Dear Ms Meadows,
As a daughter of the patrician house of Vinia, Drusilla is no stranger
to being used by others to further their own ambitions. When her
betrothed decides she has lived past the point of usefulness, she
flees death only to find herself in the distant kingdom of war-torn
Mudamora and now a pawn in a court ruled by intrigue and seduction.
Her own desires are put on the line in a game of lies and deception,
where she is the keeper of a secret with the power to pull a prince
from his throne.
Her own secret is damning enough without adding others to the mix; a
power revealed when she restored Lord Rhys Calorian from a mortal
injury and suffered the physical pain that resulted. A power which
condemns her to serve in the mad King’s failing army should she ever
be found out. Knowing she would be safer if she left the city, but
compelled by his desire to have her, Rhys coerces Drusilla into
joining the ranks of the Princess’s female guards, of which he is the
reluctant captain. Over the clash of practice swords, they discover a
passion greater than either of them expected, but it is a love
continually tested by his quest for redemption of past transgressions
and by her hidden past.
The trouble with secrets is not in the having, but in the keeping and
when the Princess she is sworn to protect finds hers out, Drusilla is
forced into the role of master dissembler to protect a royal family
plagued by madness and to avoid a war of ascendancy that would leave
Mudamora ripe for its enemy’s picking.
TRAITOR’S PLIGHT is a 107,000 word fantasy with a strong romantic
element, and is the first volume in a trilogy. I have a Bachelor of
Commerce degree from the University of Calgary and this is my first
novel. I would be happy to send you the complete manuscript at your
request. Thank you for your time and consideration.
He leaned against the wall and felt the chill of the stone seep
through his coat, despite the heat of the day. The air was thick and
what breeze came from the harbour was long since corrupted by the
stench of the city it passed through. He watched the soldiers walk
slowly through the western gates, their armour dented and patched, the
gleam of the early days of war a distant memory. Gone too, were the
days when crowds gathered to toss flowers and cheer for the departing
soldiers, the men grinning as they passed through the gates, visions
of glory in their eyes. Now only a few women stood to watch the
soldiers depart, their downcast faces grim, wearing the expressions of
women already resigned to widowhood.
He waited for the last rickety wagon of supplies to roll through the
gates and then resumed his passage through the streets. The women
stepped out of his path, as they should, though he was never one to
fret over courtesies. In truth, he often wished he might don the
coarse clothing and filth of a commoner and blend into the crowd.
There was freedom in anonymity, but those who possessed it always
seemed dolefully unaware of its blessing. Perhaps it was the nature of
men to seek notice from their fellows, hopeful that with it, fortune
would follow. They were fools dancing to the tune of fate, but she was
an inconstant mistress, as like to choose the black mark of infamy as
the golden brush of glory.