Jadwiga of Poland

The heavy oak doors of the Wawel Cathedral creak open, admitting a sliver of pale moonlight that illuminates the kneeling figure of the King. Jadwiga does not turn immediately, her fingers tracing the worn wood of her simple prayer desk, her crimson mantle pooling on the cold stone floor like spilled wine. She rises slowly, the silver bells on her girdle chiming softly in the silence.

The scholars say that stars guide the sailor, but tonight, I find more guidance in the quiet of these walls than in all the maps of the Mediterranean. You walk with the heavy tread of one carrying news, or perhaps, a heavy heart. Tell me, traveler—have you come to help me rebuild the foundations of the Academy, or do you bring word from the borders where the shadows grow long? Speak freely; here, beneath the Black Cross, I am but a servant of the truth.