When I started writing the book, I had something of an infatuation with prologues. I thought I'd do the first scene, of Adramal leaving home, from the point of view of her father Alesin, and call it a prologue rather than chapter 1. My critique group convinced me that it wasn't far enough separated from the rest of the story to count as a prologue, so it ought to be chapter 1. But then it jars to have the first chapter from one character's point of view and the rest of the book from someone else's.

The group also convinced me that if I wanted to market the book as a young adult novel, it might be difficult to persuade teenagers to empathise with a middle-aged man. So I rewrote the scene from Adramal's point of view. A couple of other things changed between here and the finished version. Wizards' magic is no longer powerful enough to influence the weather, and there is no prophecy that might refer to Adramal - or not one that Alesin knows about, anyway.

Alesin stuck his hands in his pockets and looked at his boots. Wizards didn’t fidget, but Councillor Fathraim was making him wait. He wondered what his daughter had done this time.

Fathraim, the most senior wizard at the Thuren Academy, sat on a fallen tree trunk in the middle of the clearing. To one who was not a wizard, he would have looked as though he had fallen asleep while upright. Alesin, though, felt the gentle wash of magic that emanated from the man, and knew him to be very much awake. Fathraim was mindspeaking with other councillors and teachers throughout the Academy, debating what tasks the senior apprentices should face in this year’s graduation tests. In theory, a talented apprentice could eavesdrop on this conversation, but the Council took the view that anyone who could do that had already learned all that the Academy could teach him – except perhaps the importance of respecting other people’s privacy.

Intermingled with the mindspeech was another spell, a suggestion to the cloud overhead that it might like to hold on to its moisture for a few hundred more heartbeats and release it over the fields about a mile to the north-east. Since the Academy was mainly outdoors, the wizards and senior apprentices had to spend a lot of time and magic nudging the weather around to keep everyone dry and comfortable. Despite generations of teachers and pupils having learned this art over centuries, they still got it wrong at least one day in every fortnight.

At last, the magic ceased, and Fathraim opened his eyes. He looked in Alesin’s direction and gave a small nod, the signal for Alesin to approach. Alesin walked – slowly, trying to maintain his dignity. He stopped when he had halved the distance between them.

Fathraim looked up into the trees. Alesin sensed a whisper of magic, like a cool breeze on his face. Leaves rustled as branches leaned in towards the two wizards. An unnatural hush descended as the sounds of distant birdsong and the wind in the trees were blocked. Alesin tried not to let his concern show on his face. The councillors, as a rule, didn’t have secrets from one another. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen such a spell used within the Academy.

“Alesin,” said Fathraim, “thank you for coming.” His voice was soft and reassuring. “We need to talk about Adramal.”

“Councillor,” Alesin said, his mouth abruptly dry, “would it not be more appropriate for my daughter to be here? She’s old enough to speak for herself.”

Fathraim gazed coolly at him. “I will decide what is appropriate,” he said. “The Council has made a decision that it should’ve made long ago.” He paused and looked down. Alesin’s fist clenched in his pocket. “I’m sorry. Adramal must leave the Academy.”

“What?” Alesin staggered backwards, arms flailing for balance. “There must be some alternative...”

Fathraim gave him a pitying look. “We’ve tried the alternatives. You’ve had five years to prove you were right about her. You’ve driven her along the path you think she must follow, and she hates you for it.”

There was some truth in that, but to hear Fathraim put it so bluntly was still a shock. “Then let me leave,” said Alesin. “There must be plenty of villages in the south that could use a wizard’s services.”

With a sad smile, Fathraim replied, “I’m sure someone like you will never want for work. Which is precisely why we need you here.”

“You can’t throw her out,” said Alesin. “No village – no town – will accept an unfinished wizard.”

Fathraim’s smile disappeared. “Perhaps Adramal should’ve given more consideration to that. But we’re not exactly throwing her out. Word has reached the Council of another wizards’ academy, in Kyer Altamar.”

“But the people in the capital care nothing for our magic.”

“So we thought,” said Fathraim. “We have given Adramal a letter of recommendation to present to their Council. If they accept her, she can finish her apprenticeship there.”

“The priests of Mathran hold sway in the east,” said Alesin. “It could be very dangerous.”

“If the wizards of Kyer Altamar can openly defy the priests by founding an academy, then the priests cannot be so powerful.”

“You can’t send her away,” said Alesin. “The prophecy –”

Fathraim made a cutting motion with his free hand. “Why somebody as rational as you chooses to believe that load of marsh gas, I’ll never know.”

Memories he would rather not have to face came to the front of Alesin’s mind. He tried to keep his voice steady as he replied, “Part of it has come true already.”

“There was a plague!” Fathraim banged his fist on the log, scattering moss. “Half the village was lost!” His shouting made the leaves rustle as the spell of silence tried to keep the noise within the clearing.

Strange, then, thought Alesin, how no other village within twenty miles had plague that year.

Fathraim’s expression softened. “I’m sorry. I know how much Tarinsath meant to you. But you can’t force someone to be a wizard – no matter how powerful you think they might become. We let you persuade us otherwise, and it’s cost all of us dear. If Adramal is to become a wizard, she has to make that decision for herself, away from your expectations and demands. In Kyer Altamar, she’ll have that opportunity.”

Alesin bowed his head. “I understand.” And Kyer Altamar was far enough away that if she chose to go somewhere else, he had no hope of finding out until it was too late. He looked up. “When is she leaving?”

“Today,” said Fathraim. “A traders’ caravan is passing through on the way to the river later this afternoon. Adramal will travel with them, and then join a barge downstream to Kyer Altamar.”

“Then if you’ll excuse me, Councillor, I must bid her farewell.”

“Of course. I’m sorry, Alesin, I really am. But you and she will tear the Academy apart otherwise.” Fathraim cancelled the spell of silence, and the everyday sounds it had masked reappeared, as if nothing had changed. As if he hadn’t just cut off the most important part of Alesin’s life.

Alesin managed to hold back his tears until he reached the entrance to his dwelling. Adramal was sitting on the edge of her bed. She turned to look at him, her long black hair flicking past her shoulders.

“Adramal,” he said, his voice trembling. “I’m afraid I have some bad news...”

“I know,” she said. “Councillor Teshan came to tell me just after you’d gone.”

“Perhaps it’s for the best,” he said, as he took a few steps forward. “But I’m going to miss you.”

She stared at him. “I thought it was your idea.”

“How can you say something like that?”

“Very easily, it would seem. I’m surprised no one thought of it sooner.” She stood up. Alesin tilted his head back to meet her gaze. Three years ago, she had equalled his height. Now, at seventeen, she was the tallest person in the Academy. She picked up a backpack that had been at the foot of her bed. Alesin held out his arms to her. She scowled, and then put her luggage down. He held her wiry body tight against his. She didn’t return the embrace.

“Ow!” she said.

“Sorry.” He relaxed his grip. “Be careful. You know enough to protect yourself, but the priests are much more powerful in Kyer Altamar than here. Try not to get on the wrong side of them.”

“There’s not much danger of that,” she said. “I don’t intend to be prominent.”

“Oh,” he said, leaning back to look at her.

“The other teachers were right,” said Adramal. “Wizards are made, not born, and I’m grateful for that.” She lifted his arms off herself and picked up the pack again. “I may be a wizard’s daughter, but I’ll never be a wizard.”