Chapter Nine
Shea found no sign of Ciara anywhere on the trail, which meant she must’ve wandered off into the heath.
“Perfect,” Shea muttered. “Just perfect.”
Off the beaten path, pools of standing water flashed white beneath the dim sunlight like shards of broken glass.
The air smelled of resin, damp wool, and peat.
Mist leached the world of color, but here and there, bright purple heather and golden bog asphodel shone through the gloom.
As much as Shea hated to admit it, Bri Leith was beautiful—and treacherous.
With every step, the earth rippled beneath her.
And then, at last, it gave way. Her foot sank ankle-deep into cold, sludgy water.
It seeped slowly into her shoe, until her sock was completely drenched.
Shea was beyond finished with this terrible day.
She lifted her foot, or at least she tried, but the pool held fast. She yanked again, but this time, she knocked herself off- balance.
She stumbled forward, her arms flying out to steady herself, and her free leg sank to the knee.
The water’s frigid hands ensnared her, and every shift of her muscles only tightened its hold.
Panic forked through her like lightning.
Her only thought was escape. She flailed toward the moss that carpeted the edge of the pool.
It floated atop the surface of the water, useless and unanchored.
Her frantic clawing only dragged her deeper, until she was entombed to the waist. At last, Shea understood.
She’d walked directly into a peat bog.
A staticky feeling of denial washed over her. She refused to believe this was happening. That soon, unless someone found her, she might very well drown. She pushed away the horrible image of mud pouring into her mouth and nose, weighing down her lungs. What a stupid way to go.
Distantly, she remembered that if you stayed still, you wouldn’t sink. Shea drew in a steadying breath and tried her best to relax. It was difficult, when all she could smell was the sour stench of the bog. Her toes had already begun to lose sensation.
“Hello?” she called. “Is anyone there?”
Each second passed like an hour. Finally, from behind her, Shea heard the sound of footsteps and the soft rustling of heather.
“Has any creature suffered more than I?” Ciara asked wearily. “Has no one told you that wandering through a peat bog is dangerous?”
“I can’t say it’s come up before now,” Shea groused. Relief warred valiantly with her humiliation. She’d hoped to find Ciara with her dignity still somewhat intact. So much for that. “A little help?”
Ciara strolled unhurriedly into her field of vision.
She set down her basket, which was already half full of bilberries, and sat at the edge of the bog.
Against the muted browns and pastels of the heath, she was almost painfully bright.
“I must hand it to you, Shea. I’m impressed. How did you manage this?”
“I was looking for you.”
At first, this seemed to gratify Ciara. Then, her expression turned hard and wary. “What, did you get kicked out of your little mortal club?”
“No,” she said defensively. There wasn’t a club, and she resented the implication. Clearly, Ciara had witnessed at least one of her rejections. “I removed myself.”
As understanding dawned on her, Ciara practically twinkled with glee. “Well, well, well, well. It seems you’re in something of a predicament, then, aren’t you? Just this morning, you spat upon my kindness and goodwill. And now, you’ve come crawling back to me.”
Shea said nothing. If she held out long enough, maybe Ciara would spare Shea the humiliation of asking herself. It was too much to hope for. Both of them had too much pride.
A stalemate, then, she thought.
But no. That would mean neither of them could win.
This was far worse. There was a concept in chess called a zugzwang, which in German meant something to the effect of “the compulsion to move.” It happened most often in late endgames, when your opponent wore you down, boxed you in, and stripped your king of nearly all his defenses—when you had no legal moves but bad moves.
No matter what you did, it would put you in a worse position.
And so, you must orchestrate your own undoing.
Shea felt her own demise near at hand as the silence stretched on.
Would it really be so terrible to surrender?
Ciara was, objectively, one of the best players in the world.
Cracking now would mean losing whatever little battle they’d been waging over the last few years.
And God, Shea hated losing. But just this once, she would have to endure it.
Shea gritted out, “If your offer is still on the table, I’m amenable now.”
“Is that so?” Hurt flashed in Ciara’s eyes. “After your little outburst this morning, I assumed that I was the very last person you could be prevailed upon to work with. Unless accusing people of sabotage and selfishness is your idea of small talk.”
“You asked for my honest opinion. I’m not going to apologize for describing your own behavior to you.”
“You could have lied,” Ciara muttered. “You’re mortal.”
Her frustration sparkled anew. “Do you want me to beg or something?”
“It certainly wouldn’t hurt.”
Of course Ciara wouldn’t make this easy. As tension coiled within Shea, the bog closed around her tightly again. Her body slipped deeper into the muck. The cold stole away her breath. “Please?”
Ciara watched her sink, her expression caught somewhere between amused and exasperated. “You are hopeless, aren’t you?”
Shea half expected her to walk away, but Ciara extended her hand.
Shea grabbed at her forearm, but her damp fingers couldn’t find purchase.
She slipped, but as her body threatened to sink deeper, Ciara clasped tightly onto her wrist. Shea nearly gasped at the warmth and strength of her grip.
So great was her relief, she felt almost weightless in the mud now.
Little by little, it released her. Ciara dug her heels into the peat and pulled.
Slowly but surely, Shea emerged from the depths—and with a final tug, Ciara dragged her onto dry land.
Shea scrabbled away from the edge of the bog, as though it might seize her and swallow her whole if she lingered.
Exhaustion crashed down on her. She flopped onto her back, panting, and relished the solidity of the earth beneath her.
She was plastered in mud from the waist down.
Her left shoe and one of her bracelets were casualties. But she was alive.
“Thank you,” Shea wheezed. “I owe you my life.”
“You should not pledge a life-debt to a fae so freely.” Vague concern flickered across Ciara’s face, but it was gone as quickly as it arose. “But I understand the impulse. It was rather heroic of me, wasn’t it?”
Shea groaned. “Don’t push it.”
Ciara watched her from beneath her eyelashes. In the faint sunlight, they shone golden. “You’re serious about us working together?”
“For better or for worse, yeah. I’m serious.”
“Then let us have it out.” Ciara dusted off her hands.
The mud on her skin flaked away and scattered like a flock of birds, leaving her pristine once more.
“You have spun quite the narrative in your mind. I’m flattered you thought about me so much, but in truth, I didn’t realize you took our games so personally. ”
Shea didn’t know whether to find this confession hilarious or infuriating. “How could I not, after that game we played in Prague?”
“That was five years ago,” Ciara protested, with genuine surprise coloring her cheeks. “We were fourteen.”
“So? You were a fucking menace. You still are.” Shea’s face warmed, too. “Don’t deny it. You’ve been trying to punish me for beating you ever since.”
“I should be offended you think me so petty and spiteful. But I suppose you’re not entirely wrong. At first, I did resent you. But as the years went on, playing terrible chess became less about annoying you and more…”
“More what?” Shea asked impatiently.
“It was for my own amusement. But not at your expense.” Ciara shook her head. “I thought you’d play along eventually. But you never did.”
“Why is that surprising?” Shea felt oddly flustered—and more embarrassed than she wanted to admit. She struggled to reorient herself to the truth: that all this time, it’d been her, not Ciara, who’d held on to this petty grudge.
Ciara threw her hands up. “Why wouldn’t it be? It is shocking. How you must love drudgery! Doesn’t it ever bore you, playing such principled chess? Knowing the first twenty moves of every game? Knowing the outcome of every game?”
Yes. Of course it does. “Not really.”
“Is that so? Am I to believe you really do lock yourself away reading Dvoretsky’s Analytical Manual for fun?”
Fun. What a foreign concept. Chess had become so predictable. Every other player had become so predictable. But she couldn’t afford risk or innovation when she couldn’t handle losing. At any rate, fun was a luxury of childhood, immaterial at this point in her career. Shea shrugged. “You caught me.”
“You are as dull as I expected.”
Shea smiled in spite of herself. “And you’re only a little less annoying than I expected.”
Ciara sniffed. “As I said earlier, I am trying to reform.”
That, of all things, made her relent. “I guess I was a little harsh earlier. I’m sorry.”
Ciara blinked, clearly surprised. “Well. How good of you to say so. Thank you. It is appreciated, the great effort this must’ve taken on your part. I felt only half your usual murderous intent and insolence, although some flattery would be nice to make up for it.”
Of course she had to ruin it. “Just give me an answer. Will you be my partner?”
“Yes. Fine. Very well.” Ciara brushed a lock of hair behind her ear, clearly as uneasy as Shea was with this shift between them. “Can you stand?”
“I think so.”
“Good. You might as well help me with this.” Ciara gestured at her half-empty basket. “I dread to think what Midir will do if we don’t pay him tribute. Do be careful, though, or you might walk into a bog.”