The Rebel Prince (The Season Series #3)

Chapter 15

Sand. My tongue tasted like sand. Dry. Foul. As if something had crawled into my mouth and died. Blinking my eyes open, I squeezed them shut again against the blinding sunlight, beams boring like daggers into my head.

"...don't appear to be any symptoms of poisoning. Only a hangover..."

I didn't recognize that Ardal voice.

"What did he say?"

That one I did. Giles was not happy.

"He said that he does not believe the prince to have been poisoned. Only, well, a tad hungover."

Ambassador Wells.

"By your leave, ambassador. I believe my work is done here," the voice in Ardal said.

"Thank you, doctor." Coins clinked. "For your discretion."

"What in the bloody hell is going on?" I rasped. Only, it came out as more of a cough than actual words.

A cup was pressed to my mouth, a shadow blotting out the sun. Giles' lips were pursed when I risked a glance up at him, hovering beside me.

"Good morning, your Highness," he said. When he tried to take the cup of water away, I seized it from him, tilting it back to wash away the foul, metallic taste still clinging to my tongue. My fingers tingled, numb at the tips as if I'd cut off their circulation in my sleep. Collapsing back against my pillows, I massaged the bridge of my nose, a pounding headache blooming behind my eyes as they acclimatized to the sunlight.

"What happened?" I asked, my voice still raspy.

"It seems you had quite the Ardalonian adventure," Ambassador Wells said, flitting up beside Giles and bouncing on his toes. "I'd caution against doing it again, however. You really ought to listen to me, your Highness, for I had warned you that Lower-"

"Go away, Wells," I said, pressing my eyes closed, completely devoid of the patience required to deal with the ambassador.

He cut himself off, sputtering some sort of farewell, clearly somewhat insulted. I didn't care. I waited, my eyes still shut, until the door snicked closed behind him.

"I drank two whiskeys last night. This isn't just a hangover, no matter what that idiot of a doctor says," I said, finally opening my eyes to survey my valet. Giles glanced back towards the door to be sure we were alone.

"I know," he muttered, producing a glass vial the size of my finger from his pocket. The remnants of a pale pink liquid clung to the sides. I squinted at it as Giles handed it to me.

The sight of it tugged at a memory.

Pale pink. Tinkling vials. Walls covered in glass, shimmering in different colours. The more I chased it, however, the murkier the memory became, like attempting to recall a dream.

"Where did you find this?" I asked, wincing against the dart of pain in my throbbing head as I pushed myself upright.

"Near the spectacular amount of vomit you left on the floor," Giles replied. When I glanced down to where he'd gestured, he harrumphed.

"Did you think I wouldn't already have cleaned it up?" he huffed.

But again, the sight of the freshly cleaned marble floor summoned yet another fuzzy, half-remembered memory. This one of fingers down my throat, accompanied by a spectacular amount of Ardal cursing. Someone telling me they'd had just about enough of princes as I heaved my innards onto the floor.

When I noticed Giles still watching me as I spun the vial between my fingers, I made an attempt to swing my legs out of bed. The room still tilted and swirled, but far less than it had last night.