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Scrapped Princess | Prelude of the Stray Cat Princess | The End of the Days of Innocence | Part 3/3
Eventually . . . after just about half a day had passed, Yuuma Casull's remains bowed to their cremation, and, as though yielding their deep crimson to the twilight sun, the flames extinguished.
Expressing their condolences to the three, the attendees departed. From here on belonged to the bereaved family. Discussing their memories of the deceased and comforting one another--that privilege was reserved for those he had left behind.
However . . .
The light plucking of strings.
The sound trickled down through the silence, which had fallen in the room like water . . . and then, just as a single drop of colored water diffuses through the rest, it slowly faded.
The room was not particularly spacious, but unlike Raquel--whose room brimmed with desultory items--Shannon operated on the principle that very few decorations or pieces of furniture were needed. This resulted in a dreary room that seemed, even to Shannon, terribly desolate at times.
Incidentally, Raquel's room was overflowing with things, with bric-a-brac and books forming the core. She took great care to keep things tidy and in order, but if a large earthquake were to occur while she was sleeping, she would surely be crushed under her immense bookshelf or wardrobe.
Be that as it may . . .
". . . well, that's no good."
He had not really bothered to tune it, so the pitch was completely off. Taking a tuning fork from the case, Shannon struck it repeatedly to check the tone. He could not manage a strictly accurate pitch, but he had at least learned the basics of tuning from his late mother.
It had been quite a while since he had even touched the lute.
Bolstered by what he had learned from his mother, there had been a period of time when Shannon had lost himself in a delirium of singing songs and playing instruments. There had even been a time when he had hoped to earn a living doing so . . . Looking back on that, his own tendency to think like an old man brought a wry grin to his face.
Thanks to the sword fighting lessons his father had been putting him through these past few years, he had not been able to take much time for himself. He had a lot of questions regarding the drills (which had bordered on relentless), and his father had never given him a clear explanation of their purpose. Because Shannon had wanted to grow stronger himself, and because he had not disliked sword fighting, no particular discord had ever arisen between him and his father, but . . .
". . . now that I won't ever be able to ask him again, it's weighing on my mind more than ever."
Murmuring along those lines, he gave the strings another try.
Frankly, this was not the time to drag out that musty old lute and play around on it. The funeral had ended, and it was true that they had a little free time on their hands, but Raquel--splitting the work with Pacifica--had made an early start of putting their father's things in order.
"Even so . . ."
Of course, Shannon--who was not the best at keeping things tidy--would simply create unnecessary complications if he tried to help out, but . . . there was another, rather more sentimental reason he was not helping his sisters.
He felt that clearing out the articles of the deceased--that taking all traces of him that lingered in the house and shutting them up in the coffin of memory--was just about the same as driving their father out of the house.
"Women are so practical."
. . . as though offering protest to that opinion, there was a knock on the door.
"I'm coming in."
Raquel, who had rolled up her sleeves and tied back her long black hair so they would not get in the way of her work, opened the door and came inside.
"I found this . . ."
Raquel drew an envelope from her breast pocket. It was nothing showy--just a piece of paper that had been folded and starched, a very modest affair.
But with just that, a light flicked on in Shannon's head.
"The will?"
"Yes . . ."
Nodding, Raquel handed the envelope over to him. It seemed she had already read it--one end was slit open. Shannon furrowed his brow and pulled out the slip of paper that lay within the envelope.
A will. It was not the sort of thing most people wrote while still in their prime. The fact that one existed implied that their father had perceived that the time of his death was approaching, that he did not think it would be strange if he died at any given moment.
"So there really was one," Shannon said, remembering the count's strained behavior. "Now that I think of it . . . Raquel, did you see the old man's back?"
"Yes." Raquel gave a small nod. ". . . there was a stab wound, wasn't there?"
Shannon would have missed it had he not looked carefully, but it had definitely been there, on Yuuma's back, around his right flank: a small stab wound.
Shannon had received full-fledged training in combat sword fighting, and Raquel had been schooled in the use of a dagger for self-defense. The process had included some knowledge about the treatment of blade injuries, and the two of them could tell the difference between a simple laceration and the mark of a blade.
"Accident, my ass. That Count Franchi guy, he's hiding something."
The ones who had discovered Yuuma's body collapsed outside the city were the city guard. Many towns relied on vigilante corps comprised of private citizens to keep the peace, but citizens were precisely what Manurhin was low on. Count Franchi had assembled a body of elite guards, and they patrolled both the city and the area around its walls.
In other words . . . even if something related to Yuuma's death had been discovered, Count Franchi was in a position to quash the report.
"Just what the hell happened?" Shannon said, opening the slip of paper.
There, his father's familiar handwriting lay in cramped rows.
First of all . . .
"Tousan always was a colorful person," said Raquel, dabbing a white handkerchief to her tear-dampened eyes.
". . . you think that's the problem?"
Shannon sighed and resumed reading. His stiffening expression notwithstanding, it did not take much time.
. . .
Fourteen years ago, their late father, Yuuma Nanbu1-Casull, and mother, Carol Casull, were entrusted by a friend with the care of a baby.
Shannon and Raquel--and even Pacifica herself--knew that had been Pacifica.
Though they had been very young, both Shannon and Raquel clearly remembered the day when their father and mother had brought home a baby swaddled in white cloth . . . Smiling softly, their parents said, "Starting today, this baby will be your little sister." The day when that tiny newborn, whose eyes hadn't even opened yet, first came into their lives.
However.
Their knowledge had not extended to the fact that the "friend" was, of all people, Elmire, first queen of the Royal Kingdom of Leinwand.
Which is to say, Pacifica was . . .
"The Scrapped Princess . . . !"
". . . that's how it is, isn't it?"
It was the Kingdom of Leinwand's greatest prohibition.
While everyone knew the rumors, it was by no means spoken of in public.
The nightmare fifteen years ago.
The passage of fifteen years had weathered the credibility those rumors, which had been whispered as though they were truth. And yet the legend of that forsaken princess--deposed, and even her remains left unmourned . . . The story of the "Scrapped Princess" lingered in the corners of people's memories in the form of certain euphemisms.
At the mention of "the beginning and the end of filial piety," recollections rose unbidden in Shannon's mind--of being woken up in the middle of the night and dragged along as company for an evening drink, or of being forced to act as a proxy for some strange mission, all under the pretext of it being "the beginning and the end of filial piety" . . . Well, Shannon decided to forget about that for now. No need to go throwing water on this warmth of sentiment after so much effort had gone into kindling it.
"Oh, Dad . . ."
Raquel wept steady tears of gratitude, and Shannon fixed a cold-eyed glare on his twin sister as though it were the most natural response in the world--for an instant, he worried that his own lack of emotion was a product of warped sensibilities. His next words came out as a groan.
"I can understand the circumstances, but . . . That clattering old bastard, he took this all on himself, so he should damn well have carried the burden right through to the end. Going and dumping this on his kids like some massive debt. What a pain-in-the-ass thing to tell us about--"
A sudden noise interrupted Shannon's words.
Shannon and Raquel looked back at the dining room door as one.
A petite figure stood leaning against the wall.
How Shannon (who was able to sense a person's approach, even through a wall, by reading the traces that hung in the air) could have failed to notice her, he had no idea. As might be expected, he was rather taken aback.
She grasped a little slip of paper in her right hand.
The expression on her pretty face was cryptic and complex--perhaps "bewildered" came closest to describing it--but it told Shannon and Raquel everything. Their father had penned a separate will addressed to Pacifica.
It was true that Pacifica too had known herself to be an adopted daughter. She had known that she was originally an outsider, and had no blood ties to Shannon and the rest.
But . . .
"Pacifica . . ."
Even as he thought, Not good, his voice came out hoarsely.
As though drawn by Shannon's call, and with a terribly fleeting gait, the girl took one step forward.
Countless words he could go out on a limb and say ran through Shannon's mind, but each and every one of them vanished. No words could possibly erase reality. Instead, reckless words would only dig at the wounds.
"Pacifica . . ."
All he could do was call out her name, nothing more.
And as though in reply the girl said, "Call me 'princess'!"
. . . that Shannon felt a vehement disgust at himself for having been the least bit worried goes without saying.
He slipped into the room.
The room that had lost an occupant. Ten years and five days ago.
And yet, setting aside all the inevitable, day-to-day changes that had accumulated over time, it retained the same fundamental appearance it had had back when their mother was alive.
So that they might fondly remember the deceased--or rather, to reinforce lingering attachments--it was a place that had been frozen in the past. Shannon was well aware that it was nothing more than conceit on the part those left behind. But he also understood that human beings were beyond easy comprehension.
He was no exception himself.
"I'm taking this as my inheritance . . . no, in place of a parting gift from you, Old Man," Shannon muttered, opening a wardrobe in a corner of the room.
A number of wicker boxes stood precisely stacked within. Judging from the hue, and from the thin layer of dust that covered them, the boxes had not been opened in a long time. It seemed that even Raquel, in her efforts to put things in order, had left just these untouched.
He opened a box. Inside had been placed drably colored combat gear, armor.
The many items had been packed with an almost ritualistic care that showed their owner's dedication.
Of course, these were not merchandise. These were the bits and pieces of their parents' past, which had been sealed away when they resigned from their previous line of work. These things which they had sealed up in order to bid farewell to their former selves--the fact that they had preserved them until now surely showed that there had been some remaining attachment. At any rate, neither one of them was in any position to laugh in regret about it now.
Placed inside were, among other things, cuir bouilli armor and its corresponding gear: a number of daggers and lengths of steel wire, gloves and boots that had been prepped with small blades for close-combat fighting, a utility belt from which to hang gear and daggers . . .
But the weapons that, compared to the armor, should have been by far more important . . . swords or spears, or a battle-axe of any kind--there were none to be found. Not even Shannon knew whether they had been the only things to be thrown out, or perhaps stored in another place.
"Can't be helped. Guess I'll just have to take whatever looks good from the store stock and . . . Hm?"
Seeing all the pieces of armor lined up in a row on the floor, Shannon realized their true nature.
Type-Zero multifunctional cuir bouilli armor, Brigerd.
Having helped his father out in his work, Shannon possessed a cursory knowledge of a wide range of arms and armor, but even so, this was his first time seeing the real thing. It was a rare armor that the Kingdom of Leinwand had commissioned in the year 5110 of the continental calendar and issued only to certain among their elite soldiers. One would not imagine it from outward appearances, but its structure was extraordinarily elaborate, and because the expense and time required to manufacture just one unit was more than ten times that for an average soldier's armor, the commission was immediately rescinded.
". . . even second-hand, it could buy ten new sets of armor."
After unconsciously doing this very son-of-an-arms-dealer-like calculation . . . Shannon happened to look at the coat of arms that had been embossed onto the spaulder, and he narrowed his eyes.
"'The Battle Maiden Who Gallops Across the Heavens' . . ."
A war god spoken of in ancient legends . . . It was a design drawn using this beautiful and fierce goddess as its theme. It had been the coat of arms of the Kingdom of Leinwand's now-defunct Second Foreign Legion.
According to some, they had surpassed even the Anwahl Knights2--the company of royal knights said to be the strongest of all the elite forces--and having done so, the valor of this warrior band became the stuff of legends.
"Mortal Storm . . . I guess it's no wonder he was so ridiculously strong," Shannon murmured, his voice tinged with a sigh.
When it came to the past of his foreign-born father--who had disliked being asked about himself--everything Shannon knew was vague and ambiguous.
"I know that Mom was a member of Jade Circuit, but . . ."
Shannon responded to the voice from behind him without a backward glance. He had sensed her presence a long time ago.
"First I've heard of that too. Pretty amazing, weren't they? Those parents of ours."
"Well, both of them did tend to get carried away fairly easily."
Wearing a wry smile and trying to make it lighthearted, Raquel entered the room and opened a different box. This one contained a green robe, some jewelry, and a self-defense dagger. The robe had been embroidered with white thread in an intricate pattern, and on the chest in decorative lettering, "the jade mandala" . . . Jade Circuit3 had been written.
Shannon recognized this as the name of the Kingdom of Leinwand's Royal Mage Corps.
Both Shannon and Raquel had gotten lessons in the basics of magic from their mother. However, because Shannon was distinctly lacking in magical talent, he quickly dropped out without having learned a thing.
"I hear she was the ninth-ranked, anyway."
Jade Circuit, called the best of the best of the kingdom's mages . . . That their mother was awarded the ninth court rank out of the more than one hundred members of that force was proof positive that she had been an absolute first-class mage.
"How do I put this . . . Just the will alone didn't manage to stir up any kind of response from me, but maybe it is true that Pacifica is the Scrapped Princess, and that she's being targeted."
"You thought that was a lie?"
Judging from her surprised tone, it seemed Raquel had believed it right from the beginning. They may have been twins, but that did not mean they empathically grasped each other's thoughts. In every possible sense, they were their own people.
"I was just thinking about all those times I'd fallen for that old shithead's vicious pranks. Unlike you, I need to see something with my own eyes before I'll believe it."
"Well, I know that, but still."
"Out of nowhere I'm told, 'Your little sister is a princess who was supposed to be dead, and her life is being targeted. Please protect her,' and I'm supposed to believe it?"
Until just a few days ago, they had lived a fairly ordinary life--even if they had occasionally been dragged into some kind of trouble. For it to end all of a sudden like this, surely anyone would be at a loss.
"But . . . Count Franchi probably knows about this, huh?"
"I'm not sure. But like you said, Shannon, he does seem to know something."
"Wanna go check it out?"
Raquel shook her head at Shannon's suggestion. "If we simply showed up all of a sudden, surely even Count Franchi wouldn't grant us an audience as easily as that."
"Who said anything about an audience?" Shannon smiled thinly. "We'll sneak in."
Staring fixedly at her younger brother, who had just suggested the unthinkable . . . Raquel smiled affectionately. "That expression makes you look just like Dad."
"Knock it off, I'm begging you." Shannon breathed a long sigh.
---
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Notes:
1) The Nanbu were a famous samurai clan. It's also the name of a semi-automatic pistol. Back
2) All right, we've all seen アンヴァー translated a bunch of different ways. I'm using "Anwahl" for now because it seems a decent transliteration, given the psudeo-Germanic vibe underlying some of the other SutePri names. Anyway, it's German for "selection," which could, at a stretch, be interpreted as "hand-picked" aha. Back
3) The text has hisui no houjin (翡翠の法陣) and jeedo saakitto (ジェイド・サーキット), respectively. Back
[Disclaimer]
Scrapped Princess | Prelude of the Stray Cat Princess | The End of the Days of Innocence | Part 3/3
Eventually . . . after just about half a day had passed, Yuuma Casull's remains bowed to their cremation, and, as though yielding their deep crimson to the twilight sun, the flames extinguished.
Expressing their condolences to the three, the attendees departed. From here on belonged to the bereaved family. Discussing their memories of the deceased and comforting one another--that privilege was reserved for those he had left behind.
However . . .
The light plucking of strings.
The sound trickled down through the silence, which had fallen in the room like water . . . and then, just as a single drop of colored water diffuses through the rest, it slowly faded.
The room was not particularly spacious, but unlike Raquel--whose room brimmed with desultory items--Shannon operated on the principle that very few decorations or pieces of furniture were needed. This resulted in a dreary room that seemed, even to Shannon, terribly desolate at times.
Incidentally, Raquel's room was overflowing with things, with bric-a-brac and books forming the core. She took great care to keep things tidy and in order, but if a large earthquake were to occur while she was sleeping, she would surely be crushed under her immense bookshelf or wardrobe.
Be that as it may . . .
". . . well, that's no good."
He had not really bothered to tune it, so the pitch was completely off. Taking a tuning fork from the case, Shannon struck it repeatedly to check the tone. He could not manage a strictly accurate pitch, but he had at least learned the basics of tuning from his late mother.
It had been quite a while since he had even touched the lute.
Bolstered by what he had learned from his mother, there had been a period of time when Shannon had lost himself in a delirium of singing songs and playing instruments. There had even been a time when he had hoped to earn a living doing so . . . Looking back on that, his own tendency to think like an old man brought a wry grin to his face.
Thanks to the sword fighting lessons his father had been putting him through these past few years, he had not been able to take much time for himself. He had a lot of questions regarding the drills (which had bordered on relentless), and his father had never given him a clear explanation of their purpose. Because Shannon had wanted to grow stronger himself, and because he had not disliked sword fighting, no particular discord had ever arisen between him and his father, but . . .
". . . now that I won't ever be able to ask him again, it's weighing on my mind more than ever."
Murmuring along those lines, he gave the strings another try.
Frankly, this was not the time to drag out that musty old lute and play around on it. The funeral had ended, and it was true that they had a little free time on their hands, but Raquel--splitting the work with Pacifica--had made an early start of putting their father's things in order.
"Even so . . ."
Of course, Shannon--who was not the best at keeping things tidy--would simply create unnecessary complications if he tried to help out, but . . . there was another, rather more sentimental reason he was not helping his sisters.
He felt that clearing out the articles of the deceased--that taking all traces of him that lingered in the house and shutting them up in the coffin of memory--was just about the same as driving their father out of the house.
"Women are so practical."
. . . as though offering protest to that opinion, there was a knock on the door.
"I'm coming in."
Raquel, who had rolled up her sleeves and tied back her long black hair so they would not get in the way of her work, opened the door and came inside.
"I found this . . ."
Raquel drew an envelope from her breast pocket. It was nothing showy--just a piece of paper that had been folded and starched, a very modest affair.
But with just that, a light flicked on in Shannon's head.
"The will?"
"Yes . . ."
Nodding, Raquel handed the envelope over to him. It seemed she had already read it--one end was slit open. Shannon furrowed his brow and pulled out the slip of paper that lay within the envelope.
A will. It was not the sort of thing most people wrote while still in their prime. The fact that one existed implied that their father had perceived that the time of his death was approaching, that he did not think it would be strange if he died at any given moment.
"So there really was one," Shannon said, remembering the count's strained behavior. "Now that I think of it . . . Raquel, did you see the old man's back?"
"Yes." Raquel gave a small nod. ". . . there was a stab wound, wasn't there?"
Shannon would have missed it had he not looked carefully, but it had definitely been there, on Yuuma's back, around his right flank: a small stab wound.
Shannon had received full-fledged training in combat sword fighting, and Raquel had been schooled in the use of a dagger for self-defense. The process had included some knowledge about the treatment of blade injuries, and the two of them could tell the difference between a simple laceration and the mark of a blade.
"Accident, my ass. That Count Franchi guy, he's hiding something."
The ones who had discovered Yuuma's body collapsed outside the city were the city guard. Many towns relied on vigilante corps comprised of private citizens to keep the peace, but citizens were precisely what Manurhin was low on. Count Franchi had assembled a body of elite guards, and they patrolled both the city and the area around its walls.
In other words . . . even if something related to Yuuma's death had been discovered, Count Franchi was in a position to quash the report.
"Just what the hell happened?" Shannon said, opening the slip of paper.
There, his father's familiar handwriting lay in cramped rows.
First of all . . .
Raquel, Shannon, now that I'm dead, I've got one mission to entrust to you guys. It's a vital mission."Mission?" Shannon knit his brow.
It's for the sake of this day that your mom and I did thi~s and tha~t, and moreover, honey, that's the only, that's the o~only thing I don't want, bear with me, Carol, it's embarrassi--ing, ahh, but, but, what's this feeling? Ahh, tonight I'm feeling rather daring . . . As a result of that sort of thing, you guys were born. Heh heh heh.Shannon slumped automatically over the dining table.
"Tousan always was a colorful person," said Raquel, dabbing a white handkerchief to her tear-dampened eyes.
". . . you think that's the problem?"
Shannon sighed and resumed reading. His stiffening expression notwithstanding, it did not take much time.
. . .
Fourteen years ago, their late father, Yuuma Nanbu1-Casull, and mother, Carol Casull, were entrusted by a friend with the care of a baby.
Shannon and Raquel--and even Pacifica herself--knew that had been Pacifica.
Though they had been very young, both Shannon and Raquel clearly remembered the day when their father and mother had brought home a baby swaddled in white cloth . . . Smiling softly, their parents said, "Starting today, this baby will be your little sister." The day when that tiny newborn, whose eyes hadn't even opened yet, first came into their lives.
However.
Their knowledge had not extended to the fact that the "friend" was, of all people, Elmire, first queen of the Royal Kingdom of Leinwand.
Which is to say, Pacifica was . . .
"The Scrapped Princess . . . !"
". . . that's how it is, isn't it?"
It was the Kingdom of Leinwand's greatest prohibition.
While everyone knew the rumors, it was by no means spoken of in public.
The nightmare fifteen years ago.
The passage of fifteen years had weathered the credibility those rumors, which had been whispered as though they were truth. And yet the legend of that forsaken princess--deposed, and even her remains left unmourned . . . The story of the "Scrapped Princess" lingered in the corners of people's memories in the form of certain euphemisms.
Raquel, Shannon, if the time comes that something should happen to me, protect Pacifica. At the very least, until the coming "Day of Fate," her sixteenth birthday. I know I'm being unreasonable here, believe me. You probably couldn't say that me and your dead mom were great parents by any means, but I think this is the beginning and the end of filial piety, so please, I'm counting on you."Old man . . ."
At the mention of "the beginning and the end of filial piety," recollections rose unbidden in Shannon's mind--of being woken up in the middle of the night and dragged along as company for an evening drink, or of being forced to act as a proxy for some strange mission, all under the pretext of it being "the beginning and the end of filial piety" . . . Well, Shannon decided to forget about that for now. No need to go throwing water on this warmth of sentiment after so much effort had gone into kindling it.
P.S., As of right now, the Royal Family doesn't know about Pacifica, but if they find out, you can bet they'll be sending assassins. As in, y'know, a whole mountain of assassins, probably. I guess those guys from the Church of Mauser will be sending in some hitmen of their own too. I think you guys'll run into all kinds of trouble, but, hey, do your best, all right? As for me, I'll be getting it on with your mom in heaven. Wahahahahaha. See ya'."That old shhhhithead . . ." Slumping onto the dining table once again, Shannon crushed the slip of paper in his fist. "Such . . . a total load of headstrong crap!"
"Oh, Dad . . ."
Raquel wept steady tears of gratitude, and Shannon fixed a cold-eyed glare on his twin sister as though it were the most natural response in the world--for an instant, he worried that his own lack of emotion was a product of warped sensibilities. His next words came out as a groan.
"I can understand the circumstances, but . . . That clattering old bastard, he took this all on himself, so he should damn well have carried the burden right through to the end. Going and dumping this on his kids like some massive debt. What a pain-in-the-ass thing to tell us about--"
A sudden noise interrupted Shannon's words.
Shannon and Raquel looked back at the dining room door as one.
A petite figure stood leaning against the wall.
How Shannon (who was able to sense a person's approach, even through a wall, by reading the traces that hung in the air) could have failed to notice her, he had no idea. As might be expected, he was rather taken aback.
She grasped a little slip of paper in her right hand.
The expression on her pretty face was cryptic and complex--perhaps "bewildered" came closest to describing it--but it told Shannon and Raquel everything. Their father had penned a separate will addressed to Pacifica.
It was true that Pacifica too had known herself to be an adopted daughter. She had known that she was originally an outsider, and had no blood ties to Shannon and the rest.
But . . .
"Pacifica . . ."
Even as he thought, Not good, his voice came out hoarsely.
As though drawn by Shannon's call, and with a terribly fleeting gait, the girl took one step forward.
Countless words he could go out on a limb and say ran through Shannon's mind, but each and every one of them vanished. No words could possibly erase reality. Instead, reckless words would only dig at the wounds.
"Pacifica . . ."
All he could do was call out her name, nothing more.
And as though in reply the girl said, "Call me 'princess'!"
. . . that Shannon felt a vehement disgust at himself for having been the least bit worried goes without saying.
He slipped into the room.
The room that had lost an occupant. Ten years and five days ago.
And yet, setting aside all the inevitable, day-to-day changes that had accumulated over time, it retained the same fundamental appearance it had had back when their mother was alive.
So that they might fondly remember the deceased--or rather, to reinforce lingering attachments--it was a place that had been frozen in the past. Shannon was well aware that it was nothing more than conceit on the part those left behind. But he also understood that human beings were beyond easy comprehension.
He was no exception himself.
"I'm taking this as my inheritance . . . no, in place of a parting gift from you, Old Man," Shannon muttered, opening a wardrobe in a corner of the room.
A number of wicker boxes stood precisely stacked within. Judging from the hue, and from the thin layer of dust that covered them, the boxes had not been opened in a long time. It seemed that even Raquel, in her efforts to put things in order, had left just these untouched.
He opened a box. Inside had been placed drably colored combat gear, armor.
The many items had been packed with an almost ritualistic care that showed their owner's dedication.
Of course, these were not merchandise. These were the bits and pieces of their parents' past, which had been sealed away when they resigned from their previous line of work. These things which they had sealed up in order to bid farewell to their former selves--the fact that they had preserved them until now surely showed that there had been some remaining attachment. At any rate, neither one of them was in any position to laugh in regret about it now.
Placed inside were, among other things, cuir bouilli armor and its corresponding gear: a number of daggers and lengths of steel wire, gloves and boots that had been prepped with small blades for close-combat fighting, a utility belt from which to hang gear and daggers . . .
But the weapons that, compared to the armor, should have been by far more important . . . swords or spears, or a battle-axe of any kind--there were none to be found. Not even Shannon knew whether they had been the only things to be thrown out, or perhaps stored in another place.
"Can't be helped. Guess I'll just have to take whatever looks good from the store stock and . . . Hm?"
Seeing all the pieces of armor lined up in a row on the floor, Shannon realized their true nature.
Type-Zero multifunctional cuir bouilli armor, Brigerd.
Having helped his father out in his work, Shannon possessed a cursory knowledge of a wide range of arms and armor, but even so, this was his first time seeing the real thing. It was a rare armor that the Kingdom of Leinwand had commissioned in the year 5110 of the continental calendar and issued only to certain among their elite soldiers. One would not imagine it from outward appearances, but its structure was extraordinarily elaborate, and because the expense and time required to manufacture just one unit was more than ten times that for an average soldier's armor, the commission was immediately rescinded.
". . . even second-hand, it could buy ten new sets of armor."
After unconsciously doing this very son-of-an-arms-dealer-like calculation . . . Shannon happened to look at the coat of arms that had been embossed onto the spaulder, and he narrowed his eyes.
"'The Battle Maiden Who Gallops Across the Heavens' . . ."
A war god spoken of in ancient legends . . . It was a design drawn using this beautiful and fierce goddess as its theme. It had been the coat of arms of the Kingdom of Leinwand's now-defunct Second Foreign Legion.
According to some, they had surpassed even the Anwahl Knights2--the company of royal knights said to be the strongest of all the elite forces--and having done so, the valor of this warrior band became the stuff of legends.
"Mortal Storm . . . I guess it's no wonder he was so ridiculously strong," Shannon murmured, his voice tinged with a sigh.
When it came to the past of his foreign-born father--who had disliked being asked about himself--everything Shannon knew was vague and ambiguous.
"I know that Mom was a member of Jade Circuit, but . . ."
Shannon responded to the voice from behind him without a backward glance. He had sensed her presence a long time ago.
"First I've heard of that too. Pretty amazing, weren't they? Those parents of ours."
"Well, both of them did tend to get carried away fairly easily."
Wearing a wry smile and trying to make it lighthearted, Raquel entered the room and opened a different box. This one contained a green robe, some jewelry, and a self-defense dagger. The robe had been embroidered with white thread in an intricate pattern, and on the chest in decorative lettering, "the jade mandala" . . . Jade Circuit3 had been written.
Shannon recognized this as the name of the Kingdom of Leinwand's Royal Mage Corps.
Both Shannon and Raquel had gotten lessons in the basics of magic from their mother. However, because Shannon was distinctly lacking in magical talent, he quickly dropped out without having learned a thing.
"I hear she was the ninth-ranked, anyway."
Jade Circuit, called the best of the best of the kingdom's mages . . . That their mother was awarded the ninth court rank out of the more than one hundred members of that force was proof positive that she had been an absolute first-class mage.
"How do I put this . . . Just the will alone didn't manage to stir up any kind of response from me, but maybe it is true that Pacifica is the Scrapped Princess, and that she's being targeted."
"You thought that was a lie?"
Judging from her surprised tone, it seemed Raquel had believed it right from the beginning. They may have been twins, but that did not mean they empathically grasped each other's thoughts. In every possible sense, they were their own people.
"I was just thinking about all those times I'd fallen for that old shithead's vicious pranks. Unlike you, I need to see something with my own eyes before I'll believe it."
"Well, I know that, but still."
"Out of nowhere I'm told, 'Your little sister is a princess who was supposed to be dead, and her life is being targeted. Please protect her,' and I'm supposed to believe it?"
Until just a few days ago, they had lived a fairly ordinary life--even if they had occasionally been dragged into some kind of trouble. For it to end all of a sudden like this, surely anyone would be at a loss.
"But . . . Count Franchi probably knows about this, huh?"
"I'm not sure. But like you said, Shannon, he does seem to know something."
"Wanna go check it out?"
Raquel shook her head at Shannon's suggestion. "If we simply showed up all of a sudden, surely even Count Franchi wouldn't grant us an audience as easily as that."
"Who said anything about an audience?" Shannon smiled thinly. "We'll sneak in."
Staring fixedly at her younger brother, who had just suggested the unthinkable . . . Raquel smiled affectionately. "That expression makes you look just like Dad."
"Knock it off, I'm begging you." Shannon breathed a long sigh.
---
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Notes:
1) The Nanbu were a famous samurai clan. It's also the name of a semi-automatic pistol. Back
2) All right, we've all seen アンヴァー translated a bunch of different ways. I'm using "Anwahl" for now because it seems a decent transliteration, given the psudeo-Germanic vibe underlying some of the other SutePri names. Anyway, it's German for "selection," which could, at a stretch, be interpreted as "hand-picked" aha. Back
3) The text has hisui no houjin (翡翠の法陣) and jeedo saakitto (ジェイド・サーキット), respectively. Back
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Date: 2009-02-16 03:24 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-02-17 05:37 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-02-17 04:33 am (UTC)Sakaki-sensei's writing must be very evocative: Shannon's stiffening expression, his description of his father as a clattering old bastard...
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Date: 2009-02-17 05:38 am (UTC)And yeah, I totally wish the anime had done better by Yuuma. D: