A Falcon's Tale

Chapter Eleven

As the afternoon light flooding the main room crept further into his bedroom, Geoffrey Blackpool groaned and shielded his eyes. His insides were churning and the throb of his headache was accompanying the queasiness with
a staccato beat. He fought his way out of the tangled sheets and made his way over to the chamber pot just in time.

“Gods,” he muttered. “What the...”

He blinked and looked back at the bed. It was empty as his stomach now seemed to be. His brain stubbornly grasped a vague memory. A woman. He’d met a woman in the kitchens and brought her to his rooms last night.

“Uhh,” he groaned again.

He massaged his still pounding forehead with his fingers and swayed upright. It couldn’t have been a dream, he thought. Dreams didn’t leave you heaving your guts out in the morning and feeling like you’d been trampled on by an invisible dragon. Besides, there were two wineglasses on the table next to his bed.

Geoffrey wrapped his velvet robe around himself, staggered over to the wash basin and splashed his face with water. He ran his wet fingers through his hair, peered into the mirror and shook his head at his reflection.

“You look terrible,” he muttered to himself.

“I’d have to agree that it’s not one of your better mornings,” came a sardonic reply from the chamber door. “Or should I say, afternoons?”

The prince yelped and turned to the doorway. His brother’s witch was silhouetted in the frame. Light glinted off her clothing, making him squint in pain.

“Bethel! What are you doing here?” Geoffrey asked warily. He didn’t much trust her, though he did have to admit he liked her taste in fashion. Or maybe it was just that her choices left so much skin showing.

The witch sauntered into the room further, looking at the rumpled bed briefly.

“Busy night?”

Geoffrey flushed. “Um, I’m really not feeling so good, Bethel.”

A smirk settled onto her lips as she made her way over to the beside table and examined the wine glasses there. She noted a thin film on one of them and lifted it, sniffing it briefly. Geoffrey watched her with a puzzled look on his face.

“What are you doing?”

The witch set the glass back down and turned to face him.

“Checking on the hired help,” she murmured quietly to herself.

The residue had smelled of green magic. Simple herbs, nothing more. Why the wizard insisted that Lady Perrin might be an unmanageable problem eluded her, despite his description of the exchange in the dining room between the female warrior and Dirk.

She sat on the edge of the bed, the silver fabric falling away from her legs as she crossed them.

“And when will you be leaving for Casserne Pass again?”

“Well, Dirk said...”

“Yes?”

Geoffrey panicked. His brother would literally kill him if he told Bethel anything about his new mission. The particulars of it were swimming drunkenly in the scrambled grey matter of his brain. Luckily, his stomach decided it wasn’t completely empty and heaved uncontrollably. He found himself hugging the chamberpot again. Bethel watched him with slight disgust.

The prince sighed miserably and stood up straight.

“Well, we can continue our conversation later, Prince Blackpool. When you’re feeling better.” Bethel stood and ambled over to the doorway. “Perhaps over dinner?”

She vanished in a burst of purple light, but not before hearing the sound of Geoffrey being sick again. It only made her smile.

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