Si Deus Nobiscum: A Polish-Lithuanian Scion Quest

[Rolman]

Above your bed is the ceiling and above the ceiling the deck and the masts and sails, into the sky, into the aether where the stars chart their course and beyond that lies God, the Christ seated beside him.

You stare at the lantern swaying over your bed. Deathbed? You're bundled in like a swaddled newborn, a compress on your forehead that was either hot or cold at one point but now just feels sweaty like the rest of you. The mustard poultice on your chest stinks, but it beats the alchemical horror that is oppoteltoch, if you heard the surgeon right. That stuff smelt like tallow candles, camphor, and vinegar. A mix of medicus' spirits and laudanum, while unable to stem the flux or cure the cough, at least eased the stabbing chest pains and grinding headaches. It tended to leave you somehow both sleepy and well-rested.

Your lips start forming words in Polish; your fever-addled brain by now had lost most Latin beyond rote-learned Catechism, and you find yourself singing aloud a vernacular hymn, something left over from your Reformed childhood. Through the haze you manage to wonder why.

"Ach, moj niebie –" too loud, too much strain. You splutter for the better part of a minute.

You try again at a whisper. "Ah, my heavenly Lord, in the oneness of the Trinity forever reigning…"

Ah… "I'll… Run from sin to you, my God, no…" You try the next verse. "You gave me the promise by the scripture of the Prophet that you wish me not to die a sinful man." There we are, probably.

"Almighty God over all things, let your merciful eye fall upon me…" No, no, that's much later on.

You just want to know why. You feel as if you've exhausted a breviary's worth of prayer and been met with nothing, neither sign nor dream or even the gift of a restful mind, as worship usually brings. You close your eyes and breathe a long exhale, just gentle enough to keep your lungs at rest.

You stare into the darkness of your eyelids and note the impressions: the glowing fuzz of the lantern above you, the purple-blue and cadaverine gray of little strings and dots shifting in all directions, blackness washing over blackness in its strange way, top-to-bottom like a waterfall.

I cannot lose faith in you o God and I will not I will not I ask a question rather than question you Father but why why why why –

The Great Enemy tempts us every day. In the abyss you catch yourself and begin a reminiscence of sorts. The flies obviously came before the crows at Moncontour but you reckon it must've been the rats' work in Paris. In the weeks before you left they were especially everywhere, but did little for the stains on walls and streets, and the ones who were hanged from trees and lampposts and even shop signs bloated until someone bothered to cut them down.

Lord, I mean not to ask questions best not answered, or to beg for answers that'll come in time.

Your head felt thick. Did this even really happen? The reverend who replaced Father Janusz. You were eleven, twelve then? You had just watched one of your father's cavalrymen put down a foundering old mare with one of those big German swords. It was the biggest thing you'd ever seen killed. You asked the reverend: how come God let the horse suffer? And I thought you go to Hell if you kill somebody.

And, to the Calvinist's credit, he indulged you with an answer. Most adults bristled at your tough questions, especially on ones of faith. The friendly ones would say something about heavenly rewards or His plan or how-about-when-you're-older and the more severe threaten you with Hell or simply boxed your ears for asking something so smart-assed – only if your father gave permission, of course. But the reverend sat you down in the front row of pews and you both stared at the plain, Christ-less cross adorning the fresh-stripped chapel. He was new to a court position like how you were new to the world.

"A good question, Your Serene Highness," he said with the smile that would always scrunch up his face. "And I'll answer the second part later. But some of the greatest minds and souls in Christendom have thought about that first why. You're still trying to learn your prayers in Polish, yes?"

"And a lot of them are different, too," you remember saying.

The reverend patted you on the head. "That's alright, you'll get it. It'll eventually make more sense, too. But why is the very question Reverend Kalwin sought to answer alllllll those years ago. And it's what you and I believe in now," he said with a quick little pause. He put a hand to his chin. "He said – and this was after years of reading the Gospel, mind you – he decided that if God is the greatest, the strongest, the smartest, if he knows the beginning and end of all things, then he must already know who will go to Heaven and who will go to Hell. For that is the Gospel's word, and that's all there is to it."

You must've made a face. "But-but-but-but," he said, "that's no cause for sadness. He may know, but we do not. Well, there are suggestions, but technically a bandit could sprout wings and an almsman horns." You remember that the image made you chuckle a bit, probably in spite of yourself. Then the reverend asked: "but that just doesn't quite make sense, does it?"

"Uh-uh," you agreed.

"Because a godly life follows a godly heart with a godly soul behind it, and a godly soul – well, chances sound good, no?" He wrinkle-smiled. "Yet many would say it is better to go from the inside-out. And that's what I say. Calm your pride, Your Serene Highness, pray always, love your brothers – that means everybody – hate sin, forgive sinners." He thought a little more, furrowed his brow. "Like a house there must be cleaning, top to bottom. And as any good servant knows, love and fear work together to get the job done. You've seen a jester walk a tightrope? It's a bit like that…"

You're ripped away from whatever that was by a rolling wave. The autumn sea has been hard, making you vomit on particularly bad headache days. You can't quite make out the difference between dream and memory.

Yes, Lord, you're right. It's both too simple and too complex. And with scarcely any room for Petrus or the Lady or – O God, may…

[] I try to undo it. For you, Lord. The suffering of the world.

[] I never fall into sin, into heresy. Let the waves of vice break against me and pass over me.

[] I spread your word to the astray, to the infidel. Let all nations unite in Holy Communion.

[] I keep my mind clear, calm, always just. May I never lose the sense and senses you blessed me with.

You complete the thought and notice the tears in your eyes, swallowing a lump that isn't phlegm. The lantern shining through your closed eyes goes out. You open your eyes and force your head up to see if anyone's around to re-light it. You suddenly are very afraid of dying in the dark.

Are you ready?

[] Yes.

[] No.

[] I don't know.

Someone is standing in the doorway. You call out as loudly as your body lets you but they don't answer. Probably just a Netherlander or Norman or some crewman who can't…

They're approaching now! Any old commoner wouldn't dare. And as they draw closer your ears ring louder and louder. The child's shoe in the puddle outside of the Louvre, rain on window panes, fly's wings and flower petals magnified and finally your mother's face. Clearer than any memory, more realistic than any portrait or cameo, in her pearl-studded court attire, smiling. It feels like you're falling, your eyelids are drooping.

In, out, in, out. The only sensation you can feel, the only thing you can focus on, everything is quiet, far away –

Your head twists as a spasm courses through you. You arch your back for a split second and then register the lantern flame above you, swinging harder than usual. You watched its shadows dance on the low ceiling and spartan walls and you felt safe for the first time in months. None of your attendants could remember changing out the candle.

Glory to God. By the time the Sound tolls were paid you were on the mend, walking on shaky legs in the days before your arrival at Gdańsk. The more religious of your aides cautiously threw around "miraculous," and all seemed relieved that a young prince avoided being snuffed out at the very dawn of his career.

They coached you on what was to come: nearly all of your kinsmen are at Wawel right now, speaking and being spoken to in the buildup to this rather unprecedented selection of a king. The Archbishop of Gniezno presides as interrex, and (God willing, not literal) battle lines are being drawn. At least one of Czarny's boys may be going to France to court none other than Prince Alexandre, as part of the Commonwealth's answer to earlier French feelers. Understandably, none of you are very happy about this – an imperious Frenchman and friend of the Turk over a Habsburg or even a native candidate – but opinion seems to be swinging strongly in the pro-Walezy direction and so it's good for the family to have a foot in the door.

This kind of thing only makes you a little nervous now. Though the cur Alexandre's words echo in your head: just a year or two apart, yet so much younger than I.

 

[Rolman]

His rust-colored beard flecked with gray, he looks like himself but older, standing beside a young man. The wind blowing in from the Baltic sweeps back cloaks and hair; the day is gray and chilly but doesn't feel it. In your fixation you scarcely notice the dozens of lesser szlachta milling about behind the two.

You drop all decorum and bound down the gangway, your aides pattering"oh-oh-oh sire-sire-sire" behind you, and your addled lungs are completely taxed by the time you reach him.

"Papa Chevalier!" you cry, as Sir Marszowski wraps you in a bear hug. The young man chuckles and lets it happen.

"By God, look at you!" gasps your old sword-and-dance master. "Can't tell if you look more like your father or mother, but – by God!" His expression drops as you start up a nasty coughing fit. "You're sick?"

"Hopefully not anymore," you say. "Awful bad flux. Everybody was biting their nails, but God kept me." You beat your chest and clear your throat. "And may He be praised, I suppose it just wasn't quite time."

His eyebrows are raised with worry, but his teeth gleam happily. "The Lord's judgment is flawless as ever then! We can get you riding and running again, have a physician talk to the kitchen-master for good food, ah…" It's only the second occasion you've ever seen him misty-eyed. He hugs you again, longer than the first.

"I like the style," interjects the young man with a smile.
.
You realize the two are dressed completely different from you, and suddenly your trunk hose and ruff are feeling very silly. They look quite strapping in their well-cut cloaks and dyed tunics, peacock feathers in fur hats flapping back like trees in a storm. Christ alive, who's the young one? Dammit dammit dammit. He looks familiar. He looks… A bit like Father?

He smiles even wider. "What? Don't remember me? We were thick as thieves when we were about, oh, this tall?" He gestures just above the knee. "Come now, whenever you visited Nieśwież?"

You squint. Oh! "Cousin Mikołaj?"

"Yeeees!" he says, at last hugging you. "You've got to be formal with me these days – Father's successor and all, in a sense I outrank you even. I suppose I've got a lot of influence, in fact." He chuckles and looks a little nervous; you hold your tongue. "But in private just call me Sierotka or Krzysztof, everybody does."

Sierotka… "You want me to call you 'orphan?'"

"Well, it was always my nickname, don't tell me you forgot," he said, not waiting for an answer. "When I was about four, Father and Mother brought me along to Wawel on business and I somehow got separated from them. Old King Zygmunt found me crying scared in the gardens and said to his servants: 'Now have you ever seen a sadder little orphan?' And that was that. In fact…"

You try to figure out your cousin, entirely divorced from the boy you knew him as. He was a chatterbox then and certainly now, but what's with the arrogant-affectionate vacillation? What is he even talking about right now? You make eye contact with Sir Marszowski, and he raises his eyebrows.

Bold! Ever so bold! But that's him, alright, unchanged. You start smiling, which makes Sierotka himself beam. "...Now isn't that just funny?"

"Oh yes," you say, snapping back to lucidity.

Sierotka's smile drops. "Ah, but– you know something, cousin, life isn't so funny anymore." He steps closer, too close to your face, and without looking away he orders: "Step aside, please, Sir Marszowski."

You feel an eyeblink pause before your old fencing master says, "Of course, Your Serene Highness." He takes a few large steps backward in a half-bow, arms behind his back, neck stretched reminiscent of a chicken. An attendant coughs; others smile or shake their heads. He joins in their own hushed conversations, wrist draped limply over the pommel of his sidesword.

Thankfully, Sierotka keeps his eyes trained on you, grabbing at the air for words. "The thing I can't handle, cousin, isn't the warfighting or the itinerary or upholding law and liberty or anything like that," he says, his voice quiet but harsh. "It's the backbiters, glory-hounds, mooches," he continues, "the gossips and minding everything you say and do and how you say it and do it!"

Sierotka growls through his clenched teeth and chuckles a little. "Enough to drive a man mad. And that's before you get into all these shrieking heretics –"

"Heretics?" you ask; your mind flinches with mild shock.

"Yes, loud, obnoxious, and greedy ones, too. Half the things they say are utterly senseless regarding any topic whatsoever," he begins. "They–"

"Yes, wait, but – you're not Reformed?"

"Ah! Forgive me. I didn't want to bring it up, but I know you and I can talk in good faith. I'm back in the fold like you, cousin!" he exclaims almost too loudly, his countenance brightening.

"Indeed," you reply with a smile, still on the border of disbelief. "Praise God! But – well – why?"

"Well, why don't I ask you that?" His volume control continues to waver. "I could prattle on about the theological this and the scriptural that but, to put things shortly, I find their notion of salvation, of the order of things, and of God himself, entirely… lawless."

Relatable. "Yes, right," you reply, "with to-each-their-own as if there aren't ancient and apparent truths handed down from the Lord to the Christ to His Apostles to the Church Fathers –"

Your cousin claps his hand on your shoulder and cuts you off. "Ridiculous! It's ridiculous. Arians, Ebionites, Gonesius' Brethren," he groans, swatting at a fly with his free hand. "They're more or less just making things up."

You're stumbling for words when Sierotka's face flashes with remembrance. "But I'm getting so terribly ahead of myself! Cousin, I'm going to France – that's why I'm here, besides giving a welcome," he says, now sheepishly sagging. "I was hoping you could fill me in, perhaps as I've done for you."

He has finally stopped talking. The deluge has ceased, thank God.

You derive a sliver of sadistic pleasure at his flash of weakness, his deference – only a few times in life have people come to you for counsel. You, the youngest son, little brother, the foreign prince far from home. You shake your head, "Madness. Utter madness. They are tearing themselves apart: it's Saturnine. I've seen battle –"

"As have I –"

Shut up, dear cousin! "I've seen battle, and let me tell you – killing and murder are distinct things. It's a distinction that extends beyond the law of man and, may He forgive me, God. I can't explain it…"

And you told Sierotka of the Massacre he learned of from German broadsheets, his expression neutral yet fixated. You told him of the dirtiness of Paris and its rabid citizenry, their hatred rising and falling with the months and years, of the islands of humanity and humanism found through your schooling and sheer luck. You told him of the Surprise at Meaux, your hands shaking as you spoke publicly for the first time before assembled lords, and of Huguenot treachery later met with Catholic slaughter.

You told him of Prince Aleksandar's role in all this. The orchestrator now barreling like round shot toward the Commonwealth's fragile mosaic of set and sect.

Sierotka shakes his head and knits his brow. "I suppose I had certain notions about the war in France I ought to correct. Sounds dire, and Lord be praised you made it out. I'll keep my eyes peeled," he says with disgust. "Let the heretics have their just desserts before God, not the sword. If they want a fight, they'll get one – that Jan Firlej, the Lutheran, he's always saber-rattling and barking and bellowing whenever he gets a chance…" He catches himself for once. "Well, I suppose I'll keep my ears open in Paris. Alarming."

He looks over his shoulder and waves Sir Marszowski back with a roll of the arm; your mentor approaches from behind looking as perplexed as he does miffed. "I appreciate your waiting, Sir Marszowski."

"Naturally, Your Serene Highness."

"Well," says Sierotka, clapping his hands together and giving a half-weary smile. "I think we've had an enlightening chat between cousins. I ought not hold you two any longer. Your carriage and my carrack just about overlap!" He laughs at his own joke. "Dear cousin, we're Radziwiłłowie, we'll meet again. And we'll meet again as comrades and brothers. But do remember, the world is much larger than Wawel and the Sejms and sejmiks. Don't let it swallow you whole."

That's the most insightful thing he's said all day! You give him a genuine smile at last. "Thank you, cousin. And likewise watch your step in Paris. They're a brutal lot."

You say your farewells: Sierotka's men gather to him and your attendants to you and Marszowski, a few key lordlings changing parties. You're at last granted some privacy with Marszowski in a coach beyond Gdańsk's city walls.

"With all due respect to your esteemed family, Your Serene Highness…" says Marszowski, face wrinkling with mischief.

"Yes, I know, he didn't shut up as a child either."

The two of you share your first laugh in about a decade. "I filled him in on Paris," you continue, "I was there for various proceedings." You see it in Marszowski's eyes: I know. Say no more. "He mainly complained about court life and heretics."

"Yes," agrees Marszowski, laughing dryly. "He's got that revert-fever, indeed, and melancholia to boot. He's more thoughtful than he comes off, you know. Struck me as a bit agitated today – that's when he really yaps."

"You know, mon bon Chevalier," you gesture downward at yourself, at your silly French getup. "I'm really feeling like a fish out of water here."

"Are you too old for lectures, my lord?" he asks, performing his eyebrow-cock.

[] "In this case – no."

[] "I've been doing some reading, though I reckon I'm a little out of date."

[] "It's alright. I'd rather learn the lay of the land myself."

 

[Rolman]

"Oh, Lord, where to begin," Marszowski says, clasping his hands in thought. "Hmm… Well, the state's reformed, our Commonwealth." You nod. "In terms of new rights and privileges I'm all in favor, personally, though as a sworn man of the family – I can't be. This new union undermines us immensely. Your father made a stand against it at Lublin. He failed. His punishment?"

A flash of anger from the aging rake. "All the Grand Duchy south of, oh, Brześć? It's Poland now. The Crown. And now, any old Polish noble can waltz into Lithuania and expect to be treated on equal footing with illustrious houses such as ours, as if they're sons of the land. The line between Kingdom and Grand Duchy is fading."

"Appropriation?! Revocation?!" you splutter, already feeling pangs of anger, of mobilization. A dormant loyalty stirs.

Marszowski nods grimly. "We've been greatly weakened. Libertas Aurea, eh? Sed non nobis. Lithuania rallies around us now more than ever, at least, but missing four whole rightful Voivodeships." He sighs. "Now, onto succession?"

You try to let the spike of rage in your chest pass through. "Please."

"Well, as you know," he lowers himself to a harsh whisper, "that mean old cunt Zygmunt August is no more. And with him goes the line of Jadwiga and Jagiełło; the male line, that is. Does a Princess Anna ring a bell?"

You scrunch your face in thought. Nope. Marszowski continues: "Zygmunt's spinster sister. Everybody forgot about her, but she's the sole unmarried link to the old line. She may well now be Christendom's most desired maiden, nevermind that she's pushing fifty. Any potential marriage will sway the voters –"

Wait! "They literally meant an election? As in, the Senat and Sejm are going to…"

"Well, yes, it's tradition to a degree, Zygmunt the Old, the one from before your time, I mean, he promulgated…" Marszowski stops himself from a tangent. "The important thing is that it could be this way forever now; vivente rege's head is on the block. But which nobles may elect the king? Shall there be fixed Articles for the new king? Will the new Royal Majesty have a suckling pig or a dolphin for his first meal? Wheels of Italian cheese?" He laughs dryly. "Kurwa…"

The fencing master manages to calm himself down. "All rather unprecedented. Understandably, nobody quite knows what's going on. The Archbishop of Gniezno is damn near holding the country together singlehandedly. Now, onto our players: the King of Sweden, the Emperor and his folk, the mad Muscovite, that French prince Sierotka's off to see, uh…"

"Aleksandar. I met him. Bastard. And dangerous. Had a hand in St. Bartholomew's Day."

Shock flashes across the knight's face. "What? Tell me about that later!" You nod. "Ah, ehm, yes, so, him – he's arguably the status quo man. Frenchman and Turk are allies, a friend of the Frenchman is a friend of the Turk and that makes the south much less treacherous. France's distance means he's far from a power base, unlike the others. He'd be our king, understand? Not to mention if his homeland calls him for whatever reason, Anna could rule in his stead."

"Yes, I'm following."

"Now, the Habsburgs, they're our choice. I'd rather never have a foreigner sit the throne but I can't disagree with the rationale. Keep the crownlanders on their toes, gives us some breathing room in that regard, and guarantees peace in Śląsk and Upper Hungary, too. The clergy – the Catholic ones – are over the moon about it, naturally, and ought to further confuse things for the Crown's partisans."

He thumps his fist on his thigh and looks out the carriage window. "The only downside, besides some of the Protestants pitching a fit, is that the Turk may turn against us, or we likewise find ourselves dragged into an Imperial war against them. Their Tatar lapdogs would never quit. We'd also have to turn our back on Transylvania."

"Doesn't seem ideal," you muse, scratching your chin. "But anything to stymie the Kingdom proper, I suppose."

"Mhm," agrees Marszowski. "Next is the Swedish King. he's something like a… half-Lutheran? need I say more about who'd want him, then?" He chuckles. "But, to be fair, he's married to Princess Katarzyna, and his son and heir is of royal blood therefore. The Emperor's great-grandfather is Kazimierz Andrzej but, you know, proximity and all…"

"Naturally, yes," you say. "Do continue."

"The protest candidate is the Muscovite, damn his eyes and his name," Marszowski spits. "At least that's how I see it, not sure if his party is being genuine or not. It's mainly Ruskie from our – what should be our – southern Voivodeships, as well as some of the lesser families. I'm not quite sure why they're asking to be murdered."

Marszowski begins to snap his fingers. "Ay, agh, come on… Right, yes, some of the more minor candidates: crownlanders with a chivalric, romantic streak are gunning for a Śląski Piast, from one of those little fiefs. Rather unserious, if you ask me."

He knits his brow and gives an approving nod. "I'd give more credence to our little Transylvanian faction, they've got some sense: ties high and low to the Zápolyas and Batorys, a counterweight against the Emperor, buffer against the Turk, the prospect of a new, friendly realm over the mountains…"

"Right… Right-right," you ponder. "Sounds like we've got our work cut out for us."

"We do indeed. That being said…" Marszowski leans out the coach window. "Sir Sienkiewicz, bring up that Burgundy, please! Goblets too!"

You smile. An attendant rides up a light trot, rifling through a saddlebag. "Your Serene Highness, Sir Marszowski," he nods humbly, giving an awkward bow still in the saddle before producing the requested items.

An odd feeling. The other children growing up (that bully aside, but he got birched til he bled) treated you with deference but in France you were oft little better than a common page. You pinch your nose for a few moments, pondering.

You shift your attention to Sir Marszowski, who has already made it through the wax and wood stopper, now making an effort at clean pours in spite of the bumps and bounces of the road. "Beer and gorzała make a man sleepy, lustful, stupid, angry – wine stimulates, brings good conversation. And fie on it if we stain our clothes," he explains. He passes you a goblet and you begin to sip.

"It seems to me we live in a time of great change," you say. "Which is exciting, I suppose. But great change certainly visited France in my time there."

"You've grown into a smart lad – is it alright I'm this informal?" You wave your hand: oh please. He chuckles. "Thank you, lord Prince, heh; but, yes, I think you're onto something. That's the great fear of us all."

"Civil war."

His expression is sober. "But we cannot let the Crown take anything further from us. The new Union may hobble the king and his lackeys' power, but Zygmunt gave us his parting shot before the grave, that's for damn sure."

[] "Let come what may, then."

[] "We'll find a way. A peaceful one. We near-always do."

[] "So long as we not slaughter each other for the sake of one's confession."

[] "Perhaps we ought to turn inward, make every Litwin our brother."

"May God show mercy, perhaps that's the way it'll be," replies Marszowski.

You stare at your boots and exhale, just short of a sigh, beginning a coughing fit you will yourself to cut short. You look him in the eye. He sits up straight and prepares to listen; he can read it on your face.

"Dear Chevalier, on the ship, when I thought I would die, I had a vision one night. The sole lantern had blown out and I felt my soul rising up through me. Out of my chest and into my throat and mouth and nose. I was ready to go. Someone appeared in the doorway of my cabin; I could see them even though it was pitch-black. My ears rang and I thought myself dying and I saw all the beauties of God's creation magnified, down to the most minute detail of the head of an ant, or the veins of a leaf in the sun. I saw my mother, Andrzej. My mother. My mother."

He sits in silence, unblinking, utterly consumed. You've never used his Christian name before. "I saw my mother," you repeat, voice cracking. Tears well. "I can scarcely remember her face but I saw her. She is in Heaven, I just know it, it was beautiful." You try to collect yourself somewhat. "You know how when, on the cusp of sleep, one feels as if they're falling and then jolts awake?"

Marszowski nods.

"I felt that, it felt like I was shooting out of ice-cold water with just a vapor of breath left in me. I awoke and the lantern was burning again. I was able to walk by the end of the week."

You clear your throat and wipe your eyes. Marszowski sits in silence – you're not sure for how long.

"Lad," he begins tentatively, "you know I was known to skip Mass – and now the services these days." He speaks again after a big, chest-puffing inhale. "I fear God. I do. I hope He knows so. Still, I've violated the bonds of marriage countless times, killed men for pride's sake, engaged in every frivolity, every vanity."

His free hand is upturned, suppliant. It's vaguely disturbing to see him like this. "Unless you were quite literally dreaming, son, I think Death himself passed you over. He received new orders from his master."

You don't know what to say. The pines outside remind you of a company of pike from the helmets up, stretching out in all directions with their rod-like trunks and green spearheads. The men always shifted from this foot to that back in France, as they waited to kill or die. But the forest is calm, not swaying as they'd be were they awaiting battle.

The land is at peace for now. Your memory, your fantasy, your dreams begin to blend. You are transported in several directions, to several places at once, you pull inward yet start up coughing again.

From rote reflex alone, you pray an Ave Maria. It grounds you; you realize you're digging your nails into your sweaty palms, reopening scabbed-over bloodletting cuts on your hands. The holy poetry of that is not lost on you, and you feel as if you're being watched by something beyond human. You realize you'd really like a mirror, though you fear what you'll see.

You touch your ears, your temples going down to where the surgeon shaved your sideburns, the underside of your chin – they're there, too. You recall how they snake up your arms, maybe five or six or seven on each, how they live in the cruxes behind your knees. The bump-bones of your ankles. Even your nethers. How am I alive?

You wanted to see all those unburnt farms again, to leave the wood. The coach trundles on. Eight days to Wawel.

Marszowski breaks the silence. "You're marked, son. No doubt in my mind."

"I never knew you to take divine signs so seriously."

"I didn't." He takes a big, steadying gulp of wine. You decide it's a good idea and follow suit.

But whosoever drinketh of the water that I shall give him, shall never be more athirst: but the water that I shall give him, shall be in him a well of water, springing up into everlasting life.

The crisp bite of the drink is fading in your mouth, reminding you of the tart film left by raspberries. A sensation from a long time ago, when things made sense and came easily. Marszowski bows his head; you fear he's nearly beside himself. He bounces one leg at speed.

You begin anew: Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum…

So little time to prepare, and then it is simply upon you.

 

[Rolman]

This is a beautiful land. Your childhood mercifully bubbles up unbidden, overcoming the calluses of war, illness, and strife.

There are no ghost towns here. There are no refugee baggage trains or half-clothed, stunned children living as savages in the woods. Bodies do not line the ditches, men need not ply evil trades to live; highwaymen – though ever-present – were of the mildest concern. The beautiful mire-filled forests of Pomerania instead brought bog iron miners, peat-diggers, and men carrying great vats of pitch in handcarts, your entourage snaking around alder fens until reaching the drier woods of beech, oak, and maple. To the south grazed herds of deer and cattle in wide meadows and pastures, watched over by the ever-present pike-pines.

Hedgerows and rough-hewn fences lined the roads around thatched and wood-shingled little hamlets, modest churches of all confessions (all of them!) changed from village to village. Catholic pilgrims once gave your party directions, a Calvinist reverend spoke on weather and the faith with you and your men, and ever-present were the friendly Jewish tavernkeeps.

Praise God. These were good folk, though you longed for Lithuania more than you ever could admire the Crown. Old Tatjana never left your thoughts; you fretted over whether or not she was alive – none in your entourage could answer the question. Your kind pays no mind to women like her.

Peasants in tunics and wool jackets removed their caps and waved from afar or bowed deeply up close, their women wearing embroidered dresses, capped with kerchiefs and headscarves dyed as brightly as they could afford. Petty nobles would run up to the entourage, bend the knee, and make spirited inquiries on who and why and where to. Even the more desperate ones seemed clean and well-fed, dutifully at work in the field sewing the overwinter crop: "the hardy stuff, like cabbage and turnips," Sir Marszowski explained, "onions or garlic, barley, rye. It'll give them a little half-harvest come springtime."

The poorest were merely goat farmers with holes in their clothes; nearly everybody seemed to own chickens and sheep, ample hogs, an ox – you knew not of that life, but they seemed entirely without misery compared to some places you had seen. The folwark houses and monasteries in which you lodged on occasion were always well-stocked with food and drink, the landlords and abbots never concerned with armies on the march or running out of funds.

Of course, nowhere is perfect. The sight of a bloated hanged man from a great oak tree on the roadside brought you, embarrassingly, out of your skin. You understood why yet cursed yourself for cowardice, and it took a great deal to not display it outwardly. A placard dangled from his neck, written in Polish and Latin:

On October the 23rd, Anno Domini 1573, under lawful torture did I confess to the theft of a draught horse and three steers from my own lord and master. Furthermore did I offer up confession that I ventured to abscond from justice and my master under false pretenses. And, hitherto my confession, I both lied without repentance on these matters and further ventured to falsely implicate my own neighbors. May God have mercy on my eternal soul.

Indeed, the peasantry were unfree here. For all its flaws, many of the peasants of France and at least a few stretches of the Empire were freemen. You thought it odd that this bothered you, and Sir Marszowski explained with a mildly guilty expression about its good for the wellbeing of lord and serf alike. It's a compelling argument, and it's not really something that can change. But much could soon change for the little people and the lords, too, for that matter – you shuddered at the thought of this land falling into war, however necessary one may be.

Your party approached Kraków from the northwest with increasing fanfare. You sought out a vantage point and beheld the Vistula flowing out of view behind the many steeples and red-tiled roofs of the city, Wawel sitting stately in its center atop a hill, as fine a castle as any Dark Age fable's. You reckoned her half as large as Paris with Wawel as fine as the Louvre: people say the city exceeds Prague and competes with Vienna. Although you swallowed at the thought of a return to the maze-like streets of a dangerous, dirty city – however insulated you may be – you also found yourself nearly giddy at the prospect of the new sights, sounds, smells, and people awaiting you.

You entered through the city gate's with a ruckus all around – another wealthy prince in the city, they cried! Royal heralds and armed lordlings rode out to meet you, escorting you up into the palace.

Time for battle! You found yourself confronted quickly by a mighty host of fur-capped noblemen, and you began a desperate battle of managing what very easily could've been a few dozen introductions within minutes.

Ostrogskitarnowskisieniawskkiszkaiossolińskichodkiewiczzamoyskitworowskiskargabudnygonesiuslutherjanfirlej well how about those Mohyłas the Moldavians yes them my brother my sister my uncles and cousins my dog my falcon my horse are you married lord Prince 'no sir' are you Reformed lord Prince 'no sir' but your family is 'yes sir' help help help help help help!

Sierotka was absolutely, completely right. At least three people asked you for money. It feels like hours before your attendants successfully usher you out of the fray. As you attempted to pick at the newly-formed knots in your head, you decided that this place may be more arcane than even the French court's sprawling spiderweb. You'll have to consult Sir Marszowski often until you've got everything sorted out.

Or your Father and brothers. You ought not forget. Though in time you were told that Septimus and Krzysztof – apparently hardened by war since fourteen or fifteen – were still out East in the Grand Duchy screening against Tatar and Muscovite probes.

Your father requested to see you man to man, in private. You were ushered into a spacious suite and the heavy door shut behind you. Standing waiting, at once shining like steel-plate and wholly earthly, was the old man, ruddy as ever, wearing creases dug deeper and a long white beard. He seemed hale as ever, without a hint of a limp or a paunch. You try to ignore your thudding chest and fluttering gut. You feel small.

"Son," he says, giving a smile and a somewhat terse hug. "You've grown well, praise the Lord." He sizes you up. "You're like your brothers but a pinch shorter. And perhaps a bit too skinny?"

"Father," you say, in the brief moment you find your face in his shoulder. You're taken aback by his… Perhaps not coldness, but, well, it's been nine or ten years! You were expecting a bit more, you suppose. "Bad flux on the voyage over," you explain, "it was touch and go for a moment." And, despite some hesitation, you give a summary on your vision – omitting the bit about Mother, of course.

He listens closely and nods along. "Your first time on a ship," he says to himself. "I'm glad you took it to heart, Son. Such mysteries and acts ought never be taken lightly. And, God willing, may it provide you with a little food for thought."

You know what he means by that. "Father–"

He raises a hand. "You need not defend yourself, pay no mind to a wisecrack. You were always a sensitive lad and clearly something imprinted upon you; God works in secret and I need not understand. Though you may know it to be a sore spot for me, we shan't speak on it more as you're of my blood and that is enough."

"I swear to God I am for the family," you stammer. His authority washes over you.

He looks you dead in the eye. "But you're a man grown and your choice is your choice, both in my own eyes and those of the law. And, praise God," he adds, "the rumor mill says you're a veritable little Erasmus." There's a sudden flash of tenderness. "So, I don't feel as if I failed you or the family for that matter. Your cousins are similarly sensible in their own reversions."

"Regarding my reason and my faith, Father, I am an open book," you gently counter. "And Erasmus, though I'll need to read more, is of the humanist sort. And that was how they brought me up – no Jesuits," you joke.

Father grins and lets out a hmph. "That's a fine thing, as I've got work for you. You seem marvelous smart but I'm putting you to the test, son, I won't mince it."

"Anything, Father."

"You were in France. I am told that you have seen things."

"Indeed, Father."

"Could put our Iwan and his barbarians to shame," he grunts. "And I am most glad to see you're of a level head on matters of faith. You see, there is agitation for an edict of tolerance for the safeguarding of the Liberty and of peace itself."

"I see."

"Undoubtedly, you support this, yes?"

"Absolutely."

"Good," he says, placing his hands on his hips. "As do I. Both for obvious reasons and to offer safety to those fearful of an Imperial prince. I'd send Catholic Sierotka were he not bound for Paris." That hurt a little. "To have one of our princes in attendance to any potential convocated sejm that would bring an edict of tolerance. This means you stay here."

"It will be done, Father." You behave properly before man and God.

"You will be well taken care of as is befitting of your station. I will leave you to your doings and a trustworthy man will bring you the princely stamp."

Well, that accounts for the next two weeks to two months. Who's to say? Until Father dies you do as Father orders and that's that, for some things never change.

You find yourself tongue-tied. "Thank you, Father," is what you decide upon. "I'll let down neither you nor our name. Always a Radziwiłl first."

He gives you a single nod of approval. "Very good. God willing, you'll rise to your raising. Do not disappoint us. I'll be here for a few days more before I head back east."

You bow as a vassal and turn to the door.

"Oh," projects Father, just about when you're at the threshold. You turn to face him. "That nursemaid of yours – the Ruskaja – she died about this time last year." He must see the look on your face. "I'm sorry, son," he volunteers, but he said it as if a much-loved hound or horse died. Utter afterthought. "No one told you?"

"No one knew who she was. No one ever knew who I was talking about."

You catch yourself and say something that must've been appropriate with some expected what-a-shame nonchalance. You don't really remember. You hold it together for a half-hour more of pleasantries and introductions with retainers and retainers' retainers before you at last can duck into a servants' hallway.

You cry. A few dry sleeve-muffled sobs, some wheezing and hitching of breath. All three make you cough and you have time for none of it. You dry your eyes, wipe your nose, and continue for a day (the next few days, be honest with yourself) with a sensation in your torso not entirely divorced from the leaden stone of the days after the Massacre. Sir Marszowski dutifully guards the doorway; you told him that Tatjana's dead and he needed no further explanation.

You soldier on and pray for her night and day. A fortunate thing that this is the month of prayer for the departed. A little Marian shrine appears in your chambers as the days turn to weeks, indeed, weeks. The Protestants and politiques continue to mutter about their hopeful declaration of tolerance, and you continue to await it – your copy of the family seal stamp is delivered in due time.

You reaccustom yourself to Polish dress (warmer and more comfortable!) and Polish weather. You learn to enjoy using a fork for all your food, not just fruits and vegetables, cursing chamber pots to the most fiery of the Enemy's pits as you experience indoor plumbing for the first time. You had seen a pomme de terre in France, but you finally ate one baked – same with maize and a new poultry simply called Indicus, and everybody can't stop talking about rumors of a sweat-inducing, energizing hot drink that supposedly belongs to the Turk. You walk and ride through the Kraków streets and alleys, familiarizing yourself with a cleaner and safer city. That's relatively speaking, of course.

But, by Saint Andrew's day, you find yourself itching with boredom. Thankfully, the distractions are as ample as they are important.

You focus your attention on…

[THE BELOW FOUR CHOICES WILL BEGIN A SIDESTORY. Think of it as a highlight from your downtime, to be posted independently (or not) with clock-moving main updates.]

[] The temporal.

Continue to orient yourself. Meet important lords, Senators, and ranking courtiers. Given your name and novelty, pretty much everybody would like to meet you. Again. Maria give you strength.

[] The spiritual.

Meet clergy from all confessions, though mainly the Catholic ones. Piotr Skarga, the arch-conservative Jesuit, the Papal ambassador, and the Archbishop of Gniezno are of high priority. You hope to find a reliable confessor and maybe even a good astrologer, too.

[] The ladies.

You're about five years overdue for marriage, after all. You feel childish for such romanticism, but you begin to fantasize about a love-match. On the contrary, a third son needs all the help he can get – even a Radziwiłl.

[] The rakes.

Louts are underrated. Drunkards frequently pour out prophetic words and earthly secrets. These men and their frowned-upon women know everything, say little, all while throwing parties that would make the most hedonistic of Alexandre's mignons blush. Though it'll prove embarrassing, a deeper acquaintance with the hustling, unsavory side of the court can provide subtle allies and many a rumor-thread to pull on.

And regarding the months to come with its potential agenda, you felt…

[] Ready to fight for the family.

You'll have to balance your conscience and your consciousness. Espouse tolerance while agitating for a Habsburg. Be genuine regarding both. Need more be said?

[] Ready to fight for the Church.

Let us not rip each other apart, but the astray must be herded home again and the truth of God, the inviolable Trinity, Maria, and the Saints returned to primacy. The clergy will smile upon you, while the Protestants and perhaps even your own family rumble and grumble.

[] Ready to fight for the Liberty.

This place may just be exceptional, and not just because it's your homeland. You cast aside petty loyalties in the name of this project, this Res Publica of the noble. Ingratiates you to the crownlander reformist camp and the lesser nobility, but your brother-Lithuanians will surely be taken aback.

[] Ready to fight for the Grand Duchy itself.

For what is the family if not Lithuania? Arguably. That may be dramatic. But it's not untrue. Fight against further union beyond the bounds of the family's position. You will make no friends through this except for back home, but France taught you to make a stand and dig your feet in. An inch given is a mile taken.

 

[Rolman]

The occasion for this dance is the coming of Advent Sunday. Things are bound to get serious both spiritually and secularly come wintertime, and the unspoken energy of the court seems to cry out: enjoy it while it lasts!

So that is the plan. You find yourself a pinch nervous, trying to settle down with Sir Marszowski with that fine medicine known as heated wine. "So we're a little girl-crazy, lord prince?" he asks with a grin.

"Oh, come now. It's just that in Paris –"

"Yes, yes," says Sir Marszowski, reaching across the table to poke you under the ribs. "You were just so repressed in Paris for want of preventing scandals, no good matches, yes-yes."

"But I'm serious!" you groan, unable to distinguish blushing from the warmth of drink. "It just… It wasn't even an option."

"No whores?"

"What? No!"

"Wow, ah, alright," he seems genuinely amazed. "Perhaps the first ever. A more honorable prince than I'd be," laughs Sir Marszowski. "Thank God you've at least danced with a lady– you have, haven't you?" You roll your eyes. "Though the rash on my back–"

You know what that could mean. You cannot lose another parent. The fun in your system evaporates; you feel sobered up and beyond that.

"It's alright! It's alright!" says the aging knight, his face alight now with a mirrored worry. "It's probably just the small pox; the pox that is small I mean, not small– you understand – it hasn't gotten worse for a year or two and if it ends up being the Italian or French pox or whatever it may be–"

Your face is buried in your hands and you speak through them. "Sir Marszowski, by all the Saints…"

"Lord prince, they've got treatments for it! Good ones. I reckon I'm fine and if I'm not fine I reckon I'll be. I shouldn't have even brought it up." He refills your goblet. "Come on, drink, drink, lord prince. It dries up the black bile, this is a night for sanguinity."

"I'm not going– I'm going to be thinking about this all night now." You lean back in your chair and sag.

Marszowski tries to engage with you through the earmuffs of your racing mind. "Hey-hey-hey, lord prince," he starts snapping in your face. "Lord prince!"

You can't ever really remember getting angry at old Marszowski but: "What!"

"I'm sorry. Truly. You know I've been wounded in eight places, right?" You look up at him and sigh. "And survived infection twice."

You sigh again and realize what a fool you're being. You're a prince, by God. "I'm sorry I'm acting like a child."

"Fear is a childish thing, and you're right to fear," he says, leaning close and shaking your shoulder with his once-snapping, extended hand. "Were my old man to tell me that, I'd be fearful too. Even at your age. But are you a child?"

"No."

"Then you must rid yourself of childish things!" His brows are knit as if he's frustrated but his eyes and mouth smile. "Except for play, of course," he chuckles. "Now, would you like to talk about the fine ladies attending tonight?"

You'll have to make an effort. You reverse your slump. "Fine."

"Well – you're alright?"

"I said I'm fine."

"Well enough then. It's that– well, you're a bit late, is the problem. The older sisters are married and the younger ones aren't women yet."

"Generationes," you muse, "problemata est," working to quiet the sting of panic and fearful anger still in you. "Hm. Do you have names?"

"Not really, no." He chuckles. "I much prefer women my own age; you'll understand someday. But, I mean – Chodkiewicz, Sieniawski, Tarnowski girls are here. I think a Prussian or Livonian or two or some such, some Rosjanki from down south, from our rightful voivodeships."

Now Marszowski himself is looking a little sober. "Lad, I know you want to try at a little love story – and it's happened, it's true – but… May I give you some frank advice, lord prince?"

You're not ready but you must be. "Go ahead."

"You are a third son, my lord. It is a difficult position. There are only so many estates to go around." He clasps his hands together and flickers his eyes between your gaze and the floor. "So, a good dowry – that's a real consideration. An alliance. Proximity to the Grand Duchy. A family's factional loyalties."

You still feel a bit of brine in your blood, so to speak, and yellow bile you never quite knew you had continues to flow. "Yes, Sir Marszowski, I know all that!"

"Well, I'm sorry, then, lord prince–"

"It's just, that – do you understand how few real friends I've had? People who have really loved me? You, Tatjana, my brothers, I hope Father… In France, everybody was merely an acquaintance or a teacher."

Marszowski closes his half-open mouth. You continue: "So can you blame me for being romantic? Can you blame me for wanting to want someone?"

"I was young once; I understand. And I'm not saying that you ought to coldly calculate," he extends a hand in caution, palm out. "But it's a serious political choice, and for both families. Also lots of arrangements turn into love, anyway. And hey!"

"What?"

"Mistresses! Buying cows and stealing milk and all that?" Marszowski scoffs at your consternation. "You are up-tight, lord prince!"

You make a bid for a shutdown. "Alright, well, what are the dances tonight, lech?"

Sir Marszowski snorts. "Um, the usual. Branles, passamezzo-pavanes, galliards – ah! There's this new one. Can you dance the cascarda?"

"The what?"

"Oh no." That's genuine. "It's a new one – Italian, of course – alright, we need to train you up." He cranes his neck out the window. "Already dark. We've got a few hours? Let's go!"

You are sweaty. You survived practice without coughing to an unattractive extent. You have changed into your feasting duds, but no time for a bath. Indeed, the time has come!

A cascarda is difficult on the body but easy on the mind for a trained dancer – there are only around five steps and most come in repeating, verse-chorus solo-partner format. It's the stages that make it difficult; several rounds of dancing about in circles and figure-eights, interspersed with contactless, mirrored partner dance and openly flirtatious solos. A headspinning dance in more ways than one.

"You should probably be alright," pants Marszowski, sizing you up, "You're tense but you'd probably be anyway, heh." He whips his hair back, sending some sweat flying.

You're shaking your legs and ankles out. "Oh, come on. My first try and coming back from flux no less – not everybody can be you, old timer." You make a face at him.

"You can always marry your cousin." You can see his core tensing up, trying not to laugh. "Sierotka's sister. I'm joking but I'm serious."

"That is gross! That is gross."

"Are you really such a monk you're gonna break out the table of consanguinity and–"

"Oh, go to Hell, Pops!" You laugh in spite of yourself. "I don't care that she's my cousin, I care that she could hardly talk when I last saw her."

"Well, yet again–"

"...You must prepare yourself for the inevitabilities of – yes! I know! I know! Just– that– sometimes I feel like the only person that can see anything!"

"Peasants marry their cousins…"

"...That there's something wrong with the world!"

"...And they don't necessarily love-match all that often…"

"That there's something wrong with its people!"

"...Such things have never changed…"

"Consort with your cousin for money, is what it is! Kill the faithful for Christ!"

Marszowski's teeth flash. "Again?! We're doing this again!" he snaps. "I love you mighty well, lord prince, and, as your subordinate – because I am your lesser, don't forget – I respectfully say that this whining thing– it– makes me sick!"

Has he ever really, truly yelled at you before? And at last now, as a man grown?

"To say you're the only one who sees it!" He shakes his goblet at you, wine spilling onto his hand. "I see it! The monks and nuns – ask them! Ask the suicides and the cripples and lunatics!"

You feel like a child. In the sad, fearful, self-loathing way. Like how you replayed every step you took when you first got to France.

"See it, oh, see what? God passed you over, lad! You! You saw it with your own two eyes."

"I did," you answer limply.

"So maybe all this… All this melancholia! Instead of using it to feel all put-upon, to shy from girls and partying and the little intrigues, to be oh-so-detached, woe-is-me, icon-clutching – the Lord put you here to use it!"

He continues. "That God-damned black bile! It's always been–" he squeezes at an invisible fruit. "Pouring out of you! So different from every other lad I've tutored, from your brothers, even, it's why I love you! But it's making you into a… I didn't raise up a…"

"Please. You need not finish." You are trying not to pout yet feel much younger than your age. "You sound a lot like that French prince, Aleksandar; I ran my mouth with him, too."

"Well, was he right?"

You give a defeated shrug. "Not sure."

Sir Marszowski leans in, clapping his hand on your shoulder with a tender squeeze-and-shake. He smiles without his eyes. "You're right, you know, lord prince. You do see things others don't. Which is why it's paramount you start acting a man and a prince and fast. Too many in your position are harebrained, vicious, or both. Do me the honor of something, and I'll leave you be?"

Out with it. He reads you: "don't ever let me talk down to you again. I should be birched like a naughty page for this. I'm quite literally a servant. By God, you're a prince, lord prince!"

"Now let me dance?"

The old bastard cracks a genuine grin this time around. "Yes. Now I let you dance. And don't fear the lady, fear her face!"

Huh?

Well! Quite the night! But other considerations win the day, the weeks, the months – you'll have to put your pursuits on hold for the time being. You were back on the road soon enough, this time bound for Warszawa, where a trickle of muttering, concerned lords had by now burst open into a torrent – naturally you must follow the flow.

But why this place? You hadn't heard much of it besides knowing it hosts the Sejm. Your entourage headed northeast, running parallel to the half-froze Wisła, through tracts of modest Calvinist churches and clumps of pariah Arians gathered around their hedge-preachers, braving the snow and stone-throwing kids. Indeed, the lands around the royal capital to the east is Firlej-cja, as some would say – Sandomierz and Lublin Voivodeships are the bastions of Crownland Calvinism, nevermind that Lord Firlej prefers Luther.

Warszawa cut a modest yet impressive silhouette as the river led you toward her. Perhaps two thirds of a Kraków and wait wait is that Wawel's tower?

"Yes," says Sir Marszowski.

"What?"

"Zygmunt August built a littler one. The palace, I mean. For the Sejms."

"Hm."

"Yes, like a replica, lord prince." more quietly: "the King may have had the Pox – makes you mad – your aunt dying on him, I don't know."

Next to catch your attention (and cause a spine-tingle) was something highly reminiscent of an army's camp parked beyond the city walls, tents and smokestacks extending for several hundred meters in all directions. The mini-Wawel was already well at capacity; your name provided you and your men with palace quarters, but it was clear that the nitty-gritty lay in the muddy tracks of the Sejm camp below and beyond. After a day's rest, you ventured with Sir Marszowski and some bodyguards out into the mix.

The man with the cannon is an important man indeed. This is true anywhere, anytime, but especially when he's leaning on one. He sizes you and your party up, cocking his head and scratching his big beard.

"Sir," you say with a wave, dipping into a bow as you draw nearer. "Do I speak with the honorable Lord Firlej?"

He rises and returns the bow. "Indeed. And who're you?" he asks, seeming to examine the fineries of your outfit.

"I am the Imperial Prince of Dubinki and Birże, Stanisław Radziwiłł, the third son of the Imperial Prince Mikołaj." Handshakes are exchanged. "I'm here to represent the Grand Duchy and the will of my kinsmen."

"Very good, Your Serene Highness. And I am here to represent my brother Christians, to ensure that they may live as they please." He pats his cannon. "This I will do, or die trying. Law and tradition, decency before God and man's conscience alike – and above all I am for those who have heard the truth of Christ preached through Gospel alone."

He is giving a speech and you've been cowed into the spectator. He is a natural; the long hair to match his beard combines with his burning eyes, pointy nose, and wrinkled face to create a dragon of a man, frills spreading outwards and breathing ash-flecked steam. "You represent what you represent, lord prince, as I represent my arms and my kin and the Crown. Now what I want to know is what you stand for, lord prince, for I have heard you are a young master of religious conviction." He looks around theatrically, spreading his arms out at the camp. "And I've seen no other Radziwiłłowie save this one."

Head-on! No more whining, no more whinging! "You mean one of the Popish ones, sir?"

He nods. "And a Catholic who witnessed that black work in Paris, I'm told, now just what–"

"I believe in the truth, Lord Firlej. I believe that God will forever favor the truth. And that truth will prevail over sword and scepter." You quote the Creed: "I believe in the communion of the Saints, in the existence of one holy and catholic Church as dictated unto Petrus by the Christ. Do you not believe in the truth as you do?"

Lord Firlej looks taken aback before cracking a smile. "Do say more, lord prince."

"There was a philosopher I met one night in Paris by the name of Seigneur Montaigne, sir," you say, "it was a year or two before the Massacre. he had a most interesting thought about the cannibal savages off in the Indies – said he'd write about it someday. A real thinker, comfortable with discomfort, always saying 'well what do I know?'"

You are glad to see the firebrand listening, the tables turned. "I digress. The man-eaters, going about naked and living in their barns of rushes, ignorant completely to God, consorting freely and in open – in their barbarism he saw the law of Plato, for those laws of nature see no land, no man apart."

Firlej hums. You continue: "Never did Cain consume Abel, and never did the Hebrew slay the Samaritan. Yet the Antarctic eats his foeman and the Catholic massacres the Hugues, and some do say that the Parisian murderers consumed the hearts and livers of the dead. Do any of these people cry 'savagery!' at all?"

"I think I read your meaning, lord prince…"

"I find myself at war with barbarism, Lord Firlej. I have seen enough; it is a thing to be exceeded, did we Sarmatians not live in the saddle as a Hun would in Caesar's time?"

"Well! Then you've got me relieved over here, lord prince," chuckles Firlej. "I thought something would have to be amiss; Old Rudy would never send his youngest, reverted son for no reason, I thought. But they put you up in the palace?"

"Well, yes, what's–"

"With all the clergymen, lord prince. I'm a senator-Grand Marshal living in my own tent, lord prince! The Interrex and Hozjusz's representatives, the Nuncio, the bishops and Catholic senators," he angrily exclaims, approaching closer and lowering his voice. He gestures for your respective entourages to back off; you nod in assent. "Lord prince, you see – I was afraid that dread pa of yours sent you here to dismantle the Commonwealth."

Wow. "Most of we Christians thought so," Firlej explains. "Figured one of two things: an agitator to make the land a new France so to install Grand Duke Mikołaj in the chaos, or to invite the Emperor in."

"I am no traitor and I am no wrecker, sir," you say, trying not to bristle. "I am here for peace, for my country, for my family."

Firlej smiles. He reminds you of old Admiral Coligny. "We shall see. You seem right-minded, lord prince. If that be the case, then you ought get to work," says Lord Firlej. "Everybody will listen to a Catholic Radziwiłł, even without a position or true-owned estate to your name." He winces. "No offense, lord prince."

"None taken. God willing, that cannon will gather dust." The two of you laugh – yours somewhat forced.

Marszowski beamed for the rest of the day and literally danced around you in your quarters.

"Lord prince, lord prince!" he kept exclaiming, "that was no woman I saw, no little boy, no melancholic!"

You did feel proud. Rather than fearing him, you began to find yourself itching to spar with Aleksandar, should he be elected. Of course, arguing with a King – well, no, of course you won't. But you realized that you had never quite found yourself fantasizing about a fight before.

Indeed, the time has come for you to play the game, dance the branle, cross swords, and as the Prince Stanisław and not a page or foreign guest.

Though the nightmares blunted your rest, you emerged from your chamber the next day with purpose and clarity. Who are you speaking with first?

[] The Catholic clergy.

They say that a few of them – perhaps two in fifty or so, guesses Firlej – are amenable to an edict of tolerance. The rest would likely never budge. But perhaps if one of their own will listen to you, perhaps they'll listen to him? Your intentions will be considered ambiguous at best by the pro-tolerance camp.

[] The Protestant lords.

Although you're sure Firlej will grapevine it, put the Reformed lords' minds fully at ease and send a message to the Catholics that you are here in favor of an edict. Will ingratiate you to Protestants across the Commonwealth and maybe even some of the Ruthenian Orthodox by osmosis. The priests will surely all but give up on you, though, and the more activist Catholic lords, too.

[] The Catholic lords.

After all, they comprise a majority of attendants and are fiercely divided on the matter. A fellow Catholic and representative of the House of advocating for an edict will surely hold great sway among Crownlander and countryman alike. Socially inoffensive, but a quiet come-out as pro-tolerance will have the (perhaps dampened) expected effects.

[] Rather, to announce: attempt to deliver a speech before the assembled Sejm.

Ballsy and likely to impress the temporal and spiritual alike should you stick the landing. You haven't done anything like this since Meaux, and you scarcely managed to speak without a trembling voice then. But, given the rumors about you alongside your clout as a Radziwiłł, it will surely have a great effect. Also serves as a general introduction to Rudy's mysterious youngest boy. But loud. Uncomfortably so? It can pay to be mysterious.

 

[Rolman]

For some reason you're fiddling with your rosary under the table.

Women are strange. The Mother gave birth to the salvation of the world, yet would she have been as susceptible to superstition, to quackery and to diabolic possession? If those German bishops aren't just being hysterical, that is. You grin at yourself for the potential for such irony.

No, the average one is a mere parody of Maria, just as even the most faithful men, even the Saints, can only hope to clumsily imitate Christ.

Yet they are not completely divorced from She, you think: from whom may we expect to find peacemakers in village and palace alike, to truly uphold harmony, mending ties as she mends clothes. Who is it that puts herself through the trial of birth for the sake of God's commandment and her husband's fortune, what man offers such kindness and deference to his master save for those willing to die? You reckon there may be more good women than good men on this earth.

This is what you've heard, at least. What mother did you ever know besides Our Lady? The Queen Mother in France is a living, breathing clarion call: every lust and vanity they find themselves quickly overtaken by, driven to rages and melancholia over trifles. Just as she may imbue a child with vigor and wits through right conduct she may too produce a dullard or nothing at all through sin and lack of care. In the management of money they are frivolous, and she may quickly turn her sensitivities to the service of deceit and other sins and treacheries.

A woman is by no means dumber than a man, which is the problem, the source of her danger: she is of iron like a man yet on the chain she is a weak link. A broken chain is a weapon. Demon and devilish men alike know who to target. You begin to understand Marszowski's quip. It was she who masterminded the Massacre, that Italian, it had to be! Her and her preening son.

Which is why you're afraid she's going to clap you in her irons. If a man may find himself looking upon a woman again and again it is as if he multiplies himself into another copy-suitor. And everybody knows that a woman surrounded by looks may well serve as an unlocked gate to Hell. And worse yet, she keeps glancing back!

She's down on the far end of the long feasting table, so you reckon it can't be mere accident. It's gotten so bad you've been forgetting to mingle with your fellow lords, and you've only introduced yourself to a few less-consequential ones.

As the Royal Pantler wraps up his Catalog of Dishes, you lean over to your neighbor: "who's the one with the blue embroidery and the red cap?" you ask.

He squints and cranes his neck. "Mmm, that one?" You nod. "Oh, yes, she's pretty, but I've got no clue who her father is."

Only one way to find out. The wine allows you to beeline toward her when the time for dancing comes, and you attempt to speak with poise despite your half-numb lips. "My lady, may you honor me with a dance?"

She's about your age or slightly younger and sweeps a blond lock back under her headscarf; with her arms behind her back holding them bunched, her felt cape and fur cloak reveal a skinny little thing in an embroidered dress – not displeasing, though. Good teeth and full lips, you quickly notice, and about six inches shorter than you. You did not imagine her having brown eyes, which in their size could be as fierce as they could be doe-y. The rest of her features are rather soft save for some high cheekbones.

Her face flashes with surprise and her companions giggle. She looks you up and down with the tiniest knitting of her brow, but then she smiles: "you would do me the honor, my lord."

Her hard consonants tell you right away she must be Ruskaja. You switch into her tongue, using the lordly register rather than Tatjana's, may she sleep in Jesus: "then let us waste no time," you say, eliciting (dainty) howls from her ladies-in-waiting, who all start murmuring among themselves in Rosyjski. You catch "rich" and "charmer" and the wine makes you feel like the Goddamned cock of the walk. Ready!

You head to the dancefloor. The music starts up; it's a branle. You mimic a dance-proposal, removing your cap, and she extends her hand and it feels like someone just kicked you in the head. You hesitate – say something! – you can't say anything – but you do it. She just smiles and fails to meet your eyes. You can't tell if she can tell.

You move with the other couples into a circle. In this initial shuffle, you take advantage of the lack of eye contact. You stick to Rosyjski: "Are you nervous, my lady?"

"Me, my lord? Not particularly. Should I be nervous, my lord?" you can from your peripheral that she's turned her head to you.

"Heh. Maybe."

"Are you nervous, my lord?"

That's rhetorical, come now. Why lie? "Yes."

"Then why should I be nervous, my lord?"

That I've never really danced with a woman before to try and say something– "it's a secret."

"It's a secret, my lord?"

"Yes, my lady."

The circle breaks and you dance around each other, wagging your fingers and clapping on-beat. Your lungs are holding up thus far. "Pray I learn of your secret tonight, my lord?" She seems increasingly intrigued, wearing a permanent grin and tilting her chin up ever so slightly.

Gut-drop. "Hm, um, ah, I'm not sure, my lady."

"Perchance would the secret be your name and title, my lord?" she cocks her eyebrows as the circle reforms.

You look straight ahead as you realize the weight of such a revelation. "No, that's not my secret, my lady, I'm an open book there, heh." Don't worry so much about your station. "I am the Imperial Prince of Dubingiya and Birzhai, Stanislav Radzivil."

There's a brief hesitation before she answers. "I apologize, my lord, but – I thought there were only two?"

"I was in France studying til, oh, October? I've found my brothers to have made names for themselves."
She tuts as the circle breaks for another pass. "Ah! You do look like them, my lord."

Hopefully that's a good thing. "And now I– eh, well, you're keeping a secret, too, no? My lady."

"No secrets with me, my lord. My father's the Boyar Pavl Sapeg, of the arms of the Lis."

Marszowski has mentioned the name. You wrack your brain: from around Podlaskie – or is it Witebsk? – stalwart friends of the family, rather inconsequential on the whole.

"My cousin spent his page years at your uncle's, in fact, my lord," she adds.

The introductions break the wall down somewhat as the two of you move from dance to dance. More wine in between helps, too. You try to remain chaste despite glances of stocking when she lifts her dress to hop about and, intimidatingly, display near-Marszowskian footwork. She's probably in better shape than you! The conversation ebbs – mainly banal stuff about family members, Lithuania, the increasing wintriness, the political situation. And it turns out she's smart, too! Joking about electing "Tsar" Ivan and whatnot, how she'd love to learn Greek someday, how she's torn between Kalvin and the Pravoslav'ya.

It's intimidating. But alluring. You are listening to none of the advice. You feel like you're in one of those Netherlandish paintings where everything's topsy-turvy.

Only after the tourdion in a triple dance do you let it out. You're facing each other kicking out the galliard. "I'm ready to tell you my secret, my lady."

"Oh really, my lord?"

"I've only ever danced with a lady once or twice."

She lets out an unladylike guffaw and claps once. "You're a monk, my lord!" She smiles broadly. "But then you honor me so!" you dance a parallel approach with her as if tilting jousters.

"I saw you down the table–"

"As I saw you–"

And the knights pass each other! You dance a circle around each other, backs turned. You can't see her for a few seconds and miss her already. "And I thought," she says, as the revolution completes itself and the footwork starts anew. She's panting a bit. "I thought – I sure do hope that handsome fellow in the rich clothes comes and finds me for a dance."

Your heart tumbles like an acrobat, yet you're at the point of trying to stay cool. "Ah, so you only like me 'cause I'm a Radzivil?"

"No!" she holds back a laugh. "Well, it helps…"

You two share the joke, even as it rings in your ears somewhat. Is she really to be trusted?

The time for the volta is here and you realize what that means. "Still afraid to touch me, my lord?" she asks, as you dance sliding circles around each other. You swallow and feel your face burn. It shifts into the chase segment – she slows down and you speed up. She watches you with her big eyes over her shoulder. She lets you catch up and you link arms.

"You're still keeping a secret from me, Lady Sapega," you say, now unafraid to look her in the eye.

"And what may–"

Wait! It's here! You grab each other's arms at about the elbow and you begin to boost her jumps, raising her over your head. But then… You must place a knee under her seat, so as to leverage the jumps to climactic heights. You do so without thinking and only realize after the dance that, as you still hold hands – Ay, by God! Her seat!

As you drop down for the final bow-and-curtsy, you don't stop holding her hand. "I still don't know your Christian name, my lady," you say.

"Maryna."

 

[Rolman]

You feel very good about it. Shockingly. Sir Marszowski taught you how to be a man; all it took was his urging to bring it to the forefront, you hope.

In the nightmares you find yourself no longer fleeing down the streets of Paris but instead turning about and slaying the pursuing wolf-man. Yet, always, from some dark corner emerges another, an ambush, and you awake as snout meets throat.

So it never gets better. You used to pray on it and think on it and walk streets and gardens whenever possible. Now you must work and become a prince, the Prince. You find it funny that you've technically failed in your duties – you've spoken to only a few of the lords and clerics in favor of practicing rhetoric, though according to Marszowski word of a brief meeting with Lord Firlej have perked up ears in castle and camp alike. You try to ignore the words of cousin Sierotka.

You're just being paranoid. But– isn't that the point?

You sit in the Sejm with a secret in your breast. You have nearly memorized your own script – the speech ought to seem spontaneous, you calculate – and as an angry bishop delivers remarks to cheers and jeers you realize that he is doing exactly the same. This is how these people live; these are no teenage intrigues in the Louvre.

You let a Firlej imitator give a little oratory and decide to wait for a real ultra so the crowd will be angrier. I'm not in this for pride's sake, after all, am I?

When a lieutenant of the Cardinal's makes a resolute stand against Protestantism you realize your moment has come.

You begin to rise and of course the nerves hit now. But it's too late to stop.

"My lords!" you bellow, projecting as far as you possibly can without a voice crack.

Dozens of heads whip and turn around at once and people from further out begin yelling indistinctly. A few closer ones you can hear: "shut up! The Radziwiłł is talking!" "The Litwin is talking, so quiet!"

Time to preach what you practiced. A speech such as yours will be weighty, perhaps over an hour long, filled with referential digressions and philosophical discourses as expected – it is important to show what you know as well, after all.

But at its core, your oration is based upon…

[] A stand for the protection of rights and privileges new and old.

[] A plea for tolerance based upon Biblical study.

[] Your recounting of St. Bartholomew's Day.

[] A forward-looking, humanist dream rooted in the Classics.

[] Write-in.

Nobody worry, you'll get to read (most of) it.

 

[Rolman]

"Who here does not know of that infamous St. Bartholomew's Day in Paris?" Already the Protestants and reformists are "hear hear!"-ing, while the conservatives begin to groan or let out theatrical laughs. Who said anything about killing anybody? one yells, mad Firlej's the one with the cannon! His side cheers him. The clerics sit statuesque, shaking their heads. They start leaning into each other's ears.

Press on. "Who here has not heard of its savagery, of the wanton bloodlust and ghoulish rapine, an affront to God and man alike, making Attila an almsman and Scipio a most merciful conqueror? Those who know of my life and doings will be aware that I myself was at my studies in Paris that black night."

Pause, let them hang. "And I will tell you all the truth, I swear to the Lord and place my honor upon it, too, of what I saw with my own two eyes and heard with my own two ears. For that nightmare was no mere dream."

From the back a voice shouts: What truth matters before an angry god?

In general, though, the elation of the pro-edict camp is louder than the antis' cries of consternation; you have staked your claim and announced your position and you are of no small importance. Like the tides, a wave of shushing follows the periods of reaction; they are truly listening.

You somehow raise your voice even louder to talk over them; you're getting winded and are trying desperately not to cough. "And those broadsheets tell very few lies, my lords!"

The Cardinal-Nuncio rises and shouts in Latin: "to speak in such poor faith, lord prince!" it's hard to hear him over your supporters shouting back at him. "I have spent time in England during their troubles and during the Empire's, too; You as a brother Catholic ought to know the souls on the line in matters as these, yet that a conversion can never be forced!" The dig is noted by all. "We speak not of war, but of correction, gradual and peaceful!"

Translations are shouted out for the less-fortunate gentlemen as the Cardinal's side cheers.

You, on the other hand, feel your back shiver and your jaw turn rusty as you stumble attempting to speak truly off-the-cuff. The anti's begin an attempt to laugh you out as your side cheers you on; the assembly field has grown the loudest it's been all day. You finally manage a retort, making sure to speak Polish. "Indeed, Your Eminence, we are of like minds on matters of faith. But– but the brother Catholics– the Catholics of the land of France, in their conceited frustration to bring the Huguenots back into the fold, threw out what you and I alike know of this!" you cry, to the expected reactions. "Turning to slaughter when they could not win their consciences through persuasion and holy grace." You turn to the Calvinist section and extend an arm as if Cicero. "Do you Protestants waver?"

No! They were nearly in unison there.

"And it does take but a week or two for a plague to spread; who truly can believe that all men possess the fortitude to watch a so-called heretic dance about them and propagate their creed?"

You try to cap it: "hence peace must be enforced by law!" You're a little shaken and know that the cardinal threw you off – nearly embarrassed you – but that you're most certainly still in the fray. The show must go on. Translations are muttered into the cardinal's ear. He shouts a reply of his own that you cannot hear, looking frustrated yet comfortable, and sits back down.

A shock through your neck and temples! You realize how off-topic they've gotten you!

"Furthermore, my lords!"

Do you turn your attention to…

[] The fact that nobles were specifically targeted.

[] The fact that the orchestrators were to be found, yet-unpunished, at the highest levels of power.

[] The scenes of brutality.

[] The preventability of the Huguenot Wars in general.

[] Write-in.

 

[Rolman]

"It is not just in the cruelties and tortures inflicted upon the bodies of innocent folk that we may find abomination before God and the laws of nature and honor!" you continue.

"The first sight that met my eyes during the evil night in Paris – though it was one of the smaller terrors – was perhaps the most alarming of all: the body of Admiral Coligny, handless and headless with its manhood carved off–" the rancor begins anew, and this time several clerics rise from their seats and shout inaudibilities at you. A few men on both sides are being held back by their compatriots. Back off.

"Imagine, then," you try and reroute, "the murder and public parading of one of our great senators or hetmen through the streets of Kraków by a mob of fanatics!" Hands are on hilts as you launch into a digression on Erasmus in an attempt to inject some soothing boredom.

Thankfully, you succeed, with the bishops even seeming mildly interested. You manage to stay on-topic while keeping relatively inoffensive. It doesn't matter if they know what you're doing if it's working. The crowd is reduced to a grumble by the time you steer the speech back on course. "...and in the Empire there was indeed a most grim and brutal massacre of the minority, stemmed by treaty alone."

Another heckler: mere treaties did not stop the Protestants from their slaughter of monastics in France! A cry of rage arises from the anti-edict clusters.

Thankfully, you had prepared for this line of questioning. You reckon you can strike him down: "indeed, it did not! But ne'er did those so-called pacifying edicts in France mend the wounds and the pangs of vengeance placed in the hearts of Catholic and Reformed by blood already spilled. We well know that the peoples of our–" you try not to say Commonwealth! – "of– of our land, they are most honorable – we are most honorable – and by that virtue would our hearts never rest in civil rancor. Therefore we must mend our fences pre facta et non in postea! We are a people of the law!"

Most of your side cheer, though besides the usual detractors a few lordlings cry hypocrite at your magnate's privilege, your ability to occupy many estates royal and feudal alike with often the most minimal of opposition. You reckon some of them want war to enrich themselves. They must want to. They were always around in France. Little better than peasant outlaws.

Well, damn them to Hell, let's talk about one or two of them – and get back on track too!

"And never, never believe that the murderers and the wreckers and the fanatics are without faces, my lord! No, among our very ranks are those who would foment chaos and civil war, it is inevitable, it shall always be true; such men must be stopped!"

The other side hates your implication but your supporters cheer louder. The bishops, judging by their faces and spluttering mouths have curdled into a group of extremely sour men. You realize you're pushing it and wonder if it's a good thing.

"Coligny was not the only one, my lords, though they seem to make engravings of only he!" You point outward into the crowd. "Let us not forget that the Huguenot noblemen were slaughtered in the Louvre – I'd have witnessed it were it not for a quirk of my being elsewhere –" they don't like that. "In– in the very halls of the palace were they struck down! I saw the dried blood. Forget not that they were there for a royal wedding, though, in the royal palace, under royal protection! Does royal protection merely vanish as a vapor, or as a miasma?"

A few laugh. Your side backs you up once more: No! Enough time to feel like an acrobat taking a fall and landing gracefully. You're sweating a bit and your lungs heave. You wheeze but continue. "It is men who strip such things away! And not the common mob, I say again – men!"

"Well, let me tell you about men such as these!"

You're thinking of Prince Aleksandar, but will you say so?

[] Yes, and take the opportunity to endorse the Emperor.

Framed as an olive branch, a unity candidate, and good for trade. Needed in a time of such rancor?

[] Yes, but say nothing of the Emperor.

Many already have made a decision regarding his involvement. Why push the election at a time like this?

[] No.

You will instead have to focus on figures such as the Queen Mother and the Guises.

[] Imply his involvement.

May be viewed as underhanded.

 

[Rolman]

"Although the beasts are many, the Prince Aleksandar Walezy — who some would call candidate to our august throne, the caretaker of our newfound yet ancient Liberty – he runs in the very fore of the wolfpack! Yes, he all but said to my face: 'Prince Stanisław, indeed it was us, for to slaughter thousands is to but cut out a tumor!'"

Your side groans and so too do your opponents, but all are much quieter than usual. "Indeed, over everything he will place himself and his people and the realm! He and his powder-faced mignons would turn this place into another France, where the King rules by fiat, their sejms hobbled and half-fettered!"

You explain the situation. "His brother the King immature and unwise, his Mother a Jezebel without remorse – an unleashed harlot ruling all but sui juris – all three conspired to bring about the madness! All three convinced of the rightness of their acts!"

You're genuinely angry! That night, those people, those monsters! The thought of them in your country!

You shake your head theatrically. "What a mournful irony that those Western lands, fonts of wisdom and enlightenment for ourselves and the whole world , allow themselves to descend into such barbarism. It has seemingly befallen we Polonians, we Lithuanians, to now take up the torch!"

They're still somewhat quiet. What could they want? You wager a guess: "I know not which man ought to become our next king. What I do know is that never can we allow tyranny into our home!" Your supporters cheer with renewed vigor. There we are, that's less offensive.

You stretch out the minutes, finding opposition and support alike becoming feebler and feebler as your oratory winds and curls. You make reference to the wars across Germany that turn the Empires' princes against each other, of the heads that rolled in the Alps and the tense English settlement -- all in the name of devotion to God.

Like so many before you, you finally peter out after well over an hour of speaking. Such an unceremonious end is to be expected as men grow hungry, thirsty, bored, or drunk; you feel as if you did well, on the whole.

Sir Marszowski seems to think so. "That– that was something, lord prince!" he says, jumping around you like how he did a few days before. "I've seen men of thirty speak with less confidence! Though you lost me on the bit about Diocletian and the Church Fathers."

You chuckle. "Well, that's alright, if you liked it you liked it."

"I did! Oh! And," he cups a hand around his ear. "I have heard – a little somebody somewhere told somebody told me – that you danced with a Sapieha."

"Oh no…"

"And, not only did you dance with a Sapieha, but you danced with nobody else that night!"

Oh! He's right. Ohhhhhhhhhhh no! He's right! "I did do that, didn't I?"

He clucks. ""Aw, don't be so embarrassed. It's a decent choice– she's a decent choice, pardon me," he beams. "Which one?"

"One of Paweł's daughters," you say tiredly, fearful of hours of teasing that could come. "Her name is Mariana."

Your fencing master seems to run some calculations through his head, eyes looking upward and darting left and right. "Alright… Alright… There are certainly worse choices out there…"

"But?"

"But, well, that's a lieutenant family of ours, is how I'd put it, lord prince. She'd bring some land of your own, some money, some prestige," he judges your reaction. "But you could do better?"

You frown. He gestures for you to wait. "That..! Is not to say you cannot see her again, lord prince, not that that's my choice after all." He's using his calming tone; you recognize it. "But there are more out there. That's all I'm saying. You like her?"

You nod.

"Well, I thought: 'you better!' with a face like that," he jokes. "You look like I'm telling you to annul your marriage. Come now, tell me about her!"

You do. She's smart, as in, speaks Latin, knows her politics, knows her falcons and buzzards. She's pretty… She's a remarkably good dancer… Her eyes are huge and have the effect of round shot on you… You've never seen Sir Marszowski look so happy.

"Oh, youth, joyous youth, lord prince!" as always though: "but keep an open mind! Imagine the ecstasy of that first dance again and again, with a big fat dowry waiting for you at the end."

He's got a point; after all, you're the one who's the thing to be sought-after, not she. You have the pick of the litter; you deserve to be as confident as you feel at times.

"Lord prince, what do you think of heading back east before pursuing a courtship with the Sapieha girl? We can set up a courier relay for letters, use our men or the Poczta. Their family's seat is at Kodeń, if I'm not mistaken – you can even see her on the way back to Dubinki!" Marszowski offers concession after concession; you have no doubt that he means them, too. But you have no illusions about his true opinion.

[] "I suppose I won't die having to send letters for a few months."

You wonder what her handwriting will look like.

[] "Let's see her on the way back home, then!"

People will talk.

[] "Ugh, maybe you're right, ma bon Chevalier."

This doesn't have to mean the end.

"You know I'd have never been able to say no to you in any event, lord prince," says Sir Marszowski, "and not just because I cannot tell you no!"

You wave away that kind of talk. "I can handle myself, Sir Marszowski, and you say that I should step up? Maybe you step down," you jest, but not facetiously.

"No, you're right to call me on it," replies Marszowski, flashing rare bashfulness. "Just hard for me to think of you as lord prince, lord prince." He sighs. "Servant unto death," he looks you in the eye.

"Thank you."

"Because women aren't necessarily to be–"

"Trusted, yes, I know." But she seems so… not untrustworthy. More competent than a good few male courtiers you've met in your day, you think. And what malice did she display whatsoever? Totally nonplussed by your name, you feel, though the more you think the more you doubt yourself. No matter. Where it goes, it goes, and her motivations are her own.

Such diversions cannot last in the aftermath of a prince's debut – especially when done so loudly and boldly. Though the reception of your speech is as divisive as its content, the one commonality between those singing praises and those spitting venom is the name Radziwiłł on their tongues.

This makes you the belle of the ball, with a constant stream of gentleman callers. No longer do you venture out into the Sejm camp, wading through horseshit and the midwinter mud – now they appear at your chamber door.

This all feels quite odd. To be approached as an authority, to be courted by this power player and that, to have a breathless rider in yellow-black livery deliver you your copy of the family seal. At Marszowski's urging you leave yourself open to any and all comers, letting he and his little squadron do the vetting.

The first thing you notice about him is that he arrived entirely alone. Not even a single bodyguard, lieutenant, manservant – nobody. He's handsome and on the cusp of middle age, with a high forehead and well-styled mustache.

You respectfully rise from your seat as he drops into a poised bow. "Your Serene Highness, if I may have the honor – I am the Royal Secretary Jan Zamoyski of the Jelita."

You offer your hand which he quickly and firmly accepts. "A pleasure, Lord Zamoyski, how is it I may help you?"

You have been expecting him; the chief advocate and famous face for men of his means, as Marszowski described him, as powerful as any crown marshal or wizened senator. The uncomfortable middle: too prideful to become sworn men, too strong to be ignored, too weak to resist families such as yours. They are the agitators for the new system – first the king is curbed, then the magnates and princes.

You scratch your chin and gesture at the chair now constantly kept opposite yours, such is the flow of guests. "Please do be seated, Lord Zamoyski," you order, finding each time a little easier.

"Thank you, Your Serene Highness. And if I may complement your oration," he smiles, leaning forward and placing his elbows on his knees. "I think I may speak for many – and with all due respect, of course – that there was a good deal of anxiety regarding you. Like you, I am on the side of the law and of peace between noblemen."

He says your full honorific yet is slumped forward like he's in a tavern. "I am glad to hear that, my lord," you say, trying to make something of him.

"And, like you, I am concerned with laws yet unwritten."

"Indeed…"

"...In my position I see such laws oft well before they are even twinkles in the eye of Sejm or Senat," says Zamoyski. "If we only had a King. So let me be frank: this ship cannot sail out of control." He explains: "His late Majesty hadn't the time to plan this far ahead beyond the new union."

"Lord Zamoyski, I am greatly aware of these uncharted waters."

"Greatly aware or made greatly aware, lord prince?" He assumes a stiffer, more formal posture in his seat. "Truly I mean nothing by it, but: you have truly developed a lay of the land in just, oh, four months?"

You remain silent. You could always dismiss him–

"You need a friend, Your Serene Highness."

"I have ample advisors, Lord Zamoyski, thank you."

"Friends, lord prince. You are well-advised; I am only here because of that marvelous speech – I know that you are capable and of influence and can be a help to me, as I can most certainly be a help to you. I shall be your friend. I would very much like to be." You notice his crow's feet, his laugh lines. He ages when he smiles.

Flatterer! Flatterer? Yet he's still talking to you like this! Yet… he seems to really mean it. "On the matter of the edict we are most certainly friends already, no, lord prince?"

"Allies, Lord Zamoyski," you manage to stand your ground. "Of like minds on one particular matter, sir."

"Yes. Allies. We are only just getting acquainted, I grow presumptuous, forgive me." He doesn't really care if you forgive him, you reckon. "Majority rule, lord prince!"

"Pardon?"

"Majority rule in the case of the free election. Should the principle of viritim stand. Do you support it, lord prince?" Viritim lets the rabble in, but it seems like it'll pass. Thus, you decide to nod in approval.

Zamoyski pays you no mind. "Standing before us lies the opportunity to elect a king and legislate nearly as if we are one," says Lord Zamoyski. "Never have us nobles had such chances!" He begins to form shapes with his hands, swirls with his fingers. He leans in again. "Which is why we – I – need you, lord prince."

Need you? "Say more," you wave him on.

"Well, anyone savvy would know that speeches such as yours move hearts and change minds. Our edict – we call it an edict – it's only a mere promise by us, free lords in free assembly. And I believe in the Holy Church same as you, lord prince."

In your excitement for peace and toleration you forgot that Lord Zamoyski is exactly correct. You've been thinking of the tabled measure as a French pacification edict; rather, it is merely a compact between assembled peers, binding upon honor and before God but not in the realm's law books. It will take the signature of the new King and an item in his pacta conventa.

"And you saw how rabid some of the opposition is. If any man may obstruct the proceedings, how then may we ever make tolerance truly law? How could we ever stem the king's wishes when just one lackey may cease it all?" He seems to be embarking on some spontaneous remarks of his own. "Our Res Publica would scarcely survive its next crisis, imagine if the Senate of Cato–"

Regain control! "Surely one man cannot count on being able to withstand the pressure of all the rest?" seems an obvious question to ask.

"Short of quite literally killing him? Well, I don't see why not," replies Zamoyski as he rubs his fingers together – money. "There is much to gain from being the bad apple. We lay this groundwork here, lord prince, we merely need the new king's signature and this realm'll be ours."

Whose ours is that anyways? And wait – doesn't Zamoyski want Aleksandar?

There aren't really any advisors you can turn to right this moment. Do you say something…

[] Positive.

How else may we expect to govern? This reform is simple practicality, and you see no reason why you shouldn't support it. After all, you and yours could rally all of Lithuania behind your banner and form a powerful bloc, one in need of only a few Crownlanders to defect to ensure Radziwiłł demi-rule. Visions of kingmaking dance about.

[] Negative.

To be sure, this will only benefit his middle section, his slim majority. The ones below always grab at anything they can, and you can feel his hand pulling your pantleg this very moment. The ones below even them will be manipulated easily, as lordlings are – all to the detriment of those who can *afford* a disruption.

[] Noncommittal.

Hold it! This is the first time you hear of this. Nevermind the fact that he's projecting into the future while talking like it's today, you simply do not have enough information at the moment. Tell him that.