Chapter Twenty
Daniil’s theory had presented Shea with an impossible puzzle. She spent the night thinking, rearranging the pieces in her mind. But there was no sense fighting faerie hocus-pocus—as Daniil had so generously called it—with logic. He was right. They needed someone with expertise. They needed Ciara.
At this point, Shea didn’t know if dread outweighed her anticipation. They had a lot to discuss after they won their games.
In the tournament hall, her opponent waited for her at the board.
Her name was Eri, and Shea had never seen her on the other side of the Veil before.
She looked to be about ten, with hair as fine as corn silk and the same violet-black color as a calla lily.
Her eyes were a shade of brown just shy of red.
She sat on a stack of books, and when they shook hands, she dug her nails into Shea’s wrist.
Eri’s eyes twinkled with malice. In a sickly-sweet singsong, she said, “Good luck.”
Shea hated playing against children. They found tactics effortlessly, played their moves instantaneously, and were often some of the best players while managing to be the most annoying creatures on the planet. It seemed faerie children were no different.
She considered flagging down the arbiter.
But what would the point be in giving Eri the satisfaction?
It didn’t matter. Whatever she said, whatever she did, Shea could handle it.
It didn’t matter that she was playing with the black pieces.
If this child was the only thing standing between her and the semifinal round, she would crush her remorselessly.
All she had to do was hold her nerve.
There were four boards today, set up in a neat square in the center of the room.
The organizers had allowed more spectators onto the floor, but they remained a respectful distance away behind a cordon of flowering vines.
Photographers drifted among them, snapping more shots of the guests than the players.
Shea sat on the black side of the board, her hands folded at her lips, her eyes closed.
She stirred only when the murmuring of the crowd went silent and Midir’s clear voice announced the beginning of the game.
Eri opened with the Scotch. The first few moves of the game unfolded predictably enough, but it became immediately clear that Eri had devised a cunning strategy: She would ensure every passing second took a sledgehammer to Shea’s focus.
She kicked her legs absently, striking Shea’s shin every so often.
She shifted in her seat, sighed, stacked the captured pieces in precarious towers that collapsed in the middle of Shea’s train of thought.
She slurped noisily from a cup she’d brought to the board.
She moved the pieces so quickly, they sat misaligned in their squares.
And if Shea took longer than a few minutes on a move, she drummed her fingers with a flippant sort of impatience that implied Shea was missing something painfully obvious.
The distraction was maddening. But Shea remembered then what Ciara had told her.
I like knowing what someone wants and denying them.
And so, she played the most mind-numbing, rote lines she could think of.
She took her time with each move and neutralized every tactical complication.
She got up periodically to stretch and examine the other players’ boards.
Shea took a perverse satisfaction in watching Eri’s frustration and boredom grow.
It was only a matter of time before Shea provoked her into forcing the issue, before—
Yes, there it was: a mistake.
Eri had tried for a breakthrough with her dark-squared bishop, but it was too reckless, too ill considered. Shea saw it instantly. Eri must have, too, because she thrust out her hand. Panic lit her eyes. “Draw.”
The oldest trick in the book, to offer a draw in a losing position. But Shea was not playing for a draw. She was playing to win. When she shook her head, Eri’s face purpled.
Thwarted, Eri unleashed all of her aggression.
In ten moves, her position crumbled completely.
Still, she did not resign, which Shea almost respected.
Shea drove Eri’s king into the corner and checkmated her with a mating net that was actually quite pretty.
As soon as it was done, the wooden cuff fell from Eri’s wrist with a thud that seemed to echo throughout the hall.
Eri wilted. Her lower lip quivered.
Shea couldn’t help grinning. She’d made it to the final four.
Exhilaration coursed through her. Everything she’d dreamt of was within reach now.
And once they uncovered how Midir’s little magic trick worked, she would be able to face him again.
Not as a scared child, but as an equal—no, a superior. And once she won …
She didn’t know anymore. Maybe she wouldn’t retire. Maybe she would play for the World Championship. Maybe she would finally sit across from Ciara and experience the joy of playing—
The sound of Eri’s voice sliced clean through her daydreaming. “No. No, no, no, no!”
In the past twenty seconds, Eri had worked herself into a frothing rage. Her eyes brightened into a bloody shade of scarlet. Tears streamed down her face, which she made no effort to wipe away or conceal. She stood up and swiped all the pieces from the board.
“How dare you?” Eri shrieked. “You’ve ruined me! You’ve ruined everything!”
Eri dropped to her knees, rending her hair and gnashing her teeth.
Shea took a pointed step backward. In all the tournaments she’d attended over the years, Shea had never witnessed dramatics quite like this.
Not even from Ciara. This was a tantrum of cataclysmic proportions.
Shea did not want to imagine what kind of fines FIDE would slap Eri with had this happened in the mortal realm.
Shea dusted off her sleeve. “Good game.”
Eri’s attention snapped to Shea and pressed into her like a blade.
She rose to her feet, swaying a little. Nothing remained in her expression but a terrible desperation.
And then, faster than Shea could blink, Eri’s shadow elongated.
It launched itself across the board, a flash of red eyes and gnarled claws.
In one fluid motion, a figure stepped in front of Shea.
Ciara. She moved so swiftly, her sleeve billowed out from her outstretched arm, revealing a flash of the embroidered-wing lining.
She drew no weapon and said nothing. And yet, the shadow stopped a bare inch from her nose.
She looked fearsome as a warrior queen, the same as she had only last night, with her spear and her hound and her hair like a ravening fire.
Shea had stumbled backward. She was humiliated to hear the sound of her own terrified panting, to see her arms half raised to protect herself.
Cold sweat prickled at the back of her neck.
Death loomed far too close for comfort. The audience had gone completely silent, either with horror or disappointment.
In the balcony above the board, Midir stood halfway out of his chair, a spear in hand, as though he’d been prepared to intervene.
Right. She was under his protection. He stared down at the three of them with a strange look on his face, caught somewhere between perplexity and annoyance.
When he realized someone had to break the silence, he settled back into his seat and began a slow clap.
Scattered applause broke out through the hall, until it became thunderous.
Shea heard little of it through the rush of blood in her ears.
“Thanks,” Shea said a little breathlessly.
“Kindly avoid dying for the next hour,” Ciara replied, with a lilt of fond exasperation. “I have a game to win.”
Shea could do nothing but nod. On her way out the door, a servant called her name. Shea paused and turned to face her. With her eyes downcast, the faerie girl handed Shea a letter, stamped in wax with the royal crest.
“Thanks,” she said warily.
As she stepped into the afternoon light, she opened the envelope.
The parchment within shone with golden ink and smelled faintly of apple blossoms. The message was brief, and yet it struck Shea with foreboding.
The Final Four are invited to dine with His Royal Majesty, King Midir of the Mighty Deeds, of the Silver Eye and Golden Hair, tomorrow evening at eight o’clock.
Shea sat on a swing hung from the branch of a rowan tree overlooking the lake.
Afternoon sunlight set the water aglitter.
Herons waded slowly in the shallows, and cormorants dove beneath the surface.
The sound of footsteps pulled Shea from her reverie.
Somehow, even without looking, she knew that light tread.
“Did you win?” Shea asked.
Ciara scoffed. “What do you take me for?”
Relief crashed over her. “Good.”
“Is that all you have to say? You do not want to hear of my exploits? It was a heroic battle, I will have you know.”
“I’m sure it was.”
Ciara rested her boot on the wooden seat of the swing.
It listed a little, sending Shea twisting off course until Ciara steadied it with her hand on the rope.
Finally, Shea looked up at her—and regretted it.
She could focus only on her rosy complexion and, with the voluminous sleeve of her cloak gathered around her elbow, the flex of her forearm muscles.
This close, comforting heat and the scent of orange blossom rolled off Ciara’s body.
My oath? Is that what you think this is?
“Is something troubling you?” Ciara asked suspiciously.
“No,” Shea replied hastily. “Why?”
“A few reasons come to mind.” She smiled in some attempt at bleak humor. “You were attacked by a sorceress and a child in the span of twenty-four hours, and now, you’ve made yourself into quite a forlorn picture. I somehow doubt you are birdwatching for its own sake.”
“I did want to talk to you.”
Ciara frowned. “Right. About the plan.”