It began with the disappearance of Baron Meriworth. Various unreliable tales tell of how his barony was found abandoned though, in truth, it was Aidannen of Melloweir Atondria, a lowly ambassador riding north, who stumbled upon the find.

It had been raining earlier that day, and Aidannen had been looking forward to a good night's sleep in a roadside inn. It should be noted in his defense, however, that he had been newly promoted at the time and had little idea of what the barony would be like. The Meriworth Barony - what is now known as the Land Bridge - was a fiefdom, consisting mainly of farms. The fort-like castle in which the Baron and his family lived was in the central area of the self-contained country. Not wishing to impose himself on the farm folk, and eager to get his first message through to Kinnath, the Halerian king of the period, the young idealist rode on through the rain.

But when night had fallen and farm houses no longer appeared at frequent intervals along the road-side, Aidannen could not put off the bitter cold (to say nothing of his horse). He was desperate, and the only castle for a thousand leagues was looming in the distance. The temptation of a warm dinner and a soft bed became too great.

If, perhaps, he had been less preoccupied, he might have noticed that there were no lights in the castle windows. If he had not been so sure that he could smell dinner cooking, he would probably have realised that the gate was open, and that there were no guards in sight. Had he not ridden his poor horse half to death through rainstorm and snarling wind, it would have been almost impossible for him to ride into a completely deserted castle as he did that night.

He still had some wits about him, though - enough to realise what the abandoned barony meant in any case. An hour's search enabled him to determine the lifeless state of the castle. He helped himself to the forsaken kitchens, his mind whirling at the possibilities.

Patriotism was never far from his mind; the geographical location of the barony would give Atondria - indeed, the entire Southern alliance - a huge strategic advantage; an invasion point should they ever need one.

He left the castle the next morning, riding his same horse, for even the beasts in the castle had disappeared. He rode south-west intending to get back to his kind, Miar of Atondria. He did not get that far, however; his horse collapsed near the border and refused to get up. Aidannen soon gave up on his poorly treated nag, but was determined to bring news back to his king before someone else did - he who brought his king this news would be rewarded straight from the royal treasury.

Whether he walked to Aon Kelm or begged a ride on a passing cart, it is not known. A week later, however, three of the five legions of Atondria marched out of Aon Kelm and headed north.

A day later, they were joined by marches from Duthak and Dresovia.

They made it through the Baron's estate with no resistance. The farm-folk, though curious, did not try to obstruct them. In the past, trespassers on Meriworth's land were always caught and punished - but not by them. Never by the commoners. They were emotionally and physically detached from the Northern and Southern countries, and so were truly neutral in everything they did.

Needless to say, the Northern countries did not take the surging of the Southern armies lightly. The two alliances, separated by the strange land formation of the Barony, and two vast lakes, were rivals dating back to the earliest days. Once thought to be the same people, the long years apart had allowed each to develop their own individual culture and people. The more philosophical - and, indeed, pessimistic - of both civilisations speculated that a war between them was inevitable. Kinnath of Haleri, Remeus of Asund and Queen S'lara of Erundia sent their armies to defend the border between the Barony and their own countries. All three of them knew that if Asund fell, the others would soon follow. It was in all of their interests to defend against an invasion.

There were ten legions camped on Meriworth's side of the border on the first day of Autumn, in the year 1136. The Northern armies were forced to stop at the knobbly hills less than a league away. They could see each others camp

s as day faded into smothering night; each was suspicious of the other. The commanders met to negotiate - the Northerners couldn't understand how Meriworth had allowed a hundred thousand clearly armed men to pass through.

After a couple of hours in the neutral tent, Paller, Remeus' field commander, left in a combination of disgust, suspicion and stress. The Asunds stoof to lose the most if a war followed. Paller knew that. Hurrying back to the makeshift camps, the grim commander ordered his soldiers to arm up.

Try as they might, S'lara's and Kinnath's representatives could neither persuade him to come back, not the Southern generals to negotiate without him. And so all efforts to procure peace ended with Paller's abrupt self- dismissal.

The slip of an archer's arm was all it took to break the standoff. A long Southern arrow loosed itself from the archer's readied stance, soared across the field, and buried itself in a startled warrior's shoulder. He was an Asund. Paller is said to have roared like a bear and leaped forward to examine his man. The wound wasn't mortal, but it meant that the unfortunate soldier wouldn't be fighting at all. Paller cast a cold glance at the Southern armies, most as shocked as he. Then, he struggled back through the ranks of his own army with the injured man supported on his shoulders, until he reached the archers.

'Fire,' he said in a strangled whisper, and moved away.

The fighting on those slopes lasted for three passings of the moon, each side trying to outsmart the other. The bloodshed was brutal and often crude. The Halerian blacksmiths were working overtime in their smithies, manufacturing new weapons of destruction. King Miar sent up his remaining legions as reinforcements. S'lara employed the mercenaries she so despised. The battles were short and gruesome. Some were lost, some were won, for both alliances. It seemed as though the First War between them would be an eternal one.

Yet the Northerners were retreating. They could not bring enough of their people down to the border. The border was too big to defend. The losses for both sides were almost identical, but it was the fact that the North had to defend an entire boundary that set them apart. On the seventieth day of Autumn, the first league of Asund was lost, as the Northern armies retreated to another hold.

Sensing victory, Duthak and Dresovia sent their remaining legions up, determined to push through. It left their countries undefended, but what did they need to defend against? Their only likely enemies were trapped in the north-most corner of the land.

The city of Dell was taken on the ninety-first day of Autumn that year. Quietly, Remeus fortified his position with help from S'lara and Kinnath. And still the tide of the Southern armies grew and swept over the land.

The Southern legions had surrounded Rhondell on the fortieth day of Winter. By now, there was not a field in the country that had not shown some sign of battle. Some farms had been burned, so that they could not be used to supply the enemy. Other fields had been stripped, its contents carried away to be stored in the refugee camps in Haleri and Erundia. Still others were bloodstained, the final mark of the dead who had been removed from their dying place, and burnt in the massive funeral pyres. A literal two-thirds of the population of Asund had died or fled the country. Of the three main cities, but two remained. And one was about to fall.

At dawn on the third day of winter, the first cannon fired. But the smoking black cannonball did not land.

Instead, it rose high above the walls, against the stiff morning breeze. There is stopped. It simply hovered, silhouetted against the glowing sky.

The people fortified in Rhondell looked up from their cringe, as the blow they had been expecting did not fall. Their fear was not alleviated in the slightest. Certainly, it seemed as if something stronger, with unnatural abilities, had joined the battle. Some of the more levelheaded archers within the city walls aimed their arrows within the ranks of the Southerners, but they could not release them. Their fingers were locked in place, as if frozen in stone.

Murmuring rose from both sides, each fearing that a new entity had joined the other side. All the archers found themselves unable to fire. The foot soldiers' swords were locked in their sheaths. The fuses of the cannons would not light.

The hovering cannonball exploded overhead, shattering into a thousand fiery fragments. The wind picked the pieces up in its flow - everyone felt it change its direction most unnaturally - and carried them down into the valley.

It was only when the still-burning metal swept past the seven strangers standing silently in the long grasses that any of them realised that they had been joined by anyone. With a start, the men turned, confused and surprised.

There stood Baron Meriworth, robed in spectacular white, and flanked by his six children, each dressed in a different colour. His face was as expressionless as it was ageless. The breeze grew stronger, rippling through his hair and his robes. It was impossible to say how, but the whole family emanated power. And it was a power different to anything anyone present had ever witnessed.

'What are you doing?' he asked in a quiet voice, though it was heard by everyone.

Suddenly the archers were able to move their hands again. The bows dropped from their hands.

His brown eyes took in everything. The children stood quietly at his side. 'Why are you killing each other?' he asked, simply.

When no one answered him, he frowned. 'I want to speak to someone.' He cast a stern look over the armies. 'Now.'

Avron, the commander of the armies from Duthak, hurried forward. He bowed deeply to the Baron.

'My lord Baron,' he greeted him.

'What's going on, commander?' Meriworth demanded.

He flinched clearly. 'They said you were gone, my lord,' he said.

'I was indisposed,' the Baron replied.

Avron said nothing. No one did.

'Well, in any case, I am back. I suggest that you pack up your soldiers and leave. Now,' he said, in exactly the same tone as before. It left no room for argument.

Avron hesitated. 'With all due respect,' he said with obvious uncertainty, 'it would please my king to know where you have been.'

'Where my family and I were is of no concern to you,' Meriworth said coldly. He paused. 'Though - I would advise you not to visit the two Lakes on your way back to your lands; a journey you will no doubt be taking immediately.'

When Avron hesitated again, Meriworth warned sharply, 'Go now - if you would. Or stay if you would tamper with the powers of a mage.'

A mage. A mage. The whispers ran through the gathered crowds like a summer draft through the corn fields. It was unheard of. Merely a legend, a fable for the gullible.

'. Magic .?' Avron stammered, his voice suddenly hoarse.

'Magery,' Meriworth corrected shortly. 'It is not magic.'

'Magery, then -'

'Questions will not be answered.' Meriworth seemed to look past him. 'Leave now, if you would not be helped by a . mage.'

And so the First War ended. The Southern legions retreated back through the Barony - a newly installed gate marked the boundary, and was shut firmly behind them. The remaining Asunds came back to their lands in small, regretful groups. They had little to rebuild their lands with, but they had to start somewhere.
She was named Kathera, in the tradition of her mother's family. She had the same clear grey eyes that bred true in all of the women in that particular line and, as she grew older, she sprouted the same wild blonde hair as her brothers and sisters. But she was different from all of them in a way that could not be seen, or even sensed.

From an early age, she attracted attention from the nurses because she cried less and slept more than any of the other children. She woke up at dawn every morning to watch the sunrise. Her time outside was not spent frolicking in the dust with the farm animals, but under the lofty trees in the front yard. Her family were part of a simply grain farm; her father and brothers nurtured the crops while the women were divided in various house- bound jobs. Three other families lived on the farm, and that was it. That was Kathera's whole world.

Because she was not yet old enough to learn the quick and definite arts of the kitchen, Kathera was largely ignored by the older women and left in her own devices for much of her waking hours. From her grassy seat beneath the big deciduous tree just outside the main lodgings, she could watch the travelers lumber by in their creaking horse carts, on their way to the nearest Market. Sometimes they would halt just outside the gates for the farm and mutter amongst themselves - for people in this part of the world rarely traveled alone - deciding whether to lodge for the night of risk a few more leagues to the afternoon sun.

If they decided on the former, the kitchens were always the first to be alerted; after all, it was the tireless women who braved the endless heat of the stoves who could prepare the steaming roasts and brought out the crusty-flavoured male ales from secret places beneath the house. One of the men would be sent in to greet the travelers, and show them where they would be sleeping. Out of politeness, all talk of costs were kept until morning.

Kathera was in her seventh year, sitting in her customary sprawled position in the front yard, when a group of grim-looking travelers paused by the gate. They were all cloaked in deep sable except for one - the leader - who was wearing an ornate robe of an ostentatious blue colour. It was too rich, too bright for an ordinary person to wear on long journeys.

The man in the robe spotted Kathera in the shade. He dismounted from his pony and came up to the gate. The top rung, she realised with a start, settled against his hips, where on most men it reached up their waists.

'Hello, little one,' he said, the corners of his eyes crinkling up into well-remembered wrinkles.

Kathera climbed to her feet cautiously.

'Would you like to see something pretty?' He gestured quickly with one hand and she shrank back. No one had ever acted this way before; maybe she ought to tell someone. But before she could run for help, he said, 'Come here.'

Perhaps it was the sincerity in those auburn-brown eyes - or maybe even the fatherly tone in which he spoke - but she found herself tottering across the green lawn to meet him. Without even thinking, she offered him a slightly pudgy hand. He smiled rather wryly at this, and took her tiny hand in his. He knelt down so as to be at eye level with her. One moment's eye contact and he was lost in those deep grey eyes.

Kathera was nervous. She wriggled her fingers slightly, their movement curtailed by the folds of the man's palm. She could feel a broad, heavy ring encircling the finger next to his thumb. The way he was staring at her made her uncomfortable. A thought occurred to her for the first time - what if he was trying to kidnap her? In a fleeting moment, she remember the wicked tales that her eldest brother had told her about children who had been sold as slaves and made to live in kennels like dogs. What if he wanted to kill her? She looked past him and realised, to her utter dismay, that the rest of his party were no older than she was.

He blinked for the first time in minutes. Kathera felt his hand slide away from hers and looked around. When she saw nothing out of the ordinary, she felt disappointed. Hadn't he promised her something special? Her feelings, like any of one brought up without guile or trickery, changed her face like bitter summer fires sweeping the plains. He had tricked her. She could not trust him. She shifted slightly to get away from him, and was met by a peculiar rushing noise.

It was only then that she noticed what was growing out of her spine. They were enormous - like expansions of her own shoulder blades. White feathers, softer than anything she could even dream of. In the late afternoon glow, they were a marbled shade of dove grey not unlike, the man noticed with some satisfaction, the colour of her eyes. How coincidental, he thought wryly. They were ethereal, they were legendary, they were -

'Wings,' Kathera whispered, more to herself than to anyone else. 'They're wings.'

And so she stood there, her eyes wide in some impossible combination of fear, and awe and, he was surprised to see, there was hope in there as well. He couldn't for the life of him guess why, but as she danced around in front of him, he saw it shining through. He thought fast - what could this mean? - his eyes narrowed and became blank.

So preoccupied was he that he actually missed the danger in what she was doing.

But, in any case, the explosion sent him reeling backwards, though it was really Kathera's scream that brought him back to his senses. Blue sparks were flying everywhere. She was surrounded by a fierce red kind of nimbus, her round face screwed up in terror. Another jet of sparks cascaded into the air, he rushed forward through the gate and pulled her down. The angry light faded the sparks ceased almost immediately.

Kathera's mother chose that particular moment to come hurrying out, her slim figure swelling to its fullest extent. The man winced at her stern expression, but bowed hastily.

'Afternoon, Mistress,' he said.

'I can see that.' She eyed him with suspicion. He saw her eyes swivel to the horse cart behind him.

He started to explain, 'We -'

She held up a weathered hand to stop him in mid sentence. 'Mages,' Kalliane said after a moment's consideration. 'You'd best come in.

* * *

'So, er -'

'Thirroul, good master,' the blue-cloaked mage supplied.

'Yes, yes, Thirroul.' Herrion, one of the older men of the farm seemed to dismiss the name with little conviction. 'How is life in the Citadel these days?'

Thirroul swallowed a mouthful of greens. 'Life goes on - as it always has. The merchants swindle the students. The rogues thieve from the merchants. Nothing unusual.'

'And the mages?'

'The mages?' He smiled slightly. 'They sit around playing tricks on each other all day - learning only what they must in order to save their hides.'

'And what part do you play in all of this, Thirroul?' Herrion asked bluntly.

Murmuring rose from those seated at the tables; few people bar the rashest, the boldest, and the one who no longer cared would ever demand anything from a known mage. No one knew anything about the Magics except the mages themselves. It had always been the fear of the unknown that had kept Southerners and Northerners out of the Bridge, yet even here, it was strong.

Thirroul hesitated, clearly reluctant to state his business, for reasons not yet known. 'I would not .' he trailed off, wanting to rephrase his words. 'Perhaps it would be better to wait for the others to finish such a fine meal before we discuss such matters.'

Herrion looked around, smoothing his coarse beard over his chin. No one's plate held any extra food, except for Kathera's, and it was clear that she could not finish it. The women and older girls were still in the kitchen cleaning up. Only the men, boys and those too young to work ever dined with guests.

'Then let this meal be over,' he declared rising from the long table and moving towards his study. Thirroul drifted after him. The door shut abruptly behind the two of them.

Kathera watched the mage children from a distance. They were still robed in heavy black but now seemed a little more at ease. Most were her age, though a couple looked a little older. One of the bigger boys noticed her in her corner and marched over.

'My name is Everon Keimor,' he said, swelling to make himself appear bigger. 'I'm a mage.'

Kathera did not know what to say to this, so she said, 'Yes.'

Everon pointed a clumsy finger to a sickly plant behind her. 'Your plant's ill,' he said importantly.

'It's always been like that,' she said, a little defensively. As far back she could remember, it had always sported brittle, brown leaves and withered flowers.

'I'm going to fix it for you.' He leaned over to put his hands on the soil near the plant's trunk. She edged away from him.

Everon's face contorted with concentration, his shoulder hunched up around his neck. Then suddenly, he gasped and relaxed. Mauve light glowed from under his palms, spreading over the plant's base and up its trunk.

Kathera trembled as the leaves rolled up and unfurled, renewed. As the light grew, so did the attention of others. One woman who had come out to clear away the dishes stumbled backwards in horror, nearly dropping her porcelain bundle. Gasps rose from the men.

Moments later, the plant blossomed before their eyes - star shaped yellow flowers releasing vanilla scent into the air. A particularly big flower dangled precariously from its stalk. This Everon plucked. He offered it to her, his large turquoise eyes full of innocence.

The door to the study opened. A grim looking Herrion emerged, followed by a sweeping Thirroul. A hush fell on the room.

Thirroul's glance took in everything - the terrified adults, the blossoming plant, Everon and his offered flower, and tiny Kathera. He opened his mouth and said, 'Kathera Kalliane of Morninglea, you'd best pack your bags. Tomorrow we leave for the Citadel of Mages, and you're coming with us.'

His mouth twitched, and he added, 'Who knows? You might even learn something useful there.'