The Cold King

CHAPTER SEVEN


THAT WINTER WAS PARTICULARLY COLD and harsh but Calia did not feel it. She slept in a real bed with real goose down pillows and blankets for the first cold season of her life and enjoyed the luxury of warmth and fireplaces in every room.

It began to get easier to serve the king. For the most part he was quiet and reserved, only speaking when he wanted something. Sometimes she was almost able to forget he was in the room. And when she did remember, she wasn’t so frightened. She served his meals, ran his errands and cleaned his rooms. In the mornings she practiced sewing his shirts and although she was still terrible at it she was improving. In the afternoons she cleaned the odd assortment of collectables he kept displayed all over his rooms. She swept and kept up the fires and tidied his desk.

She soon learned he spent almost all of his time in his rooms. He seemed to have endless paperwork that he worked on and sat at his desk for hours going over documents and writing. Occasionally he would pull out a book and sit by the fire reading. It was by no means a bad life but Calia was finding it very lonely. She didn’t have the courage to try to start any type of personal conversation with the king and so most of her days were spent in silence, save for the scratching of his quill.

But as time went on, the king seemed to begin to trust her more and left his room for longer and longer periods of time. He never asked her to come with and never spoke of where he went or what he was doing but often he came back with dirt on his hands or dust on his trousers. Calia was curious but too afraid to ask him anything. One day he came back to the room early, covered in dirt and swearing.

“Where is my gardening book?” he asked, bursting into the room. Calia jumped up from where she was sitting in front of the fire place.

“I am not sure, Your Majesty.”

He searched his desk to find it and went to leave. He glanced back at his servant and she thought maybe his face softened a little bit under his hard mask.

“You needn’t sit around and wait for me if your chores are done,” he said quietly.

Calia looked around the room. “I don’t really have anything else to do.”

“Then go find something to do,” he said, giving Calia her freedom to do what she wished while he was out.

She ventured over to her room but it was already spotless. There was nothing useful she could find to do and the silence was deafening. She poked her head out into the hall, wondering if she might find some art to look upon that didn’t seem to sneer back at her.

A low noise caught her attention and she followed it until she could make out voices and laughter down in the kitchens. All the other servants were there, seated at a large table at the back of the kitchen. They were laughing and joking, passing food around and generally just having a good time.

Calia stood at the threshold, unsure of where she stood with any of them. Was she just like them, one of them? Or was she to keep separate?

Iago spotted her first. “Ay! Come sit down, you are just in time for dinner.” Abelina scooted over on her bench and patted the new spot next to her.

Shy, and still a little overcome at being included, she walked over and sat silently.

Cato overfilled a bowl of stew and handed it to her as Jos pushed a spoon into her other hand. “It’s hot,” he warned. She nodded and blew over the meal.

Abelina pressed into her side. “During the winter months we servants eat supper together. You’re welcome to join us anytime you are free.” Calia ducked her head, unsure of what to say.

“The days are so short and frigid we can’t work past dark. What better to ward off cold and darkness than friends and company?” Iago explained.

Klaribel sat next to him and was watching Calia closely. She ripped a big chunk off a bread loaf, popped it into her mouth and chewed methodically, not breaking her stare. Finally she swallowed and asked, “You ride?”

Calia looked around hesitantly. “Horses, you mean?”

Klaribel rolled her eyes. “No, pigs.”

Marchello gruffly cleared his throat and gave the stable master a pointed look.

“Yes, I mean horses.” If it weren’t for the faint smile on her lips Calia might have run.

“No. Well, I’ve never tried.”

“I knew it!” Klaribel burst out. Then she narrowed her eyes and rubbed her hands together like a greedy miser would do. “Come spring, I am going to teach you.”

Calia looked around to the other servants and they all grinned back. Jos looked her in the eye and said, “Do not worry, just be as bad as me and fall off a lot and eventually she’ll give up.”

But Calia was excited. “No, I want to. I’ve never gotten to learn anything that did not have to do with cooking or cleaning or tending to my younger siblings.”

Their smiles dimmed and they all seemed to turn inward. Calia panicked and kicked herself for killing the joy that had been in the room before she had entered. “I’m sorry,” she pleaded.

Abelina patted her shoulder but it was Iago who spoke up. “No worries, dear. We all have our own painful pasts. It’s just been a while since we’ve had a new one to incorporate.”

Calia looked each of them over, taking in their ghost smiles and dull eyes. “Did all of you get chosen to come here?”

“Har!” Klaribel snorted. “I chose to come here.”

Calia jerked her eyes back to the stable master. “I remember you said that. Do you regret it very much?” she whispered.

The stable master leaned over the table towards her until the braid hanging over her shoulder touched the rough top. “Never. Not once.”

Calia frowned. “Really? Aren’t you unhappy?”

“I am not unhappy now, I was unhappy then. I was lucky to be able to come here. Who knows what would have happened to me otherwise.”

Curiosity burned but Calia bit back her questions. Surely the other servants had already heard the story and she did not want her to have to repeat something painful.

But Klaribel’s eyes were already gleaming and she seemed to be gazing at a point over Calia’s head. “I was eighteen. I should have been married already according to the shrew my father married after my mother died.” Her eyes cut back to Calia’s. “She was her sister. She knew how much money he was worth, the life my mother had lived. And she used every trick in the book, including making herself up to look more like my mother, to win him over.” Klaribel scowled then continued her story. “I loved my dad. He had a horse farm in the valley. He let my brother’s work with him every day but wouldn’t let me no matter how much I begged. So when that did not work I just stole a pair of pants and followed him out to the barn one morning and wouldn’t leave his side. It took a week before he finally stopped trying to shoo me away for my own good and began to teach me about the animals. I was eight.”

Klaribel’s shoulders slumped a little. “That was before my evil aunt came into our lives. By then it was pretty clear I wasn’t ever going to marry, I did not want to marry and that I would spend the rest of my life taking care of my father’s farm.” Her lips twisted in a sad grin. “My own little happily ever after.” Iago rubbed her shoulder and Klaribel leaned into him.

Calia could not help herself. “Then what happened?” she breathed.

“My aunt got it into my father’s head that I should be a proper lady, a wife. We began to fight every day as she drove a wedge further and further between us. When they thought I was asleep I could hear her pestering him, saying that me being a farm hand wasn’t what my mother wanted for me, that he was letting her down. It got to the point my father would throw me out of the barn if he found me in there. I thought about running away but it would kill him and my brothers if I disappeared and they never knew what happened to me.”

Klaribel’s smile returned and Calia found herself leaning forward, hanging onto every word. “And then the king came down from his mountain and demanded a horse master. Everyone was horrified, acting as though he had demanded the blood from ten virgins. The most terrified, though, was a girl much younger than me. She was going to be picked and she knew it. She was already taller than the boys her age and her hair was so fair you could almost see through it. And it really did not help she stumbled over every word she spoke. I remember seeing her in the square, bawling her eyes out, clinging to her mother who was bawling her eyes out.”

“So what did you do?” Calia demanded even though she already knew the end of the story.

“So, I went home, packed my things, hid them in the barn and then waited in my room. My aunt came up the stairs, screaming at me to not even think about leaving and locked me in. I went out the window, picked my favorite horse and scattered the rest. And then I raced through town, breaking up their little meeting and pushed the horse as fast as it could run until I reached the castle.”

Calia sat back, stunned. “What about your father?”

Klaribel shrugged. “He got his horse back. He tried to get me back as well but the king refused and I was glad he did. I still am.” She saw the look on Calia’s face and grew a little defensive. “My dad had his choice. And he chose her side so I chose mine. I could not live my life in anger and despair so he could make his new wife happy.”

Iago smoothed a hand over hers and asked, “And how is your life now?”

She gave him a deep, genuine smile and leaned into his shoulder. “Happy and full.”

Calia suddenly saw what she had been missing. The brash stable master and the slight, limping gardener were together.

“Were you locked in the dungeon as well?” Calia burst out suddenly.

Klaribel cocked her head to the side. “I was, for a short time.”

“And yet you are grateful to our king? You… like him?”

“I do,” Klaribel said stoically. “I owe him my life.”

Suddenly Calia felt overly warm and confused. “Thank you for the story,” she mumbled and shoved up from her seat. “Please excuse me.”

“Calia,” Abelina called out but Marchello interrupted her.

“Let her go. The first year is so hard, especially for one who did not choose this. Let her go and think.”

Calia raced up the stairs, wiping her cheeks and found she had one more thing to thank the stodgy butler for.

She dove into her room, careful not to slam the door shut and stood with her back against it, tears streaming down her face. More comforts than she had ever had in her entire life at home were arranged before her. The fireplace blazed merrily just for her and the bed near it was also for her alone. The wardrobe was so full of clothes that it would barely shut. Even the bathing room was hers. All gifts from the king.

And she had friends, or at the very least people that were kind to her and did not pretend she did not exist—another thing she could thank the king for.

She had been terrified of him since the first day and while he wasn’t friendly or particularly kind he was the one that provided all of the warm, good things. He could have worked her to the bone like her mother did and scarcely give her a nights rest before demanding she be back up and doing it again. He could have assigned her impossible tasks and berated her in front of everyone when she predictably failed. He could have never given a kind word but always a sharp, cruel one. But he didn’t. Maybe the Cold King wasn’t a lot of good things but he wasn’t a lot of terrible things either.

Calia stood frozen against her door thinking these strange thoughts. She was a captive, a slave to the king. And all the merry people down stairs were slaves as well. “He locked you in a dungeon!” she hissed at herself, trying to bring back all the fear and uncertainty that had held sway over her since her first moment in the castle. But it wouldn’t come back, not completely. And she still did not like the king, not at all. But everything nice and warm and comfortable in her life had come after he had entered it. Everything she had was only because he had chosen to give it to her and he had given her more wonderful things than she had ever known possible while living in the village—even as he took her freedom.

Calia shook and shivered and finally made her way over to her bed to wrap herself in a thick fur. She wasn’t stupid. Happily ever after’s weren’t meant for girls like her, they were meant for the pretty, privileged girls who had families that loved them.

But maybe she could have her own small happiness. Maybe she could have a life with people that were kind and did not ignore her, who did not care what she looked like. She could have warmth and clothing and food and never have to worry or work so hard she broke. Calia fell asleep before her tears dried on her face.





When Calia brought the king his tray the next morning she seemed a different girl. Her back was straight but not stiff and her feet glided instead of stumbling. Her eyes shone with a light that had never been there before and the hard frown lines that normally bracketed her mouth were smoothed away.

“Good morning, my king,” she murmured as she set the tray on his desk. The king took this all in and something inside him relaxed. She had fought so hard in the beginning, harder than any other, and he had worried she might break herself. He had feared she would never mold like the others did and as time wore on it had depressed him. His last servant had been with him for over sixty years and he missed her sorely. He missed her loyalty and discretion; he missed how she knew what he needed without having to say it. And after the sad, final years he had missed her quiet companionship.

“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.”