The Cold King
Authors: Amber Jaeger
Table of Contents
THE COLD KING
by Amber Jaeger
The Cold King
Copyright © 2013 by Amber Jaeger. All rights reserved.
First Kindle Edition: February 2013
Cover and Formatting:
Streetlight Graphics
For more information, contact Amber Jaeger at:
Facebook:
www.facebook.com/ajaegerbooks
Email:
[email protected]
All rights reserved. This eBook is licensed for the personal enjoyment of the original purchaser only. This eBook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this eBook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.
Dedication
For Paul.
Your love and support have made my dreams reality
Chapter One
C
alia wove through the crowded
market with her basket held high above her head. The town’s people barely noticed the slight girl so it was up to her to steer around them or out of their way.
She grimaced as she was jostled almost off her feet. There was no apology from the man who bumped into her, no one asking if she was all right or offering a steadying hand.
It wasn’t that Calia was invisible to the other townspeople. They saw her, they just did not care.
But she cared. If she let the precious contents of her basket fall to the churned, muddy ground beneath her feet she would have to face her mother’s wrath.
“Excuse me,” she mumbled as someone else roughly brushed past her. With the basket tilting precariously on her head, she stepped into the mouth of an ally. It was a tiny safe haven and she paused to settle her burden more firmly in place. Her stomach growled loudly and she realized she had stopped next to the bakery. The scent of buttery rolls was heavenly, but Calia had neither the time nor the money.
The town’s people mulled and dashed and argued in the tightly packed market except in one small, loose circle around an old woman. Everyone avoided her as she slowly made her way from stall to stall with the handle of her wicker basket gripped tightly in her bony hand.
The crowd thinned just enough for Calia to really see the elderly woman. Her chest tightened. It was the Cold King’s personal servant.
It was no wonder everyone in the market avoided her. A thin, stooped woman nearly bent in half over her cane should not cause such unease, but this woman did.
She was treated even worse than Calia. Everyone simultaneously ignored and avoided her. When she headed for a stall all the current customers scattered. The people shopping opposite of her kept their backs turned, only occasionally peeking over their shoulders to make sure she wasn’t coming their way.
So only Calia saw the old woman slip in the mud and fall her knees, her basket tumbling away and spilling its contents.
Suddenly unmindful of her own basket, Calia dropped it and darted forward. No one else reached out to help the elderly woman but neither did they impede the younger one rushing to her side.
“Are you all right?” Calia asked when she reached her.
The old woman had used her cane to push herself before Calia could reach her and was carefully patting her frizzy, snow white bun with a gnarled hand. The skin was parchment thin and Calia tried not to wince at the web of protruding veins and tendons running underneath it.
“Are you all right?” Calia repeated. She looked the woman over and grimaced at the blood on her stocking. “You hurt your knee.”
The old woman brushed her off. “Do not talk to me. Don’t you know I am cursed?” she jeered. Her eyes flashed in the noon day sun and Calia almost backed away. Tales of the king and his servants were whispered around town but not to the likes of her.
Always more practical than superstitious, Calia brushed away her unease.
“You are hurt,” she said firmly. “Let me help you.”
“My girl,” the old woman whispered, wrapping her hand tightly around her cane. “Have no fear for me. My master will always care for me.”
Calia took a steadying breath. “I am sure he will but he’s not here now and your knee is bloodied.”
The town’s people continued to give a wide berth to the woman and girl and the basket with the spilled goods.
Calia knelt in the mud and gathered the buttons and threads and needles. “Let me walk you back,” she asked when everything was back in the basket.
“No my girl, you’ve done more than enough.”
“Please, let me—”
“No. Keep your life here.”
Puzzled, Calia watched the old woman push off into the crowd. The people kept their distance until she passed and then flowed in to hide her retreat.
The girl watched for several minutes until a rude shove interrupted her thoughts and brought her back to her own ugly world. Suddenly she remembered her mother’s precious basket and ran back for it.
“Oh no,” she groaned, seeing all her mother’s goose down feathers getting ground into the mud by the uncaring shoppers.
“Calia Thorne!” The shriek was like ground glass in her ears. “What did you do now?”
“Mother,” Calia gasped, trying to hide the empty basket behind her body. “I thought you were staying at home.”
Her mother glared at the poorly hidden basket. “I was, until I realized I needed more cloth for nappies.” She had one twin tucked under each breast. Greer, still a toddler, lagged behind her, grasping her mother’s skirts and Moli lagged even further behind, her face empty over the full basket she clutched.
“I could have done that for you,” Calia mumbled.
“Like you got my feathers to the pillow makers?” her mother asked. “I swear, what I ever did to deserve such a worthless child…”
Calia was used to such hurtful statements and so did not even flinch. “I am sorry Mother, I’ll pay for the feathers.”
“With what money?” Her mother pushed past her and continued on her way to make her purchases. Calia took the heavy basket from her grateful younger sister and trailed behind.
It wasn’t until late that evening that Calia’s mother deigned to speak to her again.
“So what was it this time?”
Calia looked up from scrubbing the tea pot and brushed her hair back from her face. “What was what, Mother?”
“Your excuse for ruining my feathers?”
Calia’s cheeks heated but she kept her voice even when she answered. “The basket tipped when I rushed to help an old woman who had slipped in the mud.”
Her mother looked up from her embroidery. “Mrs. Peepers?”
“No, it was the Cold King’s servant.”
The ugly woman’s face stilled with shock. “You helped her? You touched her? Calia, she is probably cursed, just like him! You must never interact with any of his servants!”
Calia bit her lip before giving an answer she was sure would only anger her mother more. “I know everyone says she and all of the servants are cursed just as the Cold King is but they age and he—”
“Do not speak of him, you idiot girl!” Her mother’s cheeks were flaming red and she glanced about the dark house as if someone could be hiding in the shadows listening. “Besides, what could you possible know about the Cold King or his servants?”
“Nothing,” Calia said, trying to hide her exasperation, “because you won’t ever tell me anything. But how can he be so bad? We have plenty to eat, our crops always grow. We never face war or famine, our homes are always warm. And maybe it isn’t the same king, maybe this one is the heir of the heir of the original.”
Her mother reached out and slapped her faster than Calia could pull away. “Shut your mouth. Do not speak of things you do not know about.”
Calia rubbed her cheek but was grimly determined to have her say. “I just meant that it seems no one really knows anything about him.”
Her mother relented and picked her embroidery up again. “You have your father’s stubbornness.” She must have seen the glimmer of a smile on her daughter’s mouth. “It’s nothing to be proud of! He should have been more concerned with making money.” She sighed and shook her head. “But you are right; we do not know much about the king. It’s best that way, it keeps us safe.”
“From what?” Calia asked, hoping her question wouldn’t earn her another slap.
But her mother shrugged. “Him. The outside world. I do not know, but you are correct. We have food and shelter and warmth and we should be grateful for all of it.”
Calia paused her scrubbing. “I am grateful. But I am also curious. Weren’t you curious about the Cold King as a child?”
Her embroidery slowly fell to her lap again as her gaze lengthened. “I was. But then I saw him.”
“You did?” Calia gasped. “You never told me!”
“I do not like to speak of it,” her mother said quietly.
“Please mother, tell me,” Calia begged.
The older woman gave another furtive glance around the room before speaking. “It was the year I was pregnant with you. He came down from his mountain castle for a new gardener.”
Calia waited for more but nothing came. “That’s it? No, there must be more.”
“There is no more,” her mother snapped. “He came down from his mountain, stood in the middle of the town square, made his announcement and left.”
“But what did he look like? What did he sound like?”
“Calia, I do not know. He wore a mask. He looked rich. Stop asking stupid questions.” Mrs. Thorne shifted in her chair, signaling the end of the conversation.
But as Calia finished scrubbing the dishes, and then the counter and floor, she wondered. All the whispers she had overheard depicted the king as an immortal, heartless man. Long since cursed in a way no one remembered, or dared to say, he hid himself in his castle with the few servants he demanded from the town. The servants themselves were rarely seen once they set off for the castle and reviled on rare occasion they came back on an errand. The old woman was the first servant Calia had ever seen. She wondered if she would ever get to see the mysterious king.
The summer rains slowed and cool wind ushered in a dry autumn. Life continued on for Calia as it had for years—chores, cooking, cleaning, errands and more chores. She often wondered about the old woman and the mysterious king, among other things, and spent all of her time working in thoughtful silence. Life was hard and boring and lonely. Calia was beginning to wonder if it would always be that way.
Then, on the first snowfall of winter, the king came down from his mountain castle.
Tiny flakes swept through the steel sky, hiding everything above the tree line before thinning out and falling onto the village. Children shrieked and ran about with their tongues stuck up in the air while the adults muttered about cold weather and wetness everywhere.
Calia was looking over the last of the apples Mr. Norp had for sale when everything around her stilled. The children stopped yelling, the adults stopped grumbling and even the animals fell silent. The she heard the sharp rap of boot heels coming down the only paved road in town—the road from the castle.
The even footsteps were unhurried and echoed eerily off the walls of the stores and stalls. Calia gripped her cloak tight against her throat and peeked over her shoulder. All the other villagers had turned to watch their king make his way to the small platform in the center of the market square. Men removed their hats and women clutched their children to their sides.
Calia’s breath caught in her throat when she finally caught sight of the Cold King. Whether he was handsome or ugly, she could not tell. A cold, hard, mask encrusted with glittering stones covered his face from hairline to the top of his perfectly shaped mouth. The muscles along his sharp jaw were clenched and Calia wondered if he was angry.
She squinted to see better but the sparkling of the stones made it hard to discern what was mask and what was man. The unruly, dark waves framing his face and tumbling to his collar hid how the thing even stayed in place, giving the uneasy appearance that his face
was
the mask.
Even from afar Calia could see he was taller and his shoulders wider than most of the men in the village. His perfectly fitted clothes, clearly made of expensive cloth, emphasized his fitness.
But rather than all of those things making him attractive they made him terrifying. His careless hair, theatrical mask and perfect physique made him appear a mad god.