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.