Chapter Thirteen
Ciara had, indeed, been furious.
By the time Shea and Beann returned, she was already waiting with a goblet in hand and a dangerous look on her face.
She took one look at the mud-spattered dog and despaired.
“I do so much for others. And here I stand, disrespected by my chess partner and betrayed by my own dog! My burdens weigh on me, Shea. You have made them all the heavier.”
Shea endured Ciara’s rant with as much patience as she could muster.
Fortunately, admitting her own wrongdoing did wonders to improve Ciara’s mood.
It was agreed, then. Shea would remain here under Ciara’s protection until the team round concluded, and no further schemes, spectacles, hijinks, rebellions, heists, or heroics would be attempted.
Their lives would be chess and chess alone. It suited Shea just fine.
In the morning, Shea finished getting ready in the bathroom.
Steam swirled languidly through the air, carrying the faint aroma of honeysuckle.
She tried to focus on imagining chess positions in the fogged mirror, but today, her mind was cluttered.
Her thoughts circled around Daniil’s begrudging respect and Ciara picking at old wounds—and how it had felt to drift through the night on enchanted fabric wings. Distractions, all of them.
Distantly, Shea heard a knock. She cracked open the bathroom door and peered into the sunlit room beyond.
The sound had come from the corridor outside, and Ciara had already risen to greet their visitor.
Who could possibly be here at this hour?
When Ciara answered the door, an imposing figure stood on the other side.
Midir.
Shea’s hatred was a physical thing, as sudden and devastating as a blow to the gut. The very sight of him made her dizzy with loathing. His cold green eye locked on to Ciara like a hunter setting a deer in the sight of his rifle.
Ciara did not flinch. “His Royal Majesty Midir of the Mighty Deeds. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I thought to pay a visit to my sister.”
“Ah. Of course.” Ciara seemed neither honored nor reassured. “Come in.”
As Midir passed into the room, Shea receded farther into the shadows. She kept the bathroom door open just wide enough to see through. She couldn’t stomach the thought of facing him again. Already, her hands had begun to tremble.
The tails of his brocade cloak swept the floor with every long stride. “You have been dedicated to tournament preparation, I trust.”
“Indeed.” Ciara trailed after him a half step. “I’m eager to face you again.”
“I’m eager to see if you can achieve a different result this time.”
Her expression soured. “Shall I send for something, brother? Ale, perhaps? Wine?”
He sank onto a chaise longue. “Why not?”
Ciara sent for refreshments. While they waited, silence reigned.
Ciara moved about, kicking piles of clothes under her bed and reshelving her books.
Her nervous energy pummeled Shea, even from here, but Midir lounged with a casualness that struck Shea as sadistic.
When the ale arrived, Ciara poured Midir a glass from a great height.
The liquid flowed in a graceful arc, and not a drop spilled.
She performed it as though it were an art—or an act of worship.
He accepted it and took a long sip. “Do you enjoy your career?”
Ciara placed the pitcher of ale on a side table. “Of course.”
“And of course, you enjoy your time in the mortal realm.”
Her eyes flashed warily. “It is a pleasant part of my role, yes.”
He hummed, peering into his cup. “I am pleased to hear you enjoy the liberties I have afforded you. The resentment of the other grandmasters does not trouble you?”
There was no pity in his voice, no real interest. Ciara smiled thinly. “How good of you, to worry for me. No, brother. It does not.”
“Good, good.” He propped his chin up on his fist. “Have you anything to confess?”
It seemed the trap had been sprung at last. Ciara went terribly still. “I beg your pardon?”
Slowly, he rose to his full height. Golden light seemed to pour off him, from the fall of his hair to the metallic trim of his cloak. Illuminated as he was, Shea could hardly stand to look at him. Midir nudged one of Beann’s chews—a massive hunk of elk antler—with the toe of his boot.
“I heard the bards working on the strangest song this morning.” A threat simmered beneath his conversational tone. “One about a flying girl and her dog.”
The color drained from Ciara’s face. Shea’s breath caught on a sudden rush of guilt. She was responsible for this. She’d brought down Midir’s wrath on Ciara.
When Ciara offered no reply, Midir smiled coldly. “You have sheltered our kinsman here against my wishes. You know very well that his father sided against me in the matter of Elcmar’s—”
“Beann is a dog! He poses no danger to you, unless you have stolen something from him and…” Ciara seemed to realize her insolence a moment too late.
No warmth remained on Midir’s face. “I could have left you to rot on the heath.”
Now, Ciara did flinch.
“I sent the search party for you. I summoned you here. I named you my heir. I gifted you these rooms. I recognized your talents and cultivated your skill as a chess player. I am the one who organizes and sponsors your sojourns across the Veil.”
“And I am grateful to you—”
“And this is what you call gratitude?” Midir swept his arm across the room at the scattered mass-produced clothing, the candy bar wrappers, the pretty electric guitar. “You have always been disobedient. But this, I cannot tolerate.”
Ciara steadied herself against her desk, but she did not reply.
“The mortal realm is a land of sin, sorrow, and death. And yet, you have all but built a shrine to its pernicious greed. You are an envoy to the mortal realm, and the privileges you have been granted come with responsibilities. You are there to remind them of their inferiority—not to court their favor and become enamored with their folly.”
“My tournament performance has been good,” Ciara protested.
Midir curled his lip. “To a point. You were provided files and analyses of that mortal girl. You were provided a team of seconds and trainers. And yet, you have not won a single game against her. Now, you have aligned yourself with her.”
Shea’s heart gave a painful thump against her rib cage. He was talking about her.
“She is a good player,” Ciara said wanly.
Midir laughed humorlessly. “You are unreliable. You are a disgrace. But most unforgivably, you are a dissident. Whatever kindness I grant you is repaid with treachery.”
“Treachery?” Ciara cried, outraged.
His eye flashed dangerously. “Your behavior is nothing short of ideological sabotage. Mortals’ fear and awe of us is the only thing that keeps them at bay. And my subjects’ fear and awe of me is the only thing that protects this family. When I am lenient with you, they doubt me.”
“It has been more than a thousand years since you lost her, and you have prevailed over your enemies!” A note of panic entered her voice. “You must let go of this paranoia.”
Since you lost her. Ciara was referring to Aideen, surely. What did she mean by that? How could it possibly have been a thousand years? Aideen was only twenty-four.
“Be that as it may, I have abided traitors in my own home too many times.”
The threat in his words hovered like a blade trembling over Ciara’s head. The two of them faced off, silhouetted in the bow window: Ciara and her bloody hair, wild and blazing, against the cold gleam of Midir’s polished gold.
“You did not need to bring me back,” Ciara said quietly. “I did not ask you to.”
“And you would have preferred I left you to wander, belonging nowhere and to no one?”
Shea stood close enough to hear Ciara’s indrawn breath. “I belong to you, as you have made so clear. Do not pretend it was generosity, brother, or any sense of familial duty.”
He considered Ciara beneath his hooded eyes, a match to her own. “Until the end of the tournament. That is the limit of my forbearance. I expect a good performance.”
When Midir left, the whole room seemed to tremble in his wake. Ciara stood frozen before she said decisively, “Wine. I could use some wine. Come out of there, Shea. Would you like a drink?”
Very reluctantly, Shea emerged from her hiding spot. “It’s not even noon.”
“Well, suit yourself.” Ciara rummaged through her things. “I will have some.”
It took some effort, but at last, she produced a dusty flask from some forgotten drawer.
She took a swig and grimaced. From the looks of it, it’d probably turned into vinegar by now.
Never had Shea seen Ciara so rattled. She put on no affectation, no dramatics.
Clearly, Midir’s threat had hit its mark.
Fae or mortal, family always knew where to stick the knife.
Shea hesitated. It wasn’t any of her business, really. But she’d seen the aftermath of one too many blowout fights between her mother and Aideen. Cautiously, she asked, “You okay?”
“Oh, do not pretend to care.” Ciara smiled bitterly. “I know you are filing this all away in that little archive in your mind. Do not deny it. I can practically see you riffling through it now.”
Shea frowned when she noticed Ciara’s hand trembling. “I’m not pretending. I didn’t mean to get you in trouble.”
“This was not your fault.” Ciara wilted. “You asked me if Midir and I were close. Well, here is your answer. In truth, we hardly know one another.”
Shea could hardly fathom not knowing your own sibling.
As children, she and Aideen spent hours together every day: riding their bikes through the neighborhood, coloring in their trading cards with gel pens, digging up shards of broken glass in the yard and calling them precious gems. Shea had known Aideen’s favorite songs, the things that annoyed her most, her fears and wildest dreams. At least she used to, before Aideen shut her out at the end.
“Why is that?” Shea asked.