Fucking politics, I thought. I hated all the layers involved, and wished I didn’t have to have anything to do with it. But that was impossible if I was going to be married to Iannis, and if I wanted to effect change within our unfair system.

“Well, I see no need to waste time.” The Minister clapped his hands together, then rose from his seat. “Mr. ar’Mengis will take you to the doctor now, and Miss Baine can prove her worth by getting some answers out of him.”

Great. No pressure.

11

The Minister’s taciturn aide escorted us to the prison via carriage. Even though it was well after midnight, I wasn’t at all tired—I was eager to get on with the job and find out everything we could. It took about half an hour before we drew up in front of Dara’s main prison facility, a large, ugly building that rested right at the fork of the Motoac River. The reinforced windows and the runes set into the walls and gates suggested that it was secure, protected both magically and physically. It must be incredibly difficult to escape from there, a thought that comforted me since I knew Thorgana would be kept in this very facility once she arrived in the capital.

The aide didn’t actually go with us to the prisoners’ cells, but was very helpful to get us through several levels of guards without hassle. The Minister’s office had clearly phoned ahead, asking for every assistance to be rendered. We were led to a soundproofed chamber the prison officials called a ‘special interview room’. Iannis and I made ourselves as comfortable as we could in the cold, dimly lit stone chamber, sitting at a bare metal table on bolted-down metal chairs as we waited for Doctor Mitas to be brought in.

“So how are we doing this?” I asked quietly. “Are you asking all the questions, or are we taking turns?”

“I would prefer to take the lead,” Iannis said, “but as your nose can determine whether or not he speaks truth or falsehood, you can intervene when you sense a weakness. As a human, he won’t be able to tell if we are truthful, and he will already be predisposed to expect the very worst of mages or shifters. That may help us intimidate him.”

The door opened, and two guards led the prisoner in. Doctor Mitas was a middle-aged, lean man with dark brown hair, round, wire-rimmed spectacles, and a handlebar mustache that gave him a respectable air, at odds with the black-and-white striped prisoner uniform he wore. His thin wrists were weighed down by heavy manacles. Nevertheless, he kept his shoulders straight and his chin high, and regarded us with a haughty look as he was guided none too gently into the chair across from us. The guards left us alone, but said they would be right outside, within calling distance.