Chapter 1
ONE
And so their song began, as most things do,
with blood
and with flowers.
The Book of Heart
ONE
Cyngalon, Year 713 A.S.
Meilyr was the reason his own family was dead.
He carried that truth with him, buried deep in his chest like an arrowhead: long scarred over but never removed. Bringing him pain even when he least expected it.
Perhaps one day it would kill him as well. Perhaps it should.
The sharp, earthy scent of golden henbane still sought to take him back to that night. It had been the last thing his mother had helped him crush with their worn mortar and pestle. Nearly twenty years later, and his connection to the plant still made him feel as though he was right there.
But no matter how keenly his blood could make him relive it, he could not change the past. He could only live, as they had made him swear to do.
‘Come on,’ Celyn said, returning him to the present. ‘You can finish that later.’
Meilyr tipped the last of the ground gold-flecked dust into its little jar with practised precision, and genuine amusement at his bond-brother’s huffing. ‘I have not seen you so eager to be off to the faire since we were children. Kind of adorable.’
Celyn flushed. ‘Hardly. Now hurry up, or I’ll leave without you.’
He was definitely on his way to meet a girl. Many things made Celyn impatient, but few things would make him eager to venture further into town, today of all days. ‘All right,’ Meilyr said, hiding his smile, ‘almost done.’
He sealed and tucked the jar inside the cloth-wrapped bundle for the Bevans, enough for five days’ worth of tonics for Wade Bevan’s rheumatism.
Then he scrubbed the last of the sparkling powder from his hands, the scent evoking the faintest image of another, smaller kitchen.
His mother’s bubbling laughter. The pop of the fireplace.
Swallowing the visual, he hung up his worn apron and tugged off the kerchief that kept his long dark hair from his face.
He refastened it into a messy tail as he checked the flames in the burners were extinguished and all the glasses quite cool, the other jars were sealed, and the windows were latched.
Then he refreshed the saucer of cream before the hearth.
‘If anyone sees that…’ Celyn began.
‘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.
‘Almost done,’ 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.
‘Briallen and Cadi?’ Meilyr said. ‘Celyn.’
‘I thought we, well, Cadi wanted—’
‘I love it when we get to tease him even on my day off.’ Heulwen set off smartly, escorting Meilyr. ‘Thank you, by the way. I know how much you hate to close the shop.’
‘You deserve the day,’ he said. ‘And everyone is seen to once I drop this off. Besides, Celyn told me if I stay stuck inside like a – what was it? A spinster?’
‘I didn’t mean—’ Celyn started.
‘Make way!’
The shout came less than a heartbeat before Heulwen hauled Meilyr to one side. Two horses thundered past, inches away, their riders clad in pristine whites.
Khaimlic crownsworn.
‘Watch yourselves!’ Celyn cried. Thank the gods they did not hear.
‘Are you all right?’ Heulwen asked Meilyr.
‘I’m fine,’ he lied, pulling the brim of his hat lower.
He had known there would be crownsworn everywhere. There would be more than ever, now, but it was fine. There was no way anyone could know just from looking at him, so long as he did not draw attention to himself.
Beside his boot, a small shoot of bittercress that clung to life between the cobbles curled minutely towards him.
He stepped away.
‘I know there’s royalty about,’ Heulwen grumbled, steering him firmly through the thoroughfare, ‘but they could kill someone.’
Celyn glared after the riders. ‘I don’t think they care.’
‘Celyn,’ Meilyr warned.
His brother set his jaw, but let it go. They were in public, and there were crownsworn around; he could at least be quieter about his abject hatred of those in power.
‘Come on,’ Heulwen said. ‘Let’s find the girls, and something to eat.’
They met Briallen and Cadi near the main square, where Heulwen detoured with Meilyr to the Bevans’ lodging down a side street.
Sioned was still bedridden, and Wade did not have the strength to come to the shop to collect his medicine.
The old man’s eyes welled as he greeted them, and Meilyr was very thankful he had tucked some bread, leeks and carrots into the bundle.
As they left, Wade Bevan touched his hand, and Meilyr felt his aching bones so sharply he almost swayed – a side effect of their woven connection, and his already-heightened nerves.
He would add more golden henbane next time. To live in Wade Bevan’s body must be agony.
They rejoined the others in the square, finding food from the stalls amassed beneath tents and awnings, though Meilyr declined, feigning a large breakfast. It was much busier here; drums and strings offset the talking and the hawking, discordant with the sharp sound of children laughing at a puppet show.
Once, the square had been a green, and on this day would have streamed with skirts of daffodil yellow and the sound of hundreds of tiny bells.
Now, it centred around the town’s one and only Khaimlic church: a near-luminous monstrosity of pale stone, imported from across the Splintered Sea.
The intricately carved wings of the pallid dragon looming from the building’s roof cast sharp shadows over the damp cobbles.
White petals were being tossed from the church’s upper windows, catching the wind and scattering like snow. Congealing in corners of wet and dirt.
Meilyr had never set foot inside the church, and had no mind to. There was a steady stream of people moving about the doors, many clutching the white pennants given out freely for this, a day of great Khaimlic celebration. A celebration that would go on for the next six months, probably longer.
Though Meilyr wondered if anyone else in the bustle caught glimpses and sounds of the long-gone past, he knew not everyone felt the keen sting of the occupation.
The walled town of Eascild, once known as Caer Tarian, was home to a constantly increasing Khaimfolc populace, and some of the Cyngaleg locals found it easier to coexist, at least on the surface.
Khaim prized usefulness above all else, and those able to meet demand had an easier life.
Upward mobility was still hardest for those born into the Cyngaleg peasantry, but with the apothecary, Meilyr and Celyn were lucky. Certainly, far luckier than some.