Chapter Three
The days passed in a series of visa applications; vaguely concerning waivers acknowledging the United States government could not guarantee her safety and would make no effort to retrieve her; and brusque phone calls with government officials.
Someone from the Department of State had even reached out to wish her luck—and, in between effusing about the value of cultural exchange and dialogue, to insinuate what a boon it would be to America if she managed to win.
On Halloween, hours before she was meant to leave for the Otherworld, Shea paced restlessly through her living room. Dust swirled through the panels of red-gold sunlight stretching across the floorboards.
Even though it had to be five in the morning in China, her coach—who also happened to be one of the greatest woman grandmasters of all time—had insisted on one last game of blindfold chess, a format in which neither of them had a board in front of them.
It was a relatively straightforward move but still an annoying threat to deal with, considering it came with a hidden tactical threat. No doubt, Yangmei would see it, but at least it would buy Shea some time.
“Rook c8.”
Shea paused, stunned. Yangmei hadn’t seen her threat, and now, Shea would be up a pawn. “Bishop takes d6.”
Yangmei laughed, half pleased and half startled. “Well done. I didn’t think that was possible.”
When she was a child, maybe it would have been a thrill to best a player like Yangmei.
Now, neither praise nor victory brought her any real satisfaction.
There was only relief that came from avoiding defeat—and the heavy exhaustion that followed.
“You would’ve seen it over the board. Or at a more reasonable hour. ”
“Most likely.” She hesitated. “You’re feeling ready?”
“I am.”
“You remember that line we prepared against the Rossolimo, right? Tsoi has been playing it a lot recently.”
“I remember.” How could she not? They’d gone over the competitor list—their strengths, weaknesses, and play styles—hundreds of times.
The preparation for Midir’s tournament had been among the most grueling things she’d ever undertaken.
Each day, she spent eight hours poring over bound dossiers and studying chess with Yangmei and her other seconds.
After that came a two-to-three-hour workout to ensure she had the physical stamina and discipline to play long classical games. “Are you doubting me?”
“Of course not.” Again, she hesitated. “But I think we should try one last exercise.”
“All right,” Shea said warily.
“Let’s finish this game. But we’ll swap colors first.”
When Shea mentally reversed the board, all she could focus on was the horrible wrongness of what had been Yangmei’s position: the material deficit, the inharmonious arrangement of the pieces, the extinguished initiative …
The ugliness of it smarted as viscerally as a wound.
It smothered all the fight left within her.
“Why?” Shea asked, unable to keep the panicked edge out of her voice. “The game is already over.”
“It isn’t,” Yangmei replied. “If you fight, you can create chances for yourself.”
Years ago, Shea might’ve scrapped it out until the bitter end. Now, the thought of defending something so doomed … “I’m tired. Aren’t you?”
“See, this is what I’m worried about, Shea. Your preparation is not the issue. It’s your mental game.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“You refuse to play worse positions,” Yangmei said, a little accusatorily. “Granted, you rarely end up in a worse position. But you need to practice even the things you don’t enjoy.”
“So, what? This whole game was some kind of trap? You don’t think I should go?”
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
“No, I know. Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you.” Guilt ate at her. Shea couldn’t be angry with Yangmei. She’d never told her what happened on the night Aideen disappeared. It wasn’t that Shea refused to play worse positions. It was that she couldn’t.
“You’re right,” Yangmei said after a moment. “You leave so soon. You should get some rest.”
“You, too. I’ll be fine.” Shea was as ready as she’d ever be. Anyway, it wasn’t like she could wait around for another hundred years. “I really am just tired.”
“Okay.” Silence crackled over the line. “Everyone gets bad positions, you know. Everyone loses sometimes. Everyone. It’s part of the game, and it’s nothing to beat yourself up over.”
It was a nice sentiment. But losing was for other players, not for Shea. “Thanks, Yangmei.”
Once the call ended, a horrible sensation expanded within her until her chest felt tight.
Numbly, she sat in front of her chessboard.
The fading sunlight illuminated all the beautiful, hand-carved pieces and transformed the light squares into pools of silver.
Shea played through her and Yangmei’s game, then pulled out her phone to analyze the moves with an engine. There had been no mistakes.
Good, she thought. In the Otherworld, she couldn’t afford even a single inaccuracy. Because no matter what Yangmei claimed, Shea had plenty to punish herself for. Losing had cost her everything.
On the night Midir had returned to Wayfolk, Shea awoke to the muffled sound of voices coming from the front porch.
As soon as she recognized his voice filtering through her open window, she flung herself out of bed, half dragging the bedsheets with her in her haste.
She went downstairs, her mind emptying of everything but her purpose.
Save her.
When she opened the front door, he was there. He looked exactly as she remembered him. He had the same diadem made of silver branches, the same hunger in his eyes, the same entitlement.
Aideen stood at the top of the porch stairs, washed golden in the guttering lamplight. From her tense shoulders and the brittle silence, Shea could tell that she’d interrupted their conversation. Aideen did not spare Shea a glance. “Go back to bed.”
Shea ignored her. “Midir of Bri Leith, I challenge you to a game.”
Aideen did look at her then, with a slow-dawning horror.
Midir, however, regarded Shea with reluctant interest glittering in the inhuman green of his one visible eye—the green of an ancient forest, the green of still, depthless waters.
He tilted his head, and his burnished-gold hair fell almost boyishly across his forehead. “What sort of game?”
The fae loved games. And lucky for Shea, the Irish fae loved chess most of all. It was the game of kings, after all; naturally, their ruler would be the king of games.
But he was in her domain now, and she would make him regret ever showing his face here. Shea smiled, as sinister and sharp as a poisoned blade. “Chess, of course. I’m good at it.”
It was a strange thing, to feel the hunger of his stare redirect onto her. “I am no mean player myself. Shall we make a trial of it?”
Shea had imagined this a hundred times before.
She’d even pored over old legends, where heroes far cleverer than she had claimed a stake from their faerie foes.
Her reply came instantly: “Yes. We’ll play one game.
Each of us will have an hour on the clock, with no increment.
The loser will do whatever the victor demands. ”
“What is your demand?”
“If I win, you’ll leave my sister alone. Forever.”
Something shifted in his expression, and Shea had the distinct feeling that the floor had dropped out from beneath her. It should have terrified her, but it thrilled her. Nothing made her feel more alive than a real fight over the board.
“And if I win,” he said, “I shall place you under bonds of heavy enchantment. You will carve out and surrender your left eye to me.”
He said it lightly, as though it were nothing of value to him: a prize befitting the triviality of her challenge.
Maybe Shea should have backed down, but she was thirteen.
And Midir? He was old. They had no technology in the Otherworld.
He didn’t spend his time studying cutting-edge theory with an engine that could outmaneuver even the strongest player.
Shea had. She couldn’t lose. It was unthinkable.
“Shea,” Aideen said, more urgently. “Don’t do this.”
She had to. Aideen had shouldered their burdens alone for far too long.
Shea couldn’t ensorcell the people who threatened their family.
She couldn’t fight them off. She couldn’t make their mother be kinder or more reasonable.
She couldn’t force Wayfolk to stop fearing Aideen.
But she could play chess. Against this one foe, she could prevail.
She brushed past her sister and thrust out her hand to Midir. “It’s a deal.”
He accepted it. The moment their skin touched, the air shivered with magic.
Fog bloomed over Shea’s vision, until she and Midir were suspended in a swirl of white and gray.
And then, there came the groan of splintering wood, the hiss of leaves and vines unfurling.
A thicket erupted around them, enclosing them in a place that was both here and elsewhere.
He’d brought them to the Otherworld.
A chessboard was perched atop a spiral of branches, framed by two toadstool chairs. Each corner of the board glowed with the light of a gemstone, and the pieces were made of gold and silver.
With an almost bored wave of his hand, Midir said, “You may play with the white pieces.”
Mockery disguised as generosity. Whoever got the white pieces had the inherent advantage of moving first. Shea thought, You’ll regret that. She said nothing as they took their seats.
Her gaze drifted over the board, and perfect calm settled over her.
These sixty-four squares were more familiar to her than anything else she’d ever known.
Although the pieces were stationary, she could envision them in a thousand different configurations: memories of hundreds of games she’d studied laid over reality.
There were endless roads with forking paths stretched out before her, all of them leading to his demise.
Shea advanced her king’s pawn to e4. For the first time, she noticed the hourglass beside Midir’s elbow.
As soon as she made her move, the sand began to fall.
When Midir replied with c5—the Sicilian defense—the sand stopped flowing.
As her own timer began, she considered her options.
There were a number of lines she could take them down: the Alapin, the Dragon, the Najdorf …
“I believe it is customary for you to move now.” An indolent smile played on his lips. “It is my turn, then yours, and so forth.”
With a vicious glare, she brought out her kingside knight.
Back and forth they went. With each move, her confidence waned.
By the fifteenth move, he had played something Shea had never seen before, taking all of the venom out of her brewing attack.
By the thirtieth move, it became glaringly apparent that she was dead lost.
Shea stared at the board, her hands knotted in her hair.
She couldn’t comprehend how she’d gotten herself into this position.
Where had she gone so wrong? How had he outplayed her so thoroughly?
As the grains of sand in her hourglass slipped away, tears burned in the back of her throat.
There had to be some way out of this, some way she could fight back.
But she had nothing. She was down too much material—and too much time.
Good sportsmanship dictated that she should resign.
She wanted to, if only to spare herself further humiliation.
If only to stop the pain that was blossoming behind her left eye.
She met Midir’s gaze. She couldn’t even begrudge him his expectant, gloating smirk.
He hadn’t just beaten her. He’d destroyed her.
Before she could admit defeat, Aideen’s voice cut through the silence: “Enough.”
Both Shea and Midir’s heads snapped toward her. Midir looked furious at the interruption, a chess piece clutched in his hand like a stone ready to be unleashed—until he realized who had spoken. The piece dropped from his fingers onto the ground. Shame stole across his face.
With a coldness Shea had never heard from her before, Aideen said, “This is pointless, Shea.”
“What?” Shea asked hoarsely.
“I didn’t ask you to do this.” Frustration flickered across her expression. “I want to go with him. I’ve always wanted to go.”
“You’re lying,” Shea said. “Why are you lying?”
“I’m not. There’s nothing here for me. There never has been.” Her voice trembled, just barely. To Midir, she said, “I’m ready. Take me away from here.”
His expression softened with surprise. His disbelief melted into something like happiness. It sickened Shea to see such an oddly mortal sentiment on his perfect, inhuman features. “We have a game to finish.”
Aideen laid her hand on his arm. “Please. I don’t want to wait another moment.”
He had waited a lifetime for her. He could wait another thirty seconds for Shea’s clock to run out, or another second for her to resign. And yet, Shea could see that Aideen had stolen the competitive malice from his heart.
In a perfunctory gesture, he held out his hand to Shea. He didn’t even meet her eyes, as if this were nothing more than a business transaction he couldn’t wait to be done with. “Draw?”
Shea could not find the words to reply. She couldn’t even feel relieved.
Numbly, she shook his hand. Just like that, the world fell away.
The fog that had enshrouded them dissipated.
Piece by piece, the mortal world came into view: her empty lawn, silvered with dew; the yawning dark of the woods; the stars shining overhead.
When she tipped her head back, she saw Midir and Aideen for the last time: two cranes cutting across the pale face of the moon.
Sometimes, Shea wondered what her life would look like if she’d won that game.
It was a pointless thought exercise, she knew.
She’d memorized every move they’d played.
She’d played it out on the board a thousand times.
She’d put it in an engine. Every analysis revealed the same core truth: Midir played perfectly, while small, human inaccuracies had undone her.
This time, it would be different. Shea was neither the terrified eleven-year-old nor the cocksure thirteen-year-old she’d been. This time, she had nothing left to lose.
Across the room, the golden apple and silver branch Ciara had given her emanated an otherworldly light. It’s time, they seemed to say. Come away.
As if in a trance, Shea approached them. She picked up the apple, and without hesitation, she bit into it.