Cold. Not a common theme in Anum. The country was one of the hottest on an average day, though winter had hindered its reputation. The sap reeds that built up the territory’s borders wouldn’t survive for long without the sun, they needed daily sunlight and heat or they got too moist to use as paper or packaging. If the weather continued without sunlight, the reeds would begin to die. That would send Anum into a state of disarray, as their land would all be free game.
Anaran sat on his throne, clothed in his formal Nesset attire in preparation for his banquet’s closing song, which couldn’t come fast enough. It was nearly an hour before sundown—a much earlier festival than he was accustomed to—so that no one would have to face the brittle cold for the Warden’s sake. Most Wardens would have shrugged off the time change without a thought. Nesset clothing was extremely warm, wind couldn’t pass through it at all. Anaran demanded the reschedule for the peasants’ sakes.
Schilt was a small town—smaller than the castle of a Warden—and the Lowthrone’s palace nearly doubled the town’s area. Lowthrone Holip, who sat on Anaran’s left, governed this tiny city, though he made it clear he’d prefer anywhere else to rule. Holip was relatively new to politics and command, as he’d inherited the throne only a year ago, but he made up for lost time. In that year, he’d managed to reduce city wages, increase the workday, and double his weight. Last year, before he’d gone corrupt, the townsfolk were skeptical of him as any town would be for a new leader, but they were encouraging. This year, they seemed to despise him, glaring in his direction whenever the opportunity presented itself.
There were ten round tables dotting the dirt road, surrounded by peasants gorging themselves on as much bread as they could eat, while the head table’s residents had grilled garlic eel, turquoise desertberry pie and wine, sweetbread, and a variety of cheeses. Anaran’s favorite meal never changed, and he never grew tired of it.
A quintet of musicians soothed the crowds with a beautiful melody of harps, violins, and a single monel. The monelist reminded Anaran of Helgitha’s mother, but there was still no comparison; Helgitha’s mother is far more skilled. Anaran’s expression turned into a grimace. She was more skilled. That was fourteen years ago.
Anaran closed his eyes in exaggerated blinks to remove the image from his thoughts, as though it was plastered to his pupils and he could just wash it away. Guilt was a constant bombardment on him, always crashing in massive assaults, but he had never truly felt guilty until... Until Helgitha.
Flashes of the Shuzukan emerged in his mind. Nicking both the Lowthrone and Highthrone, Peshl and Tylim. They became crystal statues as Anaran swung his blade and advanced on the entire party.
Peasants, servants, and guards were all terminated, frozen into statues one at a time. In Anaran’s anger, he didn’t stop to consider who he was killing until it was too late. Helgitha… Her mother… Even his own honor guard. Anyone could have been responsible for Rurrel’s death, he tried telling himself that he had to be certain the assassin was dead, but somehow that didn’t stop the guilt from coming.
Anaran’s eyes snapped open as he heard footsteps approach. He leaned forward in his gold chair, hand resting on the Shuzukan’s pommel, which was hidden from view under the majestic table. The Warden relaxed when he saw one of his servants instead of a possible hostile.
“Another course, Warden?” He asked. His height reached high and Anaran imagined as though he were a murderer, looming over the soon-to-be victim.
Anaran shook his head to rid himself of the evil thought, but the servant took it to mean he wasn’t hungry. No matter. Anaran had eaten only a bite of each type of food when he had lost his appetite thinking about Helgitha.
