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 20
th-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."
AUTHOR FOLLOW LINKS:
Dawnflight (The Dragon’s Dove Chronicles, volume 1)
By Kim Headlee
Historical/Fantasy/Action-Adventure/Spiritual/Romance
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
Synopsis:
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:
Buy links:
Excerpt:
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,
Anita
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