Any Other Name (The Split Worlds) - By Emma Newman Page 0,14
all you need?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then let’s be off.”
Using his silver-tipped cane, Ekstrand opened a Way from the ballroom to a familiar mundane field, the one where he and Axon had picked up the puppet after she’d been left there by the Censor of Aquae Sulis. It was early in the morning and the sun hadn’t risen high enough to evaporate the dew off the grass or burn off the mist. Max took a deep breath of the fresh air as the Sorcerer then opened a Way into Exilium. He had not wanted to risk opening one directly from his house.
The mundane grass looked grey compared to the sun-soaked meadow Max saw through the opening. He stepped through first, checked that no Fae or faeries were nearby and then beckoned to Ekstrand to follow. Ekstrand closed the Way behind him, whispered something beneath his breath and struck the earth with the cane. Max felt the ground vibrate, like a little shockwave had rippled out from it, and the grass bent as if flattened by a brief gust of wind.
“Let’s bring one of them here,” Ekstrand said, adjusting his cape. “I have no desire to traipse across the prison, and the beauty of the Palace would be lost on you anyway. Besides, it’s always good to remind them of the pecking order, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Yes, sir,” Max replied.
“Especially on a Friday,” Ekstrand added.
Max leaned on his walking stick while Ekstrand only rested his hand lightly on his cane. The sun was gentle but Max adjusted the brim of his hat so he could see all around them without squinting. They were standing at the top of a hill. There was nothing but meadow and blue sky, a warm breeze and trees in the distance. He remembered victims talking about how Exilium looked like a dream of a perfect place, too colourful to be real. For Max, immune to such things, it looked like it could be anywhere in the Cotswolds.
Ekstrand was scowling. “I must raise this at the Moot. It’s too pretty here. Damnable Fae.”
Max was about to ask what he meant when a figure came into view, climbing the rise of the hill steadily, clearly one of the Fae. He was tall, slender, like they all were, dressed in a tail-coat and trousers, cut somewhat like those Ekstrand wore. He wore a circlet of oak leaves instead of a top hat, however, and his cape looked like it was woven from thousands of oak leaves, reaching down to the ground and spilling behind him for many metres.
“Only the Prince?” Ekstrand sniffed. “I’m insulted.”
“Good day to you, Sorcerer of Wessex, King of the lands between the Tamar and the Arun, the Severn and the dividing sea, holder of the plains of Avalon and Salisbury, keeper of Avebury and Stonehenge and the ancient southern forest.”
Max knew he would be ignored; the Fae found it impossible to see Arbiters as people. The Prince gave him the briefest glance, presumably to check he wasn’t about to throw a copper net over him. The Prince’s eyes were a vibrant green, no discernible pupil, iris or humour, just green. His hair was the colour of polished oak, rippling in long waves down his back.
“Is the King too busy to answer my summons?” Ekstrand made no effort to disguise his irritation.
“The King sent me, knowing you would wish to discuss the recent events in your domain. I am personally overseeing the matter and was judged to be of more help to you.”
“I want to speak to Lady Rose.”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” the Prince said with a smile.
“I beg your pardon?”
“She’s being punished.” The Prince spread his hands. “It’s what you wished, is it not?”
“I left that to the King and Queen to decide. I merely made them aware of her crimes.”
“And they were of such severity that she’s been stripped her of her status, and her influence in the Court and the Nether destroyed. We can assure you, with confidence, that she and her brothers are unable to interfere with Aquae Sulis now.”
Max studied the Prince’s face, the soft voice, the smile that never left him. He could understand Lady Rose’s status suffering as a result of the embarrassment of being escorted away from her own party by an Arbiter, but to strip her and her brothers of everything, even dominion over their own puppets, seemed more than merely harsh. It was disproportionate.
“I should imagine Lady Lavender was furious,” Ekstrand said. “I had no idea the royal family cared