Preface. The Game Begins

It is bitter winter in the mountains, a pale sickle moon casting a wan silver light over the unmarked white of the snow. The cold is a wall, so intense it blocks out the light and creates the illusion that other weathers have never existed. Delicate frost-shapes dance in the darkening air, bright-eyed November nymphs born out of the breath of a happier age, before tumbling from their stage to die in the frozen sea below. The soothsayer’s cave gapes like a mouth in the dark tumble of white-dusted rocks, and his eye alights upon it, gauging distance as he gasps iron lungfuls of the icy air. He is footsore, hungry, weary, his luxurious robes sodden and torn; yet he drags himself further, each forward lunge becoming weaker, because he knows he must. For Zaphi’s sake, he whispers again and again, like a mantra, until the words lose their meaning. For Zaphi.
The soothsayer’s eyes gleam, snakelike, from beneath their thin veil. She senses his presence upon her vast wild winter plains; he is as small and insignificant as a blot of ink, and as easily wiped away. Her painted lips form a thin, sardonic line. He will not like what she has to say.
She does not have to wait long. A drawn-out sigh comes from outside. Then the velvet part-curtain before the entrance twitches and a man more shadow than substance slips through.
“Kreind,” the soothsayer murmurs low, her long fingers fluttering in the semi-dark, lighting one slender tallow candle. “Here you are at last.”
The man approaches cautiously and looks around furtively, as though fearing he has been followed. Hesitating.
“Sit.”
He obeys, stretching his stiff fingers before the miniscule flame, a promise of meagre heat. The soothsayer sees that much of the skin is already stone-black. He parts his bleeding lips and begins to speak, the melodic, lilting tones of his accent carving shapes into the darkness.
“You know who I am,” he says. “Doubtless you understand the lore, and you know why I am here.”
“Yes, Kreind.” She watches him without emotion. “You know your days are numbered. You are afraid- for yourself and your nephew. You have a question.”
Kreind shudders at the monotone summary of his suffering, his story; his forehead creased with worry, he struggles to master his emotions. Fingering the base of the candle, she observes him; he is lithe and well-cut, his greying hair long in the old style of nobility, though recent hardship has added a worn quality to the dark, angular handsomeness of his features, wasted the once-strong limbs. Both of them listen to the aching rawness of the wind, howling around the wilderness, a beast of old unchained. Finally his eyes meet hers.
A brass windchime catches a sudden wailing gust of air and send a resonating shimmer of ice air around the cave. The two seated figures’ shadows loom upon the wall like giants.
The soothsayer raises a hand and pulls aside her veil so that one outlined bird-bright eye gleams back at him. A large amulet cradling a blood-red stone gleams at her throat. “I can help you with only one of your troubles.”
Kreind nods shortly. Standing up, she drifts further from him until the shadow devours her. Rattling sounds, the opening and closing of drawers fills the silence. His lips tremble unseen, and he sends up a silent prayer to whoever will listen. Please not my boy. Not him. Not him. A breath of fragrance from his youth reaches him; it fills his head with unbelievable, improbable colours in this insipid grey-black-white world. He closes his eyes. Patchouli.
The soothsayer seats herself back at the round table so that the rich cloth stirs against Kreind’s leg. He does not open his eyes. He cannot bear to. Everything, everything that matters to him depends on the counting.
A tiny octagonal box of wicker or bamboo lies in the woman’s white palm. She catches the minute clasp between two fingernails, lifts the lid and tips out the contents. He hears even through the drumming of blood in his head. The clicking of smooth stones between skilled fingers.
She counts, counts and counts again: once for names, one for the question, and once for the ‘yes’ or ‘no’. Then, for confirmation, she spells out everything in runic formation. The answer is the same. She places the jet stones upon the cloth and clasps her hands. Kreind leans closer; she can see the candle flame flickering in the quicksilver of his eyes. “Well?”
The soothsayer smiles a cruel, enigmatic smile, and traces a finger around her palm. After all, she has to make a living somehow.
Kreind curses and casts about in the folds of his robes for silver. He flings a handful of coins at her. “Now tell me!” he cries in a terrible voice. “Tell me, damn you! Is Zaphi one of the Four?”
“Yes.”
The syllable seems to cut Kreind to the core. “I promised to protect him. I promised.” He slumps in his seat, defeated. A thin hand passes over his face, and silence reigns for an immeasurable stretch of time.
Finally the soothsayer takes pity on her companion. “Give him this.”
Shuddering, Kreind sits up, brushing away frozen tears. There is a rustle, and then a small metal something forms a cool pool of solidity in his palm. He runs his fingers over it. A cluster of tiny, intricate shapes, a tangle of sharp corners and edges. A labyrinth of steel. He does not understand.
“Will this save him?” he asks desperately. “Will this spare him?”
But the soothsayer’s candle is extinguished; she has told him all she cares to reveal, and draws the veil across her face again, refusing to say another word. Casting a look of despair around the watchful darkness, he gathers up his things and begins the slow journey home.