Today it is January 6th. My little sister Septima gave me a small book for Twelfth Day, bound in the new style, and she says I should fill it by writing every day about my adventures.
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Today is January 7th. It has been very quiet, but my little sister says I should write every day until I have filled this book.
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Today is January 8th. I think I will save paper until I have something to say.
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Today is my birthday! And it has been wonderful. Sunny, bright, and perhaps a little too warm, but that is late spring for you. My stepfather gave me a honeycomb pistol; my mother gave me a horse; and I am to be fitted for mage-tempered armor at an expense of thirty livres out of my mother’s dowry. It is time, my stepfather says, for me to go out and claim my inheritance in the far-away land of the Vlachs. It is unlikely my grandfather left other heirs, and the Sultan’s grip on the land has been loosed.
The honeycomb pistol is a marvel. It is set with a separate phoenix stone in each of six chambers; the whole assemblage rotates like a peppermill, a steel rod filling the seventh chamber as an axis. There is a striker that activates only the bottom stone, which can be removed for safe loading or travel. And the whole thing is a work of art – gilded and engraved with my name, with a carrying case of Loegrian leather that is supposed to be charmed against premature discharge. (More importantly, the case has polished leather pegs matched to the barrels to hold in shot – if you round each shot with gunner’s wax to keep the powder from dripping round the edges, the whole thing can be carried fully loaded.)
My mother says I must study the political situation, and practice of all things lance-work, saying they are old-fashioned in the eastern lands and I will reflect poorly on my stepfather and the Gavreau name if my lance-work is poor. It is as if the Century War had never occurred, which I suppose is true for them.
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It has been a week since my birthday.
Having followed my mother’s advice, I now understand there is some degree of uncertainty about who my future liege might be; Vladislav the Dragonslayer fled to Rumelia, and has two brothers. His predecessor (Vladimir the Dragon) left behind four living sons, the eldest of which was kept in the Sultan’s court and has now been sent to Tanais, but the others are probably somewhere in Avaria or possibly the Gothic Empire, both which I must cross if I am to become a boyar, which seems to be the Vlach word for baron.
The Vlachs call themselves Roman, and I should have an easy time learning their tongue, for it is like Latin, but the Magyar language is difficult and I must practice it two hours daily while I travel. We will take nearly the whole length of the great Istros River. My little brother is clamoring to come, and my little sister says I should write every day. I promised I will tell her the whole story when I come back.
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I shall have with me letters of introduction addressed to a second cousin once removed in Transylvania and a first cousin twice removed in Pesht. With luck, one of them will help me connect with my inheritance.
Being fitted for a mage-tempered cuirass is a frightful affair! They proof it fitted, to show off how good their tempering is! I flinched, but the pistol ball left only a little mark, scarce a dent.
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There is so much that I should have written while I was traveling up the Istros, but today I remembered that I had this diary with me. Everyone is a-twitter here with the news of Princess Marie’s engagement to King Janos. My stepfather’s sister’s husband is a third cousin to the Empress herself, and I had no idea the Emperor was arranging such a thing, but it has made it a fine time to be French in Pesht. It is also fine news to write home with; Emperor Leon has stolen the march on Emperor Sigismund, who has been trying to marry his line into the Avar throne for two generations!
My cousin was happy to receive me and eager for news, and she introduced me to her grandson’s friends right away. They are all sorts of politically interested and cosmopolitan, and they in turn introduced me to Erzsebet or Elisabeta (depending on which language she has been addressed in), who is a powerful mage and says she was promised to marry the Dragon’s son when she was small.
She has been raising funds and asking for volunteers, and I was able to purchase the commission of an officer in the New Wallachian Army for only twelve livres after telling her of the particulars of my situation – the Imperial Army charges a round hundred for the privilege of being a cornet in the cavalry, so this is a very good bargain! I will write more later, the train is here.
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Not content with massacre within Wallachia, the Golden Empire has sent its soldiers over the Sarmatians. Elisabeta says this is the final straw – and so, even though it is winter, we are riding to support the Avar army. There is perhaps some hope that if we show strength in his aid, King Janos will openly support the cause of a rebellion against the oppressive rule of Emperor Koschei.
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I am so very grateful that my honeycomb pistol was engraved with my name – I think if I had not, it would have gone to a greedy Cimmerian rider. That I have been given it back makes me grateful, for which I feel guilty. The battle went disastrously. Elisabeta was in fine form with her enchanted blade and her spells, but we were assaulting a fortified position with an inexperienced force that did not have full confidence in its commander.
In addition to the advantage of a fortified position with snipers and cannon on the heights, they had more heavy armor – sixteen steam knights afoot – and a war mage of their own, one with command over beasts and dark terror. The Manual at Arms of the New Model Army says that morale is three quarters of the battle and physical prowess one quarter; Elisabeta struck at one quarter, and the enemy mage at three quarters, so a quarter of them died and three quarters of us fled in terror or surrendered.
This has been an utter disaster, and I am not sure why I am even writing this down. I feel ashamed to say I surrendered. I have given my parole and then some, and I am afraid I may be forsworn. Elisabeta will surely hate me if she sees me again. And what am I to tell my little sister?