One word of their emotional discussion cut through to him apart from all the rest.
“. . . witch . . .”
He froze, then turned back around to face forward. The barkeep moved past and Magnus reached out to grab the man’s arm. “Who is that woman at the table behind me?”
The barkeep glanced over to where Magnus indicated. “Oh, her? That’s Basha.”
“Why does she cry? Do you know?”
“I do. I probably shouldn’t, but I do.”
Magnus now slid a piece of gold across the counter. “Is she a witch?”
The man’s jaw tensed, but his focus was on the piece of gold. “It’s not my business. Nor is it yours.”
The gold was joined by a friend. Two pieces of gold now sat upon the counter next to Magnus’s half-eaten plate of food. “Make it your business.”
The barkeep was silent only for another moment, but then he swept the coins off the counter with one smooth motion. “Basha’s daughter was taken to King Gaius’s dungeon only days ago, accused of witchcraft.”
Magnus fought to keep his face expressionless, but the news that his father had begun arresting witches here in Auranos . . . he’d had no idea. “She’s accused. But is she able to access elementia?”
“That’s not for me to say. You should talk to Basha yourself if you’re so interested.” He produced an open bottle of pale Paelsian wine. “Trust me, this will ease your introduction. It’s the least I can do for my wealthy new friend.”
“Much gratitude for your assistance.”
Perhaps this day wasn’t a complete waste of time after all. A skilled witch might be able to help Lucia more than any healer ever could. Magnus took the wine and moved toward the old woman seated next a fireplace that blazed despite the heat of the day. Her companion had his arm around her now. The woman was in tears, her eyes red from both sorrow and drink.
Magnus placed the bottle of wine in front of her. “Much sympathy, Basha. The barkeep told me of the recent troubles with your daughter.”
Her gray eyes flicked to him with suspicion for a split second before she pulled the bottle closer, tipped it into her empty glass to fill it, and drank deeply. She wiped her tears with the back of her hand. “A gentleman amongst us. How welcome. Please join us. This is Nestor, my brother.”
Nestor was also clearly drunk, and he offered Magnus a crooked grin as the prince sat on a rickety wooden stool. “Basha wants to seek audience with the king himself to ask for Domitia’s release. It’s an excellent idea.”
“Oh?” said Magnus, unable to hide his surprise. “You really think so?”
“Damora is a harsh king only because he has to be. But I heard his speech. I liked what he said about the road he builds for us all. He is a man who can be reasoned with. One who wants the best for all of us, no matter what part of Mytica we call our home.”
His father would be so pleased.
“Is she a skilled witch or was she falsely accused?” Magnus asked.
Basha narrowed her eyes at him for a moment before she replied. “Domitia is blessed by the goddess with gifts beyond this mortal world. But she is harmless. She is good and sweet. There’s no reason for her to be seen as a danger.”
“Are you also blessed by the goddess in this way?” Magnus asked, with hope. He could arrange to have Basha’s daughter released from the dungeon if she might prove useful, but to have two witches to help Lucia would be even better.
“No, not me. I have nothing of the sort at my disposal.”
Disappointment thudded through him. “If you are aware that witches are real, do you know much about the legend of the Kindred?”
“Only that it’s a bedtime story I told my daughter when she was a child.” Basha took another deep drink of the wine, then frowned at him. “Why do you wish to know so much about magic and witches? Who are you?”
Magnus was spared from answering by a commotion at the door. A pair of men entered the tavern, laughing and boisterous. “Wine for everyone,” one of them announced as they moved toward the barkeep. “I’ve been appointed the official florist for the royal wedding and wish to celebrate my good fortune!”
An excited cheer resonated through the tavern, and the man was slapped on his back and offered words of congratulations—except for one gray-haired man at the bar.
“Bah,” he said. Wrinkles splayed out from the corners of his eyes and down his hollow cheeks. “You’re all fools to buy in to such romantic drivel. The prince of Limeros and the princess of Auranos are a match made in the darklands by the darkest demon himself.”