By the morning toll of Sophia's bells, the mist spread low across the turf of Podil, slipping downward toward the Dnipro, as though the river itself were rising to witness who would claim its bank.
Kyiv held its breath. No rustle of barter, no cursing of apprentices. Only the bell - tolling slow, rare, like the pulse of a beast deciding: to stand or to lie down and be done.
In the princely courtyard, the ranks were already drawn. To the left - Prince Alexander's gridni, shields braced at the knee, swords sheathed. To the right - the boyars' retinues. Ten for each house: Oleg's from Vyshhorod, Igor's from Novgorod, Ihnat's from Pereiaslav.
Treasurer Radomyr brought only two - not by count, but by bond. Further off, three of Dobrynia the Steward's men stood - not in line, but present. Their weapons: keys, ledgers, and the right to say: "This granary is the prince's."
Vyshata the Tysyatsky brought no druzhina - he brought order. Two tensmen with axes - one from the Market, one from the quays. Behind them, a scribe and a key-bearer: the sinews of streets, the ledgers of stalls, the sound of governance.
No clatter of shields. They stood - like stone counterweights. Silence stretched, not through the street - through the hall.
Behind the doors - warmth, thick like ash.
The small princely chamber breathed with the clay hearth in its eastern corner. The firebox murmured, the kettle sighed - as if it boiled not water, but intention.
Smoke crept beneath the ceiling planks, slipped through a narrow gap beneath the ridge, but some settled in the corner - an old weight, like the memory of a council where the word never made it through.
To the south, two tall windows. Mica and bubbled glass in leaden lattice. The light did not illuminate. It smeared - dim, oblique. Milky bands only highlighting the amber glint of oil lamps.
Beneath the front wall, below the icon - a bench. Not a throne - but a place. Wider than the rest, one step higher, draped in wolf fur. The prince was not seated higher - only earlier. Beside, but first.
Like a threshold: one step - and you answer.
On the bench - Alexander.
His face still young. But his gaze drew the air like cooling steel. Beneath him - the same board that bore his father. Then - a body. Now - the weight of bloodline.
To his left, behind his shoulder - Stanislav, the senior voivode. Stood like a door's hinge: one step - and the hall would shut.
The other benches lined three walls. Opposite, left, and right - seats for the boyars. Still empty. But each man knew where his was. And what it meant - not to reach it.
From the half-shadow emerged a man in a black kaftan - reserved as a seal itself.
Tiun Tverdislav, the prince's voice in matters of law and land.
He placed by the hearth a low carved table - the kozelets: not tall, yet heavier than a throne. Upon it - a wax tablet and a cruciform encolpion, weighty as an unsurrendered word.
Above the hearth - a great torch. Crackling in its iron ring. Sparks leapt across the whitewashed logs like thoughts too wild to take form.
Tverdislav stepped from the fire's shadow into the center of the hall, raising the cross high - into the lamp-smoke. His voice was not a cry - it was a notch struck into timber:
- In the name of the Cross - council
The echo rippled through empty benches: not a single boyar yet, only the groan of wood and the murmur of fire. A spark winked under the vault - as if a candle had agreed to the word.
The princely door opened - precisely the width of a staff.
From the vestibule - the narrow, dark passage between chambers - came the breath of morning frost, as though the building itself had exhaled before the speech.
First to enter: Hilarion the Metropolitan - silver staff trembling, the shadow of his censer gliding across the floor; his face - parchment unmarked, and the cross in his hands, as if the cathedral itself hung by its knuckles.
Second: a clatter of keys - Oleg of Vyshhorod, the prince's steward in Kyiv. A copper key, bearing the city's seal, swung and struck his belt - a toll marking debt.
Behind his quiet steps trailed an unseen chain of Podil and Berest estates - the Pretichi, the Kozarinychi, the Berestovichi: the harbors, the barns, the livestock market.
Third - the resin-thick scent of Dobrynia the Steward surged in: a scarred palm bore a short hammer, the forge's last spark still trembling in the iron.
Master of the prince's house - his keys unlocked forges, granaries, the armory. One blow of his hand could snuff a hearth or unbar a vault, and the hall felt that weight no less than steel.
Fourth: Radomyr the Silver, the treasurer - his waxed tally board, marked "grivna-fur-mead", slipped into his hand; a broken nail clicked against silver - the treasury had come to listen.
Fifth - Ihnat of Pereiaslav: hand on hilt, linen binding dark with blood; the trembling dust of the steppe hung in front of the lamp. Behind his word - a frontier regiment and twenty bloodlines: as he speaks, so the steppe will know whose horse rules the Trubezh.
Sixth entered Vyshata the Tysyatsky. His mail unadorned, a flat axe at his belt - emblem of the urban thousand. His step - like a driven spike: the hall could no longer be moved. One toll of his bell summoned the bridge-guard and the clamor of Podil.
Last stepped Igor Rostislavich, posadnik of Novgorod: his cloak smelled of damp northern woods, his boot cracked along the sole; he bowed not to the prince - but to the road, as if planting a milestone in the hall itself.
His shadow was long familiar, but each word still rang with the echo of the Market: should he ride back to the Volkhov - he would decide if the North remained within the bond or stood apart.
The senior boyar, Miroslav the Great Sealer, and the Grand Voivode of Chernihiv, Yaroslav of Lebedyn - absent.
No one expected the hidden counselor. For if he is present - you will not see him.
The door closed. The noise of the vestibule - severed.
The benches filled. The Metropolitan and the Tysyatsky - opposite. Land and bread - to the left. Silver and blade - to the right. And the North - at the edge. A guest. But with a market at its back.
Alexander did not sit - he led with his gaze. Not across faces - across the age of the bloodline. Each felt it: this was no prince's glance. It was a scale. If you tilt - the whole table sinks.
He did not raise a hand - he struck with silence.
Tverdislav stepped forward, as though pulling a stone slab from the floor. His voice - dry, like a statute:
- New seals for ancestral charters. Land is not given for a word, but for a cross. Each clan - a parchment oath and a son in service. The younger - not as a hostage, but as a squire. Who does not come - his land will lie fallow. And what lies empty I shall give to the one who brings an army
Whispers did not rise - they were strangled. Someone coughed - as if from smoke.
A bench groaned at the wall - as if the weight of decision had shifted it. One boyar's eyes flicked to the iconostasis, as if to ask: whose power is this - the cross's, or the prince's?
And only then - sharp as a pry bar - Ihnat stood. Not in answer. In strike.
- Service to the prince? A hostage? We are not the Polovtsians
The voice - low, but edged, like iron on stone. From the bench - a rustle. Vyshata touched his hilt - and froze.
- Who fears no treachery fears no service, - the prince cut back.
Ihnat did not sit. He stood - as if bearing the weight of two provinces at once.
- God gave me two sons. The elder holds the land. The younger... he is a candle. The last one, if the first goes out
Silence stretched - and the prince cut it with his voice:
- You are strong, Ihnat. But not alone in Pereiaslav. The Cherniaty wait for your falter. The Sulichi have long whetted their reins. And the Romenichi - they'd surrender even their oats, if a princely sign stands behind them. I do not threaten. I show you: if you yield - they will straighten. But in another direction
Ihnat did not answer. But his face grew heavier. His shoulders - like poured lead. Alexander pressed on:
- I ask not for a pledge. I ask for a seed. He will learn tally, blade, and the steppe tongue. He will return not as a hostage - but as a keeper of the border
- And if he does not return? If your seal is lost - will my son be sold at market?
- Then mark this: until Easter - a month. We survive the winter - the boy enters the company of the princely youths. He receives a personal grivna - not a gift, but a debt. A spear bearing my mark - not an ornament, but a knot. While I stand - he strengthens. If I fall - the oath unbinds. Your son - is yours. The land - is yours
Radomyr did not stir. Only his eyes shifted, briefly, to the side.
Grivna. He had seen dozens. In coffers, around necks, in blood. This is no gift. This is a brand. A mark upon a man, like the stamp on a sack of coin. The spear - no symbol. A seal. Whomever holds it - holds the boy.
He said nothing. But in his silent reckoning, the weight of the promise had already begun to tally against the cost of loss.
Ihnat looked to Hilarion.
- The Cross guarantees it?
The Metropolitan lowered his fingers to the cross:
- I bind the term. If the prince breaks it - the Church releases the vow and returns your son. If you break it - anathema upon your house's table
In the hall - like a string snapped. No sound, but a shift in the air: heavier, tighter. Corners of eyes twitched. Fingers froze at the belt. Someone left a breath half-taken.
Anathema - is not a word. It is the hearth going cold. A name erased. Even the dead turn away.
The silence thickened, like the moment before rain. Ihnat did not break gaze with the cross for a long while. Then - an exhale. Not a sound. The surrender of fire.
He tore the knife from his belt, offered it hilt-first:
- You take the blade - you take the vow. Hold it firmer than I ever did
Alexander received it. The iron was warm. Not from the hand - from the bloodline.
Someone in the hall exhaled - short, like clenched teeth.
Dobrynia leaned forward slightly - not as one listening, but as a smith testing if the blade would crack at the weld. His hand slid to the hammer - not to strike, but to remind: there is still iron here that has not sworn.
At the edge of the bench, Vyshata passed a palm across his jaw, testing: does the skin tremble - from heat, or from fear?
No one spoke a word. But all already knew: the oath had dropped like a stone onto ice. And now the fracture would spread.
- His name?
- Sviatoslav, - Ihnat breathed. - Twelve years. Knows the horse, knows no fear
The prince did not answer at once. His eyelids flickered. Once - barely seen.
- He will learn measure, - he said. Dry. But quieter than before.
The blade touched the kozelets. The ink did not tremble - it sealed.
In the princely courtyard, a hoof struck: a groom, leading the grey, had tapped the stone threshold with an iron shoe.
The soft clatter spilled its echo beyond the wall - and fell silent, as though shy of its own voice.
Inside, the sound ebbed like a wave that never reached the boyars' feet.
Silence hung. Not stillness - rupture. As if the hall waited: whose word would fall next - and tip the scale.
Stanislav nodded - once, precisely. Like a shield receiving a blow. Not for the prince - for the sake of keeping Rus' from the crack.
Then - no voice, a motion.
An elbow creaked against the bench: Ihor Rostyslavych drew out a wax tablet, stood, and placed it on the kozelets, just beneath the cross.
Not a plea - a reckoning. Like at a feast where Kyiv is guest, not host.
- Prince. Grand Prince Yaroslav gave me the posadnyk's seal. I expect you to confirm it. If you do - Novgorod joins. But the veche is no slave
A pause. Into it crept a muffled groan, as if the Volkhov itself tugged the ice beneath the ice.
- We give: fifty horse to Pereiaslav's border. Three boats - for the Dnipro flotilla. Sons - come spring, with the first thaw. The oath travels the road
- And in return? - the prince's voice rolled low, like a tremor beneath a vault.
Ihor didn't answer at once. He looked up - not at the prince, but the dome.
Where the icon loomed, the soot-dark face of the Virgin stared blank - not judging, only remembering. A witness who signs, but does not forgive. Waiting, as if to see who would sell the motherland first - and aloud.
A second, like a crack in armor. Into it - silence.
Dobrynia leaned forward - barely, but the hall already felt it: if Ihor stood now, Novgorod would walk.
- Half the trade toll from the Market. No princely tiuns. Grivna at Market weight - two hundred grams, by Novgorod's scale. No Kyivian filings. Not Podil terms
The words fell exact. Not a request - a weight. Like an anchor thrown into the river.
Oleh gave a faint snort. Not mockery - math.
Someone shifted on the bench - counting their pelts. Radomyr glanced away - measuring how much toll already lay in the balance, if Novgorod was subtracted.
The air tightened. Alexander was silent. A beat.
- Half? - softly. But in that "half" there hung a weight - not protest, but reminder: the cost of horses and boats if they sailed past Kyiv.
No flame flickered. No gaze broke. Just a single mote drifted through the beam. As if even the air knew - this was its last chance not to turn to smoke.
Ihor saw that silence. And did not wait.
- Right. Either now - on these terms. Or later, Novgorod returns - with others. Harder. No bargains
From somewhere in the corner - dry wood cracked. Not a step, not a word. Just a board deciding: time to split.
Ihor added - even, without push:
- And then you don't choose - they set. And you won't offer your hand - you'll reach, trying not to miss the last grip
Alexander said nothing. A long moment. Then - level, almost calm:
- A hard ask. But if you return empty-handed - who says you upheld the North's honor? And who says - you cost it profit?
The tone was even, but underneath - resonance:
- Novgorod keeps no man who brings less than another might have
Ihor understood at once. Heard not words - but ledger. If Alexander refused and he rode home now, the prince would name a smaller price to the veche. Smoother. Cheaper. And say: remove Ihor - get half the Market.
Silence. Crisp, brittle, like frost underfoot.
Ihor didn't ask. He tested:
- And you, Prince - what do you offer?
Alexander scraped a drop of wax from the tablet with his nail - like erasing a zero off a coin.
- I take the boats. I take the horses. The sons - by Saint George's Day, not by thaw. Toll thus: two-fifths to you, three to the prince. Grivna - Kyiv weight, one hundred fifty grams, not a grain more. And no toll without the prince's eye. But… the eye need not be the hand
He paused - one heartbeat.
- One tiun - Novgorod's. One - Princely. They count together. They fall together
Ihor didn't speak. Just lowered his gaze. Not defeat. A weight of balance - like laying faith, not price, on the scale.
He felt it: they no longer feared him. They counted him. And the hall heard it too.
Oleh moved his lips - measuring how many deals remained before this prince became the anchor. Illarion didn't blink. But his fingers touched the cross like a merchant on his ledger: this must be kept.
Ihor looked up. Clear:
- And my posadnyk's seal?
Alexander didn't raise his head.
- Confirmed. Every year. By veche hand - and my seal. One cracks - the bridge falls
Ihor inhaled. Not fear. Cold. The Volkhov knows how steel breathes under ice.
He said nothing - for a moment. But that moment stretched long. As if he chose not a reply, but the length of memory Novgorod would grant him.
- Then - we take it
He extended his hand. Left palm - open. No blade. But weight. Like saying "I hold" - not "I yield." With his right - he traced a mark. Rune. Anchor biting stone.
The mark didn't flare. But even the air seemed to hush. As if the dust itself remembered that motion.
And - he slid forward the wax tablet. The same one. As bread to a scale: not food, but pact.
Alexander didn't look up. But his chin flicked - barely. Not from doubt. From the anchor's pull - now his too.
Illarion slowly rose. His staff didn't strike - it creaked. As if the walls moved, not the man.
He stepped to the kozelets. Not to the prince - to the enkolpion. Like to an altar before storm.
The silence - dense. No nods. No breath. Even the candle seemed to hold its flame.
The Metropolitan touched the cross with his fingers:
- The vow stands until Saint George's Day. Should the sons not set foot in Kyiv - anathema upon the Market. The bell goes silent
Ihor met his gaze. He knew: if Novgorod's bell fell silent, there would be no gathering, no word, no deal. The Market would die. And a dead Market is dearer than any toll.
He didn't flinch. Only added - not in defiance, in clarity:
- And if the prince falls before the date - the sons return not as pawns, but as reckoning. And the veche will collect - not in words, in land
Alexander looked at Ihor. Long. Without anger. Without yield. The way one looks at a stone that chose to lie at the base.
- Then the reckoning will be clean. And if I fall - you'll claim not by grievance, but by debt. The land - I'll give. The honor - I'll leave. But do not touch Rus'
He took the seal. No flourish.
Pressed it. The wax hissed, like tar on the hull of a ship.
The pact settled. The North took its share. Kyiv - its lever. And Rus' - one more stitch in the hide that split along the living flesh.
Silence hung - not as fear, but as the wait for the next blade.
Into it stepped Oleh of Vyshhorod, Kyiv's posadnyk.
Unhurried. Like one who knows: the last weight is laid closest to the heart.
- The youths - I accept. It's harsh, but bearable. But the allod charters - give us time. Five days. Let the prince sit at the high table in full rite - then the cross, then the seal. Not a day sooner
The Metropolitan's staff struck the floor. Illarion's voice came low, but firm:
- Five days without the Cross - five days without a prince. Today we give a wound. Tomorrow, the steppe will enter it
Oleh stepped - not closer, but just far enough that his shadow crossed the tile between them.
- And if the prince… does not live till matins? Then our children are hostages to your cathedral
The words didn't fall - they stood. Like a stone above a spring: heavy, but holding the current.
Illarion didn't reply at once. He only lifted the cross above his shoulder. His voice was not loud - but in the vault, it felt as if someone sang through him.
- He who takes a son as pledge lays a stone upon his soul. While he lives, he holds. But should the prince fall - he pulls you down with him. Don't think: you took children as surety. These are souls. And the soul is no commodity. It avenges, if sold
The air didn't thicken - it tightened. Like a palm across the brow. Not a strike - a rebuke. Oleh pressed his lips - not from fear, but from words he had to choke back.
Then - Stanislav moved. Not forward - just aside. Like a warrior closing the flank. Not with steel - with weight.
- The tongue has no bones, Oleh. But it cuts deeper than iron. Watch what you say next. What you speak weighs not just loyalty - but life
A hush passed the hall. Not of words - of breath. As if each remembered: the tongue is a hammer too. One swing - and a bloodline may split.
Then - Ihnat. Not a voice, a chip. Not a cry - a cut:
- If the prince does not live… Strange, how such words find a mouth. Especially that of the posadnyk. And fast
The air shifted. Dobrynia looked away. Vyšata, the opposite - stared, like testing the timber: how much before it cracks.
Oleh did not retreat. He braced one hand on his knee - like a carpenter measuring the angle before he drives the wedge. His voice - not defiance. A brace:
- A word cuts, yes. But it also holds
A pause. Short - but load-bearing.
- I did not cut. I showed the seam. The prince knows: I speak where the crack will run - while it still holds. If I don't - it'll break in silence
He looked up - not upward, but level:
- You want silence? I won't stop you. But when the bridge splits - don't ask who failed to shore it up
The silence wasn't emptiness - it pressed. The hall seemed to take that weight onto its shoulders. A word that once cut became a clasp. No one argued. But all bore it.
Like those who see the fracture - and know the danger isn't the crack, but the man who hides it in quiet.
Then - Alexander leaned forward. Not rushed. Like one who picks up a stone and searches for the seam it was made to fill.
- Then here's the road. Now - "Riad of Loyalty." Here, in this hall. Cross. Seal. And the youth - into service. But only until the day I take the table. In five days, at Saint Sophia - we repeat the oath. If I don't rise to the seat - you're free. Sons go home. With all they've received
Illarion crossed himself. Not like a priest - but as if sealing a crypt.
The silence wasn't hesitation - it circled. As if the air walked the hall like a dog across the yard - sniffing where the weak spots lay.
First to nod was Stanislav. Not as a servant - as a soldier who knew: the battle's been postponed. But the sword stays in its sheath. Then - Ihnat. Sharp. Not assent - a sign: understood, carried, not forgotten.
At the benches - shifting. Not words - postures. As if old men remembered: a pact holds not by phrase, but by stance.
No one stood. But all, in their own way, agreed. Five days - not a span. Not a shield. Just a delay. If the prince falls - the youth's weight will fall upon the clan.
A faint ribbon of smoke drifted toward the vault. Someone stepped behind the curtain - as if even the drapery had breath.
But the prince - was still there.
The air compressed - not with fear, but with a hold: not yet. As if it too listened - was there still a spark, or was it time to light the fuse?
Outside, a chain rang on the gates - the gridny dropped the bar, locking the yard.
Metal touched metal twice, as if to ask, ready?
Then - a rustle. Not step. Not word. Like wind in silk. Illarion did not enter - he emerged, like a root breaking through stone. Not with a stride - but with a shift in the axis.
But in his eyes - a flicker. Not pain. A burn. As if he himself had scorched a line he feared to leave unsaid.
He did not wait for his turn. He waited for silence. To drive a wedge into it. And when he felt: all had been spoken, but not settled - he spoke.
- Prince. Allow me this word. I will not begin with prayer. Rome and Constantinople - no longer brothers. And soon - not even neighbors. The schism is not a debate. It is a reckoning. And it is near. We will not be called - we will be named. Heretics. Or a people
- And I say this: I am afraid. But silence is worse. We are not the first - we are the last who can still choose where we stand
Pause - not breath, but fracture. Like a crack running through a fresco.
- We have learned from the East. But the student who only repeats - never becomes a name in the book. Perhaps it's time. Not to follow. To lead
- I am weary of being a footprint. And of watching Rus' fear not the lash, but the mirror. Where she is not an icon - but only a man. With his own face
In the hall - a breath held. Someone shifted, but did not rise. As if Illarion had touched not just an idea - but a threshold. One past which began a different Rus'. The one no one dared name aloud.
- And what are you driving at, lord bishop? - Oleh's voice was steady, but his fingers were already tracing the belt's edge. - That we no longer look to Constantinople? That we decide the spirit on our own - without their word?
- Not we - will decide, - Illarion's reply was low but firm, like a cut into wax. - Then they will. Either we stand - as a kin, as a land, as a Church. Or we will be stood - as goods at market. The first who yields - yields for all
- Constantinople sends no troops, - Ihnat said. - It sends a word. Then merchants. Then an archimandrite. Then the steppe hears we've renounced. And the steppe does not ask whether
- Or they'll simply close the markets, - Oleh added. - The boats will wait at the delta. Wine - twice the price. Silk - only through the Bulgars. Grain - rots in Galata. Think we'll be spared?
Radomyr ran a finger across his tablet - slowly, like a merchant already counting the lost coin.
Stanislav shook his head. Not in denial - in weariness. Of fears, of foresight, of memory that doesn't forget.
- Three years ago, Grand Prince Yaroslav named Illarion himself. Not from the Greeks. Not with the Patriarch's leave. Took - and set the Metropolitan of Rus'. For the first time - ours. And what then?
He looked around. Not upward - but across the benches.
- No curses. No generals. No locked straits. And later - they even gave young Vsevolod their princess, Monomakh's daughter. Because furs. Because forest. Because our fleet is worth more to them than prayers
Silence answered nothing - but held.
- The Romaioi are serpents. They don't strike - they hiss. And bite not the face, but the spine. So long as you watch - they slither. Look away - they strike. But that time - they didn't. Means they knew: strike, and lose more
The words settled. But did not flare. Like coal without wind - warm, not burning.
Then - not voice, but footfall. Heavy. Grounded. Vyšata, the Tysyatskyi, rose. Till now he'd sat quiet, like stone in the vault's base.
He didn't raise his hands. Didn't lash with words. He stood - and his shadow fell on the floor like a wall.
- Then, Stanislav, behind Rus' stood Grand Prince Yaroslav. A wall. Not a word - a vault. And now? His sons - gone. One prince remains - and he is only just rising. And you would shake the support - now?
The hall didn't flinch - but drew breath. Not fear - knowing. This was no boyar. This was the Tysyatskyi. Who knows what happens when the vault cracks.
And after him - Dobrynia stood. The hearthwarden. Not armor - home. Not blade - oven. But his voice cut deep. Like a plough cleaving straight.
- True. We still hold. But if Rus' does not rise to full height - they will bend her. Not with sword. With Cross. The Greeks will wait. Till we weaken. Till faith stands without a wall. Then - they'll send theirs. A Greek. Not with sword - with a scroll
- And they'll say: "Here is your bishop." And who says "no" - goes without covering, without Eucharist. No honey. No salt. No name
He looked not at Illarion - but at the prince. Direct. Like one who's held walls when roofs gave way.
- Rus' has stood. Has known how. But if we cannot now hold - don't wonder. They won't wage war. They'll reclaim what we ourselves let fall
Oleh opened his hands - not in protest, in aim. Like an archer drawing not to threaten - but to mark.
- You see, lord bishop? Better to guard your chair than seek independence. Before the Greeks sweep you off like dust from a sill
Illarion didn't answer at once. He smoothed the hem of his robe - not like a priest, but like a warrior testing the mail's seam. His voice came not at once - like pushing weight off words.
- If I am swept away - it won't be me they swept. It'll be Rus'. Then it wasn't faith standing - but a façade. And under it - fear. Not godlessness. Obedience without will. That is not faith. That is submission in vestments. The shadow of an icon placed - to block the light
He didn't look at Oleh. He looked through the air - where each word echoed with era.
- The Greeks do not threaten - they wait. As the wave waits for the cliff to fall. They won't come with arms. They'll come with a letter. With a name. With what we drop - and call it returning
- As it is written: "The stone the builders rejected has become the cornerstone." If we do not lay our own - they will lay theirs. And raise a temple - without us
He stepped half-forward. Not to the prince - to the hall. His voice was not a cry, not a whisper. A word. One that needs no thunder to endure.
- I am not the enemy of Constantinople. I am its student. I know the strength of its books. But Rus' is not a regiment under Byzantine banners. Rus' is a people who can stand. Without a proxy. Without a pointer. With grace - as a right, not a gift
He crossed himself slowly.
- If I leave - let another rise. But let him not bend. Let him be not from embassy - but from God. Then Rus' will not fall. Then the word will not be stilled
The hall did not answer. But in each - the soul shifted.
Not in mind. In bone. As if in the bishop's words - the ice under Rus' cracked. And the crack - not fear. A chime: it's time to move.
Only then did the prince speak.
- Illarion... - the voice did not break the silence. It joined it. - I hear. Not a call. A current. I see: where you lead. This is no quarrel. This is a rising. But grain - does not sprout by lunge. A path is when the foot finds firmness, not frenzy
He paused. Not for silence - for weighing.
- We will go. But not as castoffs - as risers. Not from walls - but from roots. Step by step. No crack. No break. Let Rus' not stumble - but rise. In fullness. Not by fear. By strength
He stood. Not to rule. To will. Not rushed. Like one who already bears - not a title - Rus'.
- Give me footing - and I will shift the shore. But not with word. With stone. That which holds. And if you, Illarion, will be one of those stones - not from a seat, but from depth - I will not cast you aside
Illarion did not reply at once. In that silence - no fear. No retreat. No bargaining. Only choice.
- The Church will affirm the tithe charters, - his voice did not press, but bore, like a vault holding choir. - And it asks: a school of letters at Saint Sophia - free of worldly dues. No candle-tax. No merchant levy. Let them seek not a stall - but the word. Not a trader - but a root
He did not look down. He stood.
- This is a beginning. Let it root. And later... we shall return. Not with petition. With duty
Alexander nodded. Not from throne - from measure.
- You shall have it. In return - two monastery schools. Pereiaslavl. Chernihiv. Not for liturgy - for frontier. Letter. Tally. Word. Without literate ploughmen - sword is dull. Wall rots from the core
Ihnat - the first to give his son - nodded. Quiet. Like a voivode who knows: letter and blade are brothers. Illarion pressed the cross to his chest.
- Two schools... The stone and the builders - whose blood?
- Half - from the Church. In spices, as is due. Half - timber from the boyars of the border. By the Protection Day. If the walls rise not - princely privileges shall fall. Not in punishment. As sign
Pause - not blunt. Weight-bearing. The prince's word did not thunder, but landed - like a load taken for the road.
- And one more thing, - the voice came not sharp, but held. - The teaching - in Slavic script. Not Latin. Not Greek. Ours. Living. Let Rus' learn not as subject - but as Sovereign
Illarion crossed himself. Not for show - but like sealing a stone.
- Then... the stone is laid
The word moved - not from the chair. From the throne.
But the throne was still empty. And thus - heavier.
Oleh gripped the armrest, but remained seated; his eyes narrowed - digging into the prince's back, as if asking: will you still be here on the fifth day?
And in the hall - no protest. Not from submission. From the silence in which the boyars saw - not Yaroslav's son - but the prince.
And knew: if this youth lays the stone - the walls have no right to stay behind.
Then - a voice. Not a flash. A weight laid in the circle's center.
Alexander looked upon them all - and, seeing no plea, no word, no step - raised his hand. And cast the final die.
- Whoever signs the Riad of Loyalty today - the old debt is wiped. Whoever walks out - his land is void by dawn, and given to the one who brings my seal
The silence didn't fall - it clenched. Like lungs before a plunge.
No one stood. But within each - a shift. Like an oar that decides: to row, or to wait for the tide.
Ihnat gripped his belt - not his son. The anchor. Oleh did not stir - as if he knew: if he moved, it wasn't the floor - it was the age that would crack.
Vyšata looked to the floor - to what might fall away. Dobrynia raised his eyes - not to bargain. And Ihor looked not at the prince - but through him. Like a merchant pricing the bridge he might himself burn.
They did not look to each other. But in each - passed a current. Not fear. Not fealty. Knowing: from here, the prince does not decide. You do. And Rus' will stand behind. Or fall.
Stanislav looked to Illarion. Not to the face - but to the sign. The Metropolitan's fingers rested on the cross - like a lock upon the gate.
- Under God's twin seal - I vouch, - the bishop's voice did not waver. - He who breaks - falls. He who takes - stands
The words did not strike. They sealed. Like pitch on the hull. And then - the boyars. Not as one. One by one.
They nodded. Not in gesture - in pledge. Some - with restraint. Some - like breaking a seal a century old.
Each nod - a brace, not to the prince - but to Rus'. Not from fear - but for the wall.
The weight of the clan - laid. The path - chosen.
Alexander did not nod in return.
He simply stood. Not on the throne. At the edge - between rule and will. And knew: now, it was not he who held the hall.
The hall - held him.
Illarion lowered his hand. Not as priest. As witness. Of sin - or of beginning.
Outside - the wind hummed. Or the ice shifted.
Inside - it was not time.
Inside - was an era.
It had begun.
***
Thank you for reading.
As I continue editing the book, I'm realizing more and more clearly: some scenes don't just need tweaks - they need to be rewritten from scratch.
One of those is the moment when the boyars recognize the new prince's authority. After the death of Yaroslav the Wise, all old oaths lost their force. Each boyar could have walked away, chosen another leader. They were bound not by fear or duty, but by gain, strength, or faith.
That means the new prince couldn't just sit on the throne - he had to prove he had the right to rule. To forge a new alliance. To be sworn in again. I glossed over this before - now I'm going back to do it right.
Because of this, I'm completely reworking the old Chapter 7. It'll now be split into three: Chapters 7, 8, and 9.
Chapter 8 will show how oaths were made in Rus: how they kissed the cross, the seal - and how a word could weigh more than a sword.
Chapter 9 will unfold the full Princely Council: discussions about the prince's bride, the search for his brothers' killers, and the defense against steppe raiders.
The old Chapter 8 ("Weight") will become Chapter 10. I've reviewed it completely. Prince Alexander was managing unrealistically large sums - they didn't fit the economy of the 11th century. The new version will be more accurate and historically grounded.
Right now I've edited up to Chapter 21, but I sometimes go back - to remember why I'm writing this at all. That's how the new Chapters 7, 8, and 9 came to be.
Thank you for staying with me. That really matters.