Page 11 of Immortal Game

Just before panic set in, a long wooden ship emerged from the fog like a vision. It cut through the water, propelled by a dozen oars, but only the faintest ripple disturbed the cold mirror of the lake’s surface. Slowly, the ship slid into the shallows. A gangplank, pushed by unseen hands, dropped onto the shore. No one greeted her. Still, the ship seemed to beckon her like a faerie maiden’s song:Come away with me.She hesitated for only a moment before she climbed onboard.

She’d taken no more than a step onto the deck before someone said, “Fury.”

Shea glanced over to find herself staring directly at Daniil Tsoi. He stood a few yards away from her, his elbows braced against the railing, his dark eyes skewering her. He was another competitor—and the fifth-strongest chess player in the world. He’d soared through the rankings over the past two years, playing in almost every tournament as though his life depended on it. She’d almost admire that kind of dedication, if he wasn’t such an asshole.

Very reluctantly, she came to lean beside him on the deck’s railing. He towered over Shea, but he was all limbs and delicatebones. Still, the Russian accent tended to intimidate people. His black hair curled loosely and fell across his forehead, and he had a single mole just above his upper lip, as though added by a painter’s artful and deliberate hand. Unfortunately for her, he seemed to be real and not some conjuration of faerie magic.

“How’s it going?” she asked flatly.

“Bad. Worse now.” He surveyed their surroundings disapprovingly. “Did you know that once you could sail your own vessel through the Féth Fíada? Now, you have to share a little toy ship with the rabble.”

Shea glanced over her shoulder and confirmed that it was, indeed, just the two of them on the boat. So, that was how it would be. Chess was the rope Shea had used to claw her way to a comfortable life, but Daniil came from money. Today, he wore a turtleneck, slacks, a black overcoat—the collar of which was popped against the nonexistent wind—and a pair of clear-framed glasses.

“Don’t tell me you had to abandon your yacht in the North Sea. How will you manage, with that silver spoon shoved up—”

“If you want to spar, go find an opponent you can win against.”

He sounded so bored, it soured her mood further. “Why are you here talking to me if this is all so beneath you?”

“Believe me,” he said bitterly, “I’ve already tried negotiating for what I want.”

So, Daniil Tsoi had a problem money couldn’t solve. How tragic. “And now you’ll have to play one of the most prestigious tournaments in the world, for a prize of anything you could imagine.”

“I’m not in this for money.” He gave her a look that said,unlike you. “Or the sport, for that matter. This isn’t a game to me. But enjoy your little tournament. You must be so proud to be here.”

Shea bristled. “You think you’re the only one with something worth playing for.”

“I’m the only one who has a real shot of winning.”

Daniil was remorseless, cold-blooded, always at his opponent’s jugular—and possessed the skill to back his ego. But at an event like this, all of the players were good. “Remind me. How many times have you beaten me?”

He scoffed. “Enough to know how your mind works. Your streak is impressive, but it won’t hold here. You try to hide it, but I can see them.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The cracks.” His smile was venomous. “I’ve spent a lot of time analyzing the games you lose, especially the ones you’ve lost to me. If you’re in a worse position, you can’t hold your nerves. You disintegrate. I wonder how well you’ll manage here.”

A chill ran through her. He couldn’t possibly know. She’d never told anyone but her mother about her game with Midir. Clearly, he didn’t need to know exactly what had happened to know the truth: Some part of her had died.

Some people played to win. Others played to completely and utterly dominate their opponents. Midir was the latter. He’d savored her humiliation and imminent defeat as though nothing else in the world would bring him even a measure of satisfaction. There were no words for the aura he exuded; it had been almost physical in its sheer presence, reaching across the board and sinking into her. It had been a nightmare to sit across from him. And the way she’d felt ever since…

She couldn’t explain it, even if she wanted to. All she knew was that losing to him had made her less of a player—and less of a person.

Once, chess had made more sense than anything in the world. She’d loved it, purely and inexpressibly. Midir had poisoned it. Before him, Shea could shrug off her losses once she grieved them. She could always envision the next game, the next victory. Now, winning felt like nothing. And if she ever teetered on the edge of losing…

You disintegrate.

Midir had inflicted a wound on her very soul, one that was still bleeding. A player like Daniil could smell that weakness like a shark scenting prey in the water.

As coldly as she could, Shea asked, “Is that a threat?”

He let out a dismissive sound. “No. But I’m feeling generous, so I’ll give you some advice. Don’t play. Just take what dignity you have and go home.”

Bri Leith stretched out before them in a mosaic of boglands and heath: purple heather and nettle, gorse and honeysuckle, wildflowers and fruits Shea had no name for. It was rendered in soft pastels and deep, earthy shadows, as dreamlike as the poets promised—and far lonelier than she’d expected. She saw no other boats. No carriages on the lakeside roads. No villages. Nothing at all, until, at last, she saw it. There, rising from the mist and heath grass, like an extension of the low-lying hills, was Midir’s castle.

Thick sheets of ivy and moss climbed the stone face, as though they meant to drag it down into the lake like a sirenwith her prey. The reflection of the castle shone on the poured-concrete smoothness of the water, disturbed only by a group of swans drifting past. A dock reached toward them like an outstretched hand. Mist rolled inexorably onto the shore.

It struck her then: There was no turning back from this.