‘Things were bad enough, now we’ve got royalty moving in. And what kind of Khaimlic prince has a Cyngaleg name?’ Celyn scoffed. ‘They’re mocking us, titling himPrince of Cyngalon, as though they didn’t kill all our—’
‘Celyn.’ Pain pricked behind Meilyr’s eye. ‘Not so loud, please.’
Celyn huffed. He had been showing off for the girls. ‘No one heard. Besides, I’m not the first to say it.’
He certainly was not, but that did not soften the treason.
Luckily, the din of other voices seemed enough. No crownsworn parted the waves to shove them to the ground, on this day celebrating the beginning of the coronation of said prince and the establishment of his court. Meilyr’s heart thrummed regardless; he placed his hand there by habit, to the soothing, secret press of metal beneath his clothes.
It had been a while since he had been amongst so many people. He was out of practice dulling the noise his weaver blood made him so sensitive to.
‘Everyone’s heading out!’ Cadi pointed to the head of the square. ‘Shall we? I want to see the sword tourney.’
Briallen agreed eagerly, tugging Celyn’s arm.
The tide of the crowd slipped around Meilyr’s ankles. ‘I think—’
‘Any excuse to watch some Khaimfolc smash each other’s faces in.’ Celyn turned his grin to Meilyr. ‘Come on, just for a bell or two.’
The current wrapped around Meilyr’s shins, carrying him into the throng.
The crownsworn called over the mess, moving to prevent chaos. One swept their eyes through the crowd and looked directly at him.
Meilyr stopped mid-stream and dropped his eyes, squeezed Heulwen’s arm and forced a smile. ‘I will find you all shortly. I need a little air.’
‘Meilyr?’
‘I’m fine.’ His pulse pressed against the roof of his mouth, and he pulled away. ‘Go with Celyn, I’ll just be a moment.’
‘Meilyr?’ Celyn’s voice.
Meilyr waded through the crowd, out into a now-deserted side street that jutted downhill. He stumbled, the wave of sound and pressure still looming behind, heavy and loud.
He plunged into the sunlight of the wide street beyond and sucked in air. It was blissfully empty, everyone heading for the tournament.
Celyn grabbed his arm. ‘What happened?’
The last thing Meilyr wanted was to ruin his day. ‘I’m all right,’ he insisted. ‘Go back, I will join you soon.’
‘You’re not all right.’ Celyn pulled him around to face him. ‘Is it happening again?’
‘Please, go back to the others, I will—’
There was a crash. Motion.
Down the street, someone had been hauled out of the smithy and shoved against the wall. Their assailant, cloaked and hooded, struck them hard in the stomach and head repeatedly.
Meilyr and Celyn moved together.
‘Hoi!’ Celyn shouted, veering in front of Meilyr, but neither of them slowed.
That was Sawel, against the wall. The blacksmith.
‘What are you doing!’ Celyn barked. ‘Stop!’
He grabbed the strongly built attacker and hauled them off. Meilyr stepped in to steady Sawel: barely conscious, mouth split, bleeding at the temple.
The assailant threw Celyn off with surprising force and skill.