Sound held its breath - like a goose's feather brushed the air.
And then - movement. Not a voice. Not a cry.
Alexander gave a sign. The tiun understood - wordlessly.
The servant Otrok brought in the table-altar - low, broad, like an ancestor's chest. As if he drove a new nerve into the ground. It didn't thud - it hummed, like copper on frost.
On it - the Gospel, in a worn binding. Beside it - a casket, scented not with candlewax, but heat. Like pine split for the stove before winter comes.
The resin inside still breathed. And the tar-wax, trembling slightly, seemed to wait - for the seal.
And in this - not a single "yes" was spoken. But it had already sounded. In breath. In fingers. In someone not moving.
The door didn't creak - it swayed. In stepped the chief scribe. All in the hall knew: Haávril Zlatopysets. A boyar, but with a soul like a quill's edge: black, sharp, unforgiving. His script - like a keystone: the arch holds by it.
He didn't bow - he inclined. Not out of courtesy - out of measure. Approached the table, touched the casket's lid. The wax still ran - not in drops, in intent.
From his belt he drew a wax tablet. Unfolded it like a forefather's cloth.
The quill - old, carved, chipped at the edge. He hadn't sharpened it - to remember how the first blood was written.
He laid it beside the draft.
- Ready, he said. Not a voice. A mark
Alexander didn't nod. Only exhaled - barely. Permission.
The chief scribe took the quill. Ink thickened. Fine drops - like cuts across skin. And it began:
- This year, 6562 from the birth of Christ, the House of Ihnat, from the land of Pereiaslavl-Trubezh, enters into a riad with Prince Alexander. Gives a son - youth Sviatoslav - and fifty horsemen, fully armed, for the term from Maiden's Day to the coming Pascha
Loyalty - by blood. Behind the word stands the whole house.
Háavril's note, column as arch:
- Kyiv: twelve great houses - fifteen hundred spears
- Novgorod: eight houses - fourteen hundred
- Chernihiv: ten houses - thirteen hundred
- Pereiaslavl: six houses - seven hundred
- Volhynia, Peremyshl, Terebovl, Turov, Rostov, Polotsk, Tmutarakan: seals en route - up to four thousand men-at-arms
He wrote as one cuts - without haste. Every line bit into the wax.
No boyar interrupted. In those lines - no longer debate. Already - the body of law.
Beside him, young scribe Simeon - eyes like lakes: whether fear or awe, unclear.
- Master… what are we writing? - he barely breathed.
- A riad. Oath of a house. - Haávril didn't look up. Short. So the blood clots before they're done reading.
- And… what fits?
- Name. What's given - men, arms. Till Annunciation. And princely grace: while the pact lives
A drop of soot hissed on the parchment - like searing out a splinter.
- Why the Cross now, if again in five days? the youth whispered, yet the hall heard it
Haávril kept writing.
- Because the prince isn't on the throne. But Rusʹ already bears weight. If you don't bind the hand - the air breaks it
Simeon frowned.
- But… can it all crack in five days?
- It can, said Haávril. Like a stroke
In the air, a line hung - as if already written, without a quill.
- The prince calls - but the Cross isn't kissed. Means every boyar still thinks: I can walk. No seal - word is vapor. No youth - no service. And the steppe spreads rumors faster than wind. If you delay - you won't tell a crack from a flight
He finished the line. And the dot - wasn't ink. It was mass.
- That's why - now. In five days, repeat. For those still standing. But today - so no one dares say: the prince called, but did not hold
The line fell like a latch. The dot - like a stone.
- Done, he said. Quieter than needed. Louder than silence
The boyars rose - not at once, but by the weight of their house.
They kissed the edge of the Gospel - not as a relic, but as a seal of breath.
Then - the knot of the cord. Into warm beeswax, the prince pressed his mark: a seal, so no hand could break it in secret.
Beyond the wax - Alexander's lead bulla. Heavy as a lash: on the face, the princely trident; on the back, the image of the archangel.
Then - the circular bulla of the Metropolitan. A graphite cross, Greek letters: drop it - not just a seal broken, but a cross. A double binding.
The wax had not yet cooled, but the pact was already alive.
The hall smelled faintly of candle smoke - fragile, almost lost.
And into that silence - a candle's squeak. Thin as a needle. As if the hall flinched, like a nerve stirred.
Someone coughed - not loud, but the sound held no body, no word. Only fear of sinning by sound.
Stanislav leaned to the task. No gesture, no command - just a whisper to Mirnomir, and he, with two guards, left through the doors. They knew who to fetch. Who to carry. Whose blood was already written - only the body remained.
Outside, a sparrow struck the windowpane with a rattle.
The flap of wings scattered dust in the light - and stilled.
The hall inhaled with the bird - and froze again.
Simeon didn't see an oath. He saw weight.
One by one, the boyars marked their znamyo - knife on wax, quill on line. Not all could write. But each knew the line their house breathed.
And each touched the Cross. A second time - on the line of their sign. That's how the pledge was sealed. Not by word. By force.
Simeon licked his dry lips.
- Why double wax? Isn't one enough?
Haávril grimaced, eyes still down:
- Break the first seal - you pay silver. Break the second - you pay soul. They place them side by side so the hand shakes before the blade does
The silence didn't fall - it stretched. Someone grunted - not in laughter, in truth. Radomir lowered his head slightly, as if hearing the cost. Ihnat didn't move - just pressed his fingers harder, as though holding the line of his house.
Oleh slowly raised his gaze to Haávril. It said: You're a scribe, not a prophet.
Haávril didn't flinch. But the next line he wrote quieter.
Simeon wanted to ask - but couldn't. His throat was dry. Not from fear. From weight.
Alexander didn't watch - he listened. And in that - the silence held stronger than speech.
And just then, as the Metropolitan laid his fingers to the final mark - the doors shifted.
Mirnomir entered. Behind him - two gridnyas. Mail beneath cloaks, short swords. Between them - five youths. Dust still clung to their boots. Faces - varied. Eyes - some fleeing, some holding.
One of the boys sniffled. The sound was barely there - but that was the one they all heard. Simeon crossed himself - not in prayer. As if the fingers moved by themselves.
Alexander leaned - not to see. To scent. Like a hunter.
Mirnomir halted. No bows. Just said:
- The youths. By house
And the voice moved - like script across parchment:
- Radoslav Oleh-ovych - son of the posadnyk
Chin held high - as if he knew who he was. But fingers shook at the belt. Not fear in his eyes - defiance. As if heading into a scream, but would not give a sound.
- Borys Radomirov - of the steward's house
Too straight. Too proud. But lips bloodied - teeth clenched. He'd flee, if there were an exit. But there's none. And to show fear - shame worse than death.
- Ratibor Stanislav-ovych - blood of the prince's general.
Face stone-set. But eyes darted. He was used to winning - but this was no fight. This was oath. Looking for his father, he searched for command. Without it - he flailed.
- Volodymyr Dobrynych - of the hearth-master's line
Stood like a stove in frost. Face blank. Leg trembled - unseen, unheard. But not fear. Tension. Like a beast before the leap.
- Yaromyr Vyshatov - of the thousand-man commander's house.
The youngest. The frailest. But did not look down. Stood - knowing he couldn't match in strength, only in duty. Sling shifted - right hand free. Not oath - readiness.
The names sounded - like verdicts. But none wept. Not the time.
Mirnomir drew five blades - palace blades. Steel not theirs, but princely: from the treasury. Not for war - for word.
At once, by sign, a guard brought out a second kozelets - low, stark, like an altar. Placed it off to the side, a step ahead.
Onto it, one by one, went the knives: hilts to the prince, blades to the boys.
He who takes it - accepts: from this moment, his strength lies in the prince's palm.
Not a threat. A symbol.
Thus, a house cuts fear from its bloodline. Thus, they show: you are no token. You are a pledge.
Haávril, without waiting for signal, unrolled the draft.
At the top - the heading: Kormyane. Meaning - youths given for the term of service as part of the riad. Not as tribute - as blood.
The chief scribe began writing names. Unhurried. As if not ink - but memory ran through his veins.
No boyar spoke a word. But in each gaze - it was as if the blade already lay in their hand.
Oleh's fingers pressed into the bench - not a move, a mark. Radomir bowed his head - not in prayer, in silent count. Stanislav stood like a gate, but his left hand lay on his chest - not on heart, on an old wound that hummed in the quiet.
Dobrynia didn't look away - as if holding his son's shoulder himself. Vyshata looked aside - not from weakness. From knowing. He had seen hands fall - and hilts tremble even before the touch.
Mirnomyr did not speak. Alexander did not move. Everything had already been said. All that remained was to place it in the hand.
Radoslav was the first to step forward.
Slowly. As though he feared not the steel, but what he would become upon taking it. He drew the blade across the prince's palm, metal whispering on skin. He laid the knife in the prince's open hand - without looking up. As duty. As a challenge.
Borys stepped out immediately. Lips stained with blood, eyes dry. He dropped to one knee. Placed the dagger - point away. The blade trembled. He did not.
Volodymyr Dobrynych - the hearth-master's son - made half a step, paused. He drew a breath as though stoked by heat. He stepped on. Laid down his knife. Withdrew. Slowly. Heavier than breath.
Ratibor, the voivode's heir, looked for his father's gaze - but his father remained silent. He gripped the blade as in battle, thrusting out the hilt. The oath claimed a drop of his blood - only Mirnomyr saw the faint red bead.
Yaromyr Vyshatov - the youngest of the thousand-man commanders - dropped his satchel. One hand over his heart. Eyes on the Cross. He carried no knife - he brought it. Alexander received it with both hands, as though closing the gates.
The bulla clicked into the wax. Not a sound - a seal. The riad was sealed.
Seven marks - seven great houses gave their word.
But only five youths bowed their heads - only five brought their oath to the dense, warm seal.
Five waxen seals pulsed with heat - alive until they cooled. The inner courts had answered. The rest would come later.
A murmur moved through the hall - not noise, but the gravity of acceptance.
The boyars did not argue - they calculated. Not silver - the weight of their house.
They looked at their wards: who would now bear sword, who the charter, who the path. Fate had already been handed to the prince, but every father knew: with his son, he placed the family's pledge. And if he fails - the seal won't be the only thing broken.
And nearby, in the candle's shadow, another voice sounded - softer, almost inaudible - two quietly spoken words.
Simeon leaned toward the chief scribe. Whispered, watching the short list:
- Master… only five? But seven signed?
Haávril didn't raise his gaze. Whispered back:
- A signature is a call. The Cross is the seal. But the riad - it lives only when supported on two legs
Simeon furrowed his brow.
- I don't understand…
- Until the youth enters the riad, the master said, the oath stands in semi-darkness. There are words, there is a seal - but no body. No life. Without them, it's not a riad, it's half a promise
- And is it binding?
- From the moment the prince drew the line. But incomplete. Like a letter without a courier. He who gave his hand also gives his blood. Not by morning - but by service. Without the youth, the seal warms the wax but does not hold the wall
Simeon nodded, though still unclear. He pressed on, softly:
- And the other boyars… when will they arrive? In five days? At the accession to the throne?
Haávril hesitated. His fingers slid along the parchment.
- I do not know. But for the accession of the prince, all who hold house and seal must be present. Those nearby - will arrive. Those further - later
He spoke not as a seer, but as one who has seen letters outlive men.
- Even if they fail to arrive by the accession - they will come nonetheless. The first seven have already placed hand and seal. The charters have begun to live. The others - they wait. But until the prince confirms them - the land is not granted. Without confirmation - it's neutral land
Simeon leaned forward, whispering:
- And what if someone… never comes at all?
Haávril didn't look up. His voice settled like steel on parchment.
- Then he will remain on the sideline. And on the sideline - he claims no right. Neutral land in Rusʹ does not lie idle for long. The prince will reclaim it with those present. There are enough: loyal, expectant, hungry for new lands
Then - voice from the inkstand like stirring water. Tiun Tverdislav. Not loud, but weighty.
- All true. There are no fools here. Everyone knows: who holds house, holds the path. Two to thirty ride already - through snow, through storm, over ice. Volynians - across the Bug. Turov - along the Pripyat. Chernihiv - via the Seym. Polotsk - out of the Dvina. Rostov and Belozero - through the forests, taking the long path
He tapped the feather pen on an empty line at the parchment's edge.
- Their places are already marked. The ink has dried. All that remains - they must come. Kiss the Cross. And present the youth
And in that moment - by the prince's bench - the whispered conversation died.
They did not discuss charters - but blood. The fates of the youths, the younger sons of great houses.
Each will stand by the prince - not as hostage, but as witness. Alexander will give orders personally. And they will stay near him - often. To watch. To grow.
The prince raised his hand. Not a gesture - a nail. He hammered stillness into the hall:
- To all distant houses I give a term - one month. To arrive. So that I may confirm the allodial charters. And so they bring their youths
Silence stretched - heavy as hot wax.
- Ihnat, lead from Pereiaslav - to Spas. Ihor - yours the youth and the northerners - down the Volkhov. When the ice moves, let them go. But remember: those who bring him not - the wax on their charter will melt. And the land - becomes fallow
Silence rippled. But the prince did not withdraw his hand:
- That land will be offered to others. To those with the prince. To those who will lift it - and they will hold it. And we will share according to contribution. He who restores - it is for him the plot, and the right. Any objections?
Ihnat clenched his jaw, then nodded - road to Pereiaslav was straight, the deadline held.
Ihor Rostyslavych bowed his head. The North is slow - but the word was firm.
Alexander looked to his bench - to the hands of those near. Living, grasping. They knew: for an empty line one could answer with blood.
The rest of the boyars remained silent. But their silence was not fear - it carried weight: they were already here. Already with the prince. Already under the seal. They needed not assent - their blood had spoken for them.
And the wax had already set. Three seals still breathed: the bee's circle, the leaden weight, the princely mark.
Soft - while one might remove them. Later - only to break. And to break is sacrilege.
Now the oath had a root. It remained to bring its branches down to earth. St. George's Day. Icehands. A month. Each his own. But all were set to grow. Or to crack.
The charters were laid in an oak chest. Radomyr clicked the lock.
One key - with him. The second - with Hilarion. Haávril tapped the lid with a knuckle - until the wax fully set.
Simeon whispered, looking at the lock:
- Why not three keys?
- The third always with the prince's sword, Haávril muttered. And his sword is in the flesh. While he breathes - it stays locked
Alexander's gaze scanned the hall. No eye wavered.
- By Annunciation. Who lives - will sign again. Who dies - released. Without word. Without land
Silence did not fall - it clamped. Like a band. Haávril wiped ink with his sleeve - without looking - as though he carved a line. The parchment stretched like a fresh scar - alive, yet recorded.
A spark fell from the vaulted ceiling. Not upward - but downward. The hall's floor accepted it silently. And where the Rosʹ begins in the south, on the scroll of time remained a point. Black. Smoking.
A rustle went through - as though a knife had sliced the skin - not of flesh, but of Rusʹ.
Someone sighed. Not in fear. Not in relief. Like cooling before a shot.
A candle creaked in the far corner - sound, not light. Reminded them: it is part of the ritual. But its flame already begins to lag.
In the hall - the smell of wax, leather, and sweat. Everything trembled in an unseen rhythm. But nothing collapsed. Only waited.
The black point on parchment smoked. As a mark. As a sign that the oath not only passed - it pierced.
At that moment, high above Sophia, the first bell rang.
Not calling. Not rejoicing. It was testing.
It did not roll. It sliced. Straight to bone. Like an icy wedge driven under siege.
And the hall understood: the oath is not secured. It hangs. In the air. Until Easter.
Then - either the Cross, or a crack. And nothing between.