"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."