Dark Truth: Bonus Scene Brother Rupert POV

AUTHOR’S NOTE: One of my favorite scenes in Dark Truth was cut early on in the editing process, mainly because the scene was written from the point of view of a secondary character. The world building and information lost was incorporated into later chapters, but I so enjoyed writing this particular scene told from Brother Rupert’s point of view. He’s one of my favorite characters! Hope you enjoy it.

Brother Rupert peered through the gap in the wooden gate. Donald’s men patrolled the perimeter in teams of two, swords strapped to their backs, steel blades glinting beneath the moonlit sky. 

Flattening his back against the courtyard wall, Rupert withdrew a leather pouch from his robe pocket. Squinting, he caught sight of the archers above. Several were perched on the battlements, ready to loose arrows through the murder holes and castle loops built into the stone structure.

The Laird of Ardgour was on high alert.

A wise man was he.

Rupert took a healthy pinch of the herbs inside his bag. Magic was a precious commodity, one with a life span. One he hated to squander. 

But what could he do?

To get to the woods unseen, he would have no choice but to call on the illusion spell to hide his jaunt. The fate of mankind and all the Brothers of Lumen had fought to protect for millennia was in peril.

Sprinkling the herbs in a wide arc above his head, Rupert whispered the words that would carry him sight unseen beyond the castle perimeter. Magic spilled from the ancient pendant around his neck, one each candidate received during his or her secret initiation into the fellowship. The chain grew heavy, irritating the tender flesh around his neck. Heat sparked through his blood, filtering through his pores to cloak his skin.

He retrieved the satchel he’d deposited on the ground, then quickly slid through the gate. Choosing his tread carefully, he wound through the courtyard, leaving a wide berth around the moving troops. Some men and women—more women than men, if he were truthful—could detect magic. Often, sensors reported a strange change in the air, whereas others experienced the pebbling of their skin. Most feared these were marks of the devil and quickly confessed these sins in hopes the gift would vanish once he’d bestowed divine mercy and forgiveness upon them.

He stopped and scanned the length of the outer courtyard. What he could not do was forget these were trained sentries possessing excellent vision and hearing. Although the illusion camouflaged his form, it did not hide his tracks, or the sound of his footfalls against the stone and grass.

An approaching guard stalled mid-step, craning his neck around each side of his massive shoulders, his vigilant eyes scanning the surrounding darkness.

“What is it?” his partner asked.

The first guard raised a finger to his lips.

Rupert arched a brow in surprise, then increased his speed to cross the border they patrolled. This area would one day become the gatehouse and barbican. The clan had begun preparations for the construction, the trench work laid along with parts of the perimeter outside the courtyard wall, albeit it too slowly according to their fierce War Master. 

Knowing what he knew, Rupert would have to agree.

“Did you hear that?”

On a backward glance, Rupert caught sight of the larger guard examining the area he’d traversed.

“The wind?” The man said with an uneasy shrug.

Rupert didn’t wait to hear his partner’s response. He stepped up his pace, moving farther away from the patrol. Racing by the stables, he loped up the small hill leading to the clearing.

The feel of his lungs and thighs burning exhilarated him. Like his brethren, he trained and honed his body despite his advancing age. Protecting the lore required agility of the mind, body and spirit.

Cresting the hill’s rounded peak, Rupert slowed. Donald had stationed additional men along the tree line. He eyed the space between each of the ten guards forming a fortified defense along the perimeter of the woods. He’d have to intersect the patrol line without stirring the wind or touching the guards, all within five feet.

Mayhap less.

With as much stealth as he could master with his rustling robes, Rupert headed for the forest. The ground was damp, and his boots sunk into the rain-soaked earth, leaving tracks the night thankfully hid. He chose an opening between two guards who’d left a wider gap between them, then crossed into the woods, avoiding tree limbs and bushes an astute guard would notice move unnaturally.

Step after deliberate step, he traveled deeper into the thicket, feeling the occasional heat of a stare or two on his back. When he was far enough and out of view, he ran until he reached the site where the Fomorians had perished.

Two Fomorians.

And a Draconian Warrior.

Rupert made the sign of the cross. Losing one of the blessed was a sad day for mankind. Sadness had overwhelmed him at the sight of the warrior’s mangled back, his wing torn and thrown asunder. 

Now, the bodies were long gone, buried by the MacLean clansmen who’d unknowingly paid homage to beings long thought gone from this world.

Drumming his fingers against his robe, he scanned the fresh mounds of soil on the forest floor. So much for extracting their last memories. He hadn’t thought to bring a shovel, nor had he memorized a spell to remove dirt or levitate a body from its grave.

“Aye, Lord. Keeping me on my toes, now are you?” He’d have to unearth—ah, Rupert, you’ve a way with words—the cause of the Draconian’s fateful encounter with the Fomorian the old-fashioned way.

Reorienting himself, he searched the area for anything the MacLeans may have missed, then caught sight of the path the wizard had taken to avoid capture.

Wizard? 

Rupert was sure the wizard was none other than the goddess Brigid, but her actions perplexed him. Why had she exposed herself to mankind? Was it a desperate ploy to save her guardian?

Or was the Covenant in jeopardy? 

One of the key tenets forced upon the gods was the promise to keep their world hidden from theirs. Now Fomorians prowled the Scottish countryside, endangering man and supernatural alike.

Thoughts spun in his brain as he hurried along the path.

The trail vanished.

Scratching his head, he looked around. This simply would not do. Alerting the abbot without speaking to the goddess would rouse a panic, and panic would benefit no one.

He reached for his herb pouch. A spell of detection would illuminate her path, but the magic was short-lived. Three spells cast this close together would exert more magic than Rupert had used in the past. Magic was finite, limited by both the user and his fons virtutis, his source of power. Once it was gone . . . it was gone. No magical springs existed to replenish a depleted pendant, cauldron, or sword.

Not that it mattered. Rupert would sacrifice everything—his magic, his life, his faith—if it meant saving one human life. Besides, the good Lord would not have placed him in Ardgour were it not with the intention he’d play a pivotal role in his cosmic plan.

Unclenching his hand, he dropped the satchel to the ground. Widening his stance, he placed a pinch of the fragrant herbs in the center of his palm, then closed his eyes.

“It had to be a spell of intention.” His least favorite. The most difficult for him to cast.

But wasting magic was not an option. He cleared his thoughts, forcing all errant musings and worries aside. The image of the goddess expanded in his mind, the woods, the dark cloak encircling her body, the feel of the damp air settling around his skin. His breathing slowed. Air worked in and out of his lungs. With each deep pull, the intention built, swelling like a ball of hot air in his gut.

“Ostende mihi viam.” Show me the way. “Ostende mihi viam.” In the still of the night, his voice shook. “Ostende mihi viam.” Heat prickled his skin. Drawing in another breath, Rupert blew the herbs held in his palm. “Ostende mihi viam.”

He opened his eyes. Ribbons of color sparked in the air.

Beautiful.

He smiled. Rupert wasn’t a sensor, but he was blessed with the ability to see magic, and her beauty took his breath away every time.

Grabbing his bag from the ground, he chased the tongues of light—red, blue, yellow, shades of green and violet—stretching several feet before him to where the streams converged above a depression in the ground. The magic broke into tiny particles, then fell to the earth like multi-colored raindrops.

Rupert examined the gouge. Puddles of water mixed with forest litter filled the concave center. The colorful motes of light hovered above, forming a magical layer above the mud.

His pulse skipped.

A teleportation spell?

It was magic more powerful than any man could wield.

Looking away, he placed a hand over his heart. It was as he’d feared. A breach in the Covenant. The Fusion was in peril.

Was he too late? By the grace of God, let it not be so.

Rupert reached into the bag and pulled out his leather gauntlet, and slid it over his left hand. He extended his arm and slapped the leather sleeve. He peered at the sky. Around him, the trees rose like dark, forbidden figures in the night's gloom, and from between their spread arms, a shadow swooped through the darkness on silent wings.

Feathered talons cinched his leather glove.

“There you are, my brave Àraid.”

The eagle owl swiveled her head, analyzing him through bright orange eyes. She settled her wings against her body.

“You’ve grown. Had your fill of the wildlife now have you?” He chuckled and bent his arm, balancing eight pounds of tawny-buff feathers speckled with black and brown. She’d been a fluffy, twenty-five-day-old ball when he’d found her.

Weaving her head, Àraid extended her large ear tufts.

“Ah, didn’t like my comment, did you?” He stroked her side. “We’ve work to do. Important work.” Rupert pulled the rolled parchment from his robe and inserted it into the receptacle dangling from her neck. “To Iona, my feathered friend. With haste.”

With a shove, the owl took flight into the sky.

Rupert watched Àraid disappear into the night.

“Gods speed,” he whispered softly.