Early Wednesday morning, true to Lander’s word, Valtr Pospech arrives at the station. He wears a bright red tunic over black pants, belted at the waist with a thick brass chain. A holy symbol pinned to his breast shows him to be a cleric of Reges, the god of kingship, leaders, and luck. He carries a black leather briefcase, and expresses the utmost professionalism when meeting the detectives.

Alton and Cook enter the interrogation room where Sir Durandal waits for them. As haggard as he appeared when they first collected him from Lenny’s Comfy Motel, he has only become worse during his stay in the Inter River City Jail. His stubble has grown into the beginnings of a patchy beard, and his unwashed blond hair hangs limp around the naturally formed tonsure that is his bald spot. With weary bloodshot eyes, he stares bleakly at the newcomer.

“Sir Durandal,” Alton says politely, “we have just a few new questions for you. This process can easily clear your name. We just need you to cooperate with Cleric Valtr Prospech. Will that be acceptable to you?”

“Anything.” Durandal coughs. “There is nothing you can say that would prove that I’m the one who killed Marion.”

“Maybe.” Cook stands in the corner of the room. He folds his arms across his chest. The set of his face is grim, his mouth pressed into a thin line.

“Then let us begin.” Prospech opens his briefcase and pulls out a tidy sheaf of forms and paperwork. He hands three of these forms to Sir Durandal, making certain that the two detectives can see what is on them from where they stand.

“The first page here is a liability release form simply stating that if you resist the spell effect you waive your ability to claim that it was cast improperly, and agree that my fee will be paid by yourself rather than the current guarantor.” Prospech points at the first page, indicating the line for Durandal to sign.

Durandal signs the form without reading. Cook notes this in his tiny notebook.

“This second page is a waiver of your ability to claim wrongdoing on my part should you speak truths you do not wish heard while under the spell effect. I am not liable for bringing your faults into the light, only for ascertaining that they are truly spoken.” Prospech points at the second page, again pointing to a line for Durandal to sign.

Durandal stares at the page in confusion. He does read this page, and Cook notes the fact that this is when the purpose of the cleric dawns on their suspect.

“This last page is your agreement to undergo the effects of the spell. Due to the law here in Two Rivers, I may not cast mind affecting spells without consent.” The cleric passes additional copies of the form to both detectives. They note that this is an area of effect spell, and they will be included in it. They are considered professional obligated to consent to the previous form, and the first does not apply.

Cook reads through the page quickly before signing. Alton has signed one of these before, and doesn’t give it a second thought. Durandal stares at the paper as though he might be able to light it on fire by thinking hard enough. With the abilities of some sorcerers, that’s not entirely impossible, but thankfully for the flammable contents of the room it does not go up in flames.

He stares without really seeing. It takes several long moments before his eyes begin to truly scan the page. The cleric and both detectives are required to give him all the time he needs to not feel pressured into signing this piece of paper.

“May I refuse?” the paladin finally asks.

“You may.” Prospech answers.

“It is not within your best interests to do so,” Alton quickly picks up, “If you are truly innocent, this can only help. I’ll keep my questions on task.”

“And they’re bound to the truth just as well?” Durandal’s rough hand rubs the dark circles around his eyes.

“They will be, yes.” Prospech agrees.

Without further discussion, Durandal picks up the fountain pen and signs his name. The signature is shaky with hesitation, but it is there.

Prospech retrieves the forms from all participants, filing them back in his briefcase for safe keeping. He places a small hourglass on the table, filled with black sand. He then begins the complex gestures of the spell, his hands weaving invisible sigils in the air. The words of the spell are ancient High Draconic, and though Cook should be able to translate them into modern Low Draconic, the Common language all people use in trade, they defy his understanding. His amateur studies of magic ended where learning to actually work magic begins.

When the incantation is complete, Prospech flips the glass to indicate that their time limit has begun.

“What is your name? Tell me a lie.” Alton begins the questioning with an easy test to see if the spell has truly taken hold.

“My name is Sir Roland Durandal of Bandon. I intended to lie, but could not.” His response is quick, acknowledging the importance of the time limit.

“Did you kill your daughter, Marion Durandal?” Cook asks the obvious question, with the zone of truth in effect and Prospech’s unbiased presence this evidence is admissible in court.

“I may have driven her to her death, but I did not swing the sword itself.” This admission explains the paladin’s sorry state. “If I hadn’t been so strict with her she may have stayed in Bandon or at least gone to a Strabthine university instead of feeling like she had to run away.”

“Where were you between the fourth and sixth bells on Monday morning?” Alton asks another question that ought to be simple.

“At the fourth bell I left St. Errigal’s Shrine. I went directly to Lenny’s Comfy Motel and stayed their for the duration of the time. I removed my armor when I arrived and tried to go to sleep, but mostly failed.” Sir Durandal’s condition agrees with his statement.

“Were you aware that Marion Durandal had undergone the transformation to become a vampire?” Alton keeps her tone respectful.

“No. She what!” Durandal’s response is too fast for him to have broken the spell first. Prospech will be able to confirm later, but Cook notes that his surprise is genuine. “You - you can’t lie either. She’s a vampire?”

“Technically, she’s not a vampire anymore,” Cook answers. Alton gives him a hard look.

“Technically, no.” Alton says finally. “She’s ceased to be.”

The last of the sands dribble into the lower pile. The spell ends with an almost tangible feeling of release. Now that the effect has ended, the lightness of speaking without it makes the heavy blanket of its presence on the mind more noticeable. Durandal collapses onto the table.

Prospech pops open his briefcase and hands the detectives another form. This one simply states that the spell is complete and requires a witness signature to prove that his contract has been obligated. Cook signs is neatly and hands it back.

In silence the cleric leaves the room, taking his paperwork with him.

“You really didn’t know, did you?” Alton gives their suspect an almost sympathetic respect.

“How could I?” Durandal moans, “How could she?”

“We’re investigating her last movements to better track who would have had the ability and opportunity to destroy your daughter.” Cook is much more gentle with his words than before. “You are free to go.”

“What?” Durandal looks up from behind the heap of his large hands on the table. “It’s that easy?”

“Of course it is.” Cook gives him a flippant answer. “We can’t afford their services all the time, but a professional truth teller is a valuable asset to an investigation. The cleric’s cleared you and you’re free to go.”

The exhausted paladin stumbles to his feet and wanders, zombie like, out the door. Hopefully, he’ll aim to snag some sleep before he thinks to wonder who exactly hired a cleric of Reges to vouch for him. His aching body could use some.

“And there goes our best suspect so far,” Cook mutters glumly.

“He wasn’t a good suspect at all and you know it,” Alton retorts.