The Cold King

The Cold King - By Amber Jaeger


CHAPTER ONE


CALIA 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.

If her shaking knees would have let her, Calia would have run. Instead she stood in place, trembling, and waited with all the other villagers for their king to speak.

He was silent for a long moment, seeming to take in the small town around him. Men shuffled their feet and women twisted their hands together in nervousness. But Calia glanced around, wondering what the king was looking at—or for.

His voice was a low rumble that seemed to reverberate in her chest. “Loyal subjects, it is with great sadness that I inform you that your former friend and neighbor, and my treasured personal servant, Seleda, has passed from this life to the next.” A collective gasp came from the crowd and one mother began to weep. The Cold King held his hand up for silence. “I am sure you will mourn her as I will. But life will continue for the rest of us and as such, I have need for a new personal servant. I will trust you wise villagers to choose the most capable of you all to fill this important role. I will receive my new servant in my throne room tomorrow at dusk.” He looked out over the crowd again with his hidden eyes and Calia shivered as his gaze passed over her. The king gave a curt nod and stepped down from the platform. Without a backwards glance he made his way back to the road leading to the castle.

The villagers slowly came out of their daze and several mothers began to wail in earnest with the first mother that had cried. Men twisted their hats in their hands and began rushing about looking for their wives and children.

The mayor of their town pushed his way to the platform the king had vacated. “Town meeting!” he called through cupped hands. “Town meeting tonight at dusk, right here!”

Calia gripped her empty basket, picked up her skirts and ran home.

“Mother, did you hear?” she asked as she burst through the door.

“Hush, you idiot girl,” her mother hissed. “I just got those two to sleep.”

Calia glanced at the sleeping twins and lowered her voice. “Mother, did you hear? The Cold King came to town and said he needs a new personal servant. We’re having a town meeting tonight.”

Her mother’s face paled and she pressed a hand over her heart. “Oh my… oh…” Her eyes grew shiny with tears and Calia was shocked to see her strong, harsh mother trembling with fear. “I knew this day was coming. I was hoping that old coot would live until my children were grown.”

Calia bit her lip but her curiosity overcame her fear. “Will one of us really have to go?”

“Yes. We will have to choose someone tonight and send them tomorrow.” Her mother dropped to her chair. “Perhaps someone will volunteer. That happens occasionally.”

Calia shuddered. “Why would anyone do that? Don’t they have to stay up there until they die? What if the Cold King is cruel? Wouldn’t they miss their family, their friends?”

“I do not know, girl,” her mother muttered. “Stop with your chattering, my head is pounding.”

Calia bit her lips together again, trying to keep all her questions in.

“When is the meeting?” her mother finally asked.





“Mother, please can’t I go as well?” Calia begged.

“For the final time, no!” her mother snapped. “I need you to stay home and look after the younger children. I do not know how long this will take and I cannot have the babies out after dark in the cold.”

Calia pouted but dutifully handed her mother her hat and gloves.

Mrs. Thorne jerked them on roughly then visibly calmed herself and smoothed them over her hands. She set the hat just right and inspected her teeth in their one tiny mirror. To Calia she was just a harsh, unloving mother and to the town’s people she was a nuisance who thought too much of herself. But Mrs. Thorne was certain good fortune, a gold fortune and ease in life were just around the corner for her. She was certain that she deserved it.

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.”