Page 3 of Minotaurs and other Magic

He risked a glance down, his fingers moving without him looking, never breaking the flow of music. The man sat at his feet, staring at the floor. He didn’t sing; he didn’t seem affected by the music at all.

Nor did he struggle. He could have tried to undo the knots—though that would not have worked out well for him. Was he praying to a god?

It was a little late for that, and he doubted they’d intervene. If they did, the price would be high.

Rohan played one more song, an upbeat tune that had everyone’s feet stamping. Some got up to dance. And it got the man’s attention.

He wasn’t the only human in the tavern.

But he was the only thief.

If he’s stolen from the ogres, he would’ve lost a finger or two. He was lucky the city guard had caught him. Luckier that the Strega had an interest in things that didn’t belong.

Rohan accepted the praise and cheers of the audience. He didn’t play for an audience very often. This was the first time since his father’s death. His father had said it was inappropriate for a prince to play at the tavern, to mix with the people of the city.

But Rohan considered it the best way to get to know the people of the city. To hear what concerned them. While his brother ruled—that meant dealing with other city leaders, taxes and levies and trade deals—it was Rohan’s job to be among the people, to sit when the Knight passed judgment on disputes and more serious crimes.

The tavern owner handed him a tankard of ale, which he gratefully accepted. It was the only payment he wanted because he didn’t need the money. What he enjoyed was the audience and the shared experience.

He took a couple of greedy swallows to soothe his throat, made tired from singing, then held the tankard out to his human.

The man stared at him with wide red-rimmed eyes. He might be considered handsome if not for the obvious terror on his face and the scent clinging to his skin.

“Drink. We will unravel this mess.” He offered the ale again.

This time, the man reached up with his bound hands and took the tankard.

As he drank, Rohan studied him. He had short black hair, and his jaw was coated in dark stubble. The clothes he wore, a shirt and pants, were recognizable yet very different in style from what was worn in Calla. But his boots were the strangest. They laced up the way pants did, though his pants had no laces that Rohan could see, and they appeared to be made of something other than leather or cloth.

Unable to resist, he reached out and rubbed the fabric of the shirt between his fingers. The fabric wasn’t anything he was familiar with. It felt fine, though it wasn’t silk. Nor was it delicately spun wool. The man flinched and offered the tankard back to him.

Rohan took it and drained it before setting it on the floor. “We will go now.”

He lifted the harp slowly, giving the man time to stand. When he was on his feet, Rohan slung the harp over his shoulder. Its familiar weight settled until the man moved and pulled it askew.

That would not do. He reached around and undid the knot, then created a loop to put around his own wrist. The man watched, his gaze jumping from Rohan’s hands to his face and back again as if he couldn’t believe what was right in front of him.

After another round of goodbyes, Rohan led the man out of the tavern. And the man followed. Rohan had expected more of a fight, but given the vampires had accused him of stealing food tonight, perhaps he had run out of energy.

It was hard to fight on an empty belly in an unfamiliar place.

Rohan couldn’t imagine what it must be like to not speak the language. Which begged the question… Where, by Ishtar and Pan, was the man from?

CHAPTER 3

Once out of the bar, Nate considered fleeing for a nanosecond. Gone were the crowds from earlier in the day. Now, the only noise came from other bars. People laughed and howled, and music spilled into the night.

If he ran now, he might be able to disappear into the night.

And then what?

He only had what was in his pockets. He had no cloak, no shelter, and no food. He knew enough about survival that running would be stupid. When he set out for the hike, he thought himself over-prepared for a day trip. And he had been because there’d been enough supplies in his day pack to buy himself two days before desperation led him to the town.

Running now meant never coming back, as they’d be searching for him. He’d need to find another town…and eventually, he’d be caught stealing there, too. No. This was it. He didn’t know where he was, or what had happened, or where his friends were.

He didn’t even speak the bloody language. He kicked a rock, making it bounce over the cobbles.

The minotaur spoke softly to him. He didn’t sound like a monster at all. Didn’t the minotaur of mythology eat people? Was he being led to the maze to be hunted and eaten?

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