice.”

All eyes turned to me, and I transformed my face into what I considered my political mask: bored, superior, and more powerful than they could even comprehend. Not necessarily untrue on any front.

Besides, it was hardly a sacrifice. There was no way I’d ever see a battlefront. At the very worst, I’d be in the commander’s tent, pretending to be helpful while they organized battle strategies.

I looked over at Hayle Taeme. I doubted he’d see much battle time either, but the Third Line weren’t known for strategy—more for their ability to fight. Barely more than beasts, that was what my mother had always muttered whenever we were forced to receive them at the palace. My cool, aloof mother would thinkthat; she held herself apart from everyone, even her children. The sheer level of physical affection the Third Line showed each other would be enough to turn her stomach in disgust.

Hayle Taeme was a cocky son of a bitch, but my opinion differed to that of my parents. They thought the Third Line were basically rabid, but I’d seen the scheming that Hayle Taeme had done here at Boellium, and he wasn’t fluttering around blindly like a dog in heat. No, he had almost as many spies and informants as I did, and if rumor was to be believed, maybe untold more.

Those hounds of his were more self aware than any street dog I’d ever seen. They watched me with intelligent eyes, and I knew whatever connection they had with Taeme, they were an extension of the threat the Third Line Heir posed to me.

Edgar Marlee was the sixth son of the Baron of the Sixth Line, who had weak mental abilities, but strong alliances with the First Line. Father called them our walking library, with their eidetic memories. However, politically, it made them a threat to the First Line, because while they had almost no physical abilities to rise up against us, they remembered everything and were not easily bamboozled.

It also made them fundamentally boring. They were very black and white; things were historically accurate or they were plain wrong. The Sixth Line played politics very poorly, which was a blessing for the rest of us.

And then there was the Ninth Line. My sources told me her name was Avalon Halhed, the youngest daughter of the Baron of the Ninth Line, who, until she came to Boellium, had never left her home in Rewill.

My sources also told me that there was some kind of animosity between the girl and her father, and despite appearances, there was no love lost. Given the way she had norespect for her betters, I was unsurprised that her father didn’t have a lot of affection for his daughter.

The Ninth Line had very low-level psy-abilities, a touch of foresight, but usually only within a few minutes of the future, and only one possible outcome. Nothing that a bit of self-awareness and the ability to read a situation couldn’t already divine.

But that was the way of it in Ebrus. The further you got from the First Line, the less powerful you were.

No, the Heir to the Ninth Line was little better than the Twelfth, who had no abilities to speak of at all. Not even luck. What they did do was procreate at an alarming, obviously unsustainable rate. Without the benefit of true magic, they had little to trade, and everything they had was achieved with backbreaking labor.

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