Sitara yelped, and an old woman, dressed in the colors of the emperor's personal staff, stumbled back with a cry of surprise. Terror flooded through Sitara. Discovery meant death.
She again reached for her gift of magic. Normally it came instantly, like a sunburst in her heart. This time it came slowly, reluctantly, a disturbing trend that had started in recent weeks.
Sitara drank in the power and lashed out with an invisible blow. She struck the old woman’s head, dropping her like a stone to the carpeted floor.
She crouched over the woman and listened. Silence. Apparently no one had heard her small cry.
As she surveyed the unconscious form, her power bled away. She tried to hold onto it, but it slipped from her grasp like water. How was it possible? Her commitment to the cause had only grown, as had her skill at deceiving her employer and in ferreting out the many secrets Bajaran needed. Why then would her powers desert her when she needed them most?
Terrified to think she might be losing her gift, she had shared the disturbing trend with Bajaran shortly before he departed. He had explained how the sentinels had corrupted magic, making it increasingly difficult for the patriots of the revolution to access their power. Then he had taught her a different way.
As Sitara leaned over the old woman, she knew what she must do, and reached for that other source of power. It crawled into her eagerly, despite her reluctance.
The first time she had tried it, it had left her feeling tainted. Bajaran had assured her it was natural, that she was being cleansed of the sentinels' corruption. Usually the truth of his teachings was obvious, but that time she’d hesitated and not ventured to use the alternate power again.
As she embraced it now, driven by desperate need, she cringed and wanted to pull away. Bajaran had described it as the strength of the night, but that explanation didn’t seem right. She often walked alone at night and enjoyed the clean, fresh darkness. This new power dirtied her as it seeped into her soul. She gritted her teeth against her own sense of revulsion and drew it in until it filled her with sickening strength.
She wanted to vomit.
Instead, she gazed at the woman with magic-enhanced vision. Now she could see the woman’s life force encircling her like a dimly glowing light. Sitara took a deep breath, grabbed that glow of life, and began leeching it away.
The spell wasn’t difficult, but she struggled with it. The only other time she had practiced it, the same night Bajaran had first taught her, she’d used a stray cat as the subject. She had held the spell for only a short time, but that had been long enough.
The experience of stealing even part of another being's life repulsed her at some fundamental level. She had hidden her revulsion from Bajaran, ashamed at her weakness, but unable to change the way she felt. Still, he had sensed her discomfort.
"It is the nature of life," he explained as he held her in a long, comforting embrace. "This animal is fulfilling the purpose of its creation by surrendering its strength to us so we can use it in our struggle to make the world a better place."
Although Sitara had strengthened her resolve to accept that deeper truth, it hadn’t worked yet. In this moment, she could afford no doubts.
Standing over the old woman's unconscious body, she stripped away all doubt, all thought, until nothing remained but the churning corruption of magic. The glowing aura of life slowly dimmed around the woman as her life bled away, reluctantly feeding Sitara’s soul. It was more difficult than she remembered with the cat, and she had to concentrate to keep the spell from slipping out of her control.
In sharp contrast with the lurking darkness Sitara used to steal it, the pure essence of the woman’s life force filled her with clean vitality. She could sense qualities possessed by her victim even as she leeched the life from her.
Honesty and loyalty were clearly evident, for the old woman was innocent of any evil. The pure goodness of it was so welcome and refreshing that Sitara absorbed it greedily, making it part of herself.
She wanted to shout for joy.
She wanted to scream in horror.
It felt as though two distinct beings vied to possess her. One was pure and clean and glowing with strength; the other dark and menacing, slowly corrupting and consuming the first. In the very act of embracing the purity of the old woman's life, she destroyed it.
From the dark recesses of her being rose a part of her that reveled in the glory of the moment. It was a piece of her normally sealed and hidden. She could convince herself most of the time that it didn’t really exist.
Not now. It rose up and forced her to recognize it. Although she wanted to cringe away, it held sway, willing to do what must be done.
Reverently Sitara placed a hand over the old woman’s chest and drove her power through the body like extensions of her fingers. Within those fingers of power, the old woman’s heart pumped valiantly despite her age and frailty.
Sitara hesitated for several counts of the woman's heartbeat. She had never killed before.
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With darkness filling her soul, she saw with a clarity she had never before possessed that it had only been a matter of time. She reflected in amazement at how long she had dreamed of ascending to power at Bajaran’s side, of ruling the empire and seeing all those she had served kneeling before her. Only she had never accepted that she would have to kill to achieve that goal.
Staring at the nameless old woman, who would die for no greater fault than running into her, Sitara wanted to laugh at her own naiveté, and to weep at its loss.
Faced with the need to kill, she found herself desperately seeking another way. The old woman's face looked peaceful, and her heartbeat vibrated against the power Sitara held around it. Thump-thump. . .thump-thump. Sitara fought against the darkness directing her actions, and began to ease her hold.
Bajaran will die if she lives and I am captured.
The thought flashed through her mind, returning her to clarity and firming her resolve.
“Your sacrifice will bring you everlasting reward,” she whispered, gently stroking the old woman's hair. Something deep inside her turned cold and dark.
She squeezed.
The heart beat futilely against the force of her power. Once, twice, a third time.
Then it stopped.
Tears streamed down Sitara’s cheeks. Filled with her victim's life force, she slowly rose to stand over the dead woman. Exultant joy surged through her, and the dark corner of her soul that held sway made her want to throw her head back and shout out her victory. She reveled in the sheer power of the moment, and finally understood what Bajaran had been trying to teach her. She had been a fool to have doubted him. This was true power, and she deserved it.
Then shame, held temporarily at bay, seared her conscience and mocked her strength. Through the eyes of the darkness that ruled her, it seemed a childish response, one she needed to outgrow.
She no longer needed that darkness, however, for the deed was done. Sitara suddenly felt an overwhelming need to hide that sinister part of herself. With a great effort she drove it back into the chill corner of her mind where it normally lurked. It went reluctantly, and she wasted a long moment regaining her composure. She would never again be able to pretend that part of her being didn’t exist.
Revulsion rose up within her and threatened to make her physically ill. Her head spun, and she felt like ripping at her hair and screaming in impotent rage at the woman who lay dead at her feet.
Bajaran, she cried within the depths of her mind, what have you forced me into?
Then another mind touched hers, just a feather-light caress for a fraction of a second. Sitara tensed, senses alert. Bajaran had reached out to her that way many times.
It was not Bajaran.
She waited, poised to strike. She wouldn’t let herself be taken alive. There could be no mercy for her. She had joined Bajaran in the revolution. This murder had sealed her fate to his.
He would be proud of her.
After an anxious moment in which nothing happened, Sitara fled through the bedroom and the secret door, not pausing until she exited the other end of the passageway. She couldn’t explain how she had escaped detection. Whoever had touched her mind must have sensed her power.
Why had they not attacked? Who else had been in the emperor's apartment? Had they also been eavesdropping on the conversation? Had they recognized her?
She had no answers, and that terrified her. She took a deep breath and forced her fear down. She couldn’t surrender to it. She lived in constant danger of discovery and couldn’t allow herself the luxury of wallowing in such fears. So she buried the questions until they could be addressed later.
Sitara continued through the bedroom. It was empty, as expected, so she returned to her own small room at the foot of a narrow stair and locked the door. Slumping against it, she let her tension seep away.
As she glanced across the room, she noticed her reflection in the mirror suspended above her desk. Tears had streaked the smooth skin of her face, and her shoulder-length hair hung in terrible disarray. Most alarmingly, her eyes, normally the same light brown as her hair, glittered like obsidian.
It took a long moment of concentration to dispel the dark power that clung to her. It left slowly, reluctant to relinquish its hold. Finally she scraped it off and her eyes again looked normal, although haunted by the horror of what she had done.
Shuddering, she was nearly overpowered by the sudden urge to strip off all her clothes and scrub herself clean. It would do no good. No amount of water could remove the filth that lurked in her soul.
She staggered to the bed and fell onto it, clutching her head and fighting to suppress the sobs that threatened to burst forth. She shook uncontrollably. If she succumbed to the shame of what she had done, she would be a wreck for hours.
Too much time had passed already. She would soon be missed. She forced herself to rise and make herself presentable. She straightened her dress, brushed her hair, and splashed some scented water on her face. More importantly, she locked the fearful memories away. They could only be allowed to surface again when she had time to deal with them safely.
She was a sentinel, after all. She had to be strong.
Satisfied with her new appearance, Sitara put on a bright smile and left the room. She climbed to the uppermost floor of the Keisara's Tower, the twin of the tower she had just escaped. The ladies were still talking over their evening repast while admiring the twilight glowing on the western horizon.
Sitara loved the comfortably appointed sitting room where the keisara invited close friends, particularly the eight windows that circled the tower, providing unbroken vistas in every direction.
“Oh, Sitara, perfect timing as usual,” said her mistress. “I was just telling Lady Elva about your amazing massages. She has a terrible knot in her back no one has been able to relieve. I told her you’d be happy to work on it.”
“Of course, my lady,” Sitara said, moving around to Lady Elva’s chair.
As usual, her voice set everyone at ease. Although not magical, it was one of her greatest gifts. She had never met anyone she couldn't charm with her voice. Its exceptional sweetness, coupled with her youth, disguised her with a cloak of innocence few ever penetrated. Tonight she was doubly grateful for its effect, as it shielded her from close scrutiny. These ladies would be stunned when she revealed her true self on the day she began her rule.
That daydream, one of her favorites, was now tinged with darkness. She dropped her gaze to the thick carpet to avoid looking any of them in the eye as she began working on the muscles of Lady Elva’s back.
Before she assumed the throne, she would have to kill these women.
Sitara glanced across the room toward her mistress, the emperor's wife, the empress-consort Fideima Tamar Tegnazian. Never one to accept the status quo, Fideima had assumed the far more grandiose title of keisara, despite lacking the full authority of the station. Even though the title had never been officially ratified, no one openly challenged her, and Sitara doubted anyone would until the emperor's death.
By then, it would not matter. Bajaran had struck, so Sitara must begin her own careful assault in the very heart of the empire.
The keisara must be the first to fall.