The Cold King

CHAPTER SIXTEEN


“ARE YOU GOING TO MAKE your announcement for a new servant soon?” Marchello asked.

The king straightened his mask and checked his cuff links. “I am. This morning.”

Marchello nodded and Valanka hated the sad, pathetic look on his face.

“Whenever you are ready, sir.”

The Cold King took his time, making sure everything about him was perfect. The carriage ride to town to make his announcement would wrinkle his clothes but that could not be helped. He smoothed his hair down and winced as the scar tissue around his shoulder pulled. It hurt everyday but he hid it along with his ugly face and chest.

For a moment the king fretted about his new, unknown servant. They would have to learn how to sew his shirts. For the first several years of his cursed existence he had worn clothes inside out to keep seams from rubbing on the scars. Any irritation burned and chafed.

The mask burned and chafed as well but he had learned to deal with it over the years. They had been lined with felt and silk and fur and feathers. Nothing eased the pain but it was better than having everyone look upon his horrid face.

The king slid a finger along the edge of the mask currently covering his face. That morning he had chosen the diamond mask with the rubies that made him look like a demon. It seemed the most fitting.

Anger and fear and regret had ruled him the last few days, stealing his sleep and concentration. Every knock on the door or creak in the hallway had him jumping up, waiting for her to come back into his life. But every day she didn’t come to forgive him for this latest transgression flamed his unsteady emotions. Couldn’t she see how it had pained him to send her away? How horrifying it was to have her gaze upon his bare face? If only she wasn’t so curious and if only she would come back and apologize for spying! He would forgive her, she only had to ask.

Pain brought him out of his thoughts and he looked down to see his hands clenched into white fists. Irritated, he loosened his fingers and straightened up. He was a man, an immortal and a king. One little girl couldn’t bring him to his knees.

But fear whispered in his mind, reminding him she had brought him to his knees and she could already be in the town, telling everyone their brave, magical king was just a scarred monster.

For once he wished he had a mirror to gaze in to reassure himself he looked as perfect as he hoped.

With a sigh he resigned himself to the fact he would always be an incomplete beast and went to down to the waiting butler.

The ride was long and bumpy. He hated it almost as much as he hated his own scarred body. He only had to do it one every so many years but it was almost marked with mourning, or relief, over his deceased servant and dread at including a new person in his life.

The trees passed quickly by the window but not quickly enough.

When Marchello pulled into the town square the king sat for a long moment, gathering his thoughts.

The silent, fearful crowd was already gathered when he exited the carriage. The king ignored them as he made his way to the town square.

He stepped up and looked over his people. Women cried and clutched their children and men snatched their hats from their heads and clutched them to their chests. He waited for a moment before speaking, trying to recall his standard speech. His mind failed him so he bluntly said the first thing he could force out.

“I require a new personal servant. Send the one you choose and I will receive them in my throne room tomorrow at dusk.” Again he gazed over them with his hidden eyes, gave a curt nod and stepped down from the platform.

Marchello was waiting for his nod, letting him know it was alright for him to leave, and the king gave it. He would walk home, just as he had every other time and he turned his back on the town.

But then his eye caught on one slight figure by the tavern.

The crowd skittishly parted for him but the girl disappeared inside before he could reach her.

The tavern was teaming with people and gossip that all stilled when he entered. The king ignored it all and searched the sweaty mass for what he thought he had seen.

His breath stopped as she came into view, rolling a massive barrel before her towards the bar. As he watched, the bar man casually stuck his hand down to clip her behind the ear.

Her. Calia. His Calia.

Only then did she lift her eyes, but she didn’t see the king. Her dark stare was focused on the man who had clipped her and she didn’t back down when he raised his hand again.

Valanka crossed the room in an instant, his mind a blank fury.

Finally the bar man noticed him and slowly lowered his hand. He blinked furiously and cleared his throat. “Can I get you a drink, Your Majesty?” he asked in a creaky voice.

Calia froze and then slowly turned.

The king’s stomach turned with horror and shock as her face came into view. Her perfection was marred with scabs and bruises. One cheek had been split and a dark goose egg showed at the edge of her hair line. She had been badly abused and his anger rose dangerously.

“Who did this to you?” he hissed, ignoring all the open eyes and ears around them.

She wouldn’t meet his eyes but wouldn’t look down either. “I already told you.”

He swallowed hard, thinking back to that awful night. “You attackers? From the other night?”

“Yes. Excuse me, I have work to do.”

The king didn’t move out of her way. Instead he dragged a finger along her lip, wiping away fresh blood. “And this?”

“I deserved that,” she said flatly, glancing at the bar man.

“How could you possibly deserve such mistreatment?” His heart broke again as he heard the question out loud. It was something he had mulled over in his mind the last several days.

A weary, painful smile flashed over her mouth before she bit down on it. “How do I deserve anything? By being my own stupid, awful self I suppose.”

The king shook his head. “Enough of this. You are coming with me.”

He laid a gentle hand on her arm but she jerked away like it burned. “I can’t.”

He looked at her in surprise. “You can’t? Are you all right, have you hit your head?”

The light reflected eerily off her narrowed eyes. “No. But several people have hit it for me. And I cannot leave.”

He leaned close and whispered in her ear. “You and I must talk. All is forgiven.”

Calia took a wooden step back and gave a brittle laugh. “You forgive me? For running to you when I needed protection? Or you forgive me for daring to fall in love with you?” She shook her head. “Get out of my way, I have work to do.”

The bar man shifted and the king did not miss the cruel grin on his face. “What is your place in this?” he growled.

The grin smoothed into a greasy smile. “Only that of a tavern master,” he said with a dangerous lack of fear. “And that girl is bought and paid for.”

“Paid for?” the king growled. His hands were painful rocks at his side.

“Aye. Indentured servant. I give her food and shelter, I even gave her clothes.”

The king looked over the rags she wore and rage shook him. “And what else? What else have you given her?”

The bar man caught the dangerous undercurrent of his tone. “Nothing. Not a thing. We don’t touch her. I mean, if you didn’t want her then there must be something very wrong with her.”

Calia’s shoulders hunched and she bent to struggle to get the barrel into place under the bar. Her face was hidden from the king’s sight but he could see the painful way in which she moved her body.

“And how much does she owe you? For everything?” the king asked coldly.

The miser rubbed his chin and pretended to add things up in his mind. “Oh, I’d say about fifty gold coins. Or a year of pay, whatever comes first.”

The king didn’t look as he unhooked a heavy purse from his belt and shoved it into the man’s hand. “Here’s a hundred.”

Calia ignored the whole exchange, switched the full barrel for an empty one and began to wheel it out the room.

Her king watched in disbelief as she continued her work and followed her out the back door where she wrestled the empty barrel into place.

“Didn’t you hear me? You are free.”

She glanced up. “I’m never free.”

He spread his arms wide. “But you are, I just paid for you.”

She grimaced and struggled to pull a new barrel down. “Right. You bought me from him. Like I’m nothing. Like I’m garbage you can just throw away.”

“I never threw you away,” he said softly.

“You told me to leave and I did. What do you want?” Her voice was nearly as cold as his had always been.

He struggled to form an answer. “I want you to come back with me.”

She paused but then continued her work. “No, not good enough.”

“Not good enough?” he cried. “This is better than my castle where you want for nothing?”

“It’s better than being nothing.”

He searched her face and found only pain. “You aren’t nothing to me.”

“Right,” she snapped. “I’m your property.”

The king ground his teeth. “I only paid the man to avoid any conflict. Come, I will hire a carriage to take us back up to the castle.”

She shook her head and turned back to wrestle with the barrel. “I’d rather stay here.”

“And I would rather you didn’t. Trust me, I know what is best for you.”

“Yes,” she said sarcastically. “Trusting in you has gotten me far.” Her gaze strayed over his shoulder and her eyes widened in fear.

He turned to see two young men entering the bar. She cowered and stepped closer to the king, hiding behind his much larger frame.

Sensing her fear but not understanding it, he settled a gentle hand on her arm. “Are you sure you don’t want to come with me?”

Defeated, she hung her head.

Calia didn’t speak on the ride back to the castle. She ignored the king’s hand when he offered it to help her down from the carriage. The other servant’s cries of happiness and shock at the sight of her were also ignored and she went to her room without a word to any of them.

When Iago went up later with a tray, his knock was ignored. He pushed into the room anyway and shut the door softly behind him.

Calia sat on the couch by the fireplace, curled up in a ball. Her hair was wet and of all ridiculous things she was wearing one of the king’s shirts. She looked up to catch the healer’s curious gaze. “I’m too sore to put one of those stupid gowns on.”

“I see,” he said quietly. “I’ve come to help with that.”

They didn’t speak as he dabbed ointment around her raw wrists and ankles. The cut on her lip was already healing and the rest were scabbed over. When he checked the wound she had received from slipping on the bath oil he was horrified to see all the bruising. “Is there more?” he asked, his voice cracking.

“More what?”

“Bruising?”

She nodded and her cheeks flushed. “I have a large purple one here,” she said, pointing at her hip.

Iago opened a little jar and rubbed the pungent ointment over the black and blue marks on her back and arms, then set it on the table. “I’ll leave this with you, for your hip.”

“Are you done?” she asked dully.

He took a chair next to the couch. “Almost. But I have to ask, how did you sustain such injuries?”

“I already told the king and he didn’t believe me, so what does it matter?”

“It matters to me.”

She rolled her eyes to him and they were filled were anger and pain. “Well, let’s see. Most of it was from the oh so charming Horatio brothers. They roughed me in their shop before tying me up and throwing me in the back. Of course, I got quite a lot of scratches running through woods coming back here. And the one on my head is from when I slipped at the edge of the pool in the garden. I think that is all.” She pulled a blanket around her shoulders and rested her head on the arm of the couch, signaling the end of the conversation.

Shaken and horrified, Iago gathered his things and left to report to the king.

Valanka looked up when he entered. “How is she?”

Iago opened his mouth to give report but the anger in him burned over. He was in front of the king’s desk in two strides and slammed his bag onto it. “She is completely broken, physically and emotionally. I can only pray her spirit is intact and she can rise above this!” Spittle flew from his lips and landed on the king’s mask.

Valanka sat back in his chair. “How do you mean?”

Iago threw his hands up into the air and shouted, “Could you for one moment stop being so damned cold? Don’t you care for her at all?”

The king opened his mouth and Iago cut him off. “No, you wanted to know how she is so I will tell you. The cut she sustained from the broken glass has torn open and will have to begin healing again. She has rope burns on her wrists and ankles that are completely raw in some places. She is covered in bruises, her face and neck are scratched and when I cleaned the wound to her head I found several spots where her hair was clean ripped out. Those and the scratches are from running through the woods at night, away from her attackers.”

“So that part is true?”

“It is. And you didn’t believe her.”

The king shook his head guiltily. “I did not.”

“So you thought she purposely inflicted all those injuries herself? Why?” His hands were clenched into shaking fists at his side.

“To see me without my mask on, of course,” he said uncomfortably.

“I think she already knows what you truly look like—a monster.”

Valanka looked up at that. “She knows now, she achieved her purpose.”

“No, damn it! She came to you for help and threw her into hellish circumstances for it. That’s what makes you a monster, not the scars on your face.”

The king stood slowly from his chair. “She told you?”

“No.” He could tell the king didn’t believe him. “I am a healer. I see what ointments are missing from my stocks, I know you swim in the salt water pool daily for relief, I can hear the splashing from my window.”

“I see. Does everyone know?”

“If they figured it out, they do not speak of it.” He snatched his bag from the desk and made for the door.

“Iago,” came the pained cry. “What do I do?”

Iago looked over his shoulder. “The right thing. And if you do not already know what it is, I cannot help you.”