A tale of cursed lovers repeatedly reincarnated. Either they finally fulfill the prophecy, or die for all time.
Ancient druid-turned-mercenary, Khyryn of Powys, has loved one woman for two thousand years, and would claim her again if only Wynne Hailey remembered him. But the curse that causes her early demise in each lifetime, ensures he'll never forget her and guarantees she'll never remember him or their love.
For Wynne to fulfill the foretold prophecy and break the curse, Khyryn must travel through time to the modern day faire and steal her away to the past. On a mission to clear her uncle's name, Wynne infiltrates the cast at a medieval faire to reclaim a stolen artifact. Instead, she discovers not all the characters at this faire are merely actors. One tries to kill her and another abducts her.
Make-believe turns menacing when Wynne and Khyryn are forced to face destiny, desire, and the villain who wants them both dead. In this game of love and war, all is fair...and deadly.
For the win of the bishop over the knight’s placement in this game, Khyryn knew the drill to lose. Twice parry, lunge and thrust, feint to the bishop’s kick, then fall in defeat. No need to exaggerate the scene today. Rain threatened.
A kick slammed against Khyryn’s ribs sending him flying backward, as Richard’s blade slashed through linen. And flesh.
Khyryn’s lungs sucked savagely for the air Richard’s blow had knocked out of him. He dipped his hand beneath the rift in the cloth. Blood beaded the wound. Touch stung, and a hiss escaped his lips.
His blade is honed.
Richard’s eyes flared wildly as he lunged again. Khyryn rolled away and leapt up to ready an assault.
The crowd gasped. Excitement faded to hushed whispers among the other actors as the two departed the script.
Metal whistled as it sliced through the air. Blade to blade, boot to boot. Khyryn met each move Richard imposed.
“Your liberties disgrace me, Sir William,” Richard said.
“I assure you, I took no liberties to dishonor you. I merely claimed the prize offered me by the Lady Rowena. Surely you do not seek to disgrace her here, before this assemblage.”
The checkered field dissolved into a crowd of wary onlookers, transfixed by confrontation, as Richard Uddryd and Khyryn—bishop and knight—stalked each other with barb and blade.
Richard’s eyes narrowed, and a smile slithered across his lips. “Let us say I seek a measure of satisfaction for her disgrace. And for your treason.”
Disgrace and treason. Khyryn had heard those words before.
The cut across his torso burned with memory. Khyryn watched as Richard’s free hand found Wynne and pulled her in front of him. To the audience, she was a shield. But Khyryn recognized the hatred smouldering in Richard’s glare and knew the truth. Elleran’s truth.
“...much more dangerous than you know...”
He knows. He remembers.
Wynne—Lady Rowena—struggled against the hand that gripped her beneath the jaw, pulling her to her toes as the leather-gloved fingers bruised the white flesh of her throat.
Khyryn avoided looking into her eyes and steadied his own breathing, readying himself.
A curse sputtered from Wynne’s mouth as her hand clawed at the leather gauntlet. Richard drew the flat side of his blade across her abdomen, menacingly—silencing her. He spoke with a voice low, and sedate. “Even if your face were different, Khyryn, I would remember you. Tell me, do I look as I did the last time you claimed my life? One should not easily forget a brother, Khyryn.”
Khyryn swallowed hard against the memory of murder. “Or a king, Uddryd.”
Thunder crashed and lightning streaked as metal seared flesh and bone, releasing the feral howl.