Page 94 of Immortal Game

“That is very gallant of you,” Ciara said softly, “but I will find a way.”

They offered her redemption so freely. She shook her head. “I won’t be able to live with myself.”

“You won’t be able to if you don’t try, either.” Daniil drummed his fingers impatiently on the board. “Now, don’t insult our intelligence anymore. Are you going to let us help you or not?”

Beann nudged Shea’s hand with his snout. She stared down into his soft black eyes and saw only understanding.

“All right,” Shea said quietly. “Show me more.”

The hours slipped away as they pulled out books full of Midir’s former opponents’ games—and as they tried idea after idea in the Hay Meadow.

“What do you think of bishop b5?”

“Why put the knight there?”

“No, if you do that—”

It was beginning to seem possible. In every outcome, every position, they succeeded in creating a complicated, tactical mess. It was horrible and beautiful and inexhaustible. It was fun. When sunrise stained the horizon navy and pink, Ciara let out an undignified yawn.

“All right,” she said. “We should sleep for a few hours.”

“Right,” Shea said, but she felt alive with possibility. How was she supposed to rest after this? “Any last words of wisdom?”

Daniil studied her from across the board, his glasses sitting askance on his nose and his hair mussed. “You’re ready. Crush him.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

The next morning, Shea emerged into a rare clear day in the Otherworld—and into the press and heave of the gathered crowd. They roared and chanted her name as she waded through them, her gaze fixed determinedly ahead, like a ship coming ashore. Their reaching fingers brushed the ends of her hair and snagged on the cuffs of her sleeves. Their faces were hungry—ravenous, even—and for what, exactly, Shea did not know. Whatever the outcome of today’s game, blood would be spilled.

It was a longer procession than usual. The final round was not held in the tournament hall but rather a solarium, tucked away on the far end of the castle grounds. The spectators were stationed in tiers outside the glass walls, and for those who couldn’t cram into the risers, a massive display board had been built on one of the crumbling stone battlements.

When she shouldered her way inside, the humidity dropped down on her like a wave. Sunlight fell in golden sheets through the glass ceiling and lanced through the condensation streaking the walls. The whole place sweated and shone. Shea suspected she’d soon look the same.

Midir waited for her in the center of the paned-glass dome. He wore a tunic of emerald green, a circlet of gold, and a brooch that clasped his embroidered mantle. He cut an imposing figure, but it was the chessboard behind him that made her pulse quicken. Through the rush of blood in her ears, the sound of applause reached her through the glass enclosure.

“Shea Fury,” he said. “Welcome.”

Shea gave him a curt nod. All she wanted to do was sit down at that board. All she wanted to do was flee. Her every sense was painfully alive—the colors brighter, the sounds crisper—as though her anticipation had brought the world into higher definition.

“I expect I already know what you’ll ask for if you win.”

She shrugged. Best to let him think what he wanted. “So I get to set the time control?”

He seemed almost disappointed that she didn’t want to spar. “You do.”

“Three minutes. No increment.”

Surprise passed over Midir’s face, soon replaced with displeasure. She understood. A bullet game was exciting, but one short game hardly warranted all this fanfare.

“As you wish,” he said, and with that, approached the board.

“Wait,” Shea blurted out.

He paused, then glanced over his shoulder at her.

“That’s it?” She gestured around them—at this beautiful greenhouse and the single elegant board. “No games? No tricks?”

“No.” From this angle, she could see only the soft curve of his smirk and the fall of the light across his cheekbone. It set his silver eye aglow. “We’re only playing chess.”