Page 15 of Immortal Game

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, itpresents 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 andcaught 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. Thecrackseemed 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 bloodboil. 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.

CHAPTER SIX

Shea returned to the courtyard, hardly registering the faces of the other competitors as they made their way up the staircase. Their curious gazes singed like a brand, but she paid them no mind.

When she reached the ground level, she ducked into an alcove. The wooden fetter lay flush against her wrist; its interlocking branches formed a seamless ring, impossible to remove, impossible to even dig her fingers beneath. When she tried, it bristled all over with thorns, like an old dog prodded one too many times, and drew pinpricks of blood. Shea hissed, more startled than pained, and released it. The fetter settled placidly against her skin once more. Whatever it was for, it wasn’t going anywhere.

Exhaustion crashed over her like a wave. For years, she’d focused on nothing but making it here. She’d spent considerably less time thinking about what would happen when she finally did.