The slush in the lower courtyard was turning into thick, yellow mud as the heavy ice on the fortress eaves began to rot under the pale afternoon sun.

Nila sat at the long trestle table she had ordered set up inside the secondary grain bay. The air here was heavy with the smell of damp cedar dust, dried hemp sacks, and the sharp, sour scent of horse sweat from the teams waiting in the yard. She wore a simple gown of dark gray wool, her sleeves rolled up twice to keep the cuffs clear of the wet inkpot sitting near her right hand.

Before her stood Joran, a gray-bearded tenant...