The detestable squalling of those babes. Could no one shut them up? It seemed wherever he went, he heard them. He threw a glance over his shoulder. Two wet nurses were marching by with each brat at the tit. He sucked in his breath with disgust and turned around again.
Varley remembered right after they were born. Once family members were allowed to view them, he had finally stepped in, performing his duty as the supposed loving elder brother ought. The first thought that passed through his mind as he looked down at the two of them, twin boys, was that their faces looked like rumpled little tomatoes with small, screaming mouths.
And they hadn’t stopped screaming since, the wretched creatures. Colic, some whispered in corners. No, Varley rolled his eyes, just poor breeding, what else did they expect from a lowlife Wescarl twat from Kipper Cove?
They should have removed her by now, to another residence, that was just tradition, but for everyone’s sake – and sanity – Varley might just insist upon it. Father was so enamored of them. Quite possibly impressed that he could produce children still, though Varley wondered if the babes were his. Time would tell. Though… terrible things were known to happen to small babes in their cradles. So tragic. Truly a loss it would be, Varley thought with a mixture of amusement and loathing. He suddenly understood why so many babes died so young… parents just couldn’t take their bloody fucking squalling and squashed them with pillows. Or something.
Whatever occurred, Varley now had company in the succession arena. Though he himself would be upon Father’s throne long before such a consideration would ever be necessary. And a wife of excellent breeding would provide sons that wouldn’t spit up on his imported velvet surcoat the first time he picked one of them up.
Finally, Varley could hear himself think again… they were gone. He continued to eat his breakfast.
One of his servants stepped to his side and bowed. “Your Highness.” He held a silver tray before Varley with a pigeon parchment atop it. Varley accepted the parchment and dismissed the servant.
Curious, Varley snapped the seal and sat back in his seat.
Ah. The Ormon Queen. She never sent him correspondence with her own seal, nor signed her name, but Varley knew her personal handwriting by now.
“King Munsolrysche dead. Unexpected involvement by ES. Do nothing at this time. Wait for further communication.”
Irritated, Varley wondered what had happened. The changing of the guard would certainly slow her plans down, though that would be a bit difficult with no son to pass the crown to.
He hoped the plans had not changed entirely. ES. He did not like the idea of the Eastern Shield involvement. Was Myrischka losing grip on all her ice up there? Varley did not like that idea. She was supposed to take Ambsellon for herself, and leave him to take over Clemongard, the first Storden King with a set of balls in hundreds of years. And after that….
She could have her Eastern Shield. He wanted the West.