He began to pace along the wall of windows. His long coat was dirty at the hem. His boots were scuffed, and his hair needed washing. Seeing him like this, she was reminded of a story of the last days of the Empire of Dhai, when a group of sanisi finally penetrated a room much like this one, where the city’s magistrate, her family, and their bodyguards made a final stand. They were mad, broken people, the sanisi wrote, with big bug-eyed faces and wan complexions. They had eaten their own children. What remained of their little bodies was spread out on the stones, washed and neatly butchered with skinning knives and cleavers. Maralah wondered what she would be driven to do at the end.

“They have found something,” the Patron said. “It’s been too long with no progress. They must be sending all the information they have back to Dhai.”

“That may be,” Maralah said, “but it does not change our position. The invading armies are marching south from Caisau. They’ve burned out four villages and routed much of my brother’s regiment. He’s bringing what remains here. It isn’t enough to hold Kuonrada. We need to retreat south to Harajan.”

“After Harajan is Anjoliaa,” the Patron said, “and once they have us against the sea, we are done.” He ceased his pacing and stood motionless, looking north. From this great height, Maralah thought she could see smoke from some burned-out little town. She had given her brother’s regiment permission to burn out the farms between Caisau and Kuonrada as they retreated, taking what they could for themselves and leaving nothing behind for the invaders.

“They should have stopped their advance,” the Patron said. “You said they would stop as the season deepened.”

“It’s madness to march in this weather,” Maralah said. “If I led them, I would have stopped two weeks ago. They’ll freeze in their tracks.”

“Then the weather will devour them.”

“That is my hope,” Maralah said, “but they do not seem to heed the cold. They could make it here before the worst of the weather and turn us out. Then we’ll get caught in the weather during our retreat. It’s just luck now.”

“This is the place,” the Patron said softly. “This is the place they’ll write about.”

“What?”

“We make our stand here,” he said. “In Kuonrada.”

“Patron, I must protest–”

“That’s my decision,” he said.

“We discussed this before we retreated from Caisau. When the time was right–”

“You are my general,” the Patron said. “You are not Patron. That is my burden.”

“We could last out the season in Harajan.”

“That’s what you said about Kuonrada,” he said. “Yet here we are, retreating again. What would my predecessor say to this? What would Osoraan have said to this?”