Chapter Sixteen
Shea sat in her bedroom’s bow window with her forehead pressed against the cool glass. Through the gray-gauze mist, the sky blushed pink with dawn. She should’ve been asleep long ago, but her thoughts refused to quiet. Not when her body still buzzed with the joy of that last game.
Joy. It should have been impossible, when Midir had killed that part of her. And yet, here she was. Somehow, Ciara had stanched that psychic wound and breathed new life into her. She’d made Shea start thinking about the future.
And then, Shea had almost kissed her.
She groaned. She’d trodden too far into dangerous territory. Her feelings had gotten too confused. Sorcerers on the loose or not, she needed to clear her head. She emerged from her room just as another door down the hall opened. Lily stepped out, then stopped short when she noticed Shea.
Lily, wrapped in a loose black sweater, stood there with a heavy book tucked under her arm and a glare that could corrode steel.
Shea considered continuing on her way, or maybe just turning around and crawling into bed, but something made her hesitate.
Their last conversation flashed through her mind.
I did earn my way here, even if I wasn’t invited.
Shea hated being wrong. What she hated even more were players who underestimated and devalued their peers for no good reason. It seemed pointless to delude yourself when confronted with new facts.
She cleared her throat. “You always awake this early?”
“It’s the only time it’s quiet. At least, it used to be.”
“Right.” Shea could take a hint. She ran her hand through her hair and sighed. “Look. I think I owe you an apology.” Lily’s mouth twisted, either displeased or surprised, but Shea went on determinedly. “You’re right. You do deserve to be here.”
“Even if I am just a depressed international master?” she asked wryly.
“I did say I was trying to apologize,” Shea muttered. “So, I apologize.”
Lily’s expression softened some, but her tone remained guarded. “Where is this coming from?”
“I don’t know. I’ve just been thinking about how chess can be kind of lonely if you alienate everyone around you…
” Shea felt herself beginning to babble—and saw the wariness reenter Lily’s eyes.
“Whatever. I don’t know. You played well yesterday, and I thought I should tell you.
I wanted to know how you played. Now I do. ”
“And how is that?”
“Like a storm.”
A genuine smile broke over Lily’s face. It made her look much younger—so much less world-weary and jaded. “That’s a new one.”
“It’s just the truth. Whoever that guy is you’re trying to get back at … I don’t know what he did to you, but he should be afraid.”
“Men like him never are.” Like a cloud passing over sunlight, Lily’s smile faded. “I was a fool for not seeing his true nature, but I never thought I could be so easily deceived.”
Lily clasped her wrist absently. Her sleeve had ridden up, revealing a mottled band of scar tissue that crept out from beneath the fabric and stretched over the back of her palm.
It shone faintly in the early-morning light.
Shea didn’t know the particulars of Lily’s situation, but she could guess at it.
She’d seen enough of her mother’s terrible boyfriends over the years to know.
It always started slow. You could always find ways to justify it.
You never wanted to believe that love wasn’t enough to overcome it.
“That doesn’t make you a fool,” she said.
Lily shook her head. “Maybe not.”
“He’s the one to blame.”
“He is…” She withdrew into herself, seemingly lost in thought. “I survived him. I should let it go. But I can’t.”
Shea remembered the exact moves of almost every game she played—and certainly all of the ones she’d lost. “You’re a chess player. That drive for perfection, the obsessiveness, the spite … It runs in our blood.”
“Not all of us. My father taught me to play. He was like Smyslov and Tal and Spassky: an artist. He never wanted to see his opponents suffer. He wanted to be their friend, I think. He wanted to work with them to make something beautiful.”
Truly artistic games arose through that fine, balletic dance of collaboration and competition. Shea had played some pretty games, but it hadn’t been her goal since she was a child. Now …
Shea strangled that thought. “Were you like that, once?”
“I don’t know anymore. I don’t remember a time when I didn’t see chess as a means to an end.” It hurt, to hear her own feelings reflected back at her in such plain terms. Lily studied her, her expression unreadable. “I forgive you, by the way. But this doesn’t mean we’re friends.”
“Of course not.”
The dull thunk of axes sinking into wood echoed across the lake. Then: the groan of trees as they broke, the crash as they fell. Shea and Lily exchanged a look, then hurried to a window. Outside, fae hurried here and there carrying baskets full of golden flowers and bundles of wood.
“You know about this stuff, right?” Shea asked. “What’s happening, exactly?”
Lily placed her book on the windowsill. Dappled shadows played across her pale face. “It’s the festival of An Ionradth today. It marks the day of the fae’s arrival in the mortal world.”
Another holiday, so soon after the other. “Right.”
“Good. You’re both here.” Shea turned around to see a faerie servant approaching them.
He wore a garland of golden flowers around his brow.
He stopped a few paces away and said, “His Royal Majesty requests your presence at the festivities tonight, after sunset. He will give you more information about the next round there.”
Judging by his tone, requests meant expects. An uneasy feeling came over Shea. “Great. We’ll be there.”
When he retreated down the hall again, Lily muttered, “I hate festivities.”
Shea felt similarly. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”
“Likewise. Stay on your guard.”
In the fields outside Midir’s castle, bonfires rose from the darkness. Against the deep blues and purples of the heather, they were the only bright things for miles. Bonfire smoke billowed into the sky, drawing a veil over the pale face of the moon. Even the stars seemed far away tonight.
All the fae of Ireland, it seemed, had come to celebrate.
Groups of them drove herds of cattle out of their pastures and around the bonfires.
They danced to the wild beat of drums and the cry of pipes.
They leapt over the flames and painted their faces with ash.
They drank and sang and clapped, with fire illuminating the sharp planes of their inhuman faces and refracted in their wide, black eyes.
This was a far wilder world than the one Shea knew, made of stark shadows, deep hollows, and flickering gold.
When Shea arrived, a fae with ashes smeared across his cheeks greeted her. “Shea Fury. Come with me.”
He led her toward the largest bonfire Shea had ever seen and left her. The flames leapt high and wavering against the night, spitting out embers. Gold and silver motes whirled through the air, and the smell of woodsmoke and wine hung in the air like incense.
One by one, the other competitors arrived.
She nodded in greeting at Daniil (who scowled at her as though she’d offended him) and Lily (who, mercifully, returned it).
She did her best to avoid looking at anyone else, lest she inadvertently make eye contact with Ciara.
She had to maintain some distance between them if she hoped to get through the rest of this tournament unscathed.
“Enjoying the festival?”
Shea nearly toppled into the fire. She hadn’t heard Ciara approach.
Ciara. Stupidly, Shea could only think about how the light suited her complexion.
The flames gilded her skin and gathered in her hair.
They transformed her into something unknowable and too dangerous to draw near.
Her heart fluttered. Viciously, Shea smothered the feeling.
This was exactly what she’d been hoping to avoid.
How was she supposed to look her in the eye after last night?
How was she supposed to pretend nothing had changed?
Then again, nothing had changed. Ciara was the same annoying, pompous, dramatic, vain, inspiring …
Enough, Shea thought. It would be far easier to ignore one another. So why had Ciara sought her out? And why was Shea opening her mouth to reply? “It’s kind of creepy, honestly.”
Ciara offered her a tentative smile. “Well, the Festival of An Ionradth commemorates the anniversary of our arrival on this earth.”
Never had Shea been so relieved to hear one of Ciara’s little faerie fun facts. Skeptically, she asked, “What, you mean you came from another dimension?”
“Something like that.” Ciara shrugged. “It is said that on this day, thousands of years ago, my ancestors sailed their ships onto the shores of Ireland to conquer it. Some mortals claimed we were angels, cast out by our god and doomed to wander the earth. Others said we crawled from the depths of hell.” It was clear which version of the story she preferred.
In the bonfire’s light, her eyes shone with a sulfuric glow.
“During one of their summer festivals, we cast the world into darkness for three days and three nights with a thick black smoke: a powerful spell from one of our sorcerers.”
“That’s kind of fucked up. You ruined their holiday.”
“I suppose we did.” Ciara smiled almost dreamily, as if imagining it: the shock and awe, the theatrics, the darkness and hellfire. “But who’s to say it really happened? We live long lives, but our memories still fade. All that remain are stories, embellished and corrupted with every telling.”
The bonfire wavered like a mirage, and Midir stepped through the flames. They parted around him and danced at the hem of his cloak. His silver eye glowed like a banked coal. Clearly, Ciara was not the only faerie royal who enjoyed theatrics.
“Welcome, challengers. Tonight, you will compete for the advantage of playing with the white pieces in the third round. On this night, we light special fires to protect ourselves—and what belongs to us.” His smile was cold.
“There are eight unlit stacks of firewood, each approximately half a league from here. Each of you will light one of them with a flame drawn from this bonfire.”
Midir plunged his hand into the fire. Shea’s stomach dropped reflexively. But the flames did not touch him. They curved around him and wove through his fingers like a cat. When he withdrew his hand, a small tongue of fire rested in the center of his palm as though flickering on a candle’s wick.
One of the faerie grandmasters asked, “Forgive me for the interruption, Your Majesty. How will we know where to go?”
“The flame will guide your way.” He extended his arm, and the flame burned brighter. “It will burn steadily as you approach your goal and wane as you stray farther from it. And if you set it down…”
He let it fall from his open hand, and it sputtered out on the grass. “It will extinguish. The first four players to light their fire will play white. Those who finish later—or those who allow their flames to go out—will play black. You will play tomorrow at ten.”
Shea frowned. That hardly seemed like much of a challenge. Half a league wasn’t far. Then again, Bri Leith was pitted with bogs and crawling with all sorts of threats: sorcerers and dog-men and who knew what other monsters Ciara hadn’t seen fit to warn her about.
“Take your flames,” said Midir.
The eight remaining competitors encircled the bonfire.
Shea hesitated as she stared into the flames.
The heat radiating off them singed her face.
Everything rational within her resisted, but she dipped her hands into the fire and scooped out a tiny flame.
It didn’t blister her skin but rather blazed just above it.
Shea drank in her competition: Ciara, Daniil, Lily, and four other faerie grandmasters.
She could hardly make out their faces—only the animal gleam of their eyes in the dark.
It occurred to her that as soon as they stepped outside the castle grounds, they were no longer under Midir’s protection.
If someone wanted to sabotage the others, they could.
Shea glanced at Ciara, whose attention remained fixed on the flame cupped in her hands.
It stung, even though it was for the best. This time, Shea was on her own.
“You may begin,” Midir said.
With her heart in her throat, Shea set out into the night.