She is six years old and shuffling her way to her parents because if they don't sand off a layer of her skin and wax her hair off and do that thing to her toenails and tie narrow biting strings tight-tight-tight around her arms and legs and thrash her all up and down her back, she might turn into an Elf, and then they wouldn't love her any more. And because it's worse if she doesn't go. But the memory shows her from outside, looking up and seeing not her mama and papa but some orc she doesn't know, not yet at age six. He doesn't introduce himself before he backhands her in the face, doesn't let her catch herself before he kicks her in the ribs, doesn't let her get up, and once he's gotten going he doesn't let her stop screaming until he's trying to get her to talk.
She didn't remember what she said, just remembered mumbling mimicked syllables around the taste of blood, wondering if her hands were really going to fall off, if her ears had already done it -
The memory is crystal clear, looking down at herself from his eyes - "Say it."
Sobbing, whimpering -
"You're not going anywhere till you say it, little halfbreed bitch, I can do this for years -"
"I promise -"
"I, I -"
"I - swear - never - to - aid - an - Elf -"
"I won't -"
"- I swear -"
And the view of the memory leaves the child on the floor where he dropped her.
This qualifies as communication from Angband and reporting it constitutes helping Elves and she wishes she were home in Angband, burning bleeding breaking, it would be better than -
(She drops Kat. "Mama, Mama," says Kat, and Beka hardly notices.)