“Take it,” she said. “Put it in a net, and take it to Sauce.”

“This is inefficient,” protested the priest’s body.

“Aye, lady,” said a very impressed Daniel Favour. “And Kronmir?”

“Leave me,” she said. It was kind enough, for an inhuman voice, and Favour wanted out of that room; he was a tough man, but this was too much for him.

“I’ll guard her,” Long Paw said. He nodded. The torturer was bleeding out on the floor.

Wha’hae broke the rest of the thing’s limbs with the haft of the axe. Then they bundled it into a hunting net. “About six hours before the worms have enough strength to attack a horse,” Hobb said to two other men, but they were all careful anyway, and as soon as they found a dozen of Conte Simone’s knights, with armour and visors, they handed the thing over with deep gratitude. Everyone feared the Odine. Like the plague.

But in the underhall, Giselle sat by the broken remnant of her friend. She talked to him for a while, and he didn’t respond. She never remembered what she said. Perhaps she spoke of her helpless passion for the empress, or about her first kitten, or her life in the woods. But at some point his right eye moved, and one of his hands spasmed.

Outside, on the road, the Patriarch’s fugitives were mostly allowed to run, but some were slaughtered, and she cared not. She sang some songs.

She hated herself, because she was so revolted by what had been done to him that she couldn’t touch him. But she was brave, and she overcame it. She took his hand. The one with three fingers cut away. The one that seemed to twitch.

She held it as she would have held a woman’s, and she was silent a moment.

His right eye fluttered open. Blinked. And a little life came into it.

“You,” he croaked, his voice as ruined as his body. The remains of Jules Kronmir took a deep breath and released it. “Dream. Bad dream.”

She couldn’t think what to say, except to pray to God for mercy.

“Report,” Kronmir said.

Something like a shock went through her. She kissed his hands.

“Will,” he said. “Not . . . Will.”

She shook her head.

He made a face, whimpered, and a little blood came out of his mouth. His good eye closed. Behind her, a door opened and closed, and she didn’t turn.

“Necromancer,” Kronmir said with enormous effort, pronouncing every syllable. “Necro . . . man . . . cer . . . is . . . rebel. . . .”

She listened.

“Odine. Will is . . .”

Father Davide, the company padre, was kneeling by her. His lips moved, and she could hear his words as he sang, In nomine Patris . . .

Kronmir’s attention went briefly to the cross in front of his face. “Damned,” he said clearly.

“N-n-no m-man is d-damned except . . .” Father Davide concentrated. “B-b-by his own will,” he said softly. “Evil is a choice.”