SARELA ENTERED THE Praetor's darkened quarters quietly, an armed guard on either side; and as she approached the high-backed chair from the rear, she could not avoid wondering what she would find in the face of the Praetor, what she would learn from the lips of a man revered even above the ancient gods. Tazol's anger had been pleasantly obvious when he'd informed her of the Praetor's demands for her presence and she knew that, whatever awaited her, it would be well worth the contempt and hatred she'd read in her husband's cold expression.

"The ship's scientific adviser, your holiness," one of the guards murmured as the party drew up to a halt behind the black chair which bore little resemblance to the palacial throne. "She is called Sarela."

Slowly, the chair turned until Sarela caught her first glimpse of the profile of a legend. But as the Praetor stood, her eyes widened in a moment of unconcealed surprise. The Praetor was only slightly taller than Sarela herself, and as the hood was lifted away from the shadowed face, the Ravon's first officer found herself face to face with another woman. Her lips parted in astonishment, but she quickly remembered to lower her eyes in respect, bowing from the waist according to a tradition which she no longer respected, but followed out of habit alone.

"I am honored, my Lady," she murmured, too shocked to recall that she'd held nothing but contempt for the Praetor for years.

"Honored?" the robed woman remarked as her lips turned to a rueful smile. "You seem surprised." But she waved her argument aside with a quick gesture. "You shouldn't be," she added, her tone becoming more serious as she dismissed the guards with a nod of her head. With a quick flow of words, she summoned one of the slaves to her side, ordering wine for herself and Sarela, whom she addressed—surprisingly—as a guest.

Then, turning back to the ship's science officer, the Praetor studied her openly, accepting two glasses of blue Romulan ale from a well-muscled man. She handed one to Sarela.

Taking the glass slowly, Sarela remained silent for a very long time, willing her uncertainty away. "Forgive me, my Lady," she said at last, taking a sip of the wine to mask her confusion. "I was not aware …"

"That the Praetor might be female?" the other woman replied, a smile finding its way to her thin lips. Her dark eyes studied the color of the wine for a moment before raising the stemmed glass to her lips. "My father produced no male children," she explained presently, "and please rest assured that I have been through the customary training and preparation." Impulsively, she gestured toward a vacant chair. "Please," she continued warmly, "be comfortable with me. There is much to discuss."

Sarela moved into the chair, grateful for its solidity. For an instant, she found one of her own previous doubts creeping in. But logic alone dictated that, if the Praetor had wished to send an impostor, it would hardly be a woman. He would have sent some well-muscled Warrior with slightly higher than normal intelligence to carry off the pose. And with that knowledge, Sarela felt one doubt leave her. But it was only one among many.

Setting the glass on the corner of a nearby desk, the Praetor removed the heavy black robes, revealing her body to be well developed and strong in appearance. The short uniform of the Fleet added to the lithe catlike musculature of her legs; and the sleeveless garment presented her as a powerful woman, not one accustomed to an easy life spent sitting dormant on a jeweled throne. Her face was thin and angular, but nonetheless attractive, with compelling black eyes accented with streaks of silver shadow-paint. She appeared to be approximately thirty-five seasons in age. Upswept brown hair accented the eyes—which, Sarela noted, were alight with knowledge and curiosity; and the thin curve of her lips bespoke a quality of humorous appreciation. The straight hair was pulled back from her face, then cascaded over her shoulders as it fell to midback, adding an air of femininity to the otherwise imposing physique.

"I will come to the point, Sarela," the Praetor began, returning to her chair and easing into it with one foot curled under the other leg. "Your views concerning the government of the Empire are not unknown to me."

As their eyes met, Sarela experienced a single moment of fear; no one questioned the Empire's politics and lived to tell of it. But she suddenly realized that she no longer cared; with a lifetime of marriage to Tazol ahead of her, command taken from her grasp by the same fool, and the displacement of time alteration forever embedded in her mind, she had little to lose.

"I am not ashamed of my views, my Lady," she stated, unconsciously raising her chin higher.

The Praetor studied her with remarkable curiosity. "Nor should you be," she replied. Her eyes closed as she leaned back in the chair and inhaled deeply. Honesty was something she could respect, and she smiled to herself. "Be advised that nothing said within this room is to go beyond these walls," she added. "And I must know that I command your trust."

Surprised at the Praetor's unorthodox approach, Sarela nodded. She had expected Death. "You have my word, Lady," she said, allowing herself a moment to think.

"And your trust?" the Praetor wondered with a lifted brow.

Glancing away, Sarela could not find it in herself to lie. She raised her eyes, steeling herself and wondering if the answer waiting on her tongue would mean her extermination. "Trust must be earned," she replied at last. "It is the way of our people—and a tradition which still holds true."

Surprisingly, anger did not spark in the Praetor's wide eyes. Instead, she retrieved the wineglass from the desk, sipping slowly at its contents.

"I am pleased," she said. "One who gives their trust unwisely often finds himself dead when the new sun rises." Again, she smiled. "In this room, you may address me as Thea. It is my given name, but one which must never be spoken outside these walls."

Unconsciously releasing the breath which had been suspended in her lungs, Sarela nodded. "Your anonymity is secure," she assured the other woman, relaxing despite her preconceived ideas concerning the Praetor. She was rapidly discovering that Thea was nothing like she'd expected, nothing resembling the rumors or even the legends. The woman seemed alive and vibrant, almost pleasant, definitely commanding.

The Praetor inclined her head toward the desk, upon which were stacked the computer transcripts of Second History. "I do not find this information surprising, Sarela," she revealed after a moment's hesitation. "It would have been foolish to expect anything different."

Sarela's brows climbed, reflecting her surprise at how closely the words echoed her own. In the background, she became aware of the two slaves moving about, and caught her eyes wandering to where the two men were apparently involved in some type of board game in the back of the oversized stateroom. She tried to dismiss the distraction, but her gaze continued to wander in their direction.

"Time tampering canbe a useful tool," she responded, choosing a neutral approach. "Perhaps when its intricacies are more fully understood, the attempt can be made again."

Thea shook her head, then noted the other woman's obvious interest in the two preoccupied slaves. With a smile, she raised her right hand. "Tasme, Sekor," she called warmly. "Come sit with us."