‘We pretend we have a cat, as always.’ Most homes no longer catered to the bwbachod, but Meilyr was eternally thankful for how clean the smallest of the otherfolk helped keep the apothecary.
‘You said you were done,’ Celyn said, holding Meilyr’s cloak by the door.
‘Almostdone,’ Meilyr corrected fondly. ‘I know impatience is your virtue, calon bach.’
Celyn grimaced. ‘Don’t call me that, I’m not a child anymore.’
The reproach caught Meilyr off guard, though his bond-brother’s heart was not in it. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I know—’
‘No—’ Celyn sighed. ‘No, it’s just… today.’ He gestured tightly. ‘My mind was elsewhere. Sorry.’
Meilyr picked up the Bevans’ bundle, went to him and squeezed his arm. ‘Nothing to forgive. Come on.’ He stepped into his cloak and took Celyn’s hat from its hook, having to go onto his toes to deposit it firmly on his brother’s head. ‘Let us not keep your latest conquest waiting.’
Celyn blushed almost the same shade as the berries of his namesake. ‘That’s not—’
Meilyr opened the door of the apothecary with its habitual creak and the clattering jingle of its bell, and the wave of noise took further complaints away. It was still early, but even their little side street teemed with people heading deeper into town. The feeling of the amassing crowd set his skin buzzing, and he exhaled as Celyn stepped past him.
‘Are you all right?’
‘I will be.’ He donned his own cap, locked up the shop and took Celyn’s arm as they moved off the doorstep onto the bustling cobbles. ‘As long as you behave.’
Celyn shot him a petulant look, but nodded.
The main thoroughfare beyond the apothecary’s street was set to burst. Townsfolk swarmed the countless carts and stalls heaped with produce, the tang of meats and sweets and all things in between thick amidst the cloy of human and animal bodies. Voices clamoured. Colours streamed, blanching always into bright and blinding white. So very much white.
Across nearly every inch of wall and sky, the royal banners had been strung, layering the sounds of humanity with a papery susurration: a rustling like the wings of a thousand paper crows picking at the land of Cyngalon’s still-breathing body.
White banners, for the White Dragon of Khaim.
Meilyr kept his head down. They would be fine.
‘Don’t they have any pride?’ Celyn hissed, like a curse.
‘You know how it is. They have no choice, especially today.’
Celyn said nothing, but his bitterness plucked at the back of Meilyr’s eyes.
He understood Celyn’s rage. It was just… dangerous, to glance at his own feelings, lest they drag him off and rip him to pieces.
Lest they make history repeat itself.
No, not looking at those emotions was easier. Safer. It had worked well enough all these years: keep his head down, remember there was no other way. The complete occupation of Cyngalon was all they had ever known – all their parents and grandparents had known.
The age of princes and dragons was long dead. That world existed only in forbidden stories, clung to in the dark like the final embers of a fading hearth.
There was nothing Meilyr could do, except keep small. Keep quiet.
‘Meilyr! Celyn!’
Heulwen, ink-black braid swaying down her back, pushed through the crowd towards them. It was rare to see her out of her work apron, and several heads turned after her.
Some of Meilyr’s tension eased. ‘Heulwen! I thought we would only see you later?’
‘Nonsense, I came to save you.’ She took his arm, giving Celyn a look. ‘Some people are likely to be distracted today. Briallen and Cadi are looking for you, Celyn.’
‘I—’ Celyn began defensively.
‘BriallenandCadi?’ Meilyr said. ‘Celyn.’