“You must help me with Roche,” she said, squinting into the light. She leaned toward the man and reached for his hand. She thinks he’s still alive, Dunworthy thought, but she said, in that flat, matter-of-fact voice, “He died this morning.” Colin shone the pocket torch on the body. The crossed hands were nearly as purple as the blanket in the harsh light of the torch, but the man’s face was pale and utterly at peace. “What was he, a knight?” Colin said wonderingly. “No,” Kivrin said. “A saint.” She laid her hand on his stiff one. Her hand was callused and bloody, the fingernails black with
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