By six o'clock in the morning, the northern logging flumes were quiet again, the ice inside the timber troughs starting to weep small drops of water as the temperature hovered just above the freezing point.

Nila sat by the narrow window of the lower armory office, a tin mug of hot pine-needle tea held between her palms to warm her stiff fingers. She hadn't changed out of her training leather trousers or her linen tunic, though she had cast the heavy fox-fur cloak over the back of her wooden chair.

The door to the office scraped open, and Marcus stepped inside, stripped away his heavy riding cloak, and walked over...