Free The Cold King by Amber Jaeger Page A

finally be rid of the evil shoes.
    Imogene waved her into the dressing room and Calia limped over. “No, that will never do,” the Cold King said under his breath as she passed.
    The dress maker gave her a little grin then pushed a finger against her lips, silencing Calia’s joy. “These shoes are not to his majesty’s liking. Sit, and remove them.”
    She did so with great relish and sighed in relief when Imogene pulled several pairs of soft, flat shoes from her trunk.
    Twenty minutes later she left the small room with her tender feet encased in soft leather boots with rounded toes that did not rub her sores. They were nearly like slippers with their flexible soles and she almost danced out of the room.
    The king’s face broke into a brilliant smile Calia had never seen before and she jerked to a stop.
    “No, no,” he insisted. “There is the grace I was hoping for.” He straightened up from his desk and came around to clasp her shoulders.
    She shook at his sudden closeness and forced herself to look up into his face and at the dreadful mask. “You are ready,” he breathed.
    “For what?” she asked with a shaking voice.
    “Court.”
    His words inspired less than courage in her. As king of the region he was judge, jury and executioner of all. And very, very harsh. It was rare for a town’s person to be unable to settle a personal problem without the king’s interference for fear of his harsh judgment.
    But other crimes happened and so she found herself shaking at the knees, two steps behind and two steps to the right of him while he sat in his throne and waited for the accused.
    Calia held the silver tray just as Marchello had and curiously it held a rose. A real rose.
    She had gasped when Abelina had handed it to her but there was no time to ask any questions.
    The sweet fragrance wafted up to her nose and she breathed it in deeply as she waited for the far doors on the end of the throne room to open.
    Finally they did and the Cold King straightened up. They both observed a young man and woman enter the room. The long walk to the throne seemed especially taxing on her and several times the young man leaned down to whisper in her ear and coax her along.
    Calia watched with interest and fear.
    Finally they made it to the throne and stood before it, shaking.
    The Cold King finally interrupted the uneasy silence. “You are charged with stealing from the palace.”
    The woman began to shake harder but the young man put his hand over hers and took a step forward. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
    “And how do you answer?”
    Calia could see the anxiety and fear plain on his face, obscuring his identity until it flashed in her head. He was Konstantin, the butcher’s son. She could not place the young woman but she was willowy and beautiful, a perfect match for a wealthy and handsome young man.
    “It is true.”
    The young woman began to sob but stopped suddenly when the king held his hand up. “And why should I not hang you?”
    Calia swallowed hard. What could he have possibly stolen to deserve such a harsh judgment?
    “I did it for love,” Konstantin said bravely.
    Calia did not need to see the Cold King’s face to know his mouth curled into a cruel smile. “But you still stole.”
    “Only a flower!” the girl burst out. “It was just a flower! Surely we can repay you, in some way?”
    The king’s gaze did not shift to her. “Do you have any idea how hard it is for me to grow those flowers?”
    Calia looked back and forth in confusion. The only flower of true importance in their village was the rose. And it hadn’t grown there for years. The custom of asking for a woman’s hand and presenting a real rose had been replaced by asking for her hand with a paper one. Calia had never even seen a real one until that day.
    Konstantin finally shifted. “I apologize, Your Majesty. But nothing short of the real thing would convince her father to let her go.” He looked up, pleading. With surprise, Calia saw he was