The Cold King (11 page)

“Thank you, Calia,” he said kindly when she stepped back with the empty tray. “Your improvements are impressive.”

He expected her to startle and begin looking wildly around the room at anything but him but she only smiled and curtsied.

When she sat down unbidden to continue working on his shirts he gave a tiny sigh of relief.

Settled into her new and cheerful frame of mind, things did not seem so bad. Granted, she was still atrocious at sewing, she still worried she would drop one of his trays and it still took all of her control not to question him on every unusual trinket she had to dust; but it was quiet and peaceful and she felt like she could stay in this place of calm winter forever. Until the day he took the chair next to hers at his fireplace.

Calia’s fingers froze over their terrible stitches as he sat down next to her and kicked his shoes off. She stared in confusion as he stretched his legs out over the ottoman and wiggled his stocking feet at the flames.

Afraid of this disruption in their schedule, she tried to go back to her horrible attempts at sewing. Finally she gave up and chanced a curious glance at him.

He turned his head and the flames made his mask sparkle in the firelight. “Can I not enjoy the comfort of my own chair?” he asked drily.

“Of course, my king,” she said, fighting to keep her voice even.

He seemed to wait for more but she had no idea how to fill this new silence between them.

“Sometimes I get so bored sitting at my desk,” he finally confessed. “All that correspondence from people that want things from me or wanting me to get things from others for them… And all the bad news, all the bad things that come pouring out of those letters. Did you know there is a drought in Benhai?”

She shook her head mutely. She did not even know there was such a place as Benhai.

The king continued. “And they all seem to think I did it, or I can do something about it, or I can do something about the people that caused it.”

Her mouth was dry but she asked anyway. “Are you really that powerful?”

He gave a sharp laugh. “Of course not, no one is powerful enough to cause a drought.”

Her relief was profound. “Then why do they seek you out?”

The Cold King cocked his head. “I forget growing up in the village you probably heard few stories about me.”

“Very few,” she agreed.

“What were the ones that you did hear?” he asked.

Fear rose up in her. Was he baiting her? Did he want her to repeat the terrible things said about him so he could punish her?

“Tell me,” he repeated more forcefully.

“That you are a cold king,” she said, all her words rushing together. “That you are immortal and all powerful and that without you, our village would have perished a long time ago.”

“Hmm,” he mused. “That’s actually all true.”

“All of it?” she sputtered. “Even the immortal part?”

He waved a hand at her. “Close enough for your understanding,” he said. “That cannot be all they said. What else?”

She licked her lips. “They say whenever one of your servants passes away you come to town for a new one. And if no one chooses to go and no one is chosen then you will come to town and take the brightest and fairest. And they say if anyone ever tries to run away, you kill them.”

Her heart was racing and she fought to slow her breathing.

The king sat for a moment, gently stroking the edge of his mask with a finger. “Well, that’s all true as well.” Her heart stopped in her chest. There truly was a monster hiding behind that mask.

He seemed to sense her thoughts and turned to face her again. “All of it’s true. I keep this town safe; I keep all the people from suffering from war or famine. Is it really so terrible I require some loyal servants?”

“Slaves,” she whispered. “The ones who do not choose to come here are slaves.”

He cocked his head. “Is that how you see yourself? As a slave? In a palace, with your own room and clothes, hot meals several times a day? Do I beat you?”

“No,” she agreed. “But I am still without my freedom.”

“That little thing?” he asked, his tone mocking. “And what would you give to have it back? Would you really want to go back to the people that threw you out, would you really want to go back to that life?”

Her eyes burned as she listened to him twist everything around. “No, of course not.”

The muscles around his mouth softened just a little. “I won’t give your freedom back. But how about something else, a gift? Anything you like, what shall it be?”

She stifled a nervous laugh. “I do not need anything, thank you.”

A smile played on his lips. “I insist, a gift from me to you. Jewelry?” She shook her head violently. “A horse?” She gasped at that and protested more. “A rare book?”

There was no protesting or shaking of her head at that one. Her face stilled and a shadow of pain and sadness over took her features.

“You do not like books?” he guessed.

She bit her lip and her cheeks flushed a little. “I cannot read. My father had promised to teach but then… well, he died.” Her face hardened a little. “And mother thought such a skill would be a waste on a girl like me so…” She straightened her shoulders and turned to face the king with a false smile. “So, no. No books for me.”

He returned her bitter smile with a genuine one. “Then I know the perfect gift for you. I shall teach you to read.”

Chapter Eight

T
hankfully Calia took to reading
much easier than she did to sewing. Every afternoon the king pulled her chair close to his and read out of a book written for children. At first she was terrified. She sat so close to him she could smell his woodsy soap and could see a tiny freckle under his jaw. He seemed not to have the same aversion to her and settled easily into reading aloud for her. Calia already knew the letters and the sounds and watched and listened closely as he traced a finger under the words as he spoke them.

After a few days he handed the book to her and told her to read to him. Sweat bloomed on her upper lip as he leaned over the arm of the chair to better see the book. In a shaking voice she began to sound out the letters in the same way the king had. Occasionally the king would touch her wrist to stop and correct her, otherwise he just sat beside her and listened. They ended every afternoon that way and then Calia would fetch his dinner tray before returning downstairs to her own meal with the other servants, her friends.

Calia cherished their friendship almost as much as she cherished the king’s sudden kindness. She was careful never to accidentally bring up anyone else’s painful story and she never hinted at her own. She did not want anything to break the happy spell winter had cast in the palace.

But soon the snow began to melt away from the stone walls and shrink into piles in the cobbled open areas. It began to get lighter earlier in the morning and it wasn’t long before the birds returned, singing out their happy tunes as the sun rose. Everyone seemed to feel the change and slowly shifted back into their appointed roles.

On the day the snow was finally fully gone from the ground, the Cold King sent Calia for Marchello.

He did not look up from his papers when he spoke to her. “Get me Marchello. Immediately.”

Calia bobbed a curtsy and her heart sank a little. She had hoped the warmth in his personality would have stayed.

Marchello led the way back to the king’s rooms and Calia gamely followed.

The king did not look up when they entered the room. His empty dishes sat at his elbow and he was scribbling furiously over whatever document he was working on.

The servants stood at attention for what felt like an eternity before he looked up.

The mask glittered in the spring sunshine coming in the windows and Calia barely repressed a shudder. Her hatred for the mask had not lessened even as her heart grew a little softer for the Cold King.

“We are to the have guests,” the king finally said quietly.

Marchello puffed up and let out an annoyed huff of breath. “Again?” he asked, his voice sharp.

Calia tried to peer at him without turning her head. Had he lost his mind?

But the king waved the uncharacteristic behavior off.

“Now, now Marchello, these things are to be expected.” He stood up from his desk and went to stand by the barren fireplace.

“I know, my lord, I just hate to see you bothered with these trite things.”

Calia bit her lip to keep from asking, ‘What trite things?’

The king saw her curiosity and gave a weary grin. “Yet another royal is attempting to foist his daughter onto me.”

She could not keep the horror from her face. What kind of father would tie his own daughter to such a beast?

“Do not look so shocked,” the king chided wearily. “I am quite the catch.”

“Of course you are, my lord,” she murmured, keeping her eyes on the floor. But she could not believe that. Surely a father wouldn’t do that to his own child.

“Shall I have the staff prepare the south wing, my lord?” Marchello asked in a tired voice.

“Whatever you see fit,” the king replied, still staring into the cold fireplace.

Marchello left them and Calia shifted from foot to foot, waiting for some instruction from her king but he just stood in silence. His mouth was turned down and his shoulders almost slumped; she could just make out his furrowed brow above the hateful, glittering mask.

Finally he seemed to shake himself from his thoughts and turned to Calia. “This will be your first true introduction as my personal servant. I hope I needn’t remind you of all that is expected.”

Calia shook her head but she already doubted herself. She tried not to shrink back as he stepped towards her, scrutinizing every inch of her.

“Your hair is a disgrace. Do something with it.”

Calia’s cheeks flamed. His harsh assessments of her always stung but this one hurt more after the weeks of quiet kindness.

She dropped a curtsy to cover her shame. “Anything else, my lord?”

“Yes. They will be here tonight or tomorrow. You will make yourself impeccable and present yourself to me.” He reached out to place a finger under her chin and tipped her face up. “Do not disappoint me.”

Calia kept herself from shaking. “I won’t, my lord.”

He stared into her eyes for a moment longer and all the fear that had begun to fade over the winter flooded back in.

When he released her she fled to her room on shaking legs. With the door closed behind her she sunk to the floor and wrapped her arms around her quivering knees.

She waited for the tears to come but they did not. Perhaps she was getting used to his unusual sort of cruelty and coldness.

When she was able, she pulled herself up from the floor and went to her small dressing table. After she had finally thought to inspect it in her first days in her new room, she had found fine bone handled combs and brushes, more than any one girl could need. Or so she had thought.

She had always managed well enough finger combing her hair and thought the fine tooth combs to be a nightmare. The found each and every tangle and ripped the strands right from her scalp.

With a sigh Calia pulled her long pony tail over her shoulder and began to try to work through the mess.

She gritted her teeth as the comb pulled and snagged. Tears of pain and frustration were soon leaking from her eyes as the knots grew more stubborn and seemed to multiply.

Finally she threw the comb to the ground.

The king would accept nothing short of perfection and she began to panic as she realized she could not achieve it.

“Abelina,” she whispered to herself and then took off to find her.

“Of course I’ll help, my dear,” Abelina said. She put an arm around Calia’s shoulder and led her back up to her room. “Did your mother not teach you how to care for yourself?”

“She did,” Calia mumbled, embarrassed by her predicament. “But she did not let me use her soaps or combs. She said they would be wasted on me.”

Abelina clucked her tongue. “Your mother sounds terrible.”

Once in her room Abelina led her to the bathtub. “Lean your head over the side so I can wash your hair.”

Calia noticed straight away the woman used much less soap than she did as she submitted to the scrubbing. When her hair was rinsed she began to rise and Abelina put a hand on her shoulder.

“Wait girl. Do not you oil your hair?”

Calia mumbled that no, she did not and Abelina kindly patted her. “Well, perhaps that’s part of your problem.”

She placed just a few drops of the sweet smelling oil into her palm and began to gently work it through the ends of Calia’s hair. How such a small amount could be spread throughout so much hair seemed unbelievable to her but Abelina clearly knew what she was doing.

Finally she sat Calia in front of the little dressing table and had her face the mirror. She started with very ends and began picking through them with the comb. Then she picked harder. Strands stretched and snapped and Calia winced. Though her face was screwed up with determination, Abelina was failing at her task.

Finally she tossed the comb onto the table and propped her fists on her hips. “Well, there’s nothing for it dear, it’s going to have to be cut. The sun has ruined quite a lot of your hair. Why you not wear a hat if you were outside so much?”

Calia cast her eyes down, ashamed to admit the reason. Finally she spoke, “I had an old hat I found and put it on whenever I was outside but it was too big and always fell off. I had asked my mother for a new one but she said it wasn’t worth the cost as I was already so ugly.”

She watched in the mirror as Abelina’s face first paled then became a fiery red. “Your own mother? What a horrid woman.” Her eyes were shining and despite her anger she sniffed. “Well, you just wait here while I get my shears. Ugly indeed,” she muttered, storming out of the room.