Page 26 of The Dark Will Fall (Twilight Lake #5)

Maeve Cruinn

My chest was too full. I couldn’t breathe.

Every inch of my skin prickled and burned, too exposed, too much sensation.

A scream locked behind my teeth.

My eyes opened, and I inhaled, choking on the damp forest air. The morning dew was still fresh on the leaves above. The sunlight filtered through the branches of the canopy.

We were not in the Night Court.

The floor felt solid, in a way I hadn’t experienced in weeks. My body ached from hunger, every cell vibrated as if excited to be put back together after a journey through the cosmos.

I reached out and grabbed a handful of rotten leaves, but found the Dadga’s staff in my fist, the wood brittle in my grip.

Cormac let out a low groan, and I spotted him a few feet away—face down in the rotting leaves. He sat up, brushing the dirt from his chest, but his golden hair was snarled and sported several twigs buried in the strands.

“Where are we?” He squinted at the trees. “Because I feel like I’ve been thrown from a slingshot.”

“The Dagda said something about the Court of Teeth,” I murmured. “But there isn’t such a place.”

Cormac shook his head and banged his ear. “Day, Night, Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter.” He rattled off. “All within the Unseelie and Seelie kingdoms, respectfully.”

“Perhaps it is a court within a court.” I bit my bottom lip. “Like the Esteemed Undine Court.”

“Perhaps.” Cormac agreed, pushing himself to standing.

I cradled the Dagda’s staff, feeling anger flare in my chest. “What was that?”

“Hmm?” Cormac held out his hand to help me stand, but I did not take it.

Instead, I shook my head, as if I could clear the burning rage from my body. It did not work. Anger worked itself up my gullet like burning bile. I rubbed my chest, feeling the familiar lines of my mating mark with Shay Mac Eoin—but it did little to calm me.

I felt my bonds, like golden ribbon. Cormac and Shay Mac Eoin were strong, but Tormalugh and Rainn fluttered in the wind. There, but for a single thread.

Balor had done something.

With each breath of the Aos Sí, I felt my memories returning. Hot fat tears welled in my eyes, and I threw my head back, but it did nothing to stop them as they rolled down my cheeks.

Cormac rushed to my side and wiped my tears, but I made no motion to explain.

Balor had stolen something vital from me.

She had stolen my mates. My comfort. My destiny.

I had no idea if Rainn or Tormalugh were safe. The bond was too shaky to tell.

With every moment back in the Aos Sí, I felt Shay Mac Eoin’s heartbeat throb, as if I had stolen it and placed it under the scarred mark over my heart.

I wanted to follow the golden threads all the way back to my Shíorghrá.

Rage and agony warred in my body.

“The Dagda is my father.” My voice was steady, but anger lurked under the surface like a barracuda. “My mother is Belisama, god of the waves, and my father is the Dagda.”

Cormac let out a thready laugh. “And I thought my bloodline was fecked. I think you win this one, Princess.”

“Do you think she ever intended to tell me?” I met his gaze. “Or maybe she did tell me, and I was too stupid to remember.”

“You’re not stupid.” He said fiercely.

My fist tightened on the staff. “Aren’t I? Balor ravaged my bonds with Rainn and Tormalugh, and I didn’t even know. I forgot them, Cormac.”

“I’m sure they’ll forgive you.” He told me. “Death is an extenuating circumstance.”

“I’m so fecking blind!” I grabbed a handful of rotting leaves and tossed them. “I’m up to my eyeballs in meddling gods.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “I don’t think those eejits can find a clownfish in a coral reef, let alone form a plan of any sort.”

I lifted a brow. “Balor seems to be doing all right.”

“Balor is a monster, glamoured to the gills, and running on revenge.” Cormac waved a hand. “She was expelled a millennium ago to live in a cave. I’d wager that our enemy is a little less sane than we've given her credit for.”

“Insane gods can do a lot of damage.” I glared at him.

Cormac reached out and ruffled my hair. I snapped my teeth at him.

“Why did the Dagda give me this?” I wrinkled my nose in disgust and brandished the small staff. “If the Kraken was Dagda... My head hurts.”

“The High Throne was made of the Dagda’s eye.” Cormac nodded knowingly. “Balor called it Dagda’s magic.”

“The High Throne. The eye.” I shuddered, eying he staff like a sea snake. “If it’s Dagda’s magic, the staff is highly likely to make me insane .”

“You are the Mad Queen’s daughter,” Cormac smirked. “Though having met her, I wouldn’t say she was mad, as such.”

I ignored him and changed the subject. “Lugh defeated Balor in the Battle of Mag Tuired,” I said. “Dagda wants us to find him.”

“We don’t worship Lugh in Tarsainn.” Cormac rubbed his chin. “I only know the tale of Lugh the Craftsman.”

I let out a bitter laugh. “Lugh is the grandson of Balor and Dian Cécht. He defeated Balor with a spear of his own making. Right in the eye. For some reason, all the stories showed Balor as a giant, with a single eye—the source of their magic.”

Cormac’s lips pursed. “I’ve seen below the glamour. There is no eye. There is simply nothing.”

“Lugh might make us a weapon to defeat Balor.” I offered. “Though where to find him...”

I had been born in the icy waters of the Twilight Lake, amidst the frosted shore and the eternal darkness of the Night Court.

I had seen sunlight, barely—in the slim line of sunrise on the horizon, where the Day Court border shone on the lake, and the false sunlight of the Tuatha Dé Danann.

The sun felt different. Hidden behind a thin layer of cloud, the sky was a watery blue. The morning air was crisp, but damp. Flowers lined the forest path, the likes of which I had never seen before, with fluffy purple heads swaying in the wind, or feathered yellow petals.

The Court of Teeth had sounded rather ominous when Dagda had said it. A place of beasts and monsters, not unlike Charybdis.

If what I remembered from my mother’s stories was true, Lugh was both a formidable figure and an artisan.

It was said that Lugh was born of the Aos Sí, begotten from gods. Not unlike me.

Lugh was a craftsman by nature, but he was skilled in swordplay and almost any task he set his mind to.

When Lugh had approached the Tuatha Dé Danann and asked for a place in the Tír na nóg, the gods told him there was no room.

He asked if they needed a craftsman, but they said no.

Lugh persisted and listed his skills until the gatekeeper told him that no being in the Tuatha Dé Danann was as skilled as he was in all things.

From writing, singing, to sorcery and smithing.

Lugh was accepted to Nuada’s court, and it was Lugh who defeated Balor and the Fomorians. The first time, at least.

I couldn’t help but wonder why Lugh had left the Tuatha Dé Danann.

Manannán mac Lir had seemed horrified by the idea of wearing a physical form, though I knew that many gods were more accepting.

Perhaps the Aos Sí could offer things the Tuatha Dé Danann could not.

Food, for one. A change of company, besides the same eternal Quorum of bickering gods?

I had attended one meeting, and I would have gouged my eyes out rather than attend another.

“I know where we are.” Cormac sniffed the air. “Bluebells only flower in the Spring Court.”

“How do you know that?” My nose wrinkled.

“The youngling song.” He grinned. “In and out the dusky bluebells, who will be my master? ” He sang. “ From the Spring Court to the Summer, little wolf, run faster!”

“It must be a Mer song.” I rubbed my chin. “Though I didn’t play with others much, as a youngling.”

Cormac frowned. “What about school?”

I gave him a limp smile. “I had private lessons, but I wasn’t allowed to attend the school in the city. Not like the other younglings of the court.” I hated how pitiful I sounded. “What about you?”

“I attended lessons for most of my youth.” Cormac sounded distracted, as if he was still bothered by my own childhood. “My grandmother taught me the ways of glamour, though my father often told me I would never use it.”

“You don’t use glamour.” I gave him a pointed look.

“I prefer the honesty of a blade.” Cormac shrugged.

“Glamour is coated reality in a mask. It’s an illusion that goes just deep enough under the surface to affect touch, smell, and taste.

But it isn’t real. It wears away. I could glamour a magnificent feast from a pile of river rocks, but when you had eaten your fill, you would still be hungry. ”

“And full of rocks.” I joked.

“My father used to torture Fae. With glamour.” His gaze hardened. “Changing their reality. Leaving cell doors unlocked, and glamouring hallways to go on forever. I have seen the pain false realities can cause. So I don’t partake.”

“I didn’t think of it that way,” I murmured. “What about the Selkies? Their magic can bend reality.”

Cormac snorted and waved his hand dismissively. “Selkies are so entitled, they bend reality to their will simply because they believe they can. That kind of assurance can only be gained by time and remaining in one place. If you believe something long enough, reality will accommodate.”

“Glamour takes skill.” I surmised.

“And it is much more short-term.” He nodded.

The path seemed never-ending. Each bend produced more flowers, with just enough sunlight filtering through the tree canopy to see.

I held up the staff, shaking my head at the gnarled wood. “I wonder what this thing does?”

“Whatever it can do, I doubt it can defeat Balor.” Cormac exhaled heavily. “Otherwise, Dagda would not have pushed us off the edge of the world with a cryptic message and a smile.”

“Hmm.” I agreed wordlessly.

We walked, and walked, and walked.

Bare feet on bark, sodden leaves, and fallen twigs. Bleeding from dozens of tiny cuts, the air grew colder, and the forest grew darker the further we walked.