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Excerpt from A Shift of Time

~ Prologue ~

Twenty-Three Years Ago, Within the World of Books and Students…

Kydd Uhthoff paused his furious packing, a book in each hand, books he wasn’t to have and
certainly wasn’t to take with him, abruptly aware he was no longer alone.
Lowering his chin, he turned his head just enough to see through the fall of his hair.
Enough to glimpse the shadowy figure in the open doorway, the door he’d meant to lock, he was
sure of it, but he’d no more right to privacy now than he did this room or books.
Prince Ordo had seen to that.
“Go away,” he growled, giving his attention to his task.
Most of it.
He heard footsteps as the figure entered and the soft closing of the door. Caught the
fragrance of lavender and Kydd knew then who’d dared interrupt him was his brother’s wife,
Larell. He swallowed what else he might have said.
She deserved none of his anger.
In silence, she moved around his small room, a match for any student’s at the university
with its wax-splattered desk and once-cluttered shelves, its narrow bed with drawers beneath,
now pulled open and empty. He felt more than saw her stop by his easel. Heard her fingers stir
the brushes waiting for paint and about to be abandoned.
His heart lurched with despair. He shoved in another book, heedless of damage.
“Dear Heart.” Her hand found his shoulder. He froze, bent over the bulging case, hair in
his eyes. “How are you?”
How? It hurt to breathe, stung to think. Ancestors Bloody and Broken, he couldn’t
imagine leaving, let alone the scene tomorrow morning when they’d pile into the wagons allotted
them by the Settlers’ Bind and go—where?
The word fell from his lips. “Where?”
“North,” she answered, which everyone knew, that those of Naalish blood, exiled and
stripped of wealth by decree, were granted lands in the desolate Barrens where none lived now
and likely, he thought bitterly, none could. Then Larell surprised him. “We’ll make first for a
place called Endshere. Arrmand Comber, a distant cousin of your grandfather’s, made a home
there, on the Northward Road. The pair exchanged letters over the years—an exchange I gladly
continued with Arrmand’s daughter, Cammi.” A soft chuckle. “She’s started work in the post
office. Your brother’s pleased to have an impeccable forwarding address for his academic
correspondence.”
How dare she make it all sound normal, even sane? As if they’d simply continue life as
they had, instead of die horrible deaths in the wilderness. “Dusom’s a–” Kydd shut his mouth.
His brilliant brother was hardly a fool but still–
“—an optimist?” Larell finished charitably. She tucked a lock of his hair behind his ear,
straightened his collar, then gave his shoulders a motherly squeeze, despite being his elder by a
mere nine years. “He puts on a brave face, Dear Heart. As do we all.”
“Except Wainn.” His nephew hadn’t stopped talking about the trip, considering it the

biggest adventure in his short life.
“He hopes to see bears. I hope the baby sleeps most of the trip.” Larell perched on the
edge of Kydd’s bed, giving the contents of his bag an unhappy look. “Can you not leave them
behind? Be done with it?”
With magic, she meant. With the study he’d devoted years to and ideas he’d come to
believe were more important—and dangerous–than the decrees of any prince, no matter that they
were scoffed at by most and skirted the law.
Skirted? The possession of such books, along with his Naalish heritage, was a sure path
to prison.
The effort to obtain them, the time to assemble such a collection, mattered naught to him.
The knowledge they contained did, for it might prove the only way he could protect his family
once they left civilization behind. Sick with dread, Kydd pushed in the last volume and began
tucking clothes on top, as he had when filling his trunks. “They can’t stay here.”
“As you wish,” Larell conceded, though her frown remained. Deepened as she noticed
what he’d piled in the crate to be burned before they left. Torn paintings, abandoned sketches.
Nine journals, their clasps polished and leather worn smooth with use. Her sigh held a wordless
protest.
Kydd shook his head once, hard, to forestall more. His scribbles were useless, his
scholarship perilous, and neither did he dare set close to his family.
Larell stood, accepting. “I’ll send Dusom to help carry down your things. Kydd. Dear
Heart.” He looked up. “We’ll be together,” she added gently, her deep brown eyes full of warmth
and compassion. “Everything will be all right. You’ll see.”
He nodded, having nothing to say.
On her way out, she collected his brushes, tucking them decisively under an arm.
As if he’d ever want to paint again.

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