The Cold King

by Amber Jaeger

  With a grim smile she kissed the younger children but left without a word of goodbye for the oldest.

  Calia watched the door for a moment, wishing her mother would change her mind and let her attend the important meeting. She was always left out of everything; her curiosity was always left unsatisfied. She doubted her mother would even share anything she learned that night. With a sigh, Calia turned back to her chores.

  She washed the dinner from the babies faces and began to clean the dishes and table. After she wrestled her siblings into bed she continued with her chores. Exhausted, she finally allowed herself to collapse into her mother’s arm chair just as she came home.

  “Mother! What happened? Who volunteered?” she asked, jumping up from the chair.

  If Mrs. Thorne had noticed her daughter sitting in the chair specifically reserved for her and her alone, she said nothing. She kept her back to her daughter while she removed her coat and hat and kept her silence as she removed her shoes and moved into the kitchen to push the kettle over the fire.

  “Mother?” Calia asked again.

  “No one volunteered,” her mother finally said, but she still did not turn to face her daughter.

  Calia waited for more but Mrs. Thorne just fiddled with her tea leaves and cup. “So what happened?” she finally burst out. “Who did they choose?”

  The silence stretched out and the skin at the back of her neck began to prickle.

  “We chose you,” her mother finally answered.

  Calia pulled in a shuddery breath. “Me?” Suddenly her tiny world of cooking and cleaning for her mother and tending her siblings didn’t seem so terrible.

  Mrs. Thorne turned to face her daughter. “Yes girl, you. You were the best choice.” Her cold words matched her cold demeanor perfectly and it chilled Calia to her core.

  “But I do not want to go! I—”

  Her mother cut in angrily. “Well someone has to go and you were the one chosen.” Her face held no remorse or sadness, only annoyance and aggravation.

  Calia clutched her hands over her chest in panicky disbelief. “But why? Surely the Cold King won’t be happy with someone as lowly as me.”

  “He’s happy with whoever we send,” her mother snapped. “And we’re sending you.” She noticed the tears welling in her daughters eyes and softened the tiniest bit. “Really, it’s for the best. All the other girls have prospects and you have none. You could have a better life being a servant in a castle than being an old spinster in town.”

  Calia reared up, tears no longer threatening. “I could get married,” she argued indignantly. “Someone could want me; I would make a more useful wife than most of the girls in this town.”

  Mrs. Thorne snorted. “Useful, yes. But young men aren’t looking for useful, they want beautiful. Who’s going to fall in love with a girl like you? You are nothing to look at, you aren’t lady like in the least, your manners are atrocious and then there’s the matter of your father.” Her words hurt Calia so fiercely she could hardly breathe. She knew she wasn’t the loveliest or politest or most charming girl but her mother’s harsh assessment left her feeling as though there was nothing special or lovable about her at all. And the double meaning of her mother’s words had not escaped her. The villagers hadn’t chosen her to go, they had all chosen her, her mother included.

  “And what about you?” Calia asked. Her lips quivered and she bit down before continuing. “Do you not need me?”

  Her mother sighed. “Calia, it’s time you moved on—”

  “I am only seventeen!”

  “Yes, seventeen. And next year all the girls your age will begin to receive offers of courtship and the year after that they will be married. They’ll go on to have children and contribute to our town. What will you do here? You cannot live in my home forever and you cannot work and live on your own, it would be disgraceful.”

  Calia’s thoughts were racing and she reached out for any argument that would keep her from being sent to the Cold King. “But who will help you? Surely you cannot do everything by yourself.”

  Mrs. Thorne poured steaming water over her tea leaves. “Your sister is old enough to take on more chores.”

  “Moli is only eleven; she cannot do everything I can do.”

  Mrs. Thorn slammed her cup to the counter. “She can and she will. Just as you will go to the Cold King tomorrow and be his servant. It’s been decided.”

  Calia tried to pull a breath of air into her tight chest. Surely there was a way out of such a dire circumstance.

  She tried to imagine what life was going to be like for her and couldn’t. Silently, she cursed everyone for always ignoring her, never bothering to tell her anything. The only future she could picture was ruled by a looming mad man in a mask.

  Calia shook her head, unable to even fathom it. She couldn’t go. She wouldn’t. “And if I refuse?” she whispered. “If I run away?”

  Her mother arched an eyebrow. “This isn’t a request. It’s a demand. The Cold King keeps us safe and warm and fed and in return he asks for a few faithful servants. We are lucky he allows us to choose who will go.”

  “Not lucky for me,” Calia mumbled.

  Her mother ignored her comment and continued. “You have been chosen and if you refuse you will be killed.”

  Calia gasped. “Killed?”

  “He isn’t called the Cold King for nothing.”

  “But killed? Surely that cannot be.”

  Her mother gave an exasperated sigh. “It rarely comes to that. I’m sure most of the people that go to the castle find themselves quite comfortable in their new lives. Besides, if you don’t go then I will drag you. You will not shame me any further.” There was a dark gleam in her eye and Calia could only numbly nod.

  Sensing her daughters brokenness, Mrs. Thorne relented a little and patted Calia’s shoulder. “Try to get some sleep dear. You have a big day ahead of you tomorrow.”

  Chapter Two

  Calia slept but it was not restful. Nightmares of winter and diamond encrusted masks tormented her until she woke at daybreak in a panic, tangled in her bed clothes.

  Breakfast was a silent affair and every moment reminded her of just how unwanted she was by everyone in the village.

  “Show your sister how to complete her new duties,” was the only thing her mother said to her before she left for the market.

  Calia fumbled through the chores, whispering explanations when needed. She could tell Moli was quickly overwhelmed and felt sorry for her, but not as sorry as she felt for herself.

  Exhausted and grief stricken, she let herself collapse in the armchair while her sister attempted to fix dinner.

  “I cannot do this!” Moli wailed from the kitchen.

  “You’ll have to, dear. Because I won’t be here tomorrow to do it and Mother won’t accept failure.” Calia tried to warm her harsh words but her sister continued to sob. She got up and wrapped an arm around her shoulder. “Please do not cry. It’s not so hard; I know you can do it. And if you can do this well then in a few years you can be married instead of having to go to be the servant of the Cold King.”

  Moli threw her arms around her older sister, surprising her and almost knocking her back against the counter. “I do not want you to go!”

  Calia smoothed the girl’s hair down. “It’s going to be all right, I am sure that I will be fine—”

  “No, not you, me! What am I going to do? I cannot be mothers slave!”

  Calia’s hand stilled on her sister’s hair. It took her a moment to speak and when she did her voice shook with hurt and anger. “You aren’t going to be a slave. You are going to help mother until you are old enough to get married and have your own family. I am going to be slave in that cold castle until I die.”

  Her younger sister sniffled and shook her
off. “Well at least you won’t have to put up with mother anymore.”

  Unable to tolerate any more unkindness, Calia left her sister to her own devices in the kitchen and didn’t even stir when smoke began to permeate the room.

  Dinner was silent, the family picking at the burned remains of meat and vegetables on their plates.

  Calia didn’t bother to attempt to eat. She stayed curled up on the small window seat until it was time for her to leave.

  When the sun finally began to set, there were no gentle words of encouragement for Calia or well-wishers to see her off. She was given the rattiest cloak in the house and a broken basket to carry the few mementos of her family and life that she was allowed to take.

  Her mother gave her a quick kiss on the cheek before shoving her out the door and slamming it shut.

  Tears burned her eyes as she stood on the stoop of her former home and no matter how she steeled herself, her knees shook. It took everything in her to take the first step and then the next and the next. No one said anything to her as she passed by on wobbly legs. No one would meet her eye. Calia had never felt so small and unloved. Every moment of cold silence endured while forcing herself through the village stabbed her in the heart.

  No one cared.

  But the pain strengthened and numbed her. She did not pause as she set foot on the paved road to the castle. It climbed higher into the mountains and soon her calves burned and she gasped in the thin air but still she continued. Birds chirped happily around her and the setting sun gleamed, casting a glow on all of the frost covered trees. It seemed even nature did not care for her sorrow or pain, she noted dully.

  As the road wound out between two high mounts, the castle suddenly loomed over the road in the near distance and Calia jerked to a stop, her ashen hair flying over her shoulders. Her new home appeared as cold and magnificent as its king. The cool grey stones of the massive structure blended in eerily with the mountain behind it. One lone spire stood above it all and she wondered if anyone was up there watching for her.

  She rubbed her suddenly sweaty hands on her ragged cloak and swallowed hard. Calia hadn’t thought it possible to feel more out of place than she had at home but staring at the imposing castle made her reconsider.

  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.