Chapter Five
Shea let herself into her new room and made it as far as the bed before she collapsed, face down, into a dead sleep.
She woke just as sunset stained the lake bloodred.
Bleary-eyed, she took in her surroundings for the first time.
The roots of a tree seemed to be either holding her room together or slowly tearing it apart.
Branches pushed from the ceiling and fashioned themselves into the ornate frames of the windows.
An entire wardrobe awaited her in the closet, and an outfit for the opening ceremony was draped over a lacquered privacy screen.
Shea dressed, then stood before a massive mirror to examine her reflection.
Her anonymous stylist had done well. They’d chosen a loose white shirt and a long black overcoat so studded with crystals that it glittered as if dusted with a layer of frost. She had no idea how to tie a cravat properly, but at least they hadn’t tried to put her in a ball gown.
By the time she finished knotting her tie, the absurdly ornate clock on the wall chimed the hour: seven.
Her feet ached. Her head throbbed, and hunger twisted her stomach. But if she rested for even a moment, she’d sink back into sleep. Better to be early to the event than to not make it at all.
Outside her room, at the far end of the hall, Shea found a narrow staircase. When she ascended to the next floor, she found herself in the same corridor she’d started in. There was no sense to this place. She had to draw in a deep breath to keep herself from swearing aloud.
Eventually, she stumbled upon a new hallway—one with vaulted ceilings and an archway that opened into a chamber made more of tree than stone.
Roots and branches had worn away the ceiling, allowing in swathes of moonlight.
It filtered through layers of dense moss and climbing vines, bathing everything in green and silver.
All of the Otherworld felt strange—magical, as much as Shea hated the whimsy and imprecision of that word.
Here, it felt as though its power lay dreaming.
Scattered throughout the chamber were objects on display: swords in elaborately painted sheaths, a five-pronged spear, a massive cauldron, a staff made of silver and ebony, a mace, a harp, a cloak.
Shea had no idea what she was looking at, although they were obviously important if Midir saw fit to arrange them in a little museum exhibit.
Absently, she reached out to trace the lip of the cauldron.
“You shouldn’t touch that.”
Shea snatched her hand back and whirled around.
A girl stood beneath the archway. Her dark hair was arranged into two thick braids that flowed down her back.
She wore all black—black shorts, black boots, black hoodie—and an amethyst pendant.
She couldn’t be older than twenty, but the world-weariness in her blue eyes aged her.
She was mortal. At least, Shea assumed she was.
Her ears weren’t pointed, and her face, while pretty enough, was mundane.
Most mortals who lived in the Otherworld were thralls of faerie lords, but this girl had a shrewd, clear look about her. Not ensorcelled, then.
“Are you part of Midir’s court?” Shea asked warily. The Irish fae sometimes kept mortals in their courts if they possessed an exceptional talent.
A wry smile curled on the girl’s plum-painted lips. “No. I’m a competitor.”
That was not the answer she’d expected. Elite chess was a small world, and Shea had never seen this girl in her life. “What’s your name?”
“Lily.”
Shea’s confusion only deepened. As far as she knew, no grandmasters named Lily existed. How had a national master or international master—or, God forbid, an untitled player—secured an invitation to an elite event like this?
Unless, of course, she hadn’t been invited at all.
Shea would’ve seen Lily’s name on the list of invitees. Shea’s seconds would’ve scoured the online database for her games and painstakingly picked them apart. So how had Lily gotten here? Shea filed the concern away for later. For now, she had to focus on the matter at hand.
“I’m Shea,” she replied coolly. “Why are you following me?”
“I’m not following you.” Lily stepped into the chamber—and into the columns of soft green light. She spun in a slow circle, drinking everything in with quiet reverence. “I wanted to see the armory.”
“You know what all this stuff is?”
Lily arched a brow. “You don’t?”
“No.” Shea couldn’t keep the defensiveness out of her tone.
Frustration and a dull, sick shame built within her as she stared at the collection, whose inscrutability seemed to mock her.
She’d never bothered to learn much about the Otherworld and its customs. Now, she resented her own ignorance.
If opening doors and touching cauldrons would get her killed, how was she supposed to avoid danger? “How do you know?”
“I like to read,” Lily replied dryly, but her tone held no ridicule.
“These are all objects that hold great magical power. Every so often, a faerie craftsperson is struck by something like genius and manages to create one of them. Scholars cataloged and illustrated most of them back when they could freely cross the Veil.”
“So what do they do?”
“This is the Dagda’s Cauldron, which never runs empty until it feeds everyone the host plans to serve.
That is the Sword of Light, which always strikes a fatal blow.
That other sword is called Answerer, which compels you to tell the truth when it’s held to your throat.
” Lily gestured to each object in turn and delivered her explanations in her soothing monotone.
“I could go on. But I’m sure you get the picture. ”
“And Midir just has these all-powerful weapons lying around? I don’t see why he wouldn’t put them to use.”
“I’m sure he would if he could. Their power awakens only for the person they were made for—or for someone they consider worthy.” Lily shrugged. “Besides, he already has one of his own.”
Shea perked up. “And what does that do?”
“Good question.” Lily chewed pensively on her lip ring. “He’s secretive about it.”
A thousand questions burned within Shea. Before she could ask any of them, a sound like the blaring of a horn swelled from the silence. That, at least, even Shea could understand. The opening ceremony would soon begin.
In Shea’s experience, the opening ceremony of a chess tournament was a thing to be endured rather than enjoyed.
Almost always, they took place in an auditorium, where stodgy men in stodgy suits delivered speeches about comradery and the enduring beauty of the sport.
On occasion, she’d been subjected to a chess-themed performance (and, exactly once, a firework show). This one was nothing like the others.
At the center of Midir’s castle, a tree grew.
Its boughs spanned the ceiling from edge to edge, and moonlight filtered through the canopy as if through a cathedral’s stained-glass windows.
Its bark glowed silver in the darkness, and golden flowers bloomed amid the delicate silver leaves.
And at its roots, the fae of Bri Leith chattered and laughed and danced.
Most of them wore eveningwear from an era long gone—floral-patterned silk and elaborate headdresses—with their hair arranged in shining ringlets.
Some bucked the eighteenth-century style with trinkets from the mortal world.
Here and there, she spotted the glint of a wristwatch just below the cuff of a samite sleeve or sunglasses tucked into breast pockets.
None of it was anything extravagant—or anything you’d notice unless you looked closely, as though they were trying to hide their fashion statements in plain sight.
It took Shea a few minutes to realize they were all faerie grandmasters.
Shea recognized most of them by now. Some had been on the mortal tournament circuit longer than Shea had been alive.
A herald’s brassy voice cut through chatter: “His Royal Majesty, King Midir of the Mighty Deeds, of the Silver Eye and Golden Hair.”
Shea had never heard his royal titles; she hadn’t expected them to be so ridiculous.
Clearly, he had a high opinion of himself.
The laugh died in her throat when Midir appeared on a balcony high above them.
He was always fair. But tonight, he was fairer.
A crown of silver apple branches rested atop his head.
His flaxen hair fell just so, obscuring one eye.
He looked entirely unchanged from when she last saw him six years ago.
Hatred kindled within her, as bright and hot as a flame.
It only flared higher when she realized that he stood alone.
Where was Aideen?
Ciara had mentioned that Midir admitted no one into his wing of the castle, but Shea hadn’t realized that meant he kept Aideen imprisoned there. This was a special kind of torture: knowing they were under the same roof but unable to reach each other.
“Welcome, esteemed guests.”
At the sound of Midir’s voice, the crowds fell silent.
“It is my great honor and pleasure to hold my centennial chess tournament.
I cannot recall when exactly I first learned the game of kings, but no matter how many centuries I live, its intricacies remain inexhaustible.
It is a rare and beautiful thing in lives as long as ours.
For hundreds of years, chess has played a critical role in our society.
Games of chess have determined the tide of battle.
They have sealed alliances and marriages and promises.
They have settled bitter disagreements. They have been proving grounds for valor.
It is a game of skill, intellect, courage, and stamina, where only the worthiest prevail.
“There is a purity to chess. Despite our differences, it presents an opportunity for everyone to compete on equal footing. And I grant each of you the chance to play your immortal game.”
The Immortal Game was the name of a specific game played in 1851 by Adolf Anderssen and Lionel Kieseritzky.
It was only twenty-two moves—and yet, one of the most analyzed and memorable games of all time, full of dramatic sacrifices and capped off with a gorgeous checkmating pattern.
It wasn’t theoretically sound by today’s standards, but it was emblematic of a bygone romantic era of the game: thrilling, emotional, and beautiful.
But Midir meant it in the colloquial sense.
Now, anyone could play their own immortal game: a career-defining game, a game that would be studied in courses and guidebooks for generations, a game that would effectively immortalize the player.
Certainly, the game in which someone finally defeated Midir would be legendary.
Once, Shea had craved that kind of achievement. Once, she thrilled at the idea of carving her name into history. Pretty things like legacy and artistry meant nothing to her now.
“Only one competitor will advance to the final round, where you will face me. In the meantime, you will follow one rule. There will be no cheating among the competitors. If you are discovered, you will be disqualified from the competition and punished according to the laws of Tír nAill. If you have the fortitude to enter, please come forward.”
Shea did not think. She did not hesitate.
In a haze, she shoved through the crowds.
A liveried servant intercepted her and directed her up the staircase that led to Midir’s opera box.
Blood roared in her ears as she mounted the final step and caught sight of him, silhouetted against the flood of moonlight and the tree’s wintry glow.
He turned toward her. As the sharp line of his profile came into view, she splintered.
She was nineteen years old, here and now, choking on her own loathing and dread.
She was eleven years old, petrified as Midir’s sudden appearance cracked open her world.
She was thirteen years old, believing herself more clever and more powerful than the High King of the Otherworld.
Amusement passed over his moonlit face. “You may approach.”
Numbly, Shea complied. Midir lifted a hand, and the massive tree groaned in response. One of the branches bowed down, close enough that Midir could snap a delicate twig off. The crack seemed to echo through the courtyard. In the half-light, the pale bark looked like bone.
“Give me your arm,” he said. “As is custom, we shall seal our pact with a gift.”
She did. With more care than she expected, he pulled the sleeve of her coat up to the elbow.
The branch in his hand glowed an otherworldly silver.
It twisted, sprouting new growth, until it wrapped around her wrist like a fetter.
Magic flowed through it like cold water, raising gooseflesh along her skin.
Already, she wanted it gone. But Ciara’s mellifluous voice echoed through her mind: Play the game.
“Do you remember me?” she asked quietly.
He studied her face blankly. Then, after a moment, he snapped his fingers. “You are the little girl who challenged me to a game of chess. How long has it been now?”
His tone was light, almost conversational. It made her blood boil. Did he even recall the significance of that game? Did he know what he’d done to her? “Six years.”
“Is that so? So short a time.”
Not for me, she thought. Every year had passed like a century.
Rage burned within her. She could win back her sister, but the parts of her he’d killed—her joy, her resilience, her ambition—had been the best parts of her.
There was no recovering them. There was no going back to the way things were before he tore her life apart.
“Do you remember what you stole from me?”
His expression shifted. No longer the affable host, he looked insulted—and dangerous. “I take only what has been pledged to me. What was promised was due. What was promised, I have taken.”
He could speak in riddles all he liked. It didn’t change what had happened, nor would it change the inevitable outcome of this tournament.
“I hope you know that I’ve thought of nothing else since that game.
I hope you’ve improved, Midir, because I’m not that little girl anymore.
I’ve come back to play for the same stake. This time, I won’t lose.”
“Well, then, Shea Fury.” A cruel smile cut across his face. “I wish you luck.”
He tilted his head, and his golden hair shifted until she was staring into his second eye.
It was made of pure silver. A thin, surgically precise scar bisected it from eyebrow to cheekbone.
Both eye and scar shone coldly in the darkness.
Something about it struck her with vague terror.
Despite its emptiness, there was awareness gleaming on its surface, as though he could truly see her—and that whatever he saw did not at all impress him.