A WARNING TO THE CURIOUS is the first in a planned series of adventures through time by a 17-year old English teenager from 1939 who must find out who—or what—he is whilst pursued by a relentless 16th century spy.

I’ve also got a supernatural historical mystery up my sleeve, and a gothic romance, as well as another premise so strong I dare not speak of it until it’s in a publisher’s hands, which is going to take a while.

The list grows faster than my hands and brain can create. But at least there’s no danger of the well running dry for quite some time.

London, time-layered city of mystery

Deleted Prologue:

The stranger sat hunched over the fire, absorbed by the images conjured in the writhing flames. He wore the dark robes of the Mazaalai order, whispered by some to be guardians of time itself, though this did not wholly account for the speculative glances cast in his direction; for the robes of this monk were splashed not only with mud but a darker, red-brown stain more familiar to those who have seen battle.

So intent was the man on the fierce struggle revealed in the flames that he remained unaware of the innkeeper’s son behind him till the boy’s hushed voice broke the spell. “Is it a story?”

The image flickered and fragmented into a blizzard of fiery flakes. The monk sighed. He turned to the innkeeper’s boy with as much patience as he could muster but his gaze softened at the look of wonder on the boy’s face, transfixed by the glowing embers where the flakes lay winking.

The monk considered the boy’s question. “A story? Yes, it may be. Only time will tell.”

The boy called over his shoulder to the others, who were waiting, like the monk, for the storm outside to abate. “He’s going to tell a story!”

“It’s not finished yet,” protested the stranger, to no avail, as children ran forward and their parents followed, bringing chairs for the elderly. God willing, it never will be, he thought briefly as his eyes rested on the expectant crowd quickly gathering around the glow of the fire. Willing his mind to turn from the disturbing images in the flames he gave himself up to the inevitable.

“A story, then. What kind of story would you be after? A tale of creatures from another realm, too lovely for mortal eyes? Of dragonflies large enough to fly on? Of time out of time?”

The young ones wriggled in anticipation and the monk acknowledged, as he had so many times during his journeys through the labyrinth of time, the power of story to quicken the blood. He warmed to his task.

“Or,” he mused, as though still unable to make up his mind, “would it be a tale of swordplay and fellowship, of great challenges overcome by unlikely heroes?” He took a pipe from his pocket and began stuffing the bowl with aromatic leaves, pushing them down firmly with slow, deliberate movements.

A voice, its timbre between boyhood and manhood, came from the shadows. “Tell us the one that begins ‘Twice upon a time…’”

The monk recognized the voice, his pale eyes narrowing as he probed the darkness beyond the villagers like a falcon searching for his prey, but the speaker remained hidden. The monk contemplated his pipe for a moment longer before slipping it back into its pouch, unlit. He gazed at the lazily crackling fire and at once the flames leaped to renewed life, as though unseen hands had stoked the embers.

“Ah,” he breathed, his eyes reflecting the flames. “A dark tale, that one.” He turned back to the throng gathered in the dancing light, but his eyes no longer saw them. He was speaking to an audience of one, and the villagers, sensing the unfolding of a real drama, became eavesdroppers.

“Twice upon a time, in the lands of both worlds, a boy was born whose father came from our world and whose mother came from another. He knew none of this till the time came for him to choose which world to make his own, as was his right.

“A reluctant messenger was sent to bring him here without his mother’s knowledge. It had to be so, for had she known she would have given her life to prevent it. This, then, is the story of the boy who lived in two times and belonged in neither, destined to remain in hiding from those who would use him to further their own ends.”

The monk paused and searched once more over the heads of the listeners, who had fallen so quiet that he had no difficulty hearing the softly spoken question that came to him from the shadows.

“Why was the messenger reluctant?”

All eyes turned to watch the youth who stepped into the light. He held himself with studied grace, though his sword arm hung useless at his side. The fine linen of his sleeve was bloodied and torn. His skin was drained of color and his dark eyes burned with a feverish light, waging an inner war between suffering and rage. The storyteller met his gaze unflinchingly, and answered him.

“My lord – because I knew too well the price you would have to pay.”

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“Mighty are the winds of time, which sweep away the despair of a broken heart, which blow back the essence of life, which refresh the soul with yet another sweet countenance.”   - Dax Ward

A Warning To The Curious by Lia Keyes