The Cold King (3 page)

In few minutes she would be at the castle to meet her king and his servants. She looked down at herself and grimaced. She couldn’t meet the king with tangled, sun bleached hair and tattered rags for clothes. Her face flushed with shame and she set her basket down to try to make herself presentable. With shaking fingers, Calia combed through her hair and twisted it into a bun.

Her fingers stilled as she thought. She always wore her hair twisted into a bun when she was cleaning, surely that couldn’t make the best impression. Calia started to take her hair down and stopped when a new thought came to mind – she was supposed to be a servant, so surely he would want her hair tucked up.

The bitter wind froze the tears into her eyelashes while she debated. Finally Calia admitted to herself she had no idea what the king truly wanted from her and wove her hair into the nicest braid she could manage before tucking the end under the collar of her ratty cloak. Then she wiped her face, straightened her dress, picked up her broken basket and took a deep breath.

Presentable or not, she had been chosen and he was stuck with her.

With grim determination she approached her new home and walked through the tall, iron gates signaling entrance into the king’s estate. Her steps echoed off the cobbled courtyard and before she was ready, a set of mammoth wooden doors stopped her monotonous steps. The air was cold and she shivered as the freezing wind whipped her hair and clothes while she paused to gather her courage. Her future was set whether she knocked on the door or not. But her heart still thrummed in her chest and she leaned her forehead against the smooth wood doors to catch her breath.

“He just wants a new servant, surely he cannot mean to harm me,” she prayed against the door.

Unexpectedly it gave way and she fell to her knees in a bright, cavernous hall. Shaken, Calia gave a bitter laugh and climbed to her feet to brush off her dress.

The emptiness was shattered by a quiet voice.

“Are you the one the village has chosen?” Calia jerked up and found herself only inches from another servant, a butler by the looks of him.

His black suit was pressed and clean and he held himself at perfect attention. A vaguely disdainful look was ghosting his face. The lines around his eyes did not seem to agree with his dark, perfectly combed hair and Calia struggled to guess his age. Older than her father would have been if he had lived, she decided. Not that she really cared how old the butler was, she just wanted to how long he had been at the castle.

The man raised a fisted hand to his mouth and gave a discreet cough. He was still waiting for an answer.

Calia could only nod.

“Then follow me.” He turned on his heel and strode down a long hallway. The man was large and strong and Calia struggled to keep up. It did not help that everything caught her eye. The corridor was tall and wide with creamy white tiles and white walls interrupted by giant beveled glass windows. The last of the setting sun’s rays pierced the windows at an angle that fractured them and sent tiny sparks of color over everything. Paintings and decorations were sparse and everything gleamed in the bright whiteness. While it was very beautiful it also seemed very cold.

The butler stopped abruptly and Calia collided with his wide back. She heard him give a little sigh before he turned to rest his hand on an elegantly carved door. “Our king will see you now. Please try to remember whatever manners you possibly possess. And you
will
curtsey.”

Calia nodded again. Her dry mouth would not let her get a word out. With another exasperated sigh he opened the door and ushered her through.

Calia stumbled over the threshold and jumped when the door shut behind her. She looked around and her eyes found the raised throne at the end of the long room but it was empty. Cautiously she set a foot on the cream carpet running along the perfectly polished floor. The theme from corridor had continued into the room and the weak sunlight glaring in through the windows was magnified by the white walls and it burned her eyes.

She squinted to see better and inched along the runner until she stepped into the shadowy alcove encasing the throne. Calia rubbed her sore eyes and gasped when she opened them. The previously empty throne now had someone in it.

She stood rigid with shock before remembering the butler’s command. With a little hesitation she dropped into a curtsey so low she stumbled and almost fell. Cursing silently, she righted herself and kept her watering eyes on the floor.

“You may rise,” a cold, bored voice rang out. She flinched but there was no option of resisting. She forced herself up and slowly took in the Cold King.

Shining black boots rested only feet from her brown faded ones and her eyes rose without the permission of her mind. The king’s breeches were perfectly pressed and a snow white shirt peeked out from his dark, embellished jacket.

Calia forced herself to continue to look up and take in his face.

His chin was strong and smooth, centered perfectly under his strong jaw. His ruby mouth gave no hint of a smile or frown and her stomach lurched.

She had hoped to read his eyes, prayed to find some kindness in them but they were hooded by the mask covering the top half of his face. It seemed to be the same one he had worn the day before and up close she could see the surface was encrusted in diamond chips. It should have been beautiful but the cold, glinting perfection of the mask only terrified Calia. It covered not only his face but his emotions as well and she could not read him. Even his dark waves of hair framing the mask did nothing to soften his look.

It was several, horrible moments before the Cold King spoke again.

“What is your name?” he asked, drawing the words out. If he was staring at her she couldn’t tell but the skin between her shoulders was prickling painfully.

“Calia Thorne,” she whispered, then hastily added, “Your Majesty.”

The king cocked his head to the side and his terrifying mask gleamed with tiny rainbows. “Little Thorne?” he mused, correctly guessing the meaning of her name.

“Yes, Your Majesty. My mother said I was always kicking and poking into her ribs when she carried me inside her.” Nervousness loosened her jaw before she could snap it shut again.

He leaned forward a fraction of an inch. “Your mother referred to you as a thorn in her side before you were even born?”

Calia nodded as old hurt washed over her.

“I see. So you chose to come here,” he assumed.

Her voice failed her and she shook her head.

“No? Your mother must have some very redeeming qualities.” A ghost of a smile lifted the corner of his mouth. “Or you just really did not want to come here.” When Calia did not respond he continued. “Tell me, why did they choose you?”

Calia faltered, not sure how to answer him. “I suppose because I am excellent at cleaning and housekeeping and—”

“Perhaps you are. But why did they really send you?”

Fear and a hint of anger stirred in her breast. Not only had he made her a slave, he wanted to humiliate her.

She squared her shoulders and gave him the truth. “Because I am ugly and no one will ever want to marry me. No matter how useful I am my mother doesn’t want me around forever and no one else would want to take me.” Tears pricked her eyes and she furiously blinked them away.

Calia absolutely hated that she cried when sad, hurt, angry or happy and resolved once again to banish the embarrassing behavior. Again, she failed.

The king sat for a moment, tapping the edge of his hateful mask. “I see. Well, I should hope to find you as useful as you claim. You are to be my personal servant and will attend to my every need.”

Calia gasped and jerked back, her body filling with fear and shame.

But the Cold King just frowned at her. “Do not be ridiculous. You are a child. An ugly child.”

His unkind words soothed a little of her fear and she took a steadying breath.

The king continued. “You will attend me from sun up to sun down. You will bring me my meals, clean my rooms, care for my wardrobe and fetch anything I require. You will also attend me during any meetings I may have.” Calia’s skin tingled painfully and she could tell he was looking her up and down. “I see we have some work to do in order to make you presentable. But first… Come with me.”

Calia jerked back as he rose from his throne and swept past her. He was taller than she had thought, as well as quick and graceful. He radiated a strength and confidence she could never hope to possess.

The king was at the door before she could force her legs to move and she struggled to keep up. He left out the door the opposite way she had come in and led her further into castle. He didn’t pause before starting down a winding, stone stairway. The air chilled considerably as they descended and she wrapped her cloak a little tighter around herself. The king said nothing, just skipped lightly down the stairs until they opened into a gloomy, low ceiled room.

Calia pulled to a stop on the bottom step. “But I thought…” Her voice and resolve crumbled as she looked around. Five wooden doors held shut by wide metal bars lined the room. Each had a small slot in the center and bucket next to it.

“First,” the Cold King said, “you must learn that I am now your master.”

“But I know that,” Calia protested.

The king turned around and she was struck again by his cold perfection. “I am your master and you are my servant. From now on, anything you have or possess is only because I choose to give it to you.” He reached for her and she stumbled back and fell onto the stairs.

“Please do not do this,” she begged but he ignored her pleas and grabbed her arm. She had no strength to struggle or fight as he pulled her up and to the closest door. With an improbable ease he flung up the bar and the door swung open to reveal a cold, stone cell with clean straw and a bucket in it.

“It’s best this way,” the king said softly.

“How long do I have to stay in here?” she cried.

“Until I let you out.” He let go of her arm and she tried to back away. With a sigh he pushed her into the cell and she stumbled to her knees. Something landed on the floor beside her. “The first gift I give to you is a blanket. You are going to need it; it gets quite cold in here.” And with that he shut the door. The slamming of the bar echoed in the small cell.

Calia stayed where she was, frozen on her hands and knees, her unseeing eyes pointed at the floor. His cruelty was beyond what she had imagined and burned out any hope she had left. The straw crinkled under her as she got to her feet to look around. There was one high, thin window with only metal bars to keep the cold air out. Calia wrapped her cloak a little tighter around herself and inspected the rest of the room. It was small, low, cold and grey but one wall held a curious amount of exposed pipes and a very awkward seat. After a long moment she grasped the use of it and stared in wonder. She had never even heard of such an implement. But her fascination was short lived.

Why had he locked her down here? How could she possibly do all of the things he wanted her to if she was in a cell all the time? Maybe this was where she was to stay when not serving him.

The last of the light faded and she was left in the dark room alone. Her heart and mind were empty and she could not even cry. Calia pressed all the straw into the corner furthest from the window and settled in, pulling the blanket over herself. When her eyes slid shut she did not fight it and fell into an anguished sleep.

Morning came and she awoke to the same painful reality. Calia wiped at her gritty eyes before rubbing her temples. The throbbing in her head would not let her reason out how she had gone from living with her family to being imprisoned by the Cold King in one short day.

Loud, slow footsteps began to echo down the stairwell and into her cell. She stood up as the bar thumped against the door and it swung wide open. The king stepped through, balancing a tray on one hand and steaming bucket of water in the other.

“Good morning,” he said blandly. “I hope you slept well.”

Calia’s mouth dropped open. “You cannot really mean that,” she finally stammered out.

He set the bucket down and the tray on top of it. “That I hope you slept well? Do you think I wish you ill?”

Her cold fingers ached in protest as she squeezed her hands into tight fists at her sides. She could barely make out his eyes flashing down to them and back up to her grim face. “Yes. I do believe you mean me harm. I came here to be your servant and you locked me in the dungeon.”

The king waived her words away as if they were of no importance. The hateful mask only intensified the impression that he did not care. “I do that to everyone. It eases the transition.”

Calia bit her lip to keep her ugly retort back. He regarded her for a moment then nodded with what seemed to be satisfaction. “I brought you breakfast and some water to wash up with.” Then he turned on his heel and walked back out, slamming the bar down again.

Hot, bitter tears pricked her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. “How very kind of you,” she said under her breath.

Calia waited all day for him to come back but he did not return until well after sunset. The door thudded open again and the king stepped in with another tray of food. Calia’s stomach growled loudly and she pressed her hands down over it to quiet the noise as her mouth flooded with anticipation. The breakfast he had brought earlier was better than anything she had ever eaten. The flaky, buttery croissant drizzled with honey had almost put a smile on her face.

The Cold King said nothing, just set the new tray down and took the old one. Calia watched him warily. He was completely out of place in her dreary stone cell. His black suit was so fine it seemed to gleam in the poor light and his white shirt was almost blinding. The hateful mask was still in place and mocked her situation with its sparkling beauty.

Calia had washed with the water the king had brought that morning but there was nothing she was ever going to be able to do to compare to him.

He left and slammed the door behind him without a word. Calia sat in her rags, shivering with the blanket wrapped around her shoulders and realized she was no longer hungry.

Sniffling, she pulled her hair over her shoulder to inspect it. Working outside in the garden and constantly running errands for her mother had bleached her already light hair to almost white. As much as she tried to cover up and wear a hat, it always fell off or got in the way. The sun had darkened her skin as well and for most of the year freckles spotted her cheeks and nose. Add in her unusually dark eyes and thin frame and she was indeed a very ugly child. Everyone said so.

When she was younger she had tried to darken her hair and lighten her skin and wore layers of clothing to try to blend in with other girls but the effect was so comical people still brought it up years later.