Sunday, August 10, 2014

Summer Time Questions for @KimHeadlee

Five easy question Kim. 


Ice Tea or Lemonade? Depends on how hot I am, and whether I feel in the mood for spicy or sweet. :D


Lake or ocean? Ocean, then lake. Any open body of water will do, really. Just call me “Ariel in reverse.”


Sandals or Flipflops? Sandals with a toe thong, but not the real blingy kind.


Sit in the shadow of a tree or on the front/back porch? Oh, here is where you bump me off and take my real estate. I have a second, fully appointed house on my hundred-acre property called The Retreat—with a second-story screened porch off the library. The nearest neighbors are the horses & chickens on an adjacent farm.


Ball cap or floppy hat? Ball cap. With or without a Seattle Mariners or University of Washington Huskies logo.

Kim Headlee


Now, let's learn more about Kim.


She lives on a farm in southwestern Virginia with her family, cats, goats, and assorted wildlife. People; creatures come and go, but the cave and the 250-year-old house ruins -- the latter having been occupied as recently as the mid-20th century -- seem to be sticking around for a while yet.

Kim is a Seattle native (when she used to live in the Metro DC area, she loved telling people she was from "the other Washington") and a direct descendent of 20th-century Russian nobility. Her grandmother was a childhood friend of the doomed Grand Duchess Anastasia, and the romantic yet tragic story of how Lydia escaped Communist Russia with the aid of her American husband will most certainly one day fuel one of Kim's novels. Another novel in the queue will involve her husband's ancestor, the 7th-century proto-Viking king of the Swedish colony in Russia.

For the time being, however, Kim has plenty of work to do in creating her projected 8-book Arthurian series, The Dragon's Dove Chronicles, and other novels under her new imprint, Pendragon Cove Press. She also writes romantic historical fiction under the pseudonym "Kimberly Iverson."



Dawnflight (The Dragon’s Dove Chronicles, volume 1)
By Kim Headlee

4 ½ stars and a Top Pick from Romantic Times (1st edition), November 1999
Winner (tie), 1999 Blue Boa Award for Excellence in Romantic Fiction, Historical category
Romantic Times Nominee—Best Innovative Historical Romance of 1999
Honorable Mention in SF Site’s Readers’ Choice Best SF & Fantasy Books of 1999
Finalist, 2000 Golden Quill, Historical category
Finalist, 2014-2015 Next Generation Indie Book Awards (2nd edition), Religious Fiction category


Gyan is a Caledonian chieftainess by birth, a warrior and leader of warriors by training, and she is betrothed to Urien, a son of her clan’s deadliest enemy, by right of Arthur the Pendragon’s conquest of her people. For the sake of peace, Gyan is willing to sacrifice everything...perhaps even her very life, if her foreboding about Urien proves true.

Roman by his father, Brytoni by his mother, and denied hereditary rulership of his mother's clan because of his mixed blood, Arthur has followed his father's path to become Dux Britanniarum, the Pendragon: supreme commander of the northern Brytoni army. The Caledonians, Scots, Saxons, and Angles keep him too busy to dwell upon his loneliness...most of the time.

When Gyan and Arthur meet, each recognize within the other their soul’s mate. The treaty has preserved Gyan’s ancient right to marry any man, providing he is a Brytoni nobleman—but Arthur does not qualify. And the ambitious Urien, Arthur’s greatest political rival, shall not be so easily denied. If Gyan and Arthur cannot prevent Urien from plunging the Caledonians and Brytons back into war, their love will be doomed to remain unfulfilled forever.

But there is an even greater threat looming. The Laird of the Scots wants their land and will kill all who stand in his way. Gyan, Arthur, and Urien must unite to defeat this merciless enemy who threatens everyone they hold dear.

(Previously published by Sonnet Books, Simon & Schuster, 1999)

Dawnflight social media links:

Latest Book Trailer on YouTube:
Audiobook Trailer (Prologue) on YouTube:
Latest video of blurbs and excerpts on YouTube:

Buy links:


IT WAS A wild night, the eve of Samhainn. A biting gale roared down from the north, spitting snow. It tore through the trees like some mad thing, stripping away the last of the dead birch leaves and tangling in the pine boughs to make the trunks sway and groan. The snow and leaves whirled together in a frantic dance to the howls of the raging wind.
But the ghostly music was not loud enough to compete with the screams of the woman in labor.
Ogryvan mac Glynnis, Chieftain of Clan Argyll of Caledon, paced the circular stone room next to the family’s living quarters. The midwives had refused to let him be at his wife’s side during her ordeal. As her cries sundered the night, his anger and frustration grew. He quickened his pace in a futile attempt to dispel the mounting tension.
The room’s only door creaked open. In raced a small child. Ogryvan scooped his three-year-old stepson into his arms. The boy’s eyes were wide with fear, and tear tracks stained his pale cheeks. He buried his head against Ogryvan’s burly chest.
“Papa, where’s Mama? Wind noisy!”
Despite his concern for his wife, her son made him smile. Peredur hadn’t reached two summers when Ogryvan had defeated the boy’s father in the dubh-lann for the right to become Hymar’s consort. Too young to remember his real father, Peredur had readily accepted Ogryvan, and in response, the chieftain had been pleased to treat the boy as a son of his flesh.
He brushed away the tears on the lad’s cheeks. “The bairn is coming, Peredur.”
“Bairn! Can I go see?”
Ogryvan shook his head. “It’s women’s work, son. We men must wait until it’s done.”
“When, Papa?”
“Soon. I hope.”
Another scream ripped the night, longer and more shrill than the rest. Peredur squirmed. “Lemme go!” He pummeled Ogryvan’s chest with impotent little fists. “They hurting her!”
He squatted to set the child down but did not release his hold. “Your Mama will be all right.” He hoped.
“My lord?” came a tentative half whisper from before him.
Ogryvan glared at the door. A young servant stood just inside the room, eyes downcast, wringing her hands. He knew her: Cynda, who had lost her bairn and her husband three days earlier to the fever.
He rose to his full height, holding Peredur. “Well?”
“A girl, my lord. But there was too much blood. Chieftainess Hymar is—” The woman sucked in a breath. “My lord, she is dying.”
Ogryvan thrust the boy into Cynda’s arms and strode down the hall.
The birthing chamber was swarming with women, their frantic activity reminding him of slaughter day at the chicken pens. He riveted his gaze to the still figure on the bed. No one dared stop him as he waded through them to kneel at Hymar’s side.
She was lying on her back, knees drawn up and apart, naked from her swollen waist down. Her breath came in ragged gasps. Agony etched its grim story across her lovely face. More than anything, Ogryvan wished he could wipe that pain away, and he despised his wretched powerlessness.
Gently, he gathered her into his arms while one of the women replaced the crimson-stained bedclothes with fresh ones. He laid her down and pulled up the sleeping fur.
Hymar’s lids fluttered open. “Ogryvan…” Her smile was as pale as her voice. “My dearest love…a girl-child.” Grimacing, she drew another gasping breath. “To carry on. After me. Now.”
He picked up her hand and lightly ran his fingers along her forearm, over the pair of blue doves that was the mark of Clan Argyll. “Nonsense, Hymar,” he protested quietly. “You will get well.”
“I see her, Ogryvan. The Hag. There…by the fire.”
He saw only Cynda, cradling at her breast the wee pink creature that was his infant daughter. The baby fed greedily, obviously unaware of anything save her primal need. Peredur stood at Cynda’s feet, gazing up at his half sister in wide-eyed wonder.
Ogryvan beckoned to Cynda. Slowly, to avoid disturbing the bairn, she approached the bed. Little Peredur marched straight to his mother’s side. As Ogryvan drew the boy into the shelter of his arms, Peredur wriggled an arm free to reach for Hymar’s hand. Turning pain-hazed eyes upon him, Hymar summoned a sad smile for her firstborn.
“Here is your Hag, Hymar,” Ogryvan replied as Cynda bent down with the baby. “What shall we name her?”
Hymar’s face melted into joy as she beheld her daughter. “She is…my rarest song…Gyanhumara.”
She raised her hand to touch the child. Gyanhumara’s tiny fist closed around her finger. Hymar sighed, smiling, eyes transfixed upon the infant. Her chest did not rise again.
All movement in the birthing chamber ceased. Silence descended. With a grief too heavy for words, Ogryvan bowed his head, pressing the limp hand of his beloved to his cheek. Peredur’s soft whimpers drowned in the sleeping fur that covered his mother’s chest.
The storm battered the building’s stone walls, screeching its rage at being denied entry. Terrified by the noise, the new Chieftainess of Clan Argyll uttered a piercing wail.

Thanks for sharing, 


1 comment:

Kim Headlee said...

Thank you, {{{Tina}}} for featuring me & my work on your blog today!
All my very best wishes for you and your work,
Kim Headlee
Stories make us greater.