Page 72 of Immortal Game

Shea flinched. He couldn’t possibly know what they’d discussed last night.

He waited for the murmuring to die down before he continued. “For today’s games, we will honor the traditions from when travel between our realms was allowed. Each player will wager something of value. Whoever bets the highest value may play with the white pieces. The winner of this game will earna place in the final round—and whatever your opponent has offered up.”

Once, mortals offered up anything they could think of—memories, their firstborns, the ability to see the color blue—in order to gain a taste of faerie magic. Some chess events still upheld the custom. The higher profile the event, the higher the stake was expected to be. No one went around gambling their daughter or their favorite horse anymore. But Shea had lost a few things dear to her over the years. She still thought about the locket she’d lost to Jeremy Liu.

A servant materialized to provide them each with a pen and a sheet of paper. Shea stared down at the blank expanse of it—as blank as her mind. She could feel hundreds of eyes on her. How badlydidshe want the white pieces? It would be a huge advantage, and yet, Shea could not think of a single thing more she had to lose that she hadn’t already lost. But time was ticking. She scribbled something down.

“Let us hear it,” Midir said.

Shea held up her piece of paper. “My favorite jacket.”

The crowd tittered and hissed. The cold amusement on Midir’s face faded. Their disappointment did not last long. Ciara flashed what she’d written, her expression all indolence. “And I will stake my life.”

The room erupted. The spectators stamped their feet and shrieked their delight. It was a wall of sound, crashing down on them.

“No,” Shea said, numb with incomprehension, but her voice was drowned out in the uproar. What was this? What the fuck was shethinking? Surely, Midir had to intervene. Ciara was his only heir.

He only said, “Very well. You may play with the white pieces.”

So this was it. This was happening.

Behind them, the chessboard waited. Ciara stepped toward it, but Shea seized hold of Ciara’s arm. “What the hell are you doing?”

Ciara jerked away. She held her hand stiffly between them and stared askance at Shea, as if contemplating slapping her for her insolence. Eventually, she let it drop. “I am playing the game. Playing seriously for once, you might be heartened to know.”

“No, you’re not.” Shea studied her face searchingly. “Ciara. Don’t do this.”

Ciara had been backed into a corner and saw no other way out. Surely, they could figure this out.The things we do in desperation, Ciara had said to her once.It is impossible not to regret them.

“You had no scruples about this last night,” she said coldly.

“But this isn’t exactly the same thing, is it?” Shea asked. “You’re askingmeto kill you.”

The words touched the oil of a feeling already there and set it ablaze. It burned up any tender feeling, torched anything that might have been. Ciara’s mysterious, cruel eyes glittered. There was a quiver in her lip. “I have asked nothing of you. You could always surrender, if the idea bothers you so much.”

Shea’s horror gave way to simmering anger. So that really was Ciara’s plan. “That’s dirty.”

“Don’t be so prudish, Shea.” Ciara’s fear dropped off her face. What remained was a cold disinterest—like Shea hadboredher. “If you wanted it badly enough, you would’ve done the same thing.”

“And you wouldn’t hesitate to play for a win?”

“Will you?” she countered.

Shea laughed humorlessly. “Don’t push me.”

“It’s late for that, don’t you think?” Ciara turned sharply away from her. When her cloak fanned out behind her, Shea caught a glimpse of the lining: mottled bands of brown and black and yellow, like a death’s-head moth.

They took their places at the board. Ciara sat on the white side, still and poised, studying the untouched pieces and their infinite potential. Shea couldn’t bring herself to look at her face anymore. She looked only at her delicate white hands, folded neatly in front of her. The scattering of freckles on the backs of them. The long, tapered fingers that had touched her so reverently only hours before. The ornate rings, catching the light like blades. One of the hands extended toward her. Shea took it in the most limp and perfunctory of handshakes.

Shea flipped over Ciara’s hourglass, and with that, the first game of the semifinals began.

Ciara played the Réti: the same opening Shea had faced on her first night here. Clearly, she was looking to dig her fingers into a fresh wound. As much as Shea hated thinking about that game, she had reviewed it with Daniil. She knew precisely where she’d gone astray. They’d prepared an offbeat line—one Ciara had almost certainly never seen before. It would bring them to a novel position, theoretically still equal, but she’d deny Ciara what she surely wanted: a comfortable game on her own terms.

Or, she could play pawn to g6 and aim for a draw.

Her hand hovered over the g-pawn. With a disgusted shake of her head, she grabbed the c-pawn and advanced it two squares. Ciara sat farther back in her chair, clearly taken aback by the move. Little by little, they rallied and coordinated their armies. They moved into the middlegame, circling, testing, prodding. Nothing else mattered. Not the audience. Not the prize. Not the risk. Just the heat of battle—and the thrill of playing her equal.

On the twentieth move, Shea looked up at Ciara for the first time in nearly an hour. Ciara showed no signs of exhaustion or stress. Her cloak was unrumpled, her hair unruffled, her features perfectly composed. Her play was calm, methodical, squeezing and squeezing until Shea felt her prospects diminishing.