Daybreak:Alpha Chapter

Chapter 12 - Never Leave Regrets

"...Scouts report that the infidels broke camp before dawn this morning. They advanced to within five kilopaces of the riverbank and are now fortifying their position."

After hearing the officer's communique, Sylviane curled her fingers against her chin in deep thought.

"They're not attacking?"

It was barely noon on a sunny day. Surely there was still time?

"Under Cataliyan operating procedures, their siege train gets packed if they do not anticipate its use within fifty kilopaces," the Weichsel Major Hans Canaris-Oster explained. "It's been nearly two weeks since they last took a fortified town. I anticipate they'll be taking the afternoon to assemble and prepare forward positions for their siege and pontoons."

"They'll be attacking at first light tomorrow morning then," a Lotharin duke finished.

But before a tense silence could seize the war council, Vivienne's soft reassurance filled the room:

"They've already given us enough time. General Clermont arrived in Roazhon at dusk yesterday. His brigade of five thousand men is moving into position even as we speak."

"Clermont is here?" Sylviane gazed back, her focused thoughts suddenly plunging into a whirlpool of emotions.

There was no mistaking that name. General Clermont was the garrison commander of Alis Avern. He was in charge of the very men that should have protected her father's life.

"Yes, Your Highness," Vivienne bowed her head.

The youngest of the Oriflamme Paladins was meeker today than Sylviane had ever seen her. It might have to with the fatigue in her eyes, after she spent the night playing music to a slumbering princess. The result was a night of dreamless sleep, as Sylviane woke more refreshed and rested than she had felt in months.

"...He had told me that he takes full responsibility for what happened at Alis Avern," the winterborn added, "and that he will seek your forgiveness in person."

Old sly fox, Sylviane thought.

It took political acumen to command troops stationed within the empire's very capital. By using Vivienne to scout the Princess' mood beforehand, the general could either extract a promise of safety, or remained protected among his fresh troops.

"The fault is not his," Sylviane's fist pressed into the table's edge. "It was Father who decided that the defense of the empire was more important than protecting himself."

Burying her sorrow and intensifying her anguish, she donned the mask of zeal as her gaze swept the assembled war council:

"His timely arrival is father's final gift to us, and I swear before the Holy Father that we shall not waste it."

Heads nodded as the commanders and nobles voiced their agreement. Even the devout Edith's smiling gaze seemed touched. News had trickled in over the past week that many reinforcing columns bound for the front lines had been turned back by the pretender Gabriel. His excuse was the assembly of a unified army at the Capital, but no one had been more displeased with this apparent betrayal than the Paladins commanding each war front.

It also reminded Sylviane that Clermont's brigade was the last reinforcement she could expect. There would be no one coming to aid her after this...

Then, in that moment, a breathless lieutenant barged into the war room.

"Y-Your Highness, Your Ladyship!" he address both Sylviane and Edith, the army's de facto and de jure commanders. Then, as though he couldn't believe it himself: "K-King Alistair has arrived!"

As the entire council rushed through the door, none of them noticed Vivienne slipping away.

...

Kaede watched from the sidelines as two skywhales loaded with cargo compartments 'landed'.

Of course, the weight of a skywhale truly touching down would buckle if not crush the cabins underneath its belly, which meant the massive beasts simply hovered as low as possible.

Soldiers from the nearby army camps crowded all around the grassy clearing, watching the spectacle unfold as gates opened and metal ramps hit ground. Giant-like men from the Kingdom of Gleann Mòr marched out from each skywhale in neat rows of three, carrying two-handed claymore swords on their backs as their heavy chainmail glittered under the noon sun.

There was no doubt that the arrival had been planned for maximum effect to morale. The exiting troops marched around the skywhale before settling into parade formation, as though shouting "don't judge us by our numbers; we're elites."

Meanwhile, a group of four individuals gathered from both skywhales, before striding over towards the Princess' greeting party.

"Your Highness!" their leader called out, less in reverence and more like meeting an old friend.

"Your Majesty... Alistair!"

Sylviane had barely spread her arms when the much taller man embraced her with a joyful hug.

Kaede could feel a surge of dark emotions trickling over her empathic feedback link with Pascal, coloring her thoughts with the sourness of... jealousy.

King Alistair wasn't a handsome man by any means. He was youthful and tall, with an appearance in his late-twenties and a towering height at over one-ninety centimeters (6'2"). His shoulders were broad and he had to be buff to walk around in plate mail and swing that massive sword. But his head leaned on the side of squarish, his eyes a faded blue, and his hair a dull brown; apart from a rustic smile and a goatee-like fuzz, his face could easily blend in among the crowd.

Upon his shoulders also perched the deep-blue phoenix Almace -- the familiar of the Hound King.

Yet as Kaede watched Alistair and Sylviane grinned in each others' presence, she realized that it wasn't his physique or even his rank that Pascal felt threatened by.

It was the natural ease he seemed to have in making her smile.

"Why didn't you tell us you were coming?" the Princess remarked, still beaming.

"I had told Vivienne two days ago," he replied, a mite confused. "Just wasn't sure of my curtain time."

Scanning the crowd, Alistair's gaze soon fell upon Kaede, only to grow more bewildered before they returned to Sylviane:

"Is Vivi playing a joke on me?"

"I'm afraid such a joke would be too weird, even for Vivi," the Princess concluded her own empty search before looking over to the Samaran girl. "She's my fiancée's familiar, Kaede."

Kaede gave a curtsy from her spot as the King sent her a polite, smiling nod.

"Maybe Vivienne did not want to raise everyone's hopes up for nothing, in case you backed out, Your Majesty," Pascal stepped up, his dislike for Alistair almost palpable.

"Not a chance in hell I would, Your Grace," the King's reply came crisp and simple.

He left no opportunity for an escalation, as he bowed chivalrously to his Princess and vowed before the eyes of the world:

"The Glens will always remember, Your Highness. Lotharingie has never let us down. We would never let Lotharingie down."

Sylviane's gaze glistened with emotion as she grasped his gauntlet in both palms and nodded firmly. Meanwhile, Alistair returned a reassuring smile as he explained to every leader before him:

"The army of the Glens remains snowed in, blocked by the northern mountain passes. But as you can see, we outfitted a skywhale and recruited another to help us. I bring six companies of the Glens' finest Galloglaich Shocktroops to aid this front."

In unison, several hundred clansmen behind him drew their two-handed claymores and held them before hardened faces, each a warrior ready to fight his way into hell.

The King's expression then fell.

"Please feed us though. We had to ditch logistics to make everyone fit; every loaf of bread counted."

Even in this dramatic moment, a few officers couldn't help but chuckle at the King's sense of humor.

Sylviane included as she wiped her eyes... which only made Pascal's jealousy breed.

...

"Much as I'd like to, Sylviane, I can't stay," King Alistair divulged after the assembled troops departed. "The northern nobles aren't like the squinty-eyed ones you have down south. Leave them alone and they'll start baring fangs and picking fights. Snowed in all winter with limited supplies and nobody to manage? The clansmen will soon be tearing each other to shreds."

"No," he sighed. "I have to go back. But you have my promise that I shall rejoin you in the Spring."

"Then stay for just two days, even one," Sylviane requested as his superior, but her eyes were pleading.

"There will be a major battle tomorrow, Alistair, and there is no better man to lead the highland charge than their king."

Alistair pursed his lips. A lot could happen in two days; circumstances could turn into obligations that would entrap him here for much longer.

But as he looked down upon the grown-up princess, he once again saw that young, eleven year old girl. She had shown him not the veneer of respect like every other noble, but also true sincerity and kindness. She gave him confidence and faith in his kingship, his bastard inheritance, when everyone else only sought to manipulate and play him, a fiddle to their will.

It had been odd back then, for an accomplished fifty-year-old adventurer and mercenary to consider an adolescent princess his study mate and pen pal. But while Sylviane was emotionally turbulent -- as teenagers often were -- she also held a combination of cunning and sagacity that inspired him.

"All right, all right," Alistair conceded with raised hands, unable to deny her imploring gaze. But he had to set his foot down: "two days then, three at most. After that? I'm sneaking off even if you won't let me."

Broad appreciation spread across her lips like the sun as she grinned back.

"Thank you."

The Princess then turned aside to face the tree line, gesturing for him to take a stroll with her. Alistair nodded to his battlegroup commander and the civilian captain, urging them to stay behind as he followed her with only his bodyguard in tow.

His hunch proved correct as the Princess conjured a bubble of privacy between them.

"There is another major issue I must discuss with you..."

Even as Alistair departed, he could feel a young Weichsel landgrave's gaze burning a hole in his back.

...

Kaede had been watching the two royalty as well, but her conclusion was that Pascal was being unnecessarily obnoxious.

It was obvious to her that Sylviane and Alistair were nothing more than 'just friends'. In fact, they reminded her of a farmer uncle and his urban niece who visited every summer, which was odd considering that he was also a king.

However, before she could try to explain this, Kaede herself grew distracted as the civilian captain from the King's entourage approached her.

"Kaede, is your name?"

Kaede spun around as the beefy, broad-shouldered man who appeared to be in his forties took off a floppy fur cap, revealing a head of snow white bedhair.

"You're a Samaran skywhale captain?" Kaede's wispy voice barely let out, her lips left gaping in astonishment.

His weathered cheeks and crystal blue eyes nodded with a tense smile.

"Her Highness the Princess mentioned that you are a... familiar," he worded with hesitance, clearly finding the circumstances bizarre.

Kaede nodded back:

"I was summoned by Pascal Kay Lennart von Moltewitz, the Landgrave of Nordkreuz and Her Highness' fiancé."

"I'm Captain Markov, Grand Republic Merchant Alliance," he offered a large palm to Kaede, who gladly shook it in return.

"It's unusual to find a non-mercantile Samaran in these parts, let alone as a familiar," Markov continued, his countenance more relaxed in the wake of her smile. "Would you and... your master... like to join me this mid-afternoon for some coffee? King Alistair's soldiers should be finished unloading everything by then."

Kaede couldn't help but grin. Ever since she arrived in Hyperion, she had been wondering how real Samarans lived like. Now all of a sudden, she was being invited to coffee by one?

"I'm not sure how free we are yet, but I would love to join you."

----- * * * -----

It was late afternoon by the time Pascal and Kaede finished their inspection of the riverfront defenses.

A tense atmosphere had fallen over the entire encampment. Those on the front lines could hear the distant hammering from Cataliyan siege engineers, see the crashing of trees as they test fired boulders. Palisades and earthworks layered the shores between watchtowers and redoubts. The last bridges over the river demolished; the last boats filled with oil and hay as fire ships.

Everywhere, soldiers could be seen sharpening weapons while chatting, or praying in mass, or simply enjoying the tune of a fiddler as they watched the distant sun fell.

For many, it would be the last peaceful night of their lives.

At this time, Kaede and Pascal were receiving a brief tour of the 'ship' from Captain Markov.

"Ballistae?" Kaede eyed the aft weapon platforms just beyond the armory room.

"Three rune-bolt propeller-spun repeating ballistae per flank, just in case we come across any 'bandits'," Markov leered. "My Master-at-Arms could tell you more about them, but most of the crew have gone to visit the city."

Kaede had the feeling that few brigands would dare pick a fight against an armored skywhale. It was far more likely that the armaments existed to deter ambitious lords from seizing his goods.

After all, she thought: this thing easily carried more than an entire trade caravan...

Markov soon led them to the mess room, with a handcrafted oaken table and rich wall fabrics that reminded Kaede of 19th century steamship cabins. It would seem that skywhaling was a lucrative enough occupation.

"Please, sit."

As she was the main guest for once, Kaede pulled out a chair and sat down even before Pascal did... which did not escape the Captain's notice.

"Are you partaking in the battle tomorrow?" she asked as the Captain paced to a nearby counter, where a silver samovar boiler sat.

The Captain began to prepare the coffee, his back turned towards them.

"Oh no, definitely not!" He firmly declared. "Transporting Gleann Mòr forces into a battle zone? I'm toeing the line of neutrality as it is. Any more involvement and the Merchant Alliance will toss me out on my butt."

"I am already surprised that you are willing to go this far," Pascal spoke next.

"I have a long-running contract with King Alistair to transport much-needed supplies. What supplies? Where? Well that's none of my business..."

Kaede could hear hot water being poured as a steamy aroma wafted across the room.

"--So as you can see, I'm simply fulfilling a business contract that I am honor-bound to."

She had to smile at that.

"You're on pretty good relations with the King then?"

"My family's been carrying intercontinental trade to the Gleann Mòr nobles for generations," Markov answered. "Northerners in general value trust far more than a good deal, and we've kept that trust for well over a century."

Kaede had to agree with that. Whether it was Russia or Scandinavia or Manchuria, the harsh climate always forced cultures to be more communal and accountable.

Grabbing a tin tray from the kitchen, the Captain soon carried over three steaming cups of coffee to the table, plus additives including sugar, honey, syrup, and even two types of jam.

"Might taste a little dull. I take shortcuts with the filter; too used to having my First Mate brew this."

Kaede voiced her thanks as Markov handed her the first cup. A deep breath of that rich coffee fragrance sent energy straight into her brain.

It's nice to be not treated as second class for once...

She snuck a peek at Pascal. If he had any complaints about this switching of roles, he didn't show it.

Of course, he's used to sitting next to the Princess...

"Do Samarans drink coffee often?" he was far more curious.

"Fairly, more so with guests over," Markov sat down at the table's head. "Wine, beer, ale, none of that works on us. Got to have something to keep our energy up in the freezing cold."

"Hot tea?" Kaede asked.

Even back on Earth, people often forgot that the 'Tea Road' passed through Siberia, giving the Russians a tea culture that -- in her biased opinion -- was no less sophisticated than Britain's.

"Used to be the national drink, until we fought a century-long war with the Dawn Imperium," Markov took a sip. "It's rebound some thanks to greater supply -- 70% of intercontinental trade from the Far East to the Trinitian world does run through Samara. But tea has never quite recovered its leading status. Besides... coffee is stronger."

Same story as the United States then, Kaede thought.

"So young man," the Captain turned to Pascal, completely forgoing any noble honorifics. "I heard you summoned a Samaran for a familiar. Mind telling me how that happened?"

For a brief second, Pascal looked like a deer in headlights. He was obviously not used to being talked down to by a complete stranger. But he soon recovered his footing and indulged Markov nonetheless:

"I wanted an intelligent, mature, and cute girl around my age for a familiar companion instead of some stupid animal. Therefore I rewrote my familiar summoning spell and..." he stared at Kaede with a satisfied smirk. "There she was."

"Just like that?"

Markov's eyebrows shot up as his gaze fell upon his two guests in turns.

Kaede, meanwhile, stirred and inhaled her coffee before deciding to tell him:

"I'm... I'm also not from this world," she sighed, eyes still nailed to her cup. "This body isn't my original; the summoning spell gave me it and frankly... neither of us knows exactly what happened."

"You're a first-gen then. How long ago was this?"

"About two months."

The Captain nearly choked as he tried to take a sip.

"You've... certainly grown..."

"Ha-ha," Kaede faked a laugh. "No, I was this size from the start..."

"Little thinner around the waist," Pascal interjected, earning him a glare.

But she soon set the topic back:

"What do you mean by 'first-gen'?"

Markov coughed one last time before clearing his throat.

"Your first time reincarnated as a Samaran."

"Doesn't that imply that I died first?" she countered.

"Didn't you?"

"Maybe? I have no memories of it either way, just that I fell asleep and woke up like... this."

"Well," Markov stirred his cup. "I've never heard of a Samaran who jumped bodies while still alive. I doubt it's even possible."

His unerring gaze then locked onto her sight.

"Chances are you died from something, even if you don't remember it."

"That is what I said too," Pascal added.

It brought him a second glare, which made him smile as though he found it cute.

The idea that Kaede actually died was upsetting. His last memory was that of falling asleep on an living room couch. Did the home burn down? Did the stove leak and poisoned him with carbon monoxide?

What happened to the rest of my family?

Kaede shut her eyes and held her head. There was no way for her to verify what had happened on Earth. Even if she could be certain about her death, she could do nothing about it, do nothing to console her grieving parents.

What would she accomplish by worrying about it?

Nothing.

She could only try her hardest to lock these thoughts away once more.

Besides, part of her still refused to accept 'death' as the answer.

"Well, do you know of any Samaran who just happens to pop out in a fully grown body then?" she inquired.

"Not from between the legs."

Markov's deadpan reply almost jerked a snort out of Pascal. Meanwhile Kaede rolled her eyes in exasperation.

"I'm serious."

"Well..." Markov left his half-drank coffee alone and stared back with intent. "It's certainly not normal. I don't think I've ever heard of it outside of folk tales."

"Folk tales?"

"Yes. Some mythical, but some connected to real people," he explained. "The most famous one belonged to our Grand Marshal -- it's said that his first incarnation came to this world during Samara's worst days in the Great Eastern War; he arrived with decades of experience in warfare, a perfect understanding of strategy, operations, and tactics. Within just two years, he completely turned the tables against the Dawn Imperium, driving them out from Samaran territory when we had been on the verge of defeat."

"Are these tales common?" Kaede asked again.

"Not terribly, but not rare either. Visit any region, and you'll find a smattering."

"So... you reckon that's what I am also?"

The Captain pursed his lips as he brushed his beard.

"Hard to say... Maybe the Immortals played a joke on you, instead of simply letting the Sky-Father send you through the normal cycle."

"Why would they do that?" Kaede retorted, somewhat upset at the prospect.

"Why wouldn't they?" Markov shrugged. "Just because they're enlightened sages doesn't mean they lack a sense of humor. You were going to be reborn anyway; is it so bad that you kept some good memories from a past life?"

"How can you be sure that my memories are good?"

"Because Samarans do not maintain bad memories between lives; at least, not guilty ones."

Seeing confusion reflected in Kaede's eyes, the Captain launched into another full explanation:

"The Samarans' reincarnation is a path to enlightenment, a cycle of purification. We retain chunks of our memories, our accumulated wisdom, every time we're reborn. But the amount varies with circumstance. There's no 'rulebook' out there for exactly how this works, but the commonly accepted wisdom is that the more at peace your moral conscience is, the more you'll carry onto the next life. In fact -- it is believed that only humans who died at peace with their lives, but have yet to accept themselves as wise enough for deliverance, are reborn as a Samaran..."

Kaede nodded. It would make sense, assuming she was to accept the 'death' theory. His childhood was merry, peaceful, and spent with a calm, introspective demeanor that had matured early; while he might not be completely free of regrets, there were certainly none that tugged on the conscience.

"--But by the same token, the more regretful you are with your life choices, the less you'll receive in return."

"Then..."

"It doesn't mean we won't retain any memories of mistakes or failure," Markov added. "But if it's an experience that you have learned from: failed friendships, failed marriage, failed business -- those you might retain, assuming you come to peace with them. But an ethical failure? A failure that claws against your moral conscience? You cannot truly come to peace with those. All you can do is repent and bury them."

Scenes that haunted Kaede's dreams night after night resurfaced in her thoughts: the holocaust of flames; those burning men with peeling, molten flesh; that severed arm accompanied by blood-curling screams.

The Captain's words rang like a final verdict.: your cannot truly come to peace...

Her body chilled as she grappled with dread -- that such memories would plague her forever this life.

"--And when you're reborn, those sinful memories will latch onto entire periods of your life, tearing gaping holes in your past and pulling them away from you," Markov's warning resounded like divine judgment to Kaede. "Since all intelligent beings inevitably gain reason, understanding, and therefore empathy through experience, only those who embrace a virtuous path are guaranteed to regret less, to lose less of their accumulated wisdom across the span of generations."

So... if I die, I probably won't remember any of these past months.

"What happens if a Samaran remembers nothing of their past then?" Kaede asked.

"If a soul is so burdened by guilt that they retain nothing, it is believed they'll fall from the cycle and be returned to the great beyond," Markov remarked with sadness as he stirred the lukewarm coffee. "Because of this, to commit suicide is considered the gravest taboo for a Samaran. To us, there is no such thing as incurable pains or terminal illnesses, only desolation to life itself."

His crystal-blue gaze stared at Kaede, before glancing to Pascal, and then back to Kaede.

"It's why we take care of our own," he declared. "To us Samarans, death is just another chance at life. But to be forced to live a dreary life until our will is eroded into a barren glacier -- that, would be a true crime against life and decency."

At that precise moment, Pascal's alertness suddenly spiked. Alarms screeched over the empathic feedback as he kicked aside his chair and spun around, runic pebbles flying to between fingers as his other hand grasped the handle of his sheathed courtblade.

The contest wasn't even close...

His eyes stared point-blank down the groove of a wrist-mounted crossbow, its nail-sized bolt ready to drill into his temple.

Even with her familiar-enhanced senses, Kaede never even noticed when the girl snuck behind them. She was twenty-five at most, wearing pitch black garments that contrasted with her short, snowy hair. Her shoulder patches bore three white stars and a gray dagger placed atop a steel kite shield, an unmistakable commander badge for the Samaran Shadow Guards -- trained killers who protected Samaran interests across the world.

"Stop," Kaede felt her lips order, detached yet never more assure.

"Don't hurt him."

...