The Traitor Game by B. R. Collins

Author:B. R. Collins
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

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.

Llas

– I am not faithless, sir, but over-true,

And lieganced to more than one affection.

– Why, ’tis the same thing . . .

(from The Counterfeiters’ Tragedy, trans. MT)

He turns back to look at me, and his face is so innocent, so childlike, that it makes me catch my breath.

The daylight from the window is blue-grey, dim, so that the shadows on his skin are the colour of slate, and his eyes are so dark you can’t see what colour they are. But it’s not the light that gets to me, or even the sudden beauty of his silhouette against the sky, the arch of stone behind him. It’s the expression on his face: pure, absolute delight – wide-eyed, excited, open. It’s the way Ryn looked, the first time she climbed the woolbarn roof; how I suppose I must have looked, the first time I won at shek. It’s so unlike Columen’s ordinary manner that I almost want to laugh.

‘Nix,’ he says. His voice is so jubilant that at first I don’t hear the word; only the tone, the excitement that reaches out to me like a hand. Then I catch sight of the sky behind him and it makes sense. Snow.

Snow. It’s just started to fall, a few sly flakes floating towards the ground. If you weren’t watching for it you’d hardly notice. It isn’t settling yet, but the flakes that fall on the window sill stay white for a long heartbeat before they fade into water. By tomorrow it’ll be deeper than the breadth of my hand. The first snowfall: the advance guard of the winter, the gate that shuts you into months of misery and boredom and fear. I draw back into the room, as far as I can. I can smell the chill on the air, the kind of cold that picks you up by the scruff of your neck and shakes you into bits, the kind that gets into your bones. I pull my clothes round me, more thankful than ever for the furs and padded silk, even if they do smell of Evgard, the musty, buttery smell of too much wealth. My hands are already tingling, remembering old chilblains. But Columen turns his whole body back to the window, leaning out into the freezing air, face upturned and eager. He reaches out with one hand, as though he’s offering something to the sky, and pauses for a moment, suspended. Then he whips round, showing me his open hand and the grain of white where the lines meet on his palm. It melts before I can focus on it and he laughs and shakes the water off his skin.

‘Snow, Argent!’ he says again. His eyes are shining.

‘I know.’ I glance to the window again and try to summon some kind of excitement, some enthusiasm, to mirror his. But outside there’s only the snow, heavier now, swirling down in a great bewildering swarm. If you fell asleep in that you’d never wake up.

‘I love it . . .’

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