Library of St. Sophia lay in silence. Under the vaults the wicks of the lamps hissed faintly, somewhere parchment rustled. The smell of wax, leather, and old glue lingered in the air.
Alexander sat at the oak table, staring at a stack of scrolls. He had come here not for prayer and not for learning. He needed threads - any trace that could tell how the land lived.
The elder keeper, Ioann, fetched scrolls from the shelves and stole glances at the prince. Alexander did not read straight through, did not leaf idly - he tore the essence out of the lines, as if pulling a vein from stone.
Only hints surfaced. In one charter a boyar gave a monastery "a field split in two halves" - a clear sign of two - field rotation. In another, a statute ordered a tithe "from every second field" - the same pattern, differently worded.
Only in the margin of a Greek book a scribe had jotted: "they have three parts." And in a memorial record an odd line appeared: "the third field for barley" - without explanation, like a rare test.
It all pointed to one truth: Rus lived by the habit of two - field rotation, while three - field appeared like a foreign spark - never rooted.
Amid the theological books there were also records of land and trade. A donation charter listed forest apiaries and fishing grounds - proof that monasteries, too, held such rights, not only boyars.
In a statute it was written: a toll was taken "from a cart of salt" - meaning the prince's revenue lay in road and measure, not in the mine. A memorial book listed "a sack of salt, a beaver pelt" - the gift of a family, not a tax.
From these fragments a picture emerged: resources were split among many hands - communal, monastic, boyar, and princely. Yet the grand prince held the main thread: the road and the rule, the measure and the weight, the toll on trade.
That was enough to mark the first steps. On his wax tablet Alexander cut notes with a stylus at once.
Ioann stood slightly aside: handing scrolls, keeping the needed, returning the rest. Only the rustle of parchment and the scratch of stylus on wax filled the room. If the prince muttered to himself, Ioann did not catch the words - he minded his task, leaving the tablet ready for the prince's cuts.
Work moved fast: there were few useful scrolls. A handful of scraps laid the foundation - no point digging deeper. Alexander was already lifting his head to order more from the lower vault, when in the corridor quick, assured steps rang out.
The silence of the library shivered. Alexander raised his head: the rhythm of those heels sounded as if carried by power. He did not know who would enter - but guessed. Ioann turned his gaze to the arch at the far end.
A moment later, in the passage appeared elder monk Boris, and behind him - young Sava.
Boris was calm, composed: a lean face, streaks of gray in his beard. He wore a dark woolen habit with hood, girded by a leather belt; at his side hung a ring of iron keys, which clinked briefly with each step. Across his shoulder - an unadorned leather satchel, heavy with scrolls and tablets.
He inclined his head - short, precise, like placing a stone into its place. No servility - only the weight of a lived life.
- Greetings, prince. They told me you wished to see me
Alexander merely looked at him. This was no novice from a cloister's yard. Before him stood a brother who held locks, records, access to the vaults - and whose word carried weight.
Sava and the elder keeper Ioann bowed in silence and withdrew into the background. No command was needed - that was the order: step back; leave the two alone at the table. The keys at Boris's belt rang again, echoing off the stone like a drawn line between them and all others.
Alexander, unbothered, spoke:
- I've heard you keep records of the lands - where the fields are, where fur, where wax and salt. Is it true?
Boris held a pause. He studied the prince - not the face, but the man who would have to see not a showcase, but the storehouse. Then he unfastened his satchel and drew out a scroll - not a charter, but his own record. The leather was dark, the letters plain, unadorned - a dry tally.
- Turiv. Furs
He handed it over. Alexander unrolled it at once. The ink had faded in places, but the lines still held strength:
"Fur in Turiv is held by three hands. First, Rostislav of Dubrovitsa: Dubrovitsa and its forests. Under his power lie the chief grounds; beaver and marten fur flow from him, his retinue is strong.
Second, boyar Yaroslav of Lelchitsy: lands about Lelchitsy, fewer woods, but strong guilds of hunters. The rest is scattered: monasteries hold small grounds, a share of beaver and marten to the cloister; villages and guilds at the edges provide fox and hare skins. Judgment over prime fur and the toll - princely; trade runs through Turiv and Dorohychyn. The main thread - Dubrovitsky."
Alexander read swiftly.
The meaning was clear: Turiv's fur lay in three hands, but the strongest was Dubrovitsky. Bring him under princely sway - and the stream would tighten into a knot. Lelchitsy and the guilds would follow on their own; monastery lands were small. Judgment and toll were already princely - the thread was in his hand.
This could be woven into a larger order: furs not driven raw, but carried into workshops, dyed, dressed - and only then to market, to Kyiv and overseas.
And even if Dubrovitsky refused - no matter. Weaken his grip, and other hands would reach for the first place. The prince would choose whom to raise, and the new "Dubrovitsky" would rise under his hand.
Alexander rolled the scroll and handed it back.
- This is what I need. Do you have such records for Kyiv, for Chernihiv, for other lands? With the names of those who hold trade and toll?
Boris tucked the scroll into his satchel. The straps cracked under his fingers. He stood, bent slightly lower than usual, not hurrying to fetch more. The satchel stayed closed - as if he already knew: the next step did not lie through him.
- Yes, prince. But all those records - bear the seal of the Metropolitan
Alexander raised a brow, then nodded. It was clear. Such detail could not come from one monk. Only the Metropolitan, with his network of brothers and novices, could draw a map that showed not single charters, but whole trades and lands.
Yet the lines he had held in his hands smelled nothing of prayer. They were dry, exact - like a scout's brief: "First - Rostislav of Dubrovitsa: forests, retinue strong."This was not written by a theologian. It was written by a man used to weighing power.
Alexander slowly looked at the bowed monk.
- Metropolitan Hilarion, yes?
- From Hilarion, - Boris answered at once, without hesitation. His voice was smooth, too smooth.
That was not the tone of a keeper or a chronicler - that was the tone of one repeating a rehearsed part. Alexander caught it, and something clicked in his chest: this man was lying. Lying as he always had. And showing nothing.
- And what does Hilarion want in return for this knowledge?
Boris held his silence. The pause stretched, pressing on the walls. Then he spoke - quietly, without lifting his eyes:
- The Metropolitan cares for the faith. But not with prayers alone. Monasteries grow weak. Orphans perish. The Church needs support. And so does the prince
He lifted his head. His gaze was steady, heavy.
- This is no gift, prince. Scrolls are not given for a 'thank you.' The Church needs supplies. Bread, salt, candles, roofs for orphans. And it needs them soon. Without this, neither they nor we will stand
Alexander listened in silence. Boris didn't blink. The words sounded as if the seal already lay on the table. But behind that seal Alexander felt Boris's own hand. This wasn't an alliance; it was a leash: for a handful of scrolls the prince was to feed the whole Metropolia of Rus'.
He couldn't seize the papers by force: touch them - and he'd earn condemnation, lose the people and the Church. He couldn't expose it either: there was no proof, only a certainty.
The price had two layers: in words - "for the sake of the faith," in fact - silver and bread in the hands of those hiding behind a habit.
- Care? No. An economic takeover, veiled by orphans. For a couple of record scrolls they demand bread, salt, candles - and power. A leash drawn tight through mercy
Alexander saw two roads clearly.
The easy one - buy them off, build churches, feed the cloisters. But then the Church would rise against the boyars, and each new church would become a fault line. The hard one - take the challenge and turn the terms his way: not churches, but orphanages, schools, craft yards.
Then the resources would serve not a foreign strength but his rule. Yet to take that road was to challenge the metropolitan and test the forces behind him.
He drew a deep breath. One road led into the soft shadow of churches, where a man can hide behind prayer. The other - into the sharp stones of war, where he would have to go himself.
And the first stone would be Boris.
From Elder Keeper Ioann, Alexander had heard: Boris was known as a monk of mercy, a defender of orphans and the poor. The prince suspected a cover behind it. He chose to test him himself - to hear how he would answer the hard road.
He lifted his eyes and said:
- I agree
Boris looked up. Alexander rose. Lamp - light wavered, and shadow laid itself on the walls. He heard his own voice firm, but his heart beat as if he stood not in a library, but on the field before his retinue.
- But not for stone churches alone. For orphanages - houses set apart for the children. They will stand on their own, as churches do, but not for service - for life. Stone walls, a roof, a hearth and bread to hold the winter. Not alms "for today," but a year's maintenance
He stepped closer.
- And at the monasteries - schools of letters and craft. Separate yards, under lock and inventory. Whoever learns - goes out into the world. Whoever wishes - into the retinue. But not by force
The words rolled under the vaults, ran between the shelves like someone else's steps. The library, usually mute, seemed to repeat them. Boris held his breath - and only then felt it: the speech had gone where he did not expect.
Princes at his age were usually hot, reckless - more warriors than rulers. By Sava's words and the brothers', Alexander stood out among them: young, but measured, able to hold his word and his mean. But the man before him now stood above the measure he knew.
Instead of the expected barter - grain for knowledge, candles for records - the prince spoke of houses and schools. Not of alms "today," but of a year's due. Not of churches, but of new homes for the orphaned and the poor. He broke the habit: he didn't ask, didn't haggle - he set his own terms.
And it struck straight at the heart. Orphans were Boris's wound, his truth. He had shivered once in cold corridors himself and knew the price of bread and warmth. Everything he'd built around it was both cover and atonement. And now the prince reached for the root - as if to take that care under his seal.
Something moved in his chest:
- Isn't this a new bridle? Today he says "orphanages for life," tomorrow - report and inventory in the princely chancery
Boris had seen how easily care turns into a chain - not a church chain, but a princely one.
He wanted to object: "it is not a prince's business; the faith stands by prayer, not by schools and workshops." But the words stuck in his throat - as if someone else were meant to speak them.
Alexander caught that instant of weakness - and stepped in, leaving Boris no time. His voice came even, like a hammer on the anvil:
- It is written: "Let the children come to Me." I'll let them - to light and craft; the Church-to mercy. Neither boyar will touch them, nor merchant barter them. Everything-under compact and inventory. I think the metropolitan will accept this: mercy with order
Boris's face didn't flinch, but his fingers clenched the belt until the keys rang louder than usual. He had not expected a Gospel line from a young prince - and not a random one, but one that struck to the quick.
Inside, everything tightened like a string: to argue now was to argue not with a prince, but with Christ's word. Yet he couldn't stay silent. Each pause turned him into a novice, not a keeper. That was worse than a quarrel.
He studied the young prince, and his features hardened. Caution left him - what remained was the dry seriousness of a keeper. He dared not dispute Christ's words, but the prince's step was too bold to leave without an answer.
- Who will keep order? - his voice came hard, without the earlier care. - Churches and cloisters stand by centuries: they have rules, brotherhoods, confession, and the fear of God. That is a bridle for ourselves. But the orphanages you name… they will have nothing but your will
He stood firm, eyes steady. His fingers bit the belt, the knuckles went white. There was more pain in the gesture than in the words.
- I've seen almshouses bend under a stranger's will: today - bread, tomorrow - work in someone's yard. Mercy turns to shackles easily. Who will stand guard at the gate, prince? Who will hold the wolf if you open him the way?
Alexander smiled, hardly at all. He returned to the table, but did not break eye contact.
- You said it yourself: the wolf will enter if the gate is left unguarded. Then be that guard, Boris
He didn't sit. His fingers touched the table's edge and stilled. His head inclined just so - and in that quiet there was more testing than in any words.
- I've heard of your care for orphans - not for glory, but for truth. Will you take this burden? I'll see you appointed. Then it won't be words that decide, but your work
In that moment a hammer - blow went through the walls.
Not a sound - a signal. Not thunder - a sentence. Somewhere in the yard a shield fell with a dull echo, or a gate swung shut.
Yet it sounded as if time itself had stepped.
Alexander didn't look away: he looked only at Boris, as if that step were him. Boris flicked his eyes toward the cloudy mica pane of the window - there was nothing there but trembling light.
He lowered his gaze, not answering at once.
He only exhaled loudly, and his breath mingled with the smell of wax and old glue. His fingers passed along the rough edge of his sleeve, as if feeling for old scars of memory.
Something clenched in his chest. A flare: the cold monastery hallway, bloody bandages on the hands of little Anphim, whom they hadn't saved. The boy still came to him in dreams - as on that night when there wasn't enough bread and candlelight.
Boris ground his teeth. The prince had struck where he had no weapon. Orphans were his pain, his truth, his one justification. And now the prince was making it a knot to pull by.
A thought flashed - push it away, refuse, say: "this is no prince's business." But he knew: men like this young prince do not step back. They press the weak spot to the end. It was the law of power - to strike where it hurts most.
Silence bore down. Not even a lamp wick cracked.
Boris knew the price of promises. Knew how easily power turns oaths to dust. But now he saw something else: if he refused, there would be no grain, no candles, no support. The orphanages would exist only because the prince had set them as a condition - without his will there would be nothing.
He stood on a knife - edge: to say no was to betray those for whom he held all this. To say yes was to place their fate in the prince's hands.
And suddenly it was clear: this was not a negotiation. It was a judgment. The judge sat before him - and the sentence had already been passed.
He finally raised his head.
- This is a grave charge, prince, - Boris's voice was low, hollow, as if it came up from the depth of fatigue. - The road will be hard. But if you lay it on me - I will bear it
He fell silent. His fingers closed on the keys at his belt until the metal creaked - as if he were checking whether any power at all remained to him.
- For their sake. For those who cannot defend themselves
He drew breath, and another note came into his voice - not challenge, but plea:
- But give me the means, so this is deed and not word. Let there be inventories. Let your men inspect. I do not ask for power for myself - only the right to hold back wrong from what we begin
A bell outside stretched into a long hum, as if God Himself answered in his place.
Alexander understood: it was assent, but the assent of a man who takes the bridle willingly, only begging that the rope not become a noose.
The prince turned his head for a heartbeat toward the cloudy window, listening. The bell's hum trembled in the air - echo of stone, or the voice he wanted to hear. For a moment it seemed to him that God Himself set a seal upon his decision.
Alexander sat and spoke evenly, without excess feeling:
- There will be inventories. I will give a seal - yours and the princely seal. You will appoint stewards whom you deem trustworthy; their names will enter the roll. My men will have the right to sudden inspections - of your records and of the cloisters' stores. Without this, the work will not go
He held his gaze a beat:
- And one more thing. I will require an account of every measure and every grivna. I will send men to verify - suddenly, without warning
His voice was level, without anger - but firm:
- Remember this, Boris. If even one child is harmed - all will answer. You, and the metropolitan as well
The words fell like a hammer - blow.
Boris bowed his head slowly. He received them not as an order, but as an inevitability. Yet his fingers still held the keys: he agreed, keeping for himself the keeper's right - to watch and to judge.
- I, Boris, Elder monk and servant of God, take this on myself, prince. If darkness comes - I will stand first
It was a heavy assent, a forced one. But once inside, he resolved to use every tool to the end - for the sake of the orphans and the poor. The Gospel spoken by the prince would be the measure: if truth and mercy stood behind it, he would be the prince's hand; if naked power - that hand would turn against it.
Alexander nodded, satisfied. He had left Boris no choice, but he believed this road the only one - and the right one. And that had to be proven not by word, but by deed.
Without losing time, the prince pushed the stack of scrolls aside and took a clean sheet of parchment. The inkwell stood at hand; Alexander took up a quill and dipped it with a steady motion.
Boris watched in silence: the dry scrape of the pen under the vaults rang louder than speech. Every motion of the princely hand was precise, every word weighed. Alexander wrote firmly, as if the stone itself dictated the lines.
Nothing remained in the library but the crackle of the wick and that scraping. Even the shadows on the walls seemed to freeze, listening to a charter being born.
Ordinance Charter on Orphan Houses and Inns of Hospitality
In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
We, Alexander, by the mercy of God Grand Prince of Kyiv, mindful of the salvation of souls and of the orphans who have no providers, decree this word and ordinance. For it is said in the Gospel:
"Let the children come to Me" (Mk. 10:14) - let this be the foundation of this work.
Let there be established houses for orphans, which from now on we command to be called ORPHAN HOUSES; and in all books and charters write "orphan house," and not otherwise. Orphan houses are to stand apart, not within monastic halls, with a refectory, cells, and a school for letters and crafts; at the churches and monasteries of our cities: first at holy St. Sophia, the Wisdom of God, and at St. Elias on the Podil, and thereafter in other cities - at ten monasteries where the superiors are ready to receive the Path of Christ's Mercy.
We command:
- first of all to found two orphan houses in the city of Kyiv - in the name of St. Mark and in the name of St. Matthew; then, as the strength of the treasury and counsel allows, to lay a further three in other principalities; and at ten monasteries across Rus' to set up orphan halls for feeding and teaching;
- to provide for the feeding of the orphan houses: a tenth share from the princely table on Great Fridays and feasts; bread and kvass by ladles, fish by the day, and salt by measure from the princely granaries, as the treasury shall record in the book of measures; a tenth part of the toll from the Sviatopolk Ferry and the Kyiv market rows - to the orphan account; wax by poods yearly from the city due - for candles and lamps; linen and broadcloth as needed - from the princely court;
- that Boris the Key - keeper, hospitaler at St. Elias, be overseer of the orphan houses and keep the Orphan Book: who was received, how they were clothed, on whose ration they stand, and what was expended;
- that Dobrynia the Ognishchanin oversee the release of bread, salt, and cloth from the court; that Radomir the treasurer set his seal to the entries and accounts and verify the measure and the grivna;
- that Vyshata, Kyiv's thousandman, and the elders of the market rows not delay the toll - shares as written, and bring them in on time;
- that the local superiors keep good order, teach the children letters and chant, appoint guardians from God - fearing men and virtuous widows; in these houses a small altar may be kept, but the monastic brotherhood is not to interfere in the matters of provisioning.
Concerning the Book and the Terms.
Let the Orphan Book lie under two seals - of the key-keeper and of the superior; let it be read openly before the people and the retinue twice a year: on Demetrius Saturday and on the Sunday of Orthodoxy. The treasury shall audit the records quarterly and present an account at the princely table. What stands in the book - stands as truth.
Concerning Guilt and Penalty.
Whoever withholds bread or stipend, or delays the toll-share, or names "orphan house" any monastic hall against this ordinance - let him answer before God and the prince: a fine of a grivna of silver, removal from office, and threefold restitution of what was concealed. And whosoever multiplies mercy - to him blessing and honor.
If God grants prosperity, we command that this work be widened in other Principalities and monasteries, by counsel with the metropolitan.
This we confirm with our seal. Witnesses: Metropolitan Illarion, Voivode Stanislav, Ognishchanin Dobrynia, Treasurer Radomir, the Podil posadnik, and the elders of the market rows.
In the year 6562 from the creation of the world, in the seventh indiction, in the month of March, on the twenty - first day, in the city of Kyiv, in the church of Holy Wisdom, St. Sophia of Kyiv.
When he began to write, the scrape of a monk's departing steps still carried down the corridor.
Then all fell still.
Only the lamp wicks and the dry whisper of the quill remained.
Alexander wrote for a long time. The pen scraped, halted, moved again - letters settling with confidence yet in measure, like a chisel striking stone. Several times he lifted his head, as if checking his words not against himself but against something higher.
Candle - wax softened and ran down the bronze stands. The smell grew heavy. Boris stood motionless, yet inside he felt it: each word laid on him like a stone in a wall - higher and higher - until there was no way out.
Only when the parchment was filled to the end did the prince straighten, draw breath, and take up the seal.
The dull snap of wax and the heavy press of stone sounded in the silence louder than any word.
He raised the scroll, held it a moment - and offered it to Boris:
- Here is my sincerity and my faith. Read, Elder Monk
And in that moment there was neither prince nor monk between them. Only two men holding the future in their hands.
Taking the scroll, Boris felt a slight tremor in his fingers.
He read the lines slowly, thoughtfully, as if weighing every word. A shadow of approval flickered in his eyes, though his face remained composed. When he reached the mention of the orphan houses of Mark and Matthew in Kyiv, his fingers tightened almost imperceptibly: all of it was too precisely wrought - as if the ordinance had been written not by twenty - year - old hands, but by an experienced council.
He turned his gaze aside, closing his eyes for an instant.
- Prince. The ordinance is righteous. I think it will be received by all to whom the faith and the Lord's way still matter
He folded the charter with care and handed it back. Then Boris laid his own scrolls on the table - one after another, as if not papers but keys to all Rus'.
Alexander nodded, scanning them:
- Good. But this ordinance needs to go to the treasury. Let them begin the preparations
Boris looked at the prince in surprise.
Such ordinances were usually carried to a common assembly: the witnesses named in them had to confirm every word, not only the prince and himself. Tradition demanded it - without a council a charter remained "paper," not law.
Yet he understood: to challenge this ordinance would be near impossible. It was built too shrewdly. Who would dare speak against orphan houses and schools? Who would raise a voice against the very Gospel words the prince had woven into the text?
Such a man would be branded not merely cold to mercy - he could be called a heretic, risen against the Lord's own way.
Boris shifted his gaze to Alexander.
The prince's face was unshakable and terribly calm. There was something predatory in that stillness. And for the first time Boris felt an animal fear: like on the hunt, when you realize you have become the quarry.
Before him sat not a youth, not a scholar, but the beast of power, waiting to close its teeth.
The keeper let out the faintest breath. Any attempt to argue here would not be argument - it would be a leap into the jaws. So Boris bowed.
- Prince, my man - proven in his duties - will carry it with one of your gridni
Alexander gave a brief nod:
- Call him. I won't run the courts myself, but sending the first passerby would be foolish
- Sensible, prince, - Boris answered, and turned. - Varlaam!
The name boomed under the vaults. Somewhere deep in the hall footsteps rustled, and soon a monk emerged from the passage - middle height, solid, with a watchful gaze.
- My greetings, prince
Then he bowed his head to Boris:
- Father
- The scroll, - Boris passed him the ordinance. His fingers held the parchment a heartbeat longer than needed - as if releasing not paper but a portion of his own authority.
- Take it to the treasury. With one of the gridni. Do not lose it. Children's lives depend on it
Varlaam took it and bowed without a word. But in his eyes there flared neither zeal nor fear - only a cold readiness, heavy as in a warrior who receives the banner before battle.
Boris met that look briefly, gravely: both understood they were passing not a scroll - but a charge.
Alexander saw it. Here everyone knew the price of paper. Neither Varlaam nor Boris treated this as mere service. It was their cross. And his - as well.
When Varlaam vanished into the passage, only the scrolls remained on the table - heavy as the earth itself. Alexander took one, began to roll it idly between his fingers as if playing, yet his gaze stayed fixed on Boris - sharp and unrelenting.
- Where should I begin?
Boris did not answer at once. His fingers moved along the laid - out scrolls and stopped on one. He slid it closer to the prince.
- With wax. Kyiv and the Drevlyan land - our belt
Alexander unrolled the scroll. The script was strict, even:
Kyiv and the Drevlyan Land. Wax
Wax in these lands is held by three hands. The first - the princely apiary under tiun Horislav: oakwoods between the Irpin and the Teteriv, tracts along the Ubort. Marks on the hive - trees - a cross - notch; for breaking - fine and repayment in timber. Collection late in summer; the wax bulk is brought to the Podil, to the Candle House at St. Sophia. From there the measure - the Kyiv grivna in wax; part goes to the cathedral candles, the rest - to the treasury and to market.
The second - the boyar holdings of the House of Ratshich…
Alexander read the lines, but from the corner of his eye caught that Boris was studying him no less than he studied the scrolls.
Boris watched. Not openly, but sidelong, as if testing who stood before him. He saw mind. He saw will. But he was in no hurry to trust.
Too often words turned to blood. A spark had caught - but for now it was only a spark.
Loyalty is proved by deed.
Boris stood in silence and held a simple thought within:
"Who swears first - is the first to betray."
He would wait. He would see. And only then decide - walk beside him, or lie in the dust with those who were wrong.
On the table new scrolls rustled: Alexander was already unrolling the next, Boris sliding him records the way a master passes a tool. The work took hold.
And outside St. Sophia the heavy doors closed with a muffled thud - the sound ran through the stone like a cut - off "amen."
Varlaam and Svyatomir paced the flagstones of the passage leading to the princely court. The gallery was narrow; rare windows slit the floor with bands of light.
They came out into the terem, crossed the high hall where the walls still held winter's cold, and through a side door stepped into the inner yard. The air here was different - thick, drawing men to work.
The treasury house stood beside the chambers, under the prince's guard. There the same sounds always lived: the whisper of parchment, the scratch of a pen, the ring of measure and grivna.
Varlaam halted at the threshold. Svyatomir with him. Only now did he understand: what had begun in Sophia's shadow had reached the heart of princely power.
The door opened.
Work was underway in the treasury. The whisper of parchments, the dry scrape of the pen, the rare steps of clerks. Everything obeyed the count: lines, measures, grivnas. Radomir, as always, sat at the great table and had already begun to bring a new ledger together - the hall moved to its rhythm.
They entered.
Radomir looked up reluctantly. His eyes showed neither interest nor vexation - only weary habit. But catching sight of the princely seal, he set the pen aside at once. Not abruptly - like a man who does what must be done, not what he wishes.
Varlaam approached without a word and offered the scroll.
Radomir took it with the same dry motion with which he handled hundreds of orders. His glance skimmed the edge: he expected taxes, a call - up for the retinue, an order on tolls. He unrolled.
And stopped.
It was no tax and no levy. It was an ordinance on orphan houses.
On children.
On those whom power usually hid behind alms and forgot in the dust of courtyards.
Radomir's fingers whitened on the parchment. In his chest stirred something he had not expected to feel: a memory of Yaroslav's firm hand. Yaroslav built churches, strengthened laws, held Rus' in count and order. But there was no talk of orphans and houses.
And now the son went further. Where the father raised Sophia's walls, this one laid walls for children.
He lifted his gaze - and met Varlaam's eyes.
There was no fear in them and no subservience. They held the weight of a man who had seen too much and served too many. There was more there than "monk's obedience."
Radomir knew it. He had met that cold once before: then Varlaam had stood where he had no business - deep in corridors where others' fates were decided. And behind him had stood a man whose name was not spoken aloud: Yaroslav's hidden counselor, the one who pulled the strings behind princes' backs.
If Varlaam held a scroll now - it meant the strings were at work again. And they already ran behind the young prince Alexander.
A chill went down Radomir's back.
To contest it? That would be to stand against Christ, against the prince, and against the very force that drew the strings from the shadows. It would be the same as putting his own neck in the noose.
He bowed his head, accepting the scroll. Not for fear - for the count. For the book, so it would not die.
- We begin at once. Funds will be set aside. We will draw a plan in the shortest terms, - Radomir said dryly, as if setting a seal. The air in the hall grew heavy, like a ledger that already bore an entry of blood not yet spilled
- Elder Monk Boris will discuss details after he speaks with the prince, - Varlaam said tersely and left. Svyatomir followed - silent as a shadow.
Life in the counting - house did not break: pens scraped, the clerks' steps beat time on stone, someone shifted wax tablets. But for Radomir all this seemed to sink away, to dissolve.
He was alone. In his hands - the scroll that now was more than an order.
He read into the lines. About orphans. About bread. About life.
Not about the treasury.
His fingers tightened on the parchment again. Something long - buried stirred in his chest - a memory, entombed under dry numbers: a time when a prince's word weighed more than advantage.
He raised his eyes. Around him pens still scraped, candlelight flickered - but for him the hall was empty. Only shadows.
- Sometimes, - he breathed almost soundlessly, - it is not walls that save the land. People do. As long as someone does not yield
The thought cut like a blade. Alexander believed. Which meant - he was the most dangerous of all.
Radomir folded the scroll with care. The motion was less like work than like hiding a weapon. The pen moved over parchment again.
His hand faltered. He stifled a cough. The stroke went crooked, as if over living flesh.
***
Thank you to everyone who's reading.
I'd probably work on this chapter a bit more - there's some overload of details and a few rough edges. But right now I need to move forward. Most of the book is still ahead.
If you notice any flaws, let me know. I'll come back to them later and fix them.
Thank you for moving on with me.