The Princess and the Blood of Eternity

Chapter 22: Memories and Strength

Quinn didn't know what to say. She stood with her back against a bare stone wall somewhere underground inside the palace. The room lacked windows, transforming the small place into something that was patently more ominous than needed, not to mention the low stone ceiling that measured somewhere close to Cleo's height. Anyone taller would find the room less than ideal. The cool air came as a surprise too. Being underground—she'd never thought about it, but the implicit cool was like being underwater.

A small oil lamp glowed orange on a humble wooden desk in the corner. A stone stool, blank paper, ink jar, and an unused feather cover the desk. There was a closed wardrobe on the opposite wall, and next to that was a bed wide enough for a single person. The stone floor lay bare except for the decorative red and blue kaleidoscope-like rug in the center of the room.

Meager surroundings, even by Quinn's standards. Given this was technically inside the palace, the stark difference to the upper levels was truly mind-boggling. The walls sat bare except for the triangular-shaped flag that hung over the bed, and adjacent to that was a simple wooden shelf. The flag depicted what looked like a coat of arms of a sword and flint-stock pistol over a ship framed by trees and ribbons. Threading was a little sloppy and aged, but knowing what Quinn knew about the room's occupant, it was the personal standard of a once great sea captain and war hero.

A small collection of marble figurines was on the shelf. The artist had left each unpainted with a natural white coloring. The little people seemed to be in the midst of performing a daily activity. By her count, there were eleven, frozen in one state or another: reading, fishing, smiling, waving, standing or sitting on the ground or in a chair. The fine detail of the figurines and prominent position in relation to the rest of the room—it made Quinn imagine they might've been designed with real people in mind, maybe even family members.

Minus those few details, the room sat nearly bare, like the space could belong to a nun, or a person who'd devoted their life to someone else.

Quinn turned her focus to the person lying on the single occupant bed. Cassandra. Still wearing her long black dress, long sleeves and high collar, her hair was in a tight immaculate grey bun with not a single strand out of place. The woman exhumed careful precision and strength, and yet her face and skin had grown pale. Her breathing had grown shallow as her chest moved in rapid succession.

Quinn fought against the tears. She wouldn't sit here and cry. Seeing such frailty brought back terrible memories, memories she wished would lie dormant. Her grandfather had been a grizzled veteran shipbuilder, a master sought the world over. Built like a blacksmith, he towered over everyone, and he could swing a massive iron hammer for hours without tiring.

She remembered how he used to poke fun at her father for being small, or how he used to hide nails in her father's boots. Mostly she missed their small interactions, like how he would sneak her caramel candies. Then one day, illness struck. It left him bedridden for two months. The sickness had deflated him, leaving behind a weak skeleton covered by skin and bones, and then he was gone. His last night on this earth, and she remembered worrying whether her last goodbye had gotten through to him.

Wiping tears from her cheeks with her palm, she exhaled as she glanced at Cassandra's sleeping form. Why did she have to remember such a thing? Wasn't she depressed enough?

Cassandra deserved better. This woman had devoted a lifetime of service to this island-nation and here she lay in near darkness, inside the belly of a palace that was ready to forget that she'd ever existed.

Quinn reached out to cradle Cassandra's hand. Callused and bony, the old sea wench still felt warm. A positive sign if there was one.

"Hold on, you crazy old hag," she whispered.