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Cinda Williams Chima

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“You’ve grown so tall, Mageling, in these four years,” she said, as if she hadn’t really looked at him for a while. “And handsome. Are you taller than your father was?” “So I’m told. It’s hard for me to remember now.” That was a lie. He remembered—exactly—the measure of his father’s arm around his shoulders, the distance between them when he leaned down to speak at Ash’s level, even the scent of him—leather and sweat and fresh mountain air.”

“Right.” Adrian took a deep breath and plunged on. “I can’t get into Mystwerk at thirteen, but Spiritas accepts novices at eleven, just like Wien House.” “Spiritas?” “That’s the healers’ academy at Oden’s Ford. You wouldn’t remember it—it’s just three years old. They’re combining green magic, music and art therapies, clan remedies, and, eventually, wizardry.” “Eventually?” His father raised an eyebrow. “That’s the goal, but from what I hear, the deans at Mystwerk haven’t been eager to join in so far.” His father snorted. “Why am I not surprised?”