Page 33 of Immortal Game

Ciara poured them each a cup. When she finished, she came to stand over the board at Shea’s shoulder, surveying the state of the battlefield. Her heavy, gold-painted eyelids flickered as she scanned the position of the pieces. “Well, let us do this boring, serious stuff you like so much. This is your game from the other night, is it not? You shouldn’t have moved that pawn.”

“Which pawn?”

“You could’ve retreated your bishop instead. That would have maintained equality in the position.”

Shea stared up at her, half furious, half uncomprehending. Was shetryingto humiliate her?

“I got the move list from the arbiter,” Ciara said by way of explanation. She leaned over Shea. Her damp hair tumbled over one shoulder, and the fragrance of the oils she’d used to twist her curls into perfect ringlets suffused the air. For a few moments, Shea watched in silence as Ciara’s fingers moved the pieces with practiced grace. At the critical juncture, she said, “This was your mistake. Do you see it?”

She did now. But she hadn’t when it mattered.

She’d turned over this game in her mind countless times already, but Ciara had plucked this moment out in an instant. It filled her with a sick, roiling mixture of rage and shame. How had shenot seen it? She’d been too confident going into the game, and it had made her careless. It terrified her that no matter what she did, no matter how high up the ranking ladder sheclimbed, no matter how much she prepared, she could always topple over the edge. Shea glared down at the board, where the pieces spelled out her own powerlessness and ineptitude.

Ciara was watching her with a very peculiar expression. “I confess, it’s a little nice to see you like this.”

“Oh, yeah?” Shea bit out.

Ciara placed a hand on her hip. “You are brilliant, Shea, but you’re not infallible. No one is.”

“I should be.” It occurred to her then that Ciara had complimented her. Flustered, she added, “And thanks?”

“You read so deeply into every little thing I say. It’s simply a neutral observation of fact. Anyone would want to open that thick skull and see what is going on in that brain of yours, at least when it comes to chess. Do not mistake that for liking you.” An edge of mischief cut into her voice. “Certainly not after you accused me of—what was it again?—entitlement, shallowness, and bad behavior? I freely admit I am a sore loser. But you hate it more than I do.”

No onelikedlosing. There was something ineffable about chess that dug its fingers into your every inadequacy and seeped into your soul. Your performance always felt personal. Every player coped with it differently.

Thanks to Midir, Shea couldn’t cope with it at all. She skirted her gaze away from Ciara’s. “I just like winning.”

Ciara folded herself into the chair across from Shea. “Doyou?”

“Of course I do. Nothing matters more than winning.”

Ciara rested her chin in her hands. “But that’s not the same thing as enjoying it, is it?”

No, it wasn’t. These days, winning meant simply the aversionof something awful. A relief—maybe even a necessity. Shea did not like or trust this line of questioning. “What’s your point?”

“You’re not playing to win. You’re playing not to lose. There is a difference.”

“Is that what you think?” Shea scoffed. Her stomach twisted into painful knots. “I didn’t realize you paid so much attention to me.”

“It is hard not to.” Ciara scowled. “You are one of the best players in the world. Your face is everywhere. Everyone watches footage of your games. Everyone notices when you do not attend awards ceremonies and when you look dead-eyed in press conferences. That is why I know you are not being forthcoming with me. It is so obvious that you take no pleasure in any of it.”

Shea felt increasingly boxed into a corner. Most days, she tried not to dwell on her relationship to chess. It was too painful. And now, Ciara was all but forcing her to. “What does it matter to you?”

“My faerie nature. Idle curiosity. Nosiness. Call it what you like.” Ciara shrugged. “In Tír nAill, we revere skill above all else. It is our way to master a single one over the course of our lifetime, simply for the pleasure of sustained effort. You possess an exceptional talent. It is unfathomable to me that you do not rejoice in it.”

“And you do?” Shea fired back.

“Of course I do. I could wax poetic for hours about the beauty of the game, I am sure. But really, the reasons I love it are quite simple. Chess opens a door between two souls, and I cannot deny what I am.” Her eyes glittered with dangerousintensity. “I like to lead my opponents into Tal’s deep, dark forest. I like to see the moment they realize they are powerless against me. I like knowing what someone wants and denying them.”

The hypnotic cadence of her words filled Shea with longing—no, withdesire. She used to feel that, too. When you had a winning advantage, there was a sadistic pleasure in shutting down your opponent’s every avenue of counterplay. In forcing them into complete and utter passivity. In stealing their very soul away. She used to love the way the energy in the room changed when the game swung in Shea’s favor. That kind of power was addictive.

It wasn’t only winning she used to enjoy. Her love for chess had been so pure. In the beginning, its sheer difficulty had frustrated her. But the desire to play, to crack its secrets, to understand, carried her through the setbacks. And when it finally clicked…

Shea didn’t think she’d ever experienced satisfaction quite like that.

There was real joy in the struggle. It became her obsession: the maneuvering and counter-maneuvering, the plans both enacted and thwarted, the clash of her will against another’s. Even the sting of loss had been tempered by fascination. There was always something new to learn, some curiosity to follow, a limit to be tested, a goal to be reached. The pursuit of perfection was its own reward.

All of that felt so far away now.