By noon, after the meal, the prince returned to the library to Boris.
Scrolls lay stacked; the air held the smell of wax and ink. There was too much information, and Alexander, intent, was copying out the details: boyars, communes, lands, crafts, merchants.
All of it was becoming a foundation - the thing that would later turn into a new system of husbandry and a firm economy.
But while he laid the lines into a base, rumors were already moving through the Detinets. In a couple of hours the news of the princely ordinance had spread, but in scraps: "the charter's gone to the treasury," "scribes are sealing already," "it's about orphans, bread, the treasury." The boyars heard not truth, but shredded gossip.
It looked like an end-run around the council and senior boyars. A dangerous precedent - the prince could decide everything alone. But no one hurried to speak out. The matter was sharp - say too much and either you'd earn the prince's wrath, or be branded an enemy of orphans.
Only one man wasn't stopped by that - Oleg of Vyshhorod.
- If the charter really has gone to the treasury, then there's a trace. And traces don't hide. They need to be seen - before the others
He went alone. A crowd, to him, was not protection but weakness: there were too many voices. One would blurt, another would waver, a third would sell out.
The crowd is dangerous not to the prince - to itself.
He walked in such a way that people turned their heads, though they didn't dare speak. In his step you heard not a sound but a weight. As if, with him, the yard carried the crack of something old breaking.
From the princely court - straight to the treasury.
Inside, work boiled.
Scribes bent over parchments; pens scraped dryly; the smell of ink and wax pulled at the air. New scrolls were settling on the shelves. No one noticed at once when he entered. Only when the steps stilled at the threshold did the counting-house bristle as one: the senior boyar was already inside.
Radomir looked up. He had expected the boyars to come with questions - under Yaroslav it had always been that way; any reform drew grumbling. But when the man at the door turned out to be Oleg of Vyshhorod, his face knit, in spite of himself.
The Senior Boyar was loyal to the old order: council, clan, land. And he trusted books least of all - which meant he trusted Radomir least of all.
Oleg moved forward without noise, yet in a way that every scribe felt his steps. His gaze swept the hall, lingered on the scrolls stacking into piles.
- What are you compiling here? - he asked quietly. - A new ordinance?
Radomir did not look away. His voice was as dry as stone:
- Not a new ordinance. The prince's order - from yesterday. The Treasury Book
Oleg's brow twitched, barely.
Now it all made sense: the work in full boil wasn't a census and not customs. What he saw turned out to be more than rumor. If not for the orphan ordinance, he wouldn't have learned that the treasury was already at work on a matter the boyars hadn't heard a word about.
The orphan ordinance could still be filed under mercy. But a "treasury book" - however you glossed it - touched the accounting of income and expense. It counted not souls, but silver. And every boyar knew: here a line had already been crossed.
Oleg took another step and stopped at the table. His fingers touched the edge, and the scribes, that instant, bent their heads lower - each pretending to write, though the ink fell unevenly.
- The Treasury Book… - Oleg ran a finger along the table's rim. - The treasury counts silver; but the book? Will it count - or hold?
Radomir did not drop his gaze.
- We write what's commanded. Every measure, every levy. The weight is checked by St. Sophia, the seal by the line. If it isn't in the book, it isn't… - he faltered, swallowed dryly, the pen trembled in his fingers, - …it isn't in the world
Oleg narrowed his eyes.
- A peasant with a cow, a merchant with a wagon of salt - fine. But you'll press the boyars into those same lines? So the clan-name stands beside a trader's name?
The scribes froze; a wick in the corner cracked louder than usual. Radomir set a scroll aside as if they were speaking of a simple sheet.
- A name and a measure. Strangers to one another?… - he held on the half-word, the pen rocked slightly in his hand, then he said more firmly: - No. Whoever is ashamed - has something to hide
Oleg smirked, but a shadow flickered in his eyes. He wanted to go on - but the words came out muffled, as if he were forcing them from inside:
- Under Grand Prince Yaroslav there were no such books. Rus' stood firm; the treasury did not run dry. Or is the present prince wiser than his father?
- Under Yaroslav, until the Pravda existed, the boyars grumbled too, - said Radomir. - And then without it there was no court. So with the book: today they argue, and tomorrow without it there will be neither treasury nor account
Oleg gave a short, joyless breath of laughter - more like a man who has clenched his teeth.
- A fine example. Only the Pravda lived in men, not in lines. Behind it stood the prince and the council, not a scribe with a pen. To fold everything into one book… means every portion under the princely eye. A boyar - no longer a boyar, but a tiun
Radomir raised his eyes. The look was heavy, unmoving, and his words landed as if he'd cut them from stone:
- Not a tiun. An honest man. Now the line runs straighter than a clan's honor
The words fell - and there was nothing left to argue. Oleg went silent.
It was like fighting a stone wall. Behind Radomir's words stood not the man himself, but the prince. He had to go to the root - to the one who had ordered these lines to be set. If the root could not be bent - then, and only then, it would be time to break the branches, one by one.
Oleg lifted his palm from the table. The boards creaked - and the creak sounded louder than words. He turned, and already stepping for the door, threw over his shoulder:
- If the line runs straighter than honor - then you have no use for honor
Silence hung in the hall. The scribes' pens froze over parchment; someone even spilled a drop of ink, but no one dared wipe it.
Radomir looked up. His face was stone, but his fingers clenched the pen until the fragile wood cracked. His silence was not a choice - it was an order, as if the prince himself stood at his shoulder.
The scribes sat without raising their heads, yet each felt the blow. The word "honor" hung in the air heavier than lead, and it seemed the counting-house itself was listening.
Oleg's steps boomed on the floorboards.
The orphan ordinance had already lost its price. Mercy could be endured. But the Treasury Book burned hotter: it throbbed in the temples like an iron hoop.
He left the treasury not like a boyar - but like a man carrying a strike inside him.
He went straight to St. Sophia. They said the prince sat there over books, like a scholar. They'd thought - a whelp with a pen. But behind the pages there hid a beast. And Oleg chose to test him.
The cathedral held a resonant half-dark. The high vaults gathered the whisper of prayer, the creak of benches, and the rare clink of the censer. Sounds drowned in the height, so Oleg's steps cracked especially sharp - as if a stranger had broken the cadence of the service.
A candle flame trembled, and it seemed it too had scented his arrival.
From a side passage came the smell of parchment and wax. There, behind the doors, was the library - an almost sacral place, into which even boyars entered only by the prince's leave.
His retinue stayed in the gallery. Oleg went on alone, fingers closing to a fist to hold back the tremor.
Guards stood tight at the library door - men in mail with spears. Behind them, the prince's gridni, heavy and silent, five or six men. Two stepped forward: Mstislav and Mirnomir.
- Name and business? - they barred the way.
Of course they knew his face - he was the senior boyar, and Vyshhorod's, not a man to mistake. But order required words, and the formula sounded as it should.
Oleg did not flinch. His voice was hoarse, but steady:
- Oleg of Vyshhorod. Treasury business. It won't bear delay
Mstislav knit his brows but nodded. He murmured something to the otrok Igor, and the boy slipped through the door.
A minute later the lad returned, leaned to Mstislav, and whispered. He nodded:
- Let him through
The gridni drew back, and with them the guards' line loosened. Oleg passed, feeling his heel boom on the stone - louder than he wished.
Coming toward him were Boris, the monk Sava, and the monk Varlaam. They walked in silence. Only one instant left a mark: Varlaam's look. Cold, dangerous - as if a hand had already settled on a sword. Then it vanished at once, dissolving into the monk's customary weakness.
Oleg paused, saw them off with his eyes. Too neat. Too timely. As if they had expected him alone. The three monks' steps sounded measured - as if a shadow had been rehearsed.
He turned and went on. Ahead lay a talk - and at his word either the clan or the line would crack.
He passed the first arch, then a narrow corridor where the walls pressed with close stone. At the back a smaller hall opened - not a church, but strict, with niches and low windows. Here they kept rare books and records.
At a long oak table sat the prince. Scrolls lay stacked before him; one he held in his palm, reading, bent so that the light from a narrow window fell straight on the lines.
Oleg stopped at the table and bowed:
- Prince
Alexander raised his eyes. He nodded - short, without words - and returned to the scroll.
On his palm lay parchment. The ink had faded, but the lines still held their edge:
"Oleg of Vyshhorod. Land by Kyiv, holds the crossing and the quay. Rich in honey and grain. His retinue small, but his own. In council he speaks rarely, but his word is sharp. The boyars listen. Cautious, does not go first into a quarrel."
Oleg didn't know what exactly the prince was reading, but he saw how the eyes lingered and did not tear away for a long time. He stood in silence, watching, unhurried.
Alexander finished, set the scroll aside, and looked up:
- They told me you have business of the treasury. What exactly troubles you?
Oleg inclined his head slightly. His voice came firm, with a rasp, as if he spoke after the smoke of campfires seen at the crossing.
- The Treasury Book troubles me. Is such a great matter truly decided without the elders? Even your father, Grand Prince Yaroslav, took counsel with the seniors. And you write ordinances and orders alone, as if you were your own court and council
Alexander smiled barely, without rising from the bench. He twitched a shoulder as if to brush it off, but only gripped the quill tighter:
- The council pulls sideways. I pull forward. To wait - is to fall face-first in the mud
- Mud? - Oleg cast the word as if he spat it. He stepped closer to the table and fell silent.
A candle snapped; wax dripped onto the table's edge. The smell of scorch mixed with ink. The prince didn't answer, only looked straight on, and there was more stubbornness in that look than in words.
Oleg went on - his voice lower, heavier:
- Power doesn't fall into mud, prince. Power is held by men, by clan, by land. A prince is no autocrat. You set the line above men. The Treasury Book is not about account. It is about power
In the half-light he seemed taller, broader, and the board under his boot creaked so that the prince's brow lifted, despite himself.
But Alexander raised the quill again, not to write - as if he held a small spear.
- Power is order. While you argue, the treasury empties. Let the line hold, not whim
Oleg gave a smile, but his eyes stayed cold. A vein jumped at his temple.
- A boyar answers with his head - he looks at the cross and does not steal. He knows: the prince will call - and he will go to the square. And a book? It is silent. It won't lead a thief past the gates. It won't meet a traitor at night in the entry
Alexander lifted his gaze. Something flashed in his eyes, but his voice stayed even:
- Men die. Memory leaves. The book remains
- Law? - Oleg stepped closer, his breath striking the prince's face. - A law that can burn - or be bought by a scribe
He coughed short; his voice grew rough:
- I have seen a charter burn in a stove. Seen a scribe bought for a ladle of mead. A scribe for mead broke an entire clan. Rus' stood not on ink, but on those who swore by the fire and went when the prince called
He clenched a fist on the table's edge.
- Rus' is ruled by oaths and blood. Not by scrolls
Alexander jerked up his chin. His voice snapped, almost broke:
- Oaths rot with bones. Ink will outlast us
Silence fell - not empty now, but heavy, like a hum in the ears. The air thickened, as if the vaults pressed down on the shoulders. Scrolls lay all around, and for the first time Oleg felt them not as paper but as stone, bearing on the breath.
He frowned; a crease cut between his brows. The prince sat firm before him, like a root, and Oleg understood: the youth would not swerve. But memory burned - of a time when Rus' held otherwise.
- Under Yaroslav, - he said dully, - every boyar knew his place, every toll - its measure. There was no such all-embracing Treasury Book of yours. And all went. Rus' stood, and will stand
He raised his eyes to Alexander, as if checking the son against the father:
- If great Yaroslav managed with the counsel of boyars and elders, why should one prince now break the order?
Oleg didn't say "back" - he said "as it has been kept for ages." And by that he set Alexander in his father's shadow; to argue with that was to argue with Rus's memory itself.
Alexander lowered his gaze to a scroll. His fingers slowly turned a leaf; the quill scraped along the edge. He spoke more quietly, but level:
- I go further, as my father went. But if you have a better measure - say it. I'm listening
Oleg lifted a brow. He had expected to see a crack, a concession. But the prince's words sounded not like weakness - rather like a challenge. He yielded and in the same breath threw the burden back at him.
- A trap? - flickered through his mind. - Or a test?
Oleg exhaled, set his jaw, and slowly shook his head.
To argue now was to strike at air. The book didn't exist yet - only the design. There was nothing to grasp. Alexander's words were still air - but one day they would lie in lines, and then he would have a target.
- A week, a month… it's all one to me. I'll come, prince, when your book fills with lines. Then I'll speak my measure. For now - too few words, too much dust
He inclined his head, as if conceding defeat, but it was only a pause. A chill glinted in his eyes: he waited not for a concession, but for the moment when the design would take flesh. And only then would he strike.
Alexander watched him in silence; his fingers still held the quill.
Damp drifted from the door's crack. The cold struck his face like a reminder: beyond these walls another kind of reckoning waited.
Oleg stepped out. St. Sophia's domes burned in the evening sun - gold lanced the eyes, sharp as a scorch.
A shadow of his retinue fell in behind - his close men who had followed him to the cathedral. The Varangians kept a little to the rear, but each knew his place: who would cover the back, who would guard the flank.
At the Detinets gate a wagon waited: dark boards, rubbed and worn.
The rest were there as well. The retainer Yaromir held the reins, still as a stone sentry. The Varangian Leif tightened his belt - by habit, in silence, with the economy bred in a man long used to the seam of work and death. Two of the retinue standing by the wagon bowed their heads in respect.
Oleg climbed in. The boards under him groaned dull.
On the floor a drop of blood flashed - fresh, warm. Oleg saw it, but did not ask. Leif adjusted his belt, and the red edge on his sword vanished under the fall of his cloak.
Yaromir clambered to the box and drew the reins taut.
- To the Podil, - Oleg said hoarsely. - No stops. No talk
The wheels hummed on the cobbles. His close men moved beside the wagon, step for step with the wheels. He did not look back. His fingers only pressed into each other harder.
- Through Babyi Torzhok, - he added, low. - We'll stop by Svyatoslav
The wagon went heavy, settling lower with each jolt. And Oleg felt: this road would not let him turn around.