“That won’t help you,” said the silvery voice, lovely as all elves’ voices are, but utterly cold. “Surely they are not sending children, now, with children’s little superstitions?” Paks said nothing. She glanced past the first figure to see two torchbearers; the green-flared torches smelled like rotting flesh—the stench rolled from them in heavy waves. A third attendant, also black-hooded, carried a wooden box hinged and strapped with leather. “We were informed,” the first one went on, “that you were a warrior of some importance—even a candidate for the order of paladins, or some such nonsense. I find that hard to believe, as easy as you were to capture, but we shall see.” It came closer yet. Paks braced herself, whether to take a blow or give one she could not have said. “No, mighty warrior,” it said. “You cannot touch me if you try.” Suddenly it threw back its cowl to reveal a face entirely elven but the reverse of Ardhiel’s: the same fine bone structure, but expressing only evil, its nature cruelty and lust. She was instantly convinced that it was male.
Despite herself, Paks shivered as he reached out a slender long-fingered hand and touched the band around her throat. She could not move back; the band tightened just slightly.
“You see,” the iynisi continued, “you wear already the symbol of our lady, and while you wear it you cannot harm any of her servants. Nor can your puny saint—whatever his name is—aid you. You have only yourself, your own abilities—if you have any—to help you here. If you amuse us, and learn to serve us, you may yet live to see the sky again. But, of course, if you prefer to starve alone in this cell—” He looked at her, waiting for an answer.
Paks tore her gaze from his eyes, and looked around the cell, in the green light. It was stone, cut out of living rock: just long enough to lie down in. Nothing else. Her glance flicked down her own body. The tunic she wore was black, and slightly fuzzy. The bands on her wrists were black, with hasps for chains. There were no chains in the cell. Yet. She tried to think of Gird, of Amberion, but her mind froze, clouded.
“Perhaps you need to partake of our sport before you can choose,” said the iynisi. “You are already familiar with this cell. Since we want no foolish uproar—” He beckoned to the attendant with the case, who opened it. The first iynisi took out what appeared to be a hank of gray yarn. He unwound the stuff, which seemed slightly sticky, and reached for Paks’s wrists. “One of our lady’s arts,” he said. “Not so cumbersome as chains, and no use to you as a weapon. But you’ll find it strong enough; it will bind dwarves, let alone humans. I advise you not to fight it. For now I am using the wristlets, but if you are troublesome, I’ll wrap your bare flesh with it, and this—” he laid a strand against Paks’s arm; it burned like a coal, like the strands of the net in the Achryan priest’s stronghold, “—is what that feels like.”
Paks shivered again, but made no sound. The iynisi nodded. “So there is something warrior-like in you after all. That is well. We should lose our amusement were you entirely craven. Come along, now.” The iynisi turned to leave; Paks felt a tug at her wrists, now bound closely together. For an instant she thought of resistance to the pull, but the other attendants showed the long knives in their hands, and she knew it would be futile.
“Excellent,” said the iynisi, as she took the first step to follow. “We had heard you were capable of thought and planning. It is so important for a warrior to know when fighting is hopeless.”
No, thought Paks; it is never hopeless. You can always die. But she was already walking down a stone passage as she thought this, between the first iynisi and a torchbearer in front, and the other torchbearer and attendant behind. She thought of lunging at the one in front, tried to gather herself for it, but her body ignored the thought and kept walking. They passed a branching passage, then another. She tried to look around her, tried to pick out directions and openings, and orient herself, but the speed at which she was led, and the peculiar green light, made this impossible.
They turned into a wider corridor, dimly lit by a greenish blur along the angle of wall and ceiling. Paks could not see what it was, but it gave off a sour smell different from the rank stench of the green torches. Here were other iynisin, that hissed as they saw her. All wore black, but not the cape and hood of her escort, or the great spider emblem. They melted from her path—or from the iynisi with her. As they went on, she thought she heard more and more following behind.
Her escort turned into a narrow passage that sloped downward to the right, falling away from the roof. Ahead of the iynisi, Paks could see a wider opening, and brighter light. She was led through it into a wide flat area, slightly oval. Surrounding it were tiers of stone seats, already half-full, and filling with more iynisin. On one side, a dark gaping maw replaced the first two tiers. As the torchbearers of her escort moved around the oval lighting torches set on brackets, she realized that the dark space was not empty. Eight eyes as big as fists reflected chips of green light. A vast bloated body hung in the web that stretched across the opening. Each of the eight legs, Paks saw, was as long as she was tall.
Paks was hardly aware of the chill that spread over her as she stared at the great spider in horror. Was this Achrya herself? Beside her the iynisi chuckled. “I see you have noticed our ally. No, that is not our lady—merely one of her representatives, you might say. But do not let fear of her make you less nimble. While you wear her symbol, she will not pursue you.” By this time the torchbearers had finished lighting the whole circuit; now more green light flared from above. Paks looked up to see a great hanging framework, also made in the likeness of a spider with legs outspread on a web, holding more torches. By this light she could see that the seats were almost filled, and not alone with iynisin. Hunchbacked orcs clustered in one section; grotesque dog-faced beings in another. All stared down at her, eyes glittering in the flickering light.
“Your reputation has preceded you, Paksenarrion,” said the iynisi, with a mocking smile. “You were involved in the loss of our friend and ally Jamarrin, in Brewersbridge.” His voice rang out, now, and the rest of the chamber was silent but for the sputtering torches. “We would see for ourselves what skill in arms, what brilliance of strategy, defeated so fair a servant of our lady.” Paks did not answer. She tried to think what this was leading up to, besides a miserable and public execution.
“We could, of course, simply kill you here,” he said, echoing her thought. “Our lady would be pleased to see the—inventiveness—of our methods, and the torment of one who destroyed her servant Jamarrin. But such sport lasts briefly, with you human folk. Perhaps, also, you have been used by those you think your friends. Certainly the elves have not treated you fairly, stealing from you and clouding your memory.” He reached out quickly and laid a cold, dry hand along her brow. As suddenly as light springs into a dark closet, she remembered the Halveric’s scroll that she had sworn to take to his wife in Lyonya—and remembered the elves who had sent her instead to Brewersbridge, to take their messages, while they took the scroll. The iynisi smiled and nodded.
“They ‘healed’ you, as you thought—indeed, yes, and cast their glamour on you, to turn an honest soldier into their errand-girl, made oathbreaker and faithless by their enchantment. Was that well done? I see you have doubts of it now, and so you should. How much of what you said and did was their bidding? Perhaps you have never acted of your own will yet. We shall give you a chance, therefore, to earn your next day of life.” Despite herself, Paks felt a leap of hope. If they would let her fight, even outnumbered—even unarmed—that would be a better death. Surely if she fought, Gird would come and help her, would protect her from the worst. She pushed the thought of the elves away: later she could worry about that, if later came. No doubt they had merely meant to save her trouble. But a faint doubt lingered, souring her memory of them.