Si Deus Nobiscum: A Polish-Lithuanian Scion Quest

[Rolman]

The air in your chamber is cool, as it has been for a week or so. It chills the sweat on your brow, makes the compresses on your forehead dry and sticky.

"This could kill you, you could exsanguinate unduly," says the German physician in flowing Latin, his surgeon beside him. "And it may not right your humors, either. But the flesh is only dead in just one spot – you still have a chance."

He has explained the procedure – an experimental thing – designed for wounds produced by shot rather than by stabbing, so as to remove the poison that is gunpowder. He has a theory that the knife with which you were stabbed was contaminated due to the presence of gunsmoke and spilled powder, or that at least this method could draw out some other sort of unknown toxin. The physician Brunschwig devised the treatment almost eighty years ago, but never before has it been applied in such a manner: your cauterized wound will be reopened, drained of blood and pus, and swabbed with a cotton seton soaked in oil of garlic, cloves, and oregano, combined with a touch of honey. Then, a page will be taken out of the book of Paré (whom you fondly recall from the Louvre, giving you no small amount of confidence) and Paracelsus. While the latter disagreed with the principle of suppuration – this physician does not – the usual treatment of boiling oil or re-cauterization will instead be replaced with suturing once more, followed by the application of a bandage soaked in turpentine, pork lard, and egg yolks. Then, you will be surrounded with roses and herbs and other good-smelling things, bloodlet once more, and left to rest. At least, that's what you should be doing – but you've got work to do. You'll be on crutches, but you must make it to the Convocation.

"It will be extremely painful, start to finish," says the physician. "I recommend you get drunk beforehand."

You swallow. "I have to do it," you say. "I have to get my strength back. I trust you, medicus. Stay here and prepare your tools – give me a moment, though."

"Of course, Your Serene Highness," the learned man nods.

You send a servant for Mariana, Marszowski, and two bottles of strong German wermut.

Mariana arrives first, in her Austrian-inspired court attire, radiant as usual. You smile at her; she returns a weary one. "Pull up a chair," you say.

She begins to carry one over to your bedside. "God, you look so pale," she says. "Pale but so red." She places a hand on your cheek – you feel a good kind of warm. "Burning up."

"The Virgin will protect me," you say. "Either that, or I can only hope to die well and happy."

"Don't say that!" she exclaims, nearly half-angry. You sense her fear. "You're young, you can beat it back. The humors are strong in young folk."

"It's true, but look at me," you say. "I need to start making peace with my situation. I've seen strong soldiers die in one night and two days, stronger men than me."

"You call on me to tell me you're ready to die," she says, voice wavering. You can't read her face. "That's cruel, Stanisław. Even if the Reaper takes who he wishes, and at any age, that's cruel."

The servant stands furtively in the doorway, bottles and glasses in hand. It almost looks like the poor man is trying to inch out of sight.

"Enter, enter," you say, waving him in. "A glass for myself and the Princess."

"Right away. Would His and Her Serene Highnesses like to be left undisturbed?" he asks as he brings over a small table, removes the wooden stopper from the first bottle, and begins to pour carefully. Poor fellow, ever so tactful. Servants are smart like that.

"Yes, please," you say. "Shut the door behind you and knock when you've retrieved Sir Marszowski."

"Of course, Your Serene Highness."

You effortfully begin to sit up to retrieve your glass, but Mariana hands it to you without a word. She doesn't seem angry necessarily, just…

Tell her what's happening. "I'm having surgery performed on me today, in a few hours. We'll all drink to loosen up, toughen up – you, me, Marszowski, all of us," you say. "I want the two of you here with me in case something happens."

"Oh," she says, blinking rapidly. You explain the procedure. "Well, it sounds… I don't know how it sounds, that's for physicians. Turpentine works! I had a bad cut once when I was a girl."

You take a greedy swig of the wermut. Mariana matches you. You smack your lips at its strong herbal bitterness: it would be improper to have a lady throw back gorzała, and this is the runner-up in terms of strength. "You used to drink too much," she says.

"I did."

"If I had the servants give you this stuff instead of French red…" she chuckles and smiles, but looks utterly weary.

"Have you been sleeping?" you ask.

"Not quite." You haven't shared a chamber since you've had to be bundled up like this. "I just sit there waiting for a priest to call on me." You squint. "So I can be there when you die."

"Oh."

"Indeed."

You tip back the glass again and shiver. "Well," you smile, "I wouldn't mind going out seeing your face before the ceiling opens up."

"You're a gentleman," she says, probably sincere. "That's what you think it's like? The ceiling opens up?"

"Yes. And Gabriel and Michael and Raphael come down and carry you out of your body. And then you see His face, His Son and Mother by His side."

"That's grand," she says. "I always thought it would be more like… Have you ever had a dream where you see yourself?"

"No."

"I imagine there's a blink," she says, "the final blink, the closing of the eyes for the last time." She extends a palm, looking past you. "And then you're standing next to your body, and the Savior comes down and you take Him by the hand. There will be a flight of stairs." It's like she's staring out to sea.

"Perhaps it's because I was raised a prince that I think there'd be a fanfare," you muse.

"Perhaps. But again," she at last looks at you, "I don't think it's your time yet." She sucks her lips in. "I don't want it to be."

You cock back your glass and finish it. "Mariana, do you love me?"

"Love you?" She smiles broadly. She's glad you asked, you think, but: "Stanisław, I hardly know you. It's been two years and you spent a good deal of it, well… It's not like we're serfs who grew up together–"

"We met at a dance like peasants do," you tease. You're not offended. You know you acted a fool somewhat. Even if it was to glorify God.

"But I do fancy you, fool. And I always have." She sighs. "Lying with you is…" Her eyes hood slightly.

You snort, feeling a bit like the cock of the walk, pleasing memories of ecstasy flashing behind your eyes. "I just wish it didn't open my stitches. What a mess this has become."

She chuckles, but looks guilty. "I shouldn't have…"

"No, no, don't blame yourself."

She stares into your eyes. "Well, do you love me?"

You exhale a half-laugh of disbelief, shocked by the fact that you do not know. And that's what you say. "I don't know."

"Charming. Gentlemanly, even."

"I'm sorry!" you exclaim to the tune of her laughter. "There were girls in France who threw themselves at me, but I never wanted it. Courtesans, bold ladies-in-waiting, older women… I just… didn't," you say. "But when I saw you down that feasting table, it was the first time I really, truly, wanted someone." That's how you remember it. A want.

"You've never seen a prostitute? When you were a bachelor, that is?"

"No. Why do you think I was so shaky when I first had you in my hands?"

She hums. "Yes, I do recall making the first moves…"

"Oh, shut it, don't rub it in." You remember her taking off that corset as clear as day, how you reached out for her in the middle of the night and found her body. Breath mingling, heat mixing. She smelled of rosemary and lavender. "It was good."

"Yes, yes it was. The older ladies told me not to expect much growing up. Men don't know that we speak of such things." You're a little shocked at the thought of ladies talking of sex amongst themselves. "But it was good."

She reaches out and strokes your cheek. "So…" there's that tone again. The kind that raises the hair on your neck in a good way. "So, you may love me."

"I don't know," you say once more.

"It's proper for a man to love a woman, but for his love to remain aloof," she says, leaning in closer and closer to your face.

"Dark Age chivalry," you say, suddenly approaching flusteredness.

"Dark Age chivalry," she agrees, "some kind of Western romance."

She kisses you, deep and long, humming into it. She withdraws and taps your nose. Are those tears in her eyes? "So don't you die on me yet, knight. Prince. I want you to keep wanting me."

You feel like several different colors at once, and forget that you're sick. You lean in for more and thump-thump-thump. Mariana draws back quickly, smooths out the ruffles in her dress. They're here.

"Enter," you call out, more than a little annoyed, as your wife rises to her feet.

You haven't seen Marszowski in a good bit, and he definitely isn't looking great. He's skinny and pale, red-eyed and blemished like a young lad. "Your Serene Highness!" he exclaims; if you could only hear his voice, you'd be none the wiser. He strides up to your bedside, kisses a smiling Mariana's extended hand, and then bows low before you. "You're still with us yet!"

"So far, so good," you croak. "And you look half-dead!" you manage to joke.

"I don't know what's worse, the Pox or the mercury, but I'm not partial to meeting my Creator at the moment," Marszowski says. "Goddamned teeth are starting to get loose. But the rashes are gone."

"Are you in pain?"

"Oh, yes," your fencing master smiles. "Tingling, burning… But it's far from the first time I've found myself in the possession of suffering." Mortification is a good thing, after all, a gift from God in a backwards way – you try to remind yourself that.

"God bless you, sir," says Mariana. "I can see why my husband admires you." Ha! You're jealous! She means absolutely nothing by that, you know.

"Well," you declare, pointing to the bottles. "This wermut won't drink itself. I'm having a surgery performed today, Sir Marszowski."

"Wise prince to get drunk for it," he nods knowingly. "Nasty business. God willing, it brings you back."

"Indeed," you say, Mariana handing you another glass

And, indeed, the three of you try to keep things light as possible, talking about anything and everything: the leaves of the trees changing color, the birds flying off to wherever they go – and theorizing whether they change their shape for the winter or simply live elsewhere – the goings-on of the Sejm camp, the gossip amongst the magnates' wives. Laughter builds and you feel warm through your fever's chill, like your belly has turned into a gently-burning oven. Your head is light and it's hard to repress your smile.

You muster up the courage at last. "All good things must come to an end," you say. "Servant!" you address the man waiting diligently by the door. "Summon the physician and surgeon."

They arrive with their bags of tools. Your blanket-bundle is unwrapped and lowered to reveal your naked body. God, you can see your ribs, your stomach looks sucked in. You're pale. And that leg. Yellow and red and purple for the span of about a fist's worth, a little black bullseye appearing where the cauter struck it. It stings, exposed to the open air. Mariana covers her mouth, reaching out for your hand and squeezing it, worry in her eyes but not a trace of disgust. Marszowski cocks his head and grimaces.

The surgeon hands you a thick leather strap as the physician places a pan between your legs. "Bite down, Your Serene Highness."

You do. The physician speaks cooly and calmly. "Surgeon, apply ligatures above the knee and below the hip," he says in Latin.

"Yessir."

You exhale through your nose as your wounded thigh is exposed to pressure from below and above, squeezing it by proxy. Mariana continues to grip your hand. Is that your sweat or hers?

"Make the incisions and shear off the dying flesh," says the physician. "Take care around the artery."

You stop watching and begin to groan, fixating on the ceiling as your inner thigh is set alight with stabbing pain. Tears well unbidden in your eyes. Mariana hisses. Marszowski mutters an oath.

"Express the wound, surgeon."

"Yessir."

Ah! Pressure, pressure, awful pressure! He's squeezing hard. You knit your brow and moan, and you slam your free hand into the sheets and grip hard. They speak amongst themselves in German, sounding focused.

"Good, good, much pus and little blood. That's a good sign, my lord. The cleansing seton, surgeon."

You writhe in place, almost howling, hurting your teeth on the strap. He must be stretching out the wound. "Hold his leg, hold his leg," says the physician, as you feel further pressure on your knee. There's a burning now, layered atop the stabbing and the pushing and the aching. It's exquisite in its horrendousness. "Just a moment more, Your Serene Highness."

"It's looking better, lord prince," says Marszowski. Is he just saying that?

"Remember to breathe, remember to breathe," adds your wife. "Breathe deep, like a birthing woman."

"Surgeon, begin to suture the wound."

Your breathing slows as the stabbing turns to a mere burn – a very relative thing. You're sweating hard and your vision's tunneled, light in the head beyond what the wermut could do to you. You're able to be a bit more quiet, now raggedly growling. You feel your skin tightening up with every rise of the surgeon's arm, just barely visible in your lower periphery. There's a fly on the ceiling. You realize you've been digging your nails into Mariana's palm, and you untense your hand as much as you can afford to.

"Well-stitched, surgeon," compliments the physician. "Apply the bandage. This will sting, Your Serene Highness."

"Mhm. Mhm," you say through your grimacing face and biting teeth. You feel your leg raised by a pair of hands, and you hiss as the cloth makes contact with your leg. Indeed, that's quite a sting. But it's not the worst bit of the ordeal. You pull a clump of bedsheet into your hand once more as the bandages tighten with each revolution around your thigh, before your leg is gingerly placed back onto the bed. It's fiery-feeling and stinging indeed, no doubt about that, but you no longer feel the need to bite the strap. This you can handle. You remove the leather from your mouth yourself. "Holy Virgin, oh, Jesus, wow…" you laugh the kind of laugh that you can only produce in or after battle, as you've recently learned.

"Very good, Your Serene Highness," says the physician. "A success."

"Praise God," you say.

The surgeon smiles humbly. "Je le pansai, Dieu le guérit," he says.

You recognize those words. You find the poise in you to switch to French, even though the man's a German. "I knew Seigneur Paré, you know, from my time in France. And I'm glad you know him, too," you say, extending your arm to give him a handshake. May it prove true that he's the best medicus money can buy.

"Well, as I said, only God can truly heal you," he says, raising his cap and swiping a hand through his hair. "But I do try and use the latest techniques."

You're given the customary bloodletting, the surgeon squeezing wounds into his half-full pan from temple to anklebone. A combination of honey and hyssop oil is smeared on your bare chest to provide a good odor, and a bushel of dried sage is placed between your legs. "I must recommend at least several days' bedrest, surrounded by this sanitary air. You are weakened from loss of blood, Your Serene Highness, and further miasma may prove fatal. Infection could start anew."

You shake your head. "No, no. Today's Convocation Day – I must show my face."

"Stani– my lord," stumbles Mariana.

"You're sure of that, Your Serene Highness?" asks Marszowski.

The physician looks stormy, in his eyes a mix of anger and confusion and maybe even a pinch of fear; the surgeon looks bored, tired. "Of course, I cannot stop Your Serene Highness, but it is my strongest medical advice that you remain confined to bed until the bleeding ceases and any swelling goes down."

"Fetch me some crutches," you call out to the servant, fidgeting in place at the end of the room.

"Yes, Your Serene Highness."

The physician sighs and steps back. "Very well, Your Serene Highness." He and the surgeon excuse themselves with terse bows.

The crutches are delivered, you're helped into your heaviest winter clothes, and you hoist yourself to your feet – foot – aided by Mariana and Sir Marszowski. "The good leg is very good," you joke, to their grim laughter. "Just give me a moment, I've never used these things before." Your head is starting to hurt, and it feels as if it only amplifies the grinding ache of your leg. "Call for the entourage, Sir Marszowski, we move out at once."

You turn to Mariana, eyes bigger than usual. "I'll be alright," you say.

"I'm not so sure, honestly. But go with God."

"Thank you."

Your arms shake as you use the crutches and your head pounds harder and harder, beating you to even more hellish heights as you expose yourself to direct sunlight beyond the city gates. You give up as your good leg feels on the verge of buckling. "A chair! A litter. I think I need a litter."

A litter only slightly better than a common stretcher is quickly fashioned, a few pillows placed atop it for comfort. Cold beer is fetched for you, which you greedily drink down. Good for strength, it is; you'll be needing the energy. You're so focused you've forgotten that you're drunk atop it all. Your lieutenants carry you into the sea of colorful tents. You've already missed the opening ceremony.

Men part before you, peering curiously or hailing Ajaks, the wounded hero of Zawadówka. You're taken through the throng to the Senat's meeting place, and carefully deposited in the chair of the Castellan of Orsza, on one of the rearmost benches. Heads turned all the while as you were carried in, and indeed your seat-neighbors now talk to you all at once, hushed and hurried, inquiring about your wellness as much as they congratulate you on your victory. You look down and see a drop of blood blotting through your pantleg. You exhale.

Here, amongst the Senators, you are in a friendly place. Zamoyski and his people are too low-ranking, and the great men of the realm all want a Habsburg – even the men who profess Reformation. Some bishop is already speaking.

"...indeed, we know that it is in the interest of the Crown as much as it is in the interest of the Holy Church to bring about the Archduke as our new…"

You can really hear your own breathing. Thankfully, your lungs and nose and throat have been left alone by the infection. It's hard to concentrate in this state, but you understand that you need only sit here, especially for a meeting of the Senat – save your energy for the general Sejm.

You lean your sweaty head into the back of your chair, and find it hard to stay awake. You check your leg: some blood, but not too much. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. Heavy eyelids and a fading, falling sensation. Falling, falling, falling.

It's dark. Shapes and colors, dark green and black-shrouded blue dance across your vision. A distant voice orates. Am I dead?

No, only sleeping, nearly sleeping. You are very weak, and you feel it in all of you: through the wermut-haze you can sense the heaviness of your body, the heat radiating off of your heavy clothes, the way how the tiny, fractional space between skin and fabric might as well be filling with steam. God, I'm sick.

Air out through your nose. Something touches you, jostling you lightly. It's your left shoulder. "...Highness…"

"...Prince…"

You emerge from the depths. "Your Serene Highness." A fellow Castellan is shaking you. "Oh, praise God."

"Thought he was dying," says another Senator quietly, facing backwards in his seat. The bishop has stopped to watch. "You seem very ill, lord prince."

[] Now's your chance!

Hoist yourself up and raise that voice and tell them of your glorious victory, the source of your illness. Sure, it's not the general Sejm, but word travels fast, and lordlings in the crowd always scribble transcripts. Then, hopefully, you can go home for the day.

[] "I'm alright." Call out to the bishop: "please continue!"

Don't draw attention to yourself. You could kill for some water or weak beer. All you need to be is *here.*

[] "Honorable Senators, I think I must excuse myself."

Why lie? They all can see it. This was a bad idea.

 

[Rolman]

"Honorable Senators, I think I must excuse myself," you say. "Please continue, Your Excellency," you call out to the orating bishop. The burst of strength that allowed you to do so immediately fades. Your ears ring at a lower pitch than they do when exposed to gunfire, like the bass singers in a choir.

Your lieutenants, ever in earshot, hustle over to you with the litter. Marszowski, the genius bastard, starts up. "See how the Lithuanian Ajaks is stricken with a festered wound from his glorious victory!" he cries out; you can barely hear him. God Almighty, everything is so bright. "And see how he still performs his duties, stopped only by failure of the body itself!"

You remove your cap and painfully wave it at the assembled Senators, as you're helped to a shaky foot and plopped into the litter. They cheer loudly, but you don't quite feel the rush from that. Beyond the heads of your men, only the sky is above. Not yet do tent-tops block the view of a crisp, clear, autumn's day, the sun obscured by the towers of Warszawa, down by your feet. You think that if this is the last time you see the heavens from the ground then you're a lucky man indeed – it had been nothing but rain and gloom for days before. Blue as a Crimean's flag, this sky is.

The noise becomes almost unbearable as you're carried back out into the camp's main lane, countless faces taking their turns to peer down at you: smiling, frowning, proud, concerned, blank, curious. You blearily shake hands with people you don't know, smiling weakly, brain fogged up and struggling to stay awake. Your eyes close once more, and you descend into the sea. Fragments of voices and glimpses of sun as your consciousness crashes and recedes like waves.

Ave Radzivilius, ave Ajax! What happened? What happened? …You think he'll… …Well, I can't *smell* it rotting, so… …Faster, faster, get him to the… …Your Serene Highness? Lord Prince? Pater Noster, qui es in… Amen. …The Lord bless you and keep you, the Lord make his face to… …Get a priest, God damn you, there isn't, this isn't… …Oleum infirmorum, for the Unction… Do you hear how he's breathing? …I can't tell if it's… His eyes, look! His eyes are–

Music. Nothing of the heavenly sort. The droning blare of a koza, somewhere in the distance, playing some happy peasant tune. It's mixed in with the sounds of humans and animals. You recognize this. It's the buzz of city streets. The sky has been narrowed by overhangs, turned into a vertical strip. Men are yelling "get back!" You feel the falling once more and plunge back under the cold water.

You are sleeping. Or something similar to it. Once more there is a blackness of falling gray waves, splotches of dark green and night-dulled violet, punctuated by an orange-red center, a warmth on your face beyond that of your flushing fever telling you, somehow, in the wound-sleep, that you are still alive.

You are dreaming. Or perhaps seeing things, as it were. Shapes are forming. What comes out of the dark?

[] write-in.

Ideas include religious imagery, memories both sweet and sour, a regression into childhood. This might be the end for you, so think through what it is you see. It can be as long as you'd like, but be reasonable.

 

[Rolman]

A world is coming out of the dark, something terrible and grand is taking shape before your eyes: you hear horses, the clanking of metal, a Wild Field stretching endlessly in all directions. It rolls out in front of you like turf. Everything sounds too fast. You look to your left and right, and find your comrades looking to you: a healthy Marszowski, men you know to be both living and slain, all the princes and lords and senators you've ever met. Yes, yes, you are on the battle-line again. A bright day, but there is no sun in the sky. The blue stretches on and on, the blue of the Virgin.

She is somewhere amongst those barbarians. You smell rosemary and lavender on the wind, facing the heathen host, all arrayed under their banners, dull in parts, glistening in others, and you know that behind them lie their captives. "I'm here, Stanisław," she says, whispering in both ears at once. "Come to me. I need you."

You draw your saber and it's blinding with gleaming light, like staring into the sun itself. Your pistol already steams and smokes with dragon's breath. You call for the charge but do not hear yourself.

Men move like they're underwater, drawing sabers languidly, cranking the wheels of their pistols as if performing surgery. Trumpets blow from the skies, and a brilliant light forces you to avert your gaze. You see flashes of wings and longswords and a shining cuirass, a revolving wheel of fire. A voice booms in an ancient tongue.

But you must look down, you have to. Now, everything is fast, impossibly fast, as your horse flies as quickly as an arrow, clods of dirt flying up past your peripheral as if levitating. Sound returns: the pistol fire that should be deafening instead echoes quietly all about you, your men screaming battlecries – they're words, they're words! – but you can't make out a thing.

You try to look up into the sky once more and, though blinded by the Heavenly Host, you realize that your saber has become as Saint Michael's, with flames shooting off of a white-hot core. You roar with righteous fury as the faceless Tatars approach, flying up to meet you as if falling toward the ground.

"Stanisław." You cannot leave her, you cannot leave her, you cannot leave her.

You take a great swing and a row of heathens ten abreast go up in smoke, their horses free to run as they please. All around, pistols boom with that strange quiet, men battle on horseback and roll about in the dirt, grappling. You swing your flaming sword once more, and take another chunk out of the Tatar line, leaving nothing but cinders and smoke where foemen once stood.

You slash for an inordinate amount of time, like a man clearing brush. It could've been a minute, it could've been an hour. And then you see them. A huddled mass, supine or on their knees, shackled together.

"Mariana!" You can at last hear yourself. "Mariana, I'm here!"

"Look at me, Stanisław, look at me," she replies desperately, everywhere and nowhere. You whip your head around searching for her. "Keep your eyes open and look at me."

You shove captives aside, clawing and pulling and asking their half-formed faces for help. "Mariana!" She sounds close, then far, then close again.

Something terrible and painful shoots through you. It's coming from your lower half, and hurts worse than anything you have ever felt in your entire life. "He'll break his teeth," you hear her say. "God – oh, my God!" She sounds terrified. "Stanisław!"

Water pours from the sky; you look up and are nearly drowned, filling your mouth, stinging your eyes – it tastes of vinegar. They gave Jesus vinegar. You sputter and spit and call out to her: "where are you? Where are you?"

"Your eyes, Stanisław!"

"It's nothing, don't worry! Nothing at all." You wipe at them furiously. "My love, where are you? Nothing. Nothing. It's nothing. Holy Virgin – Mother – what is–"

You look up again. Where is everybody? It's nighttime. Silent. Except for that ringing again. Things are turning black and white and all shades of gray. The battle is over. The bodies sink as if in a mire, bubbling up and fizzing as they descend into nothingness. Your vision closes in on itself. Was it a victory?

You burst out of the ocean, gasping for air, choking on vinegar. A man's voice in the nighttime. "Give him more, keep him calm." You're swigging something that burns. You have to swallow or you'll drown in it. A woman is crying, other voices mutter prayers in Latin. Someone touches your forehead, smearing some sort of substance. You pinpoint that terrible pain: your right leg is cold and on fire, an awful pressure from above.

…Misericordiam adiuvet te Dominus gratia Spiritus Sancti, ut a peccatis liberatum… An echoing voice. So far away. Keep breathing. It is hard. Keep breathing.

I am breathing. I am here. I am asleep and awake. I can taste my own mouth.

Another dousing with cold water. This time that's what it is. Water. You smack your lips. "Ligature, surgeon, fast, now." That's only a memory. You had surgery this morning, remember? They put ligatures on you then. You hear something hiss, and smell cooking meat. "Plaster, surgeon."

Focus hard on opening your eyes. Since when were they closed? You know you can do it. "Please, please," a woman pleads.

"Linen," says the man's voice. "The salts."

A terrible smell in your nose, like piss and rot and burning. Cloth shrouding the bottom half of your face; it's wet, it reeks. They're embalming you. You suck in more air, and your eyes fly open. You feel very cold. You're exhausted. You could sleep for a thousand years. You were sleeping. Sleeping, sleeping. Your nostrils feel singed. A man's hand withdraws. Voices from below.

Princess Mariana Sapieha Radziwiłł is staring at you, brown eyes alight and saucer-wide, close to your face. She is framed in white and cream and a sunbeam, her hair done up and face powdered, streaks down from her eyes. She's from a dream. This is a dream. "Don't look down, don't look down. You're awake. Look at me."

[] "I'm dead."

[] "I'm dreaming."

[] "You're not real."

[] "How long has it been?"

[] Just look at her.

[] Try to sit up.

[] Close your eyes again.

 

[Rolman]

You stare back; you just look at her. That's a ceiling around her, not a halo, or maybe just a window? She is the most beautiful woman you have ever seen, the first woman you have ever seen, ever noticed, ever felt a thing for. Those brown eyes, so large and like a deer's as much as a fox's, so capable of turning into daggers or poppies or just a woman's eyes; they smile when she does, they turn stormy with her angry words, they droop and wilt with her tears. Her lips. Full, full lips, warm lips, lips that never quiver no matter what it could have been you put her through, hiding white and straight teeth and a soft tongue you've felt with your own. And there's that little mole on her left cheek, like a shade through her thin dusting of powder, revealed further by the streaks flowing down from her below her eyes. Your bleary mind begins to put it together: she's been crying. Yes, you remember her – how can you forget? She has curled the hair around her ears.

"Don't look down yet," she says, as you feel cloth being drawn over your body. Mariana looks over her shoulder. "Jesus Christ be praised, he just blinked." She turns back to face you. "Stanisław, can you hear me?"

"Yes. You're Mariana."

She exhales with a smile, something that's almost a laugh. "I am."

"Who were you talking to?"

She moves aside, and you begin to blink rapidly as you lift your head up effortfully. You begin to settle into your waking body, so sapped of the boundless strength you felt on the battlefield, wielding the Archangel's sword to save a woman you didn't realize you loved until that moment. Your head is light, your vision nearing a kind of greyscale, you feel hot in the face but cold in the body. That taste in your mouth is vinegar and strong spirits. Your eyes sting, and your right leg hurts as ever.

It's very, very bright, but you force the silhouettes before you to turn into people despite your eyes. You keep blinking; there's Sir Marszowski, and there's the German physician beside his surgeon, both men wearing splotched aprons with dyed hands – is it… blood? – and there's a priest. They all look a little shocked.

"Their Serene Highnesses, your brothers and father, will be here tomorrow, lord prince," says Marszowski, looking much more sickly than he did in the dream, his face scabbed-up and gums dark red. "They were running a bit late from Wilno. A bridge collapse, I'm told. They were already in a great hurry."

"For what?"

"For the Convocation, Your Serene Highness."

It floods back into your mind. This world, the world you're living in, where you are and what you were here to do. "This is Warszawa. There's an election on." Everyone nods. You turn your attention to your wife. "Why are you so made up?"

Her eyes shift around, looking to the men in the room, then to the wall, then to you. "Well, I… I was told to wait outside – I just wanted to look my best – ah…"

"Her Serene Highness insisted she be allowed to watch the procedure," says the physician.

"I wanted to look good so that you'd either wake up to it or see it as you went," she says.

"I don't understand." You remember being on a litter. They were taking you through the streets, but you couldn't see anything, only listen. "I fainted, yes?" They nod. "But then I awoke. They were taking me out of the Sejm camp, and then I was having the most marvelous dream, the Heavenly Host came down and–"

The priest makes the Cross.

"Forgive me, Your Serene Highness," says the medicus, pinching the bridge of his nose, "but can you remember yesterday at all?"

"Yesterday? Why, certainly," you say. " I was laid up here," you gesture around at the bed in which you lie. "You were bloodletting me in preparation for the surgery." Looks are exchanged among all.

"That was not yesterday. That was three days ago."

"What?"

"Yes. It is the Fifth of October," says the physician. His surgeon looks you up and down blankly. "Your Serene Highness, you spent all of yesterday and most of the day before in a daze, thrashing around in a deep sleep. You would open your eyes on occasion – call out – but you were delirious, speaking nonsense."

"And in tongues," says the priest, shooting the man of science a look. "Extreme Unction was issued both yesterday and today, Your Serene Highness. You are absolved, for now."

You weakly Cross yourself at his final words, before knitting your brow. "Extreme Unction? Twice?"

"We weren't sure if you were going to awaken yesterday, lord prince," says Marszowski. "The medicus here said your fever was peaking, that your urine tasted of death."

"And indeed it did – but," the physician smiles. "Here you are."

What about..? "Why was Extreme Unction given to me the second time?" you ask.

Everyone in the room twitches, scratches their head, crosses their arms. Mariana puts a hand to her chin and stares at the floor, as if deep in thought. Her shoulders rise and fall under her padded dress. She begins to fiddle with the cross she's wearing. Marszowski sucks in his lips.

The physician wordlessly draws down your blanket. Your right thigh goes on for about eight inches and then terminates. There just isn't anything there anymore. A ligature of horsehair is tied tightly above a plaster cast, round and blunted at the end. You stare at it and try to comprehend. You know what you're looking at, but you're not seeing it.

"Yesterday, the rot was spreading down to the knee and beyond," he explains. "It would turn upwards next, into Your Serene Highness' entrails and stomach, then the lungs, then the heart, and then death would come. A decision was made."

You don't answer him. "That was this morning. We pray that the fever will recede because of this. It was a clean amputation, Your Serene Highness."

"Very little blood was lost, relatively speaking," says the surgeon, who smiles at you.

You look at him, bewildered. Your mind is utterly empty. What is happening? Where is your leg? "Amputation…" You lean back so that all you can see is the ceiling. Your ears thud and ring. There's been too much ringing these days, too much gunfire and fear and illness. "I'm ruined," you say.

Mariana lets out a dry sob, and then clears her throat. She kneels down beside you, lifts a compress off your forehead that you only now register, and begins stroking your hair. She's inches away from your face, wearing a grimace, jaw tight. The room is silent. You hear someone rifling through what must be a bag, metal and leather shifting.

"God is with you," mutters the priest. He speaks a little louder. "Twice to the brink, twice to Unction, and He kept you. I have never seen such grace in my life."

"He saved you," says the physician. "He has restored you to life, for now. And man can restore you, too." You wipe your eyes. "Your Serene Highness recalls the physician Paré from your time in France?"

"Little good he did," you say, details of the surgery returning. "What am I to–"

"Look, Your Serene Highness."

You truly do not want to, but you groan as you sit up once more. The physician is holding an open book before you, on the right-hand page a numbered and lettered schema. It is complex and full of lines and circles and cylinders, like a clock or something, you don't know. On the left is a knight's greave. "This is Seigneur Paré's design for a false leg. It possesses a hinge at the knee that will allow Your Serene Highness to do nearly everything short of running: sitting in a saddle, kneeling for prayer – I have heard of soldiers walking up to ten French leagues in a day with these devices."

"We've already copied down the plan and sent a messenger to Kraków with a fat purse, looking for carpenters and smiths and tinkerers and those sorts," says Marszowski, mustering up a smile. "You'll be walking again in no time."

"I'm still ill," you say flatly. "This fever may take me."

"Don't say that," says Mariana into your ear, breath on your cheek. "You were fighting in your sleep. You're a hussar."

"Ajax Lithuaniensis," adds Marszowski, placing his hands on his hips. He's never been so proud. "Everyone's talking about you at the Sejm camp – you're a hero."

"I'm no hero. I did what was necessary."

"And not only did you succeed in doing so, but you did it without pissing yourself," laughs Marszowski. "That's a hero."

"I'm an invalid now," you say, voice cracking. "A cripple."

Mariana shushes you gently. "Enough of that, enough of that."

"God has seen it fit that you live," cautions the priest. "It is best to focus on that. Pain is a sign of survival."

"Perhaps," you reply. It's good that there's a man of God here.

"We shall do our utmost to stem the fever, Your Serene Highness," says the physician. "Because of your weakened state, we cannot bleed you for some time, but we will continue with the regimen of protective odors, good oils and powders of herbs," he explains. "We shall see your diet committed to rebalancing the humors in the direction of the phlegmatic-melancholic."

These words mean nothing. These words will not bring back your leg. You will never be whole again. Let the fever take you, forget all of this… Under the plaster, whatever is there is throbbing with pain.

"Is there anymore drink?" you ask. "I want gorzała." The bottle is quickly produced for you; you swig from it greedily. Ambrosia, manna, burning calm. Mariana remains stooped by your side.

You wipe your lip and say:

[] "Let me be. All of you."

[] "I'd like to try sleeping now."

[] "Leave me with my wife, sirs."

[] "God, I'm starving."

[] "Where are my letters?"

[] "I would like to speak to the father alone, please."

 

[Rolman]

"Leave me with my wife, sirs," you say. "Thank you."

The men in the room mumble: Of course… Yes… Right away, Your Serene Highness… God keep you, Your Serene Highness.

You listen to your own steady breathing and feel the painless sting of tears welling up, feeling the lump in your throat take shape; Mariana breathes into your neck. You stare at the ceiling.

When the shuffling of fabric and leather-soled footfalls cease and the door latches shut, you at last let go. You can count the times you've cried on perhaps one hand since you've sprouted chin hairs – during prayer doesn't count – and this is by far the worst, the hardest. You feel like half a man as your body curls up at the abdomen, tense and pushing as if vomiting and, open-mouthed and trying not to wail, you let out near-silent, breathy sobs, wanting to scream and stifling yourself. No words come as your body heaves. Mariana just keeps stroking your hair, shushing you as if a babe. "All will be well, Stanisław, all will be well" and "you're a soldier, Stanisław" and "You'll have a new leg, Stanisław" – repeated again and again as you shake and cry yourself into a numbed, dripping nose and a headache beyond the one yielded by fever. As the shock wears off and you grow more and more weary, you feel the pain in your thigh, even pain where your leg should be. Throbbing, aching pain, mixed with an awful raw sharpness.

Time passes, and you dry yourself out of tears. You realize how drunk you are, and half-dimly understand they must have filled you with liquor before and during the surgery this morning. You're starving. "I'm drunk and hungry," you observe aloud. "I haven't eaten in days, have I?"

Mariana draws back and places the compress back on your forehead. Her eyes brimming with feeling. She has not cried further herself. "Nothing but vinegar, gorzała, sometimes water," she says. "I can get the servant to…"

"Not now, thank you. I think I want to talk about it," you say, feeling as if you're facing a Tatar battle-line. You swallow. "I'm very afraid." Be honest before your wife as you are before God.

"I was, too."

"You were crying."

"Yes, from fear," she says. No matter what they did to you, I wouldn't let them make me leave." She exhales, looks off, hesitates. "I thought if my husband were to die at twenty-four, to be widowed two weeks before my twenty-first — I should be brave about it."

You remember her birthing day through the haze, the shock. "October twenty-second."

"That's right."

You must ask: "So did you… Did you…"

"Watch it happen? Yes," she says. "It was awful, it's why my powder's running," she manages to chuckle. "The things you were saying, the sounds you were making. You were calling out for me."

"I was dreaming that Tatars had kidnapped you," you say. "I was trying to save you. God and His angels came down to help me, my sword was aflame like Saint Michael's." She's listening very closely. "I think I may have been able to hear what you were saying. Was I gnashing my teeth? You said 'he'll break his teeth' — it's like you were whispering in both ears at once."

She covers her mouth slowly. "I did say that. Your jaw was locked so tight when you weren't speaking. Screaming through your teeth," she says, stroking her chin, hiding her lip. "And, you know, a strange thing: at one point, you called me your love."

You can't quite read her face. Perhaps bemused? Flattered? She seems to be waiting for you to speak. "I care very much about you — I know I said 'I don't know' — but, well, I don't know!" You've forgotten about your circumstances, pain and despair traded in for confusion and an attempt to watch your words. "You're the only lady I've ever really known."

She circles around the bed, looking at you all the while — you cannot hear her footfalls — and sits where your leg would have been. You bizarrely feel the pain of her pressure upon it as if it were still there, but say nothing. Your chest is fluttering. That look on her face hasn't gone away. "I hope to love you someday, Stanisław. I care about you, I want you, and consider myself a blessed woman to have you." She at last smiles, reaches out, and traces her finger on your bare chest. "When they pulled down the covers to show you what had happened, I still thought that you were such a beautiful man. It felt wrong to think that at that moment, but it's strange: like a Roman statue with a leg broken off." She blinks. "I'm sorry to bring it up."

The drink has made you braver. You have sobbed out some portion of your terror. "No, no…" you pull down the covers to the point where Mariana's weight prevents it, revealing your naked body criss-crossed with bloodletting slices – you can see the plaster-stump in its terrible glory. "It's alright. I should get used to it," you say, trying to control yourself and focus on it. God, this sensation! So similar to the fight that brought you here.

Yes, there it is: your missing right leg. Your thigh goes on into nothing, exactly as you had seen before. The skin around the ligature above the plaster is an angry red, but thankfully one of compression rather than infection, you reckon. You wonder grimly what hides beneath the cast.

She is sliding her hand up toward your collarbone and neck, leaning in towards you. Mariana kisses you. Despite the pain and exertion wrought by your illness, you sit yourself up and lean into it, returning deeply. It goes on and, for a moment, you forget all the hurt and fear. Tongues cross and you cup her cheek, giving her the greedy kisses of a drunken lover. She pleasantly rakes her nails down your torso, moaning softly into the embrace. You feel the tingling blush of arousal, all of you melting and palpitating, and you curse yourself for wanting to be prudish about it, for being embarrassed about anything at a time like this, as if anything even matters. She can see it, she's allowed to, she's your wife; you leave yourself exposed to her and the October chill. Yes, I must love her. You are too afraid to say it.

"Before God I am your wife," Mariana says, staring into your eyes, voice velvet. "And not a single thing has changed." She taps your nose, and gets that mischievous glint in her eye – yet so soft. She strokes the left side of your head with her right hand. "Not your ear…" Her left sweeps down your flank, over the dip of your hip, stopping at the ligature. "...and not your leg. They may well be the same thing to me."

You shake your head and scoff. "But I'm crippled, nothing will ever be the same–"

"No, it won't be," she says. "But our bond is sacred, and that will never change." She rises from your bedside, tucks you in, starts for the door, and looks over her shoulder. "I'll get the servants to bring you some food."

"Thank you, Mariana." I love you.

 

[Rolman]

The most abject form of despair began to shed itself over the course of two or three sleepless, tearful days, coinciding with the slow lowering of fever and inflammation and, as the physician tasted, an improvement to the quality of your urine. Fear and sadness still exist: you are in mourning, you reckon, though God be praised that you haven't had the occasion to know what it's like. Things have changed forever, and so suddenly, and so drastically. You have been told that, like with a death, there are days where one can almost forget, and days where one cannot. Days of frustration and a rush of melancholia, and other days where blood and the cholera resurge. It is a fickle thing, measured in weeks and months, and you eagerly await the coming of the surgeon Paré's false leg. The physicians say you should not do anything bolder than use crutches until November, device or no device. In November, too, will the ligature and plaster be removed, and you'll be forced to take in something you had hitherto only seen on beggars; with the cast in place, it doesn't quite feel real yet. But there will be smooth skin, a rounded nub. Such a fact cannot be avoided.

You hated God for a fleeting few moments, in the earliest instants of horror. But you realized that you've been spared for a reason, albeit tortured as a test: the sensation of the leg still being there keeps you awake well into the night, and dreams of being made whole again – or losing the rest of your limbs – leave you jolting awake in cold sweats. You want to share a bed with your wife again as soon as it's possible; she can get you back to sleep with ease. Indeed, it's Mariana, Marszowski, and much communion with the Holy Virgin that keeps you sane, stable, even hopeful. Ten French leagues a day with a false leg, that medicus said, and riding, and kneeling, and sitting. It's a daily refrain in your mind, but then you realize that you'll never dance again.

You tell Mariana that that fact saddens you. "Oh, well, branles were designed for old men and their infirm crone-ladies, you know, merely strafing in a circle and all," she says. "Surely you can do that with a false leg. But perish the thought – your soup'll get cold, my lord!"

Marszowski, sitting in the corner of the room, as great a sentinel as your wife, claps his hands and laughs. "Mother him, lady princess, mother him!" He breaks out into a coughing fit. Mariana beams with equal parts evil and care.

"Quiet!" you snap, the chuckling spreading to you. It's good to laugh, may Saint Benedict forgive it. "Quiet. Let me eat, then, if you're both so worried!"

You're sitting up in bed before your tray-table, boasting a spread of surprisingly appetizing (albeit peasant-y) humorally-corrective food. You've been advised to eat slowly, but the plates stare you down, steely-eyed and tempting, especially after days of starvation. Representing the melancholia is a steaming and egg-thickened sorrel soup containing various chopped vegetables, alongside a saucer of cold dill pickles and a little bowl of buckwheat porridge. Meanwhile, the main course is phlegmatic in nature: cold pickled herrings, counterbalanced with sanguine honeyed onions to restore you after constant bleeding. For your drinks, you have cold beer, tepid twice-boiled water, and hot dandelion tea – to be consumed in that order – all rounded out with humorally-neutral dark serf's bread. How rustic and restorative! A far cry from the rich French and Italian fare to which you've been long-accustomed, the kind of spicy and fatty stuff recommended for a phlegmatic such as yourself.

But, Hell, you'd eat horse or dog meat. Weeks of bread and water and thin soups, answered with vomiting or a loose stool or terrible stomach pains, left you with a concave stomach and protruding ribs. And Mariana still said you were a beautiful man looking down at your fragile, broken body – a "Roman statue." I'm not broken, don't say that! In any event, you're more than grateful for her words, and Lord knows you're grateful for your improving condition, too. You decide to start by dipping a hunk of bread into the sorrel soup, digging your teeth into the earthy, bitter, eggy delight. You moan with satisfaction, and wash it down with beer.

"I'll play serving girl just to see that look on your face!" exclaims Mariana. She adopts a peasant's accent and gives a little swing of her hip: "more soup for you, m'lord? More Warka for me master?" Sir Marszowski literally slaps his knee.

"It's not that funny!" you call out to your fencing master. You wave your hand at Mariana: oh, quit it. But, of course, you're grinning as you chew.

It's people that make life worth living, and you've no shortage of visitors. Even if some of them are being cynical, you'd be lying if you said you didn't appreciate the extreme activity of your chamber door. The Zborowski brothers (including Batory-supporting Piotr) filed in one by one to offer condolences, as did the Ostrogski princes, the Archbishop-Interrex prayed over your body, Sierotka did his utmost to cheer you up, even Jan Zamoyski and his second-in-command Mikołaj Sienicki dropped by to give you a handshake and compliment your tenacity. "I'm told Your Serene Highness was given last rites twice!" exclaims Zamoyski. "And yet here you are – two horses killed under you at Zawadówka, too, and still Your Serene Highness went on!" Hopefully he's not upset about those facts.

"Thank you, Lord Zamoyski," you say from your bed, feeling mildly odd about this particular visit. "Perhaps two shall be my lucky number, despite just one ear and just one leg," you joke. You've been trying effortfully to make light of your situation. A man goes mad otherwise.

The Royal Secretary chuckles in a way you feel is customary. "It may be so!" he says. "I truly wish we weren't on the opposite sides of things – to be frank, I wasn't sure of Your Serene Highness' mettle till we went on campaign," he admits. "You are indeed Ajax."

You nod graciously and gratefully to that, genuinely flattered, though all of a sudden realizing that you can never talk to this man about anything of consequence. He's a foe when one gets down to it. "Well, I'm certainly no Achilles," you say, gesturing to the flat side of your covers, eliciting another vaguely forced laugh. Please leave.

"Well," says Zamoyski as he claps his hands down on his pantlegs, ever the people-reader, "Jews don't share their recipes for beer with each other, do they? I suppose it's back to being rival innkeeps," he winks.

"Very well, then," you say. It still felt somewhat nice to see him – heaven is full of Saints, but none of the people you know just yet. Except for Mother.

You weren't ready for the arrival of your family. Septimus and Krzysztof entered first and seemed like their normal selves, more or less, the latter even smiling and looking impressed – but it was Father that left you reeling. He barges into the room and hugs your neck, saying: "Son, Son, the news was so grave, I thought you'd be gone before we made it here."

You pat his back tentatively, shocked at the disappearance of his steel. "I'm alright, Father, I'm alright," you say. "There's a smith and a carpenter and a locksmith in Kraków making me a leg. I'm told it's jointed at the knee and ankle."

He breaks the embrace to look into your eyes. You feel like crying, but obviously swallow it down. Not in front of men, never in front of men – only Mariana. "So you'll walk again? Without crutches, I mean?" You nod. "What about riding? Can you still lead men?"

"Yes, Father, they say the only things I'll lose are running, jumping, and dancing," you say.

"Oh, praise God," he says, hugging you once more. "Praise God. Praise God."

You look over his shoulder to see your brothers equally-shocked. Krzysztof shifts from foot to foot. "Quite a victory you scored out in the Fields, brother."

"Not sure if it was worth all this," you say. "But may it secure us the election. The only problem is that Zamoyski was there, too, and who knows how he'll try and spin it. But the Ostrogski know that I led charge after charge, drew up most of the battleplans."

Krzysztof smiles wide; Septimus remains still, staring at Father, looking like he may have been rendered mute by the scene. Your father at last withdraws and clears his throat. "You're a hussar after all," he says. Now he's back.

"Indeed he is – my warrior of a little brother!" says Krzysztof. "With the war wounds to prove it!"

There it is again! Zamoyski refrained from doing so, but there's been this odd undercurrent of pride amongst your many visitors, maybe even jealousy, at one of the worst things that can ever happen to a man. People seem to admire that you're no longer whole, as if it makes manifest your bravery. You feel like an imposter: it was an infection and a long knife and a bonesaw that did this to you, all stemming from a little knick of a Tatar's dagger. They say you're a hero – maybe you are. But just because your leg's gone?

"You have honored this family and made us all proud," says your father. "Clinging to life the way you have… A true Radziwiłł."

"Thank you, Father."

It's good that they're here – and not just for the sake of your morale. The Habsburg camp will be needing all the help they can get, and the late arrival of the great Mikołaj Rudy and his two elder sons will be a boon for the faction indeed.

Your melancholy at bay for now, you decide that busying yourself is a good idea for your mind (and a political necessity). You are not going against your physician's orders this time around, you've learned from that blunder and then some: you shall work by writing and through your lieutenants.

But what's your focus?

[] Coordinating with the Austrian delegation regarding bribes and campaign promises.

This represents the most aggressive stance – trying to flip elements of the lower and middle Crownland nobility away from Stefan Batory and Zamoyski. On one hand, ensure that wheels are greased and concessions upheld. On the rhetorical side, focus on a unifying message through speeches and statements penned by your own hand, reminding likely Batory voters of the strength of an Imperial-Commonwealth alliance and its implications for Livonia and even Moldavia, the youthful vigor (and impressionability) of the Archduke, and the trickle-down of Vienna's wealth and influence.

[] Maintaining cohesion among the Ruthenians.

One of the less daunting tasks in light of your sacrifices and successes against the Tatars, but it's still wise to cover all of one's bases. The primary fear of the borderland lords would perhaps be being dragged by the Habsburgs into conflict with the Turk (and by extension, the Tatar once more). Remind them that our King could easily be dissuaded from such a path on account of isolation and inexperience.

[] Maintaining cohesion among the magnates and Catholic clergy.

Another easier task: much is to be gained in terms of material and immaterial power from a union with the Habsburgs for those already at the top. Meanwhile, the clergy is eager for the restoration of the ecclesiastical courts and, for the more firebrand, the potential for a campaign of countering the Reformation. The only concern is that some of the esteemed men of the court and Church are antsy about the inexperience of the Archduke, and look to the much older, much more experienced Batory to right the ship of state in these stormy times. Remind them that we'll have free reign of the house until Maciej comes into his own, surely well-influenced by the Sarmatian ideal.

 

[Rolman]

Two days pass. You lie in bed, feeling stronger, though not necessarily happier. The hearty meals and various dried herbs hung in your bed's canopy seem to be doing the trick for your humors; the place smells lovely, and your fever recedes by the day – pained remnants of a leg (and that strange, phantom-like sensation of it being there) aside, you almost feel normal. Your mind is less cloudy and you at last possess the wakefulness and vigor to start up politicking again. Staying busy is wise: it keeps your mind off the nightmares you have, nightmares of battle and handless arms and a noseless face, of fingers rotting off one by one. It keeps your mind off of a task perhaps more difficult than any other – the fact that you'll have to learn to walk again, like the invalid you are. A cripple. I'm a cripple. Quiet, now.

So, you think about the election and what needs to be done. Mhm… The Ruthenians may be trouble. After all, Jedysan is a Turkish province, the Crimeans are Turkish clients, and who is the Habsburgs' greatest enemy? The Turk, of course. Their apprehension is as understandable as it is, you're told, palpable in the Sejm camp. They fence-sit, awaiting clarification – news is spreading that the Sublime Porte's ambassadors in Kraków have declared publicly their support for Batory, effectively signaling that an election of the Transylvanian would guarantee peace for the duration of his reign. Meanwhile, you recall that the Archduke, during his speech at Stężyca, only mentioned Livonia and the Tatars – the question of the son being dragged by his Emperor-father into the Turkish wars remains open. However, despite your great sacrifice in the defense of their homeland, you decide that it'd be better for the Ruthenians to hear a promise of peace from the horse's mouth itself: the cadre of Austrian diplomats here at Warszawa. The coming of your brothers and father, too, allow for a broader net to be cast.

Their leader is a certain Baron Adam von Dietrichstein, who has been delivering Latin-language speeches to the Sejm regarding the restoration of the ecclesiastical courts, as well as promising Imperial troops to aid in the conquest of Livonia and in the seemingly-imminent war with Muscovy in general. You summon him to your bedchamber.

After a relatively short wait, a man of about fifty wearing a large fur coat and even bigger ruff is ushered into the room by a servant. He's as dark as a Spaniard, with gray-flecked black hair and a well-styled beard to match – walking with a cane, limping with his right leg! You smile sympathetically at the sight as he bows deeply before you.

"May the Lord and His Archangels, Michael and Raphael, be with you, Your Serene Highness," he says in French. Ah, the protectors of soldiers and the ill. Michael came to me in my dream. "I am most saddened to hear of your predicament, and we are all praying for Your Serene Highness' quick recovery."

"I am glad to hear it, lord Baron," you nod, propped up against the bedframe on a pile of pillows, parchments scattered before you on your tray-table. You judge right away that this is a seasoned diplomat: the cleanness of his bow despite his leg, the clear voice and measured words, his near-unaccented French. He probably even knows you studied in Paris. "May we go on in Latin? My mastery of the French tongue has slipped over the years," you say.

"Of course, Your Serene Highness," he replies, effortlessly switching. "For what reason do I have the honor to come to Your Serene Highness' bedside?"

"Well, I was hoping to commune with yourself and your delegation, lord Baron, to ensure that our efforts may be harmonious." You hate this stuffy talk, this careful wording, but he is a foreigner and an emissary – the pomp is obligatory. "With all due respect, I hope to provide some enlightenment on the domestic matters that ought to be taken into account when your most noble mission speaks to our people." You point to Marszowski's traditional seat in the corner of the room. "And, please, pull up a chair – I understand the feeling of a troubled leg. I'd bring it to you myself, but…" You chuckle. Keep joking about it, keep joking about it, each day it'll become easier.

The Baron looks grateful, and hobbles (with poise, of course) to the chair, picking it up with his free hand and setting it down at the foot of your bed. "I was thrown from my horse a decade or so ago, and the bones in my ankle never healed correctly," he explains as he takes a seat.

"God mends us as He pleases," you say, "and we must remain ever grateful that our lives are not taken from us."

"That is the truth, Your Serene Highness," he replies, matching your stoicism. Good man. Good diplomat, at least.

"Anyway, let us get down to business," you say; he nods attentively. "I wish to discuss two issues: firstly, the offering of a… dowry, of sorts, from the Imperial treasury – that is to say, frankly, a bribe for the rabble-lords – and a guarantee of peace between our Twin Nations and the Turk."

von Dietrichstein crosses his legs and rests his hands limply atop his cane. "His Royal Highness the Archduke, in his remarks at Stenzicen, promised the creation of a string of forts staffed by professional soldiers in Ruthenia, Podolia, and so on, in the same vein as our Military Frontier in Croatia and Hungary. A much more reliable solution compared to the employment of the – how would you call them – cassock-riders?"

"And I am certain that the noblemen of those regions are pleased with such promised aid but, as I'm sure you have heard, Ruthenia has just recently recovered from an attack by the Tatar." He nods. "Nerves are raw; the Tatar Khan is tied to Constantinople, and the borderland lords are very fearful of renewed war, or outright invasion through Moldavia and Turkish Tatary – the place we call Jedysan."

A swelling of patriotism brews in your breast; this is a country of consensus, of free nobles and free assembly and free faith. "Furthermore, it is not in the nature of my countrymen – myself included – to be dragged into foreign wars by bond of blood or by royal fiat," you explain. "Our Senate and assembled estates must assent to the waging of war. However, I believe that there must exist a promise that His Royal Highness the Archduke, if elected king, would not even try."

The Baron leans back in his seat, contemplating. He scratches his beard. "Perhaps we can offer up the promise of a treaty of peace with the Turk founded upon a Polonian alliance with our Empire and Archduchy, rather than make His Royal Highness appear unmanly?" he asks. "For we also must reserve the right to call Polonia up in the event of an emergency, lest the election of a member of the Imperial House prove nothing more than a victory in terms of prestige." He seems a little less cordial, though not unfriendly. "After all, Your Serene Highness' faction has already beseeched our military aid – and now monetary 'gifts,' too."

"That may work, lord Baron, that may work. I recommend you send men to speak with the Turkish delegation at Cracovia so it's more than an empty promise," you say. "Even if it stalls. There are eyes everywhere,after all, though I recommend you announce such a venture publicly at your lordship's next possible convenience."

"Very well, Your Serene Highness, it shall be put under consideration."

"Consider with haste, please, Baron." You stare him down, knowing that dear Lithuania will be forever sidelined should the Crownlanders get their way. "The salient arguments against His Royal Highness the Archduke are on matters of foreign policy and on what he may offer in terms of compensation," you say. "Every group wary of the middling, reform-seeking Crownlanders ought to stand with the House of Habsburg should peace and spoils be guaranteed: the Lithuanian and Prussian to stem Polish hegemony, the magnate to retain his God-given superiority, even the Protestants, so as to not be…" you search for words, pained to take a cynical stand against the Holy Church. God has kept you on this earth so that you may speak against His emissaries? "Meddled with by the more radical Catholics amongst the middling and low lords. Zealous bumpkins, you see, and barely worthy of the title 'sir:' the Reformed make up many of our greatest families," you say, may God forgive them. But you can swear to yourself a thousand times over that your homeland shall never go the way of France or even that of the Empire, even if it enjoys a fragile peace. Baron von Dietrichstein listens along attentively.

"I see," he says. "Now, about the money, Your Serene Highness…" He awaits your response.

"Prince Batory has promised two hundred thousand złoty – that is to say, roughly equivalent to the same number of Venetian ducats – my family may open its purse to the tune of around forty thousand, perhaps fifty." I think. I hope. You're going out on a limb there, but it's close to the sum you netted for the family during the Ruthenian campaign. Hopefully Father will understand the liberty you're taking. "We would need His Imperial Majesty to make up the rest – greater than or equal to Batory's offer."

"We, sadly, must maintain a balanced ledger, Your Serene Highness," says the Baron. "There are many debts from the wars, to be frank. The Archduke is entitled to a one-time cash pension of eighty thousand ducats upon the succession of his brother, His Apostolic Majesty the King of Hungary." That's Rudolf, the big-jawed eccentric. "His Imperial Majesty would likely assent to the dispensation of that amount immediately, in my mind. Perhaps more can be arranged for later."

So… About a hundred and twenty thousand to Batory's two hundred? Not great, but it's something. Ugh, bribery, what Sin. Just a week ago you had received absolution on your deathbed, but we sin everyday in word and deed, don't we? You blink. "It is certainly a start, my lord. Let us review His Royal Highness' potential pacta conventa," gesturing for the Baron to look over your shoulder at your tray-table, as you dip your quill into an inkwell and flip one of your parchments onto its back. You begin to write in Latin:

• Restoration of the ecclesiastical courts' judgments on all matters save those of heresy or confessional matters.
• The upholding of the Confederation of Warszawa and all statutes of religious freedom.
• Imperial military aid in the prosecution of war with Muscovy, the conquest of Livonia.
• The creation of a Military Frontier in Ruthenia and Podolia, &c.
• Eternal peace and alliance between the Imperial Princes – the Empire at large – with the Twin Nations.
• The negotiation of a treaty of non-aggression with the Turk, to coincide with the alliance with the Emperor. Peace in Hungary?

You look up, and conjure up from some Eve-stained place in your heart a devious smile. "And, of course, off-the-books: the blocking of all executionist reform, and the disbursal of some one hundred and twenty thousand złoty in gifts for the loyal ones."

"I believe we can agree to these terms. Have you a blank parchment? I'll copy this down," says Baron von Dietrichstein.

Will you press the matter at a later date?

[] We'll be needing some more concrete plans regarding the Military Frontier.

For the Ruthenians' sake.

[] It's worth trying again to secure more bribe money.

To sway the dirty gołota.

[] This will do.

One takes what he can get.

The Baron notes down this provisional pacta and, with matters resolved, you dismiss him cordially. He shall likely speak before the Sejm tomorrow or the day after, offering up these clarified terms and, likely openly, announce the Imperial bribe.

Dear Mariana checks in on you whenever she has the time, God bless her, and you spend every waking moment, whether quietly or loudly, waiting to see her face, hear her voice. You beam at the sight of her in your chamber door.

"Good day, Stanisław," she smiles. "The Lord be praised – you're looking so much better!"

"I feel it, too," you say. "I think God has kept me, well and truly. I'll be ready for crutches any day now. Maybe even going down to the Sejm."

Her happy countenance flickers. "Just– I trust you, but please don't push yourself too hard again."

"I feel better, really!"

"I believe you, I believe you," she says. "Well, sadly, my lord, I'm not just here to stroke your head." She melts your ribs with her smile and quickens your pulse as she approaches your bedside, crouching down beside you. "Though I'll do it, too," she chuckles, sweeping her fingers through your hair, undoing little knots and tangles. She reaches down and puts a finger on your untrimmed, scraggly chin. Why, God, have I married such a wondrous Delilah? Et ne nos inducas in tentationem! You chuckle at your own joke, despite knowing that you'll surely have to bring it up at Confession. "What?" she asks.

"You're just… I married an utter flirt." I love you, I love you, it's Sin how much I love you.

She draws back sharply, mock offense painted on her lightly-powdered face. "Hmph! You rebuke me!"

"No, come back!" you laugh, extending your arms.

She plops herself down to eye-level with you once more, resting her elbows on your chest. They dig in; you don't care. "Alright, but really, I have some political questions for you: there's a dance tonight, and all the ladies have been gathering around me offering up condolences, asking about you, praising you, that sort of thing. So I got to thinking…"

"Yes?"

"Tell me a war story, so I can tell them, and so they can tell their husbands!"

You make a face – still smiling at her, of course. You don't really want to relive it. Let others speak for you. Besides: "Oh, that's not necessary. They've been talking about me. Amongst themselves. Ajax Lithuaniensis?"

Mariana hums in agreement. "Weeeeeell," she thinks aloud, eyes upturned to the ceiling. "I could spread some rot about Jan Zamoyski, say that my dear husband Stanisław knows things Lord Zamoyski would rather not reveal himself about his time on campaign."

Oh, hm... "That's lying, though. He was honorable all the while."

She looks perplexed. "Yes, it's lying, Benedictine! Would you prefer the Radziwiłłowie to lose their esteem, to lose this election?" You say nothing. "I could also talk up the diplomatic benefits if you're so offended," she teases. "Broad-shouldered Austrian sons with ties to the great bankers, blonde Austrian lasses with fat dowries, free attendance of the Jesuit colleges in Vienna – Imperial titles, positions at the Imperial court!"

God, she's so smart she knows women are stupid! They're impressionable, gullible, like children – but not your Mariana, oh no. A wolf among sheep, like a good-hearted version of that snake-harlot, the Queen Mother of France, or a youthful Anna Jagiellonka, that headstrong-yet-wise crone. Such clever women exist, of course, but are rare and dangerous. But she's yours. Or are you hers? Perish that thought. Anyways, that's what makes her so special – her wit, her charm, that glint in her eye you once mistook for manipulativeness. And, surely, she's capable of it, but never has she turned it against you (except to seduce you, of course). She's a potter, and the world's her clay.

The two of you decide to:

[] Spread rumors of your bravery.

A little extra never hurts – not like you need to prove it. If there are some falsehoods regarding your heroism, so be it, and let people believe it, with apologies to God.

[] Spread rumors of Zamoyski's cowardice or incompetence.

After all, he only entered a proper melee once, and he tended to follow your lead when it came to issuing orders. That can be spun into accusation of meekness easily enough.

[] Spread rumors of the glamor and social opportunities brought by a Habsburg candidate.

Exaggerated, but not unfounded: the Archduke would arrive in a cavalcade of prominent Austrians and, upon his marriage to Infanta Anna, the Queen of Poland would be surrounded with a mix of foreign and domestic ladies-in-waiting. Any smart man or cunning woman could begin to arrange powerful unions – financial, personal, political – between the Empire and the Twin Nations.

Meanwhile, you feel better and better, and begin to hoist yourself out of bed and move about on crutches, one pant leg pinned to your waist. Optimism grows, sadness recedes, at least for the moment; you reckon you can begin appearing at the Sejm again without worry for health (though you are rather hollow-cheeked, still), and the physicians only caution you to avoid miasmas. Which, admittedly, between the Sejm camp's horseshit, latrines, lice, fleas, and duel casualties…

[] Perhaps it's best to rest up a little more.

[] Begin attending the assemblies again, and let your mere presence speak for itself.

[] Take the floor and move them with a speech about the defense of Ruthenia.

[] Take the floor and move them with a speech about the imminent conquest of Livonia.

[] Take the floor and move them with a speech about the material benefits of Habsburg rule.

 

[Rolman]

To cheers and acclaim do you appear once more in the Sejm camp, crutches sinking into the mud, helped at the shoulders by Marszowski and another lieutenant. You smile graciously at the assembled nobles Crossing themselves and waving caps for Ajax, the Tatar-slayer, the maimed hero. Even men you recognize as rivals – pure Piasts or executionists – hail you, and you're showered with blessings and congratulations regarding your miraculous survival. All you do is thank them; you'll let others do the talking, and allow yourself to be an attraction. Specifically, a reminder to the Ruthenians that their bond with Lithuania was only recently terminated six years ago at the Union of Lublin, and that the men of the Grand Duchy are willing to kill and die for their erstwhile countrymen. And all this praise makes your head buzz, your heart swell – changed forever, yet finally, truly, respected. Almost makes me forget I'm an utter cripple! You frown briefly.

Before you go and take your back-bench seat at the Senat, you hobble your way over to the Baron von Dietrichstein's pavilion tent. You find him at a desk within, surrounded by his be-ruffed, trunk-hosed compatriots. "Lord Baron!" you hail him. "May I speak to you for a moment?"

"Well, of course, Your Serene Highness," he says, clearly trying to conceal surprise at your appearance. "Please, tell me what for?" He lifts a plaintive hand.

"I wanted to discuss some of the specifics of the concept of the Military Frontier, so that my peers will better understand what it is His Royal Highness the Archduke promises to do," you say. "Assuredly, everyone is overjoyed at the prospect, but… Paying for it? Staffing it?"

"Of course, Your Serene Highness," he nods, clasping his hands together and placing them to his chin. "The way things work in Hungary-Croatia is that certain soldiers are selected, regardless of faith or patrimony, and dealt land grants in exchange for staffing the forts and watchtowers," he explains, "that way, they'll protect their own villages. They're led by captains who also serve as mayors and governors. That way, we save a bit of money," he adds with a smile. "As for construction, hiring the engineers and architects – the soldiers can double as laborers – someone would have to pay for it. I have dispatched a request to His Imperial Majesty requesting funds for that and what will become a war effort, to be promised officially within the Archduke's proposed pacta."

"That's good, that's very good," you say, near-relieved. "But I'm not sure how the people would take to… colonists. Though I'm sure the presence of some Germans would be permissible." You hum. An idea! "We possess many destitute or landless nobles here within the Polish Crownlands – most of whom keep arms, perhaps a horse, and have some experience in battle. But they're unruly."

"Whatever Your Serene Highness thinks, we are willing to defer to it," replies the Baron.

Hmm, alright. Outside colonists: professional soldiers, reliable, but foreigners – Germans? Hungarians? Bohemians? Wallachians? – how would that gel? And what if they desire nobility? Who rules them? The local lords, a sort of captaincy system like they're Zaporozhians? Put them under one of the preexisting Crown Hetmans?

On the other hand, providing incentives to the gołota to pack their things and head south would staff the forts with half-soldier rabble, admittedly, but also keep things much more simple. It also could ingratiate the Habsburg faction to opportunistic lordlings. However, a new class of marcher lords would surely arise, and make their presence known at elections – neither Polish nor Ruthenian, they could upset the balance of power at Sejms such as these.

You finally decide to say:

[] "I recommend the settlement of outsiders, as commoners under one of the Crown Hetmans chosen by royal appointment."

This could make one Mikołaj Sieniawski – an important Podolian magnate – very happy or very jealous: he took up the defense of Ruthenia after your departure with great success for the remaining few months of the raiding season, and he's been at that kind of work for decades. The only reason he didn't join you at an earlier date was due to the paralysis of the quarter army. He's an obvious choice for a captaincy.

[] "Perhaps it would be best to resettle some of our Masovians, or lowly lords in general."

Egalitarian and generous, just the way the szlachta like. However, there would assuredly be some disorder in the borderlands, and the destitute lords would likely prove to be subpar – though not fully incompetent – fighters.

[] "This is a matter best put to a vote before the Sejm. We should ask them with haste."

Putting it to a vote is the safe thing to do. It also may have a mildly-deflecting effect on the accusation of looming Habsburg absolutism.

[] "This is a matter best put to a vote before Sejm upon the election of His Royal Highness. You should promise them such, lord Baron."

Keep the promises vague and hopeful, and let it be sorted out when the Archduke would (hopefully) sit the throne. Anything more is a liability.

[] write-in.

Framed as a verbal statement.

Meanwhile the Senat and Sejm meetings pass over the course of a near-week, yielding no surprises: the former supports the Habsburgs, and the latter are bitterly divided along the lines of class and country. Accusations are beginning to be leveled at the interference of the Papal Nuncio, Vincenzo Lauro, in favor of the Habsburgs. People are claiming that there's a plot for Archbishop Uchański to unilaterally declare the Archduke the victor. Meanwhile, the promises of spoils for the royal treasury and lords' pockets alike from the Habsburg camp ameliorate some of the worst fears. As of the 22nd of October, sixteen days remain until the start of the election Sejm proper. You keep a tight lip, but make sure to spend quality time with the sons of Konstanty Wasyl Ostrogski, those recent comrades of yours, to remind them of what you've given up in the defense of their homeland.

There's always time to arrange a meeting, though. Will you do so?

[] No, keep quiet. Sit back and watch, biding your time.

Keep an ear to the wall – or let people come to *you.*

[] Arrange a meeting with Jan Zamoyski.

Try to arrange contingencies for the victory of either side, to ensure a peaceful transfer of power. Tempers are running high, after all.

[] Introduce yourself to the sole pro-Batory Bishop, Stanisław Karnkowski.

What's the matter with him? We need the entirety of the Holy Church to back the Habsburgs – it would be a major increase to the legitimacy of their claim before God and the realm.

[] Conference discreetly with Archbishop Jakub Uchański.

See if this rumor about him and the Nuncio is true.

[] Hold a summit with some of the striver-families: the remnants of the mighty Tarnowscy, the Ruthenian Wiśniowieccy, Hetman Mikołaj Sieniawski, etc.

Remind them of the promises, the opportunities, the ease of manipulating the young Archduke: Mariana's web-weaving has perhaps planted the seeds.

[] write-in.

Do some research.

You retire to your quarters after a long and boring day down in the camp, nursing your pained stump by sipping gorzała; you catch a nice buzz. Mariana appears at your chamber door for her usual visit, except you don't let her approach your bedside: you scramble out of bed and hoist yourself up with your crutches – she stands watching, bemused – and you eagerly click-clack over to her. She turns her face and taps on her cheek; you plant a kiss loyally. "I deserve that because I've been doing some very good work," she says. "I've told many of the ladies – and some of the men, too – all about the Fugger banks and their Tyrol mines, the bestowment of Imperial titles as enjoyed by your father and his cousin and the Counts Chodkiewicz…"

"How do you know these things?"

She almost looks offended. "Because I read, Stanisław. I grew up with my nose in a book, you know," she says. "When your father's eighty-something he can't really tell you not to – and he's amassed quite an emporium over the years." They do call old Pawel "Nestor." Born in the last century!

You shake your head, slightly embarrassed by your underestimation. "Right, of course, I almost forgot that you know Latin…"

Mariana puts her hands on her hips and makes a face. "I'll have my vengeance: I'm about to make you very jealous. And angry!"

"Oh, no…"

"There's this pig of a man who wants me. Probably fifty, fifty-five, some Tworowski retainer, you wouldn't know him." Your stomach drops, while your chest begins to fire up. "Utter lech, the way he looks at me," she says, motioning to her breasts, her waist, her hips. "Of course, I find him repulsive. But I suppose since I'm a little mannish," she says, unashamed, "he mistook my confidence for flirtation. This was at the dance last night, the one you were too tired for."

You can feel your face getting red. Mariana chuckles. "So, I'm taking a walk without my ladies around dusk outside the Curia Maior, and guess what? The fellow walks up from behind, touches my back, and says: 'have you ever had an old bull, little girl?'"

"What?!" you roar. "What's his name? I'll kill him, I'll throw my glove down and challenge him!" you say, completely burning. You remember dimly that you're down a leg. "Or, or– I'll shoot him! Or I'll get Marszowski to stick him like swine and–"

She moves in close, hot breath on your face, grabbing the collar of your żupan. "Oh, so you'll kill for me, then?" she asks, voice honeyed. "Become a murderer? An infamis? That's really something."

No! No! Do not let her seduce you, not now! "Of course I'd– my honor! Your honor! MY wife!" You're almost yelling.

She smiles devilishly. "Well, what if I told you I made it all up?"

You make a wide variety of faces in a very short period of time. You start lightly smacking her leg with your crutch, forcing her to retreat, laughing involuntarily. "Not funny! That is not funny!"

She's cackling. "Oh, my God! May He forgive me for my lies, but – wow!"

You're tripping over words, but finally manage to say: "scare me! Fool me! Infuriate me!"

"You're handsome when you're angry, hussar!" she says, stifling further laughter. "You're fierce when you need to be!"

"Not funny! Not funny! Delilah!"

"Samson!"

"Delilah!"

"Samson!"

"So angry, so angry!" she says, closing the distance once more. "For me." Suddenly, you're downright attacking each other, biting lips and crossing tongues and growling with desire. She shoves you onto the bed, sending your crutches clattering, and climbs atop you.

Whew! You lay in bed, slightly sweaty, feeling fine (but still a pinch angry), Mariana curled up around you to your left and – oh, oh! You nearly forgot: she'll be twenty-one on the 22nd. Despite your wounded pride at the moment, you've never given her a proper gift before, not counting paying for her dresses and other customary things. It's a little too late to get her something bespoke, but you still want to show your affection. Something respectful, something that tells her you know of her strength – that she's a cut above the average woman…

[] An imported, Italian cameo necklace of Artemis, set in gold.

She *does* enjoy the outdoors. She's a bit of a huntress metaphorically speaking, too.

[] A gilded Orthodox icon of her favored Saint, Valentine.

She's not the most religious, that sweet, evil thing – but she does fear God at the end of the day. Leave it to a flirt like her to pick the Saint of love and matrimony!

[] A fine black hussar's horse – half-native and and the rest Turkish-Tatar.

A speedy and strong steed for a quick-witted, powerful young lady.

[] A set of Austrian-inspired dresses.

For when we win, of course. They compliment her trim-yet-shapely figure very well, and she's been reusing the one Western dress she owns. You reckon she'd look very pretty in a ruff and feathered cap – her face is angular enough for it.

[] write-in.

Give your love something special.

 

[Rolman]

She's going to love it. You just know it. You spent all of yesterday visiting every horse trader in the city and inquiring with the Sejm camp's nobles about any steeds they'd be willing to part with, and at last you found the one: a fresh-grown ex-colt, just barely four years old, black as ink and just beginning to show off his mature musculature. This is a hussar's horse, through and through: fifteen hands tall, of hearty local and speedy Mohammatan stock, a perfect blend of robustness and agility – it's probably in his blood that he won't flinch before gunfire or screaming men. He's worth a hefty pile of silver, but Mariana's worth her weight in gold, isn't she? You buy the young horse without a second thought on credit, and send a little party of men out to Dubinki to pick up the cash.

You want to sing, you're so excited! If it weren't for your leg, you'd be skipping like a boy. Today, you'll forget about all that – these crutches were always here! Missing leg? Out of sight, out of mind! Omnia vincit amor; this day isn't for you, anyways. You cannot wait to see the look on her face. But how to make the reveal? Hmmm…

The pretext is that you need to strengthen yourself for the crutches, complaining only half-deceitfully about shakes and aches in your forearms as you recover from a month in bed. You tell her that you'd like to have her accompany you for some laps around the palace courtyard.

"I hope you didn't forget about my birthing day," Mariana says.

"Wha– Mariana," you say, stopping in place; you notice she's covering her mouth but smiling with her eyes. "I gave you well-wishes this morning – the moment I saw you! You're twenty-one," you add, as if to prove something.

She bursts out laughing. "Serious, so serious! Don't get all offended about it," she says. "But you did forget last year." Your mouth opens and she raises a hand, chuckling once more. "Sir Serious, you were busy, we were in Vienna," she says, before sighing and bobbling her head. "So I don't hold it against you. We weren't very close those days, after all."

You hold still, letting yourself sink into your crutches. She walks ahead, but circles around to face you. "I'm sorry," you say. You've said it before, and you'll say it again. "Truly. I thought I was doing the right thing."

"I know," Mariana says. "And I never felt forsaken, only ignored," she says frankly.

"I was a bad master. If I spent my money building churches as my serfs starved then–"

"Well, firstly, you never swore before God to love and honor your serfs," she says. How different is a woman from a serf, anyway? Quiet, fool, she's talking! "...to a degree, but more importantly – don't frame it as a life-or-death thing! I wasn't and never will be some wilted flower."

Right, of course, and that's why she'll never be like the others. She doesn't have their fragility. You wonder if there are more Marianas out there. Apparently, there are some Zaporozhian women who– "Stanisław?" asks your wife. "Are you bewitched or something?"

You blink a few times. "You bewitch me," you manage to recover. Mariana smiles and rolls her eyes. "And, yes, you're right, you're strong," you say, almost muttering. "Too strong."

"Too strong?"

"I don't mean it in a bad way," you say. You think. "But, well, a question: how does it feel to be a year older?"

Mariana shrugs. "God takes us when He wishes, so if you mean memento mori then, well…" She maneuvers from your front to return to your side. "Let's keep walking."

You begin to clack forward on your crutches once more, as Mariana walks slowly beside you, keeping pace. You both look straight on. She's getting older, she's getting older… So are you. You think you detected something from her just now. Is what's bothering her what's bothering you? "Things change quickly," you say.

"They do."

"Two months ago, I was running and jumping and leading men. Now look at me," you say. "The Lord can take it from you so quick."

"Stanisław," she says, placing a hand on your shoulder. "Mind that talk. Remember what they said about that French leg?"

"It's not that, it's not that." You're going to say it; you realize you could've said it sooner. It's been three years. "I want to see our children. I want them to look like you and act like you and be born under the Scales like you, boy-child or girl." You stop her in her tracks. Her blushing cannot be concealed by her powder. "And I'm worried."

"It's odd that I haven't bore you a child yet," she says, redness receding, voice measured, eyes pained. "I pray about it. For it."

"I didn't mean that," you stumble. "Yes, you're right, but– I'm scared of losing you. What if you die?"

"It's in God's hands. Perhaps He'll let me live the way He saved you. Twice now. Remember when you were pneumonic?"

The angel relit the lantern swinging over your bed, perhaps so that you could – however vainly – tell your homeland of what you had seen in France. Three years ago, right around this time of year. Your lungs drained out and your fever broke. She's right, and you had nearly forgotten in your shock and grief: it has happened before. God has kept you through battles and illnesses and amputation, and all you can do is hope that He extends the same grace to your wife, to the family you want to found with her.

"You're… It's true," you say, leaning a crutch on your flank to run your hand over your face. "But things change so quickly."

"And perhaps next month I won't bleed," she says. Is that hope artificial? Her face only shows what she wants it to. You rely on her voice. "And then we'll have a son, a daughter, twins," she chuckles. "A sudden turn need not always be jarring. And sometimes, being jolted may be a good thing."

You breathe out, knowing she's right, and you want to tell her that you love her as you often do and, as always, you don't.You turn your head at the sound of a light trot. Here he comes! Marszowski grins widely atop the glorious gift, only looking sick in the face, the indefatigable. Mariana turns her attention: "That's a fine horse, Sir Marszowski!" she calls out. "Since when?"

"Since His Serene Highness had my old friend Mniszek killed under him at Zawadówka, Your Serene Highness," he says, dismounting with a groan-cough. Leave it to Marszowski to name his warhorse 'dandelion.' "So, His Serene Highness owed me." His eyes dart to yours. "Would you like to hop on?" he asks, fiddling with the saddle.

"Well, by the way you seem to be hiking up the stirrups for someone, oh, a few inches shorter than you?" she smiles. "I think I'm obliged." Marszowski clicks his tongue and winks at her. "God, he is absolutely gorgeous," Mariana says, approaching the horse and stroking his neck. She looks back at you. "You're going to bankrupt us, my lord! You could fill his feed bag with the silver you paid for him – and then some!"

"What do you think I should call him?" Marszowski asks her.

"Oh, I don't know," says Mariana, breathy with wonder, circling the beast. "I'd say something like Północ or Zmrok, maybe something manly like Grom or Jowisz, but those are all a little uninspired." She taps her chin. "What's he like, Sir Marszowski?"

Marszowski shrugs, beaming. "Not sure, Your Serene Highness. I think that's for you to find out."

"Wha–"

"Optime natalis!" you and Marszowski cry in unison.

Mariana trots over to you, looking joyful – and smacks you across the face! She's cackling, of course. Marszowski howls at the scene. Courtiers' heads have turned. "Stanisław," she says, breaking decorum with a public uttering of your Christian name, "this must have cost a quarter of my dowry!" She can't stop laughing. "You… You're ridiculous, my lord! Thank you, but…"

Mariana turns her attention back to the horse. She looks to Marszowski, who immediately understands to give her boost up into the saddle. You lean on your crutches, stars in your eyes. Why must we never have our portraits taken smiling? Of course, it's so that one's descendents remember their ancestor to be a serious person, but you'd frame the expression she's wearing right now up in a great hall were it proper to do so.

She looks down at you from atop her new steed and sighs. "You fool, such a fool. I can't wait to ride alongside you again, my lord."

"Thank you, my lady," you reply. Why does that make you want to cry? A core-filling mixture of joy and sorrow and love, turning, turning. It's as she said: one day you will ride again, and it shall be by her side.

 

[Rolman]

It was sinful to take yesterday off, even if it was for the one you hold dearest, or to strengthen the bonds of marriage. For God frowns upon idleness, and more than one Saint cautions against foolish game-playing or the ostentatious or even excessive joy, of which existed too much of all three. There is cause to be guilty, and there is cause to redouble one's efforts. Though, and the Lord knows this well for he knows the hearts of all men, there is nothing more sinful than politics. The Savior warned of such things. But it is your earthly task, the reason why God made you a prince by fate. In any case, you must be doing something right, you venture to guess, fearful of it curdling into pride: your fever hasn't returned for nearly a week now, and no blood seeps through the plaster-stump.

When the Austrian Baron (unofficially) polled the Sejm regarding the staffing of the Military Frontier, the result was unsurprising: the proposal of foreign colonists was met with a mixture of confusion and roaring boo's, while the resettlement and parceling out of modest land grants for the destitute, landless or near-landless nobility was met with resounding cheers and caps raised on the ends of sabers, with many of the patch-jackets swearing before God on the spot that they'd go. The Baron cried out, masterfully: "Very good, very well, it shall be so, it shall be yours!" A good diplomat such as he knows how to fire up a crowd as well he can learn a new dance on the fly or learn a court's etiquette.

You smile in your senatorial chair, rather pleased with yourself: you just made an Imperial diplomat politick like a genuine man of the Twin Nations, and the very positive reception – both at the proposal itself as well as its democratic handling – is palpable. God willing, this may make elements of the reformist gołota defect in their own self-interest. Of course, the Senators and high men of the court grumble and worry about how all this will be paid for, while some of the Ruthenians, though overjoyed in theory, express apprehension about an influx of Catholic Poles into their patrimony – though just as many are excited to staff the forts themselves or line their pockets through the sale of what is, in many places, almost empty space. But these are problems for another day, another year, even. The most important thing is securing the election of the Archduke by any means necessary.

While your father and brothers hold down the Senat, the Prussians, and the churchmen, you decide to send out messengers to discreetly round up a few handpicked members of a peculiar class of noble, passing over the Firlejowie on account of their staunch Protestantism and your Sapieha brothers-in-law due to existing ties. Meanwhile, another likely target, Hieronim Ossoliński, that high-ranking Senator, near-landless, is at death's door, barely able to keep up with the proceedings. Maybe you can speak with his sons once the old man's gone? And the notable Ruthenian Prince Czartoryski won't be a grown man for another year or two. So all of that is for some other day; it's more important to focus on those who sent your messengers back to you with good news. You shall meet with the respondents the following morning.

One could perhaps call the four men who answered your call magnates minor – the upper-middle, or perhaps the lower-upper: rich in land but lacking in prestige and titles, or likewise enjoying high esteem despite relative poverty. They sit before you in your chamber in Warszawa's palace, drinks in hand, despite the early hour – two Poles, two Ruthenians, and all at least a decade older than you. Only one possesses extant ties to Lithuania. They've already offered up the customary congratulation-condolences regarding your amputation, and now await your briefing. You preside at the foot of your bed, gripping your crutches tightly and going over notes in your head, ever-so-slightly nervous. It's been a while since you've had to give a speech – even if it's just to four (albeit consequential) men.

There's the Field Crown Hetman and onetime rotmistrz of the defunct Obrona Potoczna, Mikołaj Sieniawski: fifty-five, broad-shouldered, scar-faced, and big-bearded, staring you down with a smile of illegible meaning. He took up the defense of the borderlands in a separate army to the east, while your little coalition took care of the westernmost voivodeships. A lifelong and consummate soldier, he holds several estates with his kinsmen east of Lwów. Sieniawski is here primarily because he's a friend and herb-brother of…

…Stanisław Tarnowski, who leans forward in his chair, seeming eager at his relatively youthful thirty-something. Distant kinsman of the late great Grand Crown Hetman Jan Amor Tarnowski, one of the finest Polonians of the century, he represents a house in decline: with the death of Jan Amor's son, Jan Krzysztof, at a youthful and childless thirty in 1567, the main line of the family was rendered extinct and their expansive eastern estates forfeit to the princes Ostrogski. Now limited to their modest ancestral holdings in Sandomierz Voivodeship, it's up to relatively obscure cadets like Stanisław to carry on the family name.

Prince Andrzej Wiśniowiecki, Voivode of Bracław, represents both Protestant and Ruthenian interests in equal measure. Perhaps fifty years of age, he arguably wields the most political power of the four men present, a brother and inheritor of the famed hero Dymitr "Bajda." As for the man before you, you know his name well: he's an old comrade of your father's and, though you never personally have met him, he played an instrumental role in provisioning your army in its campaign against the Tatars. He ensured that your forces would be provided with extensive material aid from both Bracław city proper and his extensive holdings in Volhynia.

And, finally, boasting a Zaporozhian-style, half-shaved head is Teodor Skumin Tyszkiewicz, about forty but with a weatherbeaten, deeply-wrinkled face. He shares his herb with Sieniawski and Tarnowski, but knows little of them besides that. Lord Tyszkiewicz is master of the mid-sized Ruthenian town of Berdyczów – which you relieved from Tatar raiding just a few months ago – and other, sparsely-populated tracts of land in southwest Kijów and northern Bracław Voivodeships. However, a smattering of his kinfolk occupy middling posts in the Grand Duchy, and his family is one of the few remaining to hold sway in both of the Twin Nations. Though perhaps the lowliest man present in terms of holdings and titles, he is nonetheless of regional (that is to say, borderland) significance, and was primarily drawn to you, your agents tell you, by your defense of his premier holding.

"My noble lords," you begin, "I thank you all greatly for allowing yourselves to be called upon by a man as young as I, and so early in the day. I stand before you because…"

[] "...I am in need of your help."

Why lie? Some men may find it a brave thing to admit it

[] "...the coming of the Archduke will benefit us all."

For these men, you ought to get straight to the point.

[] "...you are men deserving of esteem, of riches, and of the highest seats of government."

A bit of flattery never hurt anyone — it's just a preamble.

[] "...no more shall these Twin Nations be dominated by the men of the heartlands."

Three of these men hail from Ruthenia or the southeast more generally – Tarnowski is of Lesser Poland, but he's certainly no Masovian churl.

[] write-in.

Phrased as a completion to the above sentences.