The Queen's Price

TWENTY-FIVE

Surreal paced the sitting room. The rest of the Keep felt the way it always did—full of old, dark power. Full of things best not seen in the light of day. But here on the other side of an ornate metal gate . . .

Power. And a feral presence no longer hidden by a human body or softened by human emotions.

“I’d offer you coffee, but you look like you need a large whiskey,” Witch said, suddenly appearing in the room.

“Maybe a mug of this would be better.” Surreal called in the jar of leaves Lucivar had given her, along with one copy of the list of plants used to make this blend.

Witch took the jar and opened it. She sniffed. Frowned as she read the list of plants. Then she focused on Surreal, and “feral” didn’t begin to describe the look in her eyes.

“Where did you get this?” Witch asked too softly.

“This mixture comes from Tigrelan,” Surreal replied—and wondered if she would still be among the living when she walked out of that room.

“From the Tigre? From Grizande?”

She nodded.

“Who else knows about this?”

She hadn’t expected this cold rage rising from somewhere deep in the abyss. If she lied . . . No. She wouldn’t lie, because there was something else besides cold rage filling the room. “I stopped by Yaslana’s eyrie to tell Marian there might be a way to . . . soften . . . the effect of Lucivar’s sexual heat. Nurian was there.”

“And at the Hall?”

“Lucivar knows. And Daemonar.” Surreal swallowed hard. “Look, sugar . . .”

“Contact Marian and Nurian now. They are to say nothing about this until they talk to me. I’ll inform Lucivar that Grizande is not to drink any more of that tea.”

Witch vanished. A moment later, Surreal fell to the floor as an arrow of dark power was unleashed and headed west. Toward Dhemlan. Toward SaDiablo Hall—and Lucivar.

Mother Night. Surreal sent out a psychic call to Marian. *Something about this tea has made Witch furious. She commanded that you and Nurian say nothing to anyone until you talk to her.*

*Witch?* Marian sounded confused. *But . . . why?*

*I don’t know yet.* Surreal tried to get to her feet, discovered she was too shaky, and collapsed into a chair moments before Witch returned. A moment after that, a tray with a pot of hot water, a cup and saucer, and a tea ball appeared on the table near the chair.

“Do you want to try the tea?” Witch sounded terrifyingly calm.

Whenever Sadi was that kind of calm, people died.

“The Tigre witches drink this in order to quiet their response to a Warlord Prince’s sexual heat,” Surreal said, watching Witch. “That’s what Grizande told us.”

“That’s probably as much as she was told. It’s true that this tea muffles the response to sexual heat by dulling a woman’s desire. One cup won’t hurt you, and since you wear the Gray, the effects won’t last for more than a few hours. Maybe a day.”

One cup could reduce the lust response produced by a Warlord Prince’s sexual heat for a day?

Surreal filled the tea ball with leaves, set the ball in the cup, and poured the hot water over it to let the tea steep. “If you’ve known about this tea, why didn’t you say something? It could have spared . . .”

“I wasn’t here when things went wrong between you and Daemon,” Witch said.

The calm didn’t break, and Surreal had a bad feeling that it was holding back something terrible.

“Marian, then. It’s difficult for her right now.”

“The webs Karla and I created to absorb sexual heat keep things tolerable for Marian when she is home—and those webs aren’t that different from the webs hearth witches use to cleanse a bedroom after a Warlord Prince’s rut. Since Daemon is a Black Widow, he’s been able to make the webs to absorb the sexual heat in specific rooms at the Hall to make it easier for the students and staff.”

“Rooms.” Surreal removed the tea ball and set it in a small bowl. “This tea doesn’t restrict someone to specific rooms.”

“Drink it. See what it does. Then we’ll talk. You’ve focused on the relief you and Marian might have from the heat of Ebon-gray and Black. You haven’t considered the price the rest of the Blood might pay if this tea was discovered again.”

“Again?”

Witch said nothing. Surreal drank the tea.

“How do you feel?” Witch asked.

She shrugged. “The same.”

“Good. Now think about something besides what this means for you personally.”

“Not just me. Marian.”

Witch nodded. “All right, let’s consider Marian. She wears Purple Dusk. Until this last phase, she was able to handle Lucivar’s leashed sexual heat without being overwhelmed and certainly appreciated the way it excited her and added to her enjoyment of sex. Now the heat is too much even when it’s leashed, and it will be for a few more decades, before it begins to decline. A woman from a short-lived race would endure this for a few years if her lover was a Warlord Prince who outranked her. It’s harder for someone from one of the long-lived races because it has to be endured for a lot more years.

“Then a tea is discovered that quiets a woman’s response to the heat, dulls her desire for sex. Doesn’t affect the Warlord Prince, just her. How often does Marian drink the tea? Once a week? Twice? Does she wait until she starts to feel her husband’s heat again, starts to feel sharp desire again, before brewing another cup? Don’t you think Lucivar will notice that the woman who is the love of his life, the woman he’s been living with for centuries, no longer wants to have sex with him, no longer wants more than a hug and cuddle?

“You wanted to use Marian as the example, so let’s talk about Lucivar. If Marian could no longer have sex because of injury or illness, he wouldn’t consider leaving her—and he would remain celibate, even during the ruts. But how hard would it be for him to stay if Marian chose to drink a tea that silenced desire in order to escape an intrinsic part of what he is? How hard would it be for both of them when they realized she’d castrated herself to avoid his sexual heat?”

Surreal snapped upright in the chair. “What?”

“Depending on a witch’s power, drinking a couple cups of that tea every week can silence desire for good. If she hasn’t been drinking it very long and stops drinking it, sometimes desire comes back in a few weeks; sometimes it takes months. And sometimes it never returns. It doesn’t even take a year of drinking that tea to reach the point of never.”

Surreal raked a hand through her hair. “Mother Night.”

“And may the Darkness be merciful.” Witch sat in a chair opposite Surreal and leaned forward. “Now think beyond the Ebon-gray and Black. A woman who wears a Rose Jewel handfasts to a Warlord Prince who wears Purple Dusk. Even leashed, his heat is going to bother her at times. But there’s a tea she can get from a Black Widow or Healer that will quiet that. Does she talk to him, tell him she’s going to drink this tea and why, so that it’s a decision they make together? Or does she keep it a secret? What happens in a few months when he realizes she’s no longer interested in his pleasuring her—or in giving him pleasure? Does he assume she no longer has feelings for him? Unless she fills some other need in him, most likely he’ll choose not to renew the handfast because he’d prefer to be alone than be with someone who doesn’t want him.

“No longer living with a Warlord Prince, the woman stops drinking the tea. She enjoys being around men and emotionally would like another lover, but her body won’t respond. Desire was drowned one time too many. And once Warlord Princes figure out why lovers no longer respond to them? They learn the warning signs, and they walk away at the first sniff of that tea—especially if they feel some affection for the woman. They don’t consider a handfast or marriage to a witch who doesn’t wear a Jewel of equal or darker rank.”

Surreal shook her head. “If the tea was only provided by a Healer when the need was acute, and no one else knew how to make it . . .”

“Did Grizande tell you this tea was a secret?” Witch asked.

She hesitated. “Yes, she did.” And the girl had reservations about the tea.

“And what was the first thing you did when you arrived in Ebon Rih?”

“I thought it might help Marian!”

“I know, Surreal. I know. But Marian and Lucivar love each other, and they will get through this phase of the heat, just as they will get through the years when Marian goes through the physical and emotional changes that mark the end of her fertility. They don’t need that kind of help. And you will never drink another cup of that tea again. You will not sacrifice your ability to enjoy another man as a lover.”

Surreal studied Witch. “What aren’t you saying?”

“Daemon is dying.” Witch looked away, something she rarely did. “He agreed not to accelerate the process that will bring him to the day when he no longer walks among the living, but I had to agree not to do anything that would postpone that day. So, you see, his sexual heat won’t be a problem for you.”

Surreal sprang to her feet and paced around the room. “Dying? How? Why?”

“It doesn’t matter. When it comes it will be swift, and he’ll make the transition to demon-dead.”

“How long? Centuries from now?”

A painful silence. “Years, not centuries.”

She stared at Witch. She doesn’t want him to die. She doesn’t want him to give up his time among the living. He’s the one who wants this, maybe needs this. Because then he’ll be free to have the one thing he wants more than anything else.

“What can I do?” she asked.

“Nothing.” Witch gave her a sad smile. “There’s nothing we can do except respect the choice he has made. Hell’s fire, Surreal, even Lucivar isn’t arguing about it. That should tell you something.”

Lucivar knew and had said nothing. Not surprising.

Surreal resumed her seat, stared at the jar of tea leaves, and started thinking like a Warlord Prince’s second-in-command. Like an assassin. “Why give a girl Grizande’s age this tea?”

Witch’s smile turned feral. “My Sister, that’s a very good question.”