Chapter Nineteen
Outside Ciara’s room, the hallway yawned open into darkness.
Somewhere beneath the scent of woodsmoke clinging to her hair, the briny stench of sorcery lingered.
If Fuamnach came back, there really was no one to protect her this time.
This thought occurred to her only a moment before she watched a shadow detach itself from the surrounding gloom and approach her.
She nearly screamed, until she realized it was only Daniil.
“Finally,” he said impatiently. “Come with me.”
He did not wait for her reply, nor did he look back to see if she was following. He moved with the brisk, easy purpose of someone who had never once considered the possibility his orders might be disobeyed.
He led her down the corridor and up the narrow spiraling staircase.
He ascended only halfway up the first flight before sprawling onto one of the shallow steps like a king on his throne.
Shea pointedly stepped over him, then took her own seat at a higher vantage point.
Petty, maybe. But it was undeniably satisfying to see his face upturned toward her for once.
The arrow-slit window between them let in a pale slab of moonlight. It cut slantwise across his face, and in its half-light, he was little more than the dark gleam of his eyes and the glint of his cracked wristwatch.
“And you’ve led me into a creepy stairwell because…?”
Offhandedly, he replied, “Every day, you astound me with the depths of your stupidity. I never took you for the type to throw an entire tournament over a girl.”
A girl. The words rang like shattering glass through her mind.
For one thing, she couldn’t believe Daniil Tsoi was talking to her about her love life.
Beyond that, calling Ciara a girl felt somehow insufficient.
She was a faerie princess, for God’s sake: the sort of being they used to write poetry about and wage wars over.
“No idea what you’re talking about,” she replied gruffly.
He gave her a pitying look. “Sure you don’t. You’re done booking the U-Haul?”
“Shut up.” Humiliation gave way to annoyance. “And when did I throw a game? I advanced to the third round, too.”
“You cost all three of us the advantage in the next round.”
“How is that my fault—”
“And you choked during the game we played,” he said, with surprising vehemence.
“You crumbled to dust the moment the pressure got to be too much, exactly like I said you would. What’s going to happen if you face her?
Sentimentality is foolish enough. But mooning over your competition?
A fae, no less? That’s a whole new level of pathetic. ”
Clearly, he had a sixth sense for finding the exact wound she least wanted to be prodded. “Is this really what you wanted to talk about?”
“No,” he conceded. “Who was that woman?”
“Ciara has a theory. It’s going to sound ridiculous.” She explained Fuamnach and her quest for vengeance to him with as little detail as possible.
By the time she finished, Daniil looked murderously incredulous. “I see.”
“I told you it was ridiculous.”
“You didn’t mention it was immaterial. I don’t care about faerie machinations and grudges—”
“You asked,” she muttered.
“I care about chess.” He steepled his fingers. “And something about this tournament reeks.”
Shea huffed out a sardonic laugh. “What tipped you off?”
He ignored her. “What do you know about the previous finalists?”
“Not much. I’ve studied their games, though.”
“And have you noticed anything strange about those games?” he asked, with the air of a teacher nudging his students toward the correct answer.
Shea chafed at his condescension. “Not really.”
“Then you’re not paying close enough attention. You’ve likely only been able to find the games they played before they entered the tournament—and their final games against Midir. None of them ever play again after they lose.”
“And?” Considering her own experience playing Midir, it didn’t strike her as terribly odd. If she had nothing keeping her in chess, Shea might have quit, too. “You wouldn’t understand unless you’d played him yourself. He’s a killer.”
“Be serious. Anyone who quits over a single loss doesn’t deserve to play. You assume it’s because they didn’t want to. What if it’s because they can’t?”
The thought chilled her. “But I played Midir. I didn’t have to give up chess.”
“You told me it was a draw.”
“It was, technically…” Her chest felt tight. The deeper she tried to inhale, the thinner the air seemed. God, she hated thinking about that night. “Where are you going with this?”
“Don’t you think it’s strange that he’s never lost a game?”
“I guess. But he’s had centuries to practice.”
“That’s exactly the problem. If he was that good at chess, wouldn’t he have gotten bored of it by now?
He can’t innovate and keep himself sharp with no one of equal skill to play against.” Daniil leaned forward, the same way he did over the board when he’d begun calculating a winning line.
“He never travels to the mortal realm. He never brings chess players here outside of this tournament, and as far as I know, he doesn’t have a second or a coach. ”
Everything he said was true. By modern standards, Midir’s success was improbable, maybe even impossible. Still, she couldn’t shake her skepticism. “What, you think he’s cheating?”
He smiled mirthlessly. “Now you’re catching on.”
Shea lifted her wrist and pulled back her sleeve. Even in the scant moonlight, the silvery whorls on her wooden fetter glowed. “You remember how well cheating went for my first opponent. How could he survive his own tournament without getting skewered?”
“It’s a simple loophole. He didn’t bind himself to the same rules.”
The High King of the Irish Otherworld, cheating. Shea couldn’t wrap her head around it. She couldn’t accept it. “But we have some records of his games. He doesn’t play the best move all the time.”
According to the few games they had on record—sometime after chess notation was developed, shortly before the fae had withdrawn behind the Iron Veil—he was an extremely versatile player. Chameleonic, even. His style evolved with the times, often mirroring the most talented players of the era.
“Right.” Daniil lifted one shoulder. “Just most of the time.”
“So do all of us,” Shea countered. “Unless he’s got an internet connection rigged in this castle, he’s not using an engine.”
“Try to keep up, Fury. I’m saying everything is connected. When he defeats an opponent, he must be able to steal that opponent’s skill and use it for himself. I just don’t know how. If I did…” He made a frustrated sound. “Think. You must remember something unusual about that game.”
“I am.” She cradled her head in her hands. “There was a lot unusual about that game. But I…”
A memory winked up at her from the bottom of her mind, like a coin glittering just beneath the dark waters of a well.
Just before they played, he’d demanded something of her: If I win, I shall place you under bonds of heavy enchantment.
You will carve out and surrender your left eye to me. Quietly, Shea said, “His eye.”
Confusion softened his expression. “What about it?”
“His left eye is a prosthetic. The day we got here, Lily told me that some fae have these magical objects, like the spear Ciara used tonight. They give their wielder some kind of power. I think you’re right. His eye is how he does it.”
Daniil’s eyes shone with triumph. “Well done. That’s the first intelligent thing you’ve said in weeks.”
“If I’m right, this is bad. For centuries, he’s been stealing the best ideas from the best players.
” She threw her hands up. Of course he wasn’t consulting an engine; he practically was an engine, one fed with the games of every player she’d ever admired, every game she’d ever studied in a book.
“What the hell are we supposed to do? We’re not up against one freak player’s skill—but hundreds.
Maybe thousands. I’m sure he was doing this long before he started this stupid tournament. ”
Daniil looked infuriatingly undaunted. “There has to be some way around it. Ciara might know something about this faerie hocus-pocus. Somehow, we’ll find out how it works before the final round. Beyond that, we keep winning.”
It cast the final round into a horrible new light: win, or never play again. Shea had considered quitting before, of course. But the prospect of being forced to quit—of losing both her sister and the game she’d devoted her entire life to …
It would be like walking to the edge of a cliff and seeing only empty darkness beyond: the very edge of the world.
Fate had gifted her a mind suited for this elegant, maddening game.
It made her one of the best in the world at this one specific thing—and ill suited for nearly everything else.
If she couldn’t play, what would she do?
Who would she be? She was nineteen and already among the walking dead: no degree, no job, no dreams, no prospects.
She wouldn’t survive it. No, it wasn’t an option to lose.
Midir is a fraud. Shea couldn’t handle this right now. She couldn’t allow herself to believe it. It felt too much like coping—too much like forgiveness, when she only had herself to blame for what had happened. But if it was true …
“Fury.” Daniil’s voice was half annoyance, half alarm. “Get a grip.”
Distantly, Shea registered that she’d slumped back against the stairs. Her head was spinning. Her breathing was shallow. Her face prickled with cold sweat. At first, there was no substance to her panic.
And then, a burst of clarity: Maybe she hadn’t truly lost that game.
Maybe she hadn’t failed. No matter what she’d done, no matter how many variations she had found, she never could have changed the outcome.
Her throat constricted painfully, but she swallowed down the too-close burn of tears.
She would sooner die than show weakness in front of Daniil.
He stared at her incredulously. “What is wrong with you?”
“My sister,” she choked out. “He has my sister.”