The bell stretched out through the night - deep, heavy. The sound settled into the vaults: the day was done.
The doors swung open, letting in cool air. The elders went out first, the younger ones after. Crumbs and empty cups were left in the hall. Only after the prince came the pages to tidy up.
Alexander withdrew to his chambers.
It was darker there than in the refectory: a single lamp cast a warm patch on the carved headboard. The bed - broad, on boards; on top - a feather mattress in a linen cover, a fur coverlet, a pair of pillows. Above it - a low canopy on a pole.
He sat, unbuckled his baldric - the belt with his weapons. At that moment the herbalist and the physician entered: they examined him, changed his bandages; a brief nod - "it's drawing well." They did not linger: an evening check.
After the examination he did not dress again: he stayed in just his shirt, under the fur coverlet, as they usually slept in the cold tower. He tucked a rolled fur under his ribs - the side eased, breathing grew lighter. Only then did he lie on his side. The bed creaked softly.
The wounds had almost knit, but the body still answered back. Fire bit in the ribs on the inhale, the shoulder pulled, the thigh held a tight stiffness, the left arm tired quickly. He felt it in every movement - and hid it. At table, by day, before others - his face stayed even.
In the warband he had long been used to enduring - hunger, cold, pain. In war, to endure meant to live. Now - in rule: breathe shorter, hide the pain, give nothing away.
He closed his eyes. He needed knowledge.
In the prince's memory lay war: campaigns, hosts, the hunt and the training ground. But power stands not by the sword alone. He had to fill the gaps: fur and wax, bread lands, roads to the market, the linkage of Kiev with Novgorod - thin threads of governance.
Learn and secure it - you'll have something to build from; let it drift - and the boyars will slam the doors, and you'll have to break them with force.
He needed to act quickly. He was alone - the last of a great line. His brothers had held the strongest cities of Rus': Kiev, Chernigov, Smolensk, Pereyaslavl. Now all of them - in the earth.
Kin remained: his cousin Vseslav Bryachislavich in Polotsk, his nephew Rostislav Vladimirovich in the Rostov-Suzdal land, and others. But these were side branches. The blow had fallen on the trunk: on him and his brothers.
Alexander knew: the boyars saw it too. The grand princes had fallen - one remained. So soon they would reach for the side branches to seek support there; or begin to grow their own weight and conspire; or win his trust and try to rule through him - like dark hands behind a curtain. In any case, the pressure would be on him.
If he managed first - to gather the information and tie the knots himself, around Kiev and upon the boyars themselves - their alliances would become not strength but a trap. Bound - means governable.
Which meant tomorrow - the library. There - books, records, lists: ranks of pogosts with smoke over the fields, furs dragged to market, candle wax dripping in the churches, the hum of merchants in Kiev and Novgorod, the names of stewards and townsmen.
Of grain he knew - most remained with the prince. But princely lands alone were not enough. He needed to know who else held large shares of the fields, and with whose help he could enlist support to launch a reform: crop rotation instead of the two - field system. Without the boyars - it would not go.
He lay quieter, but sleep did not come. Thoughts formed ranks: gather - reckon - secure.
The lamp cracked, beyond the wall the last bell struck.
The night passed not for sleep but for calculation. He knew clearly: his life depended on this.
They would not leave the prince be. Even if he fled, they would find him and still seat him on the throne - by force, as a pawn is set on a square. But he was no pawn.
He would become the hand that sets others in their places.
Morning came with a sharp cold. He rose early, when the city still breathed with mist and the ring of the first steps in the yard. He washed quickly, snatched bread and fish - and was already on his way.
Saint Sophia met him with silence.
Inside there was not yet a service - only lamps burned in the front rows, lighting the gold of the mosaics. Morning light entered from above, through narrow windows, and fell in slanting rays onto the stone floor. Dust hung in those rays - motionless, like frozen smoke.
The grydni halted at the narthex. Their eyes, used to noise and cries, lingered on the quiet as well. It smelled of wax, cold stone, and the remnant of incense. Somewhere to the side, in a side altar, a deacon moved: preparing vessels, straightening candles. The rustle of cloth sounded louder than a voice.
Alexander went forward. The pillars rose into height, and each of his movements answered in the stone - a step with a boom, breath with an echo. The vaults held the sound, and the echo stretched longer than needed. In the apse the blue Orans was silent, the gold ground glinting dully in the half - light.
The floor was laid with broad slabs; beneath the vaults hung a ring of lamps, and the wicks crackled faintly.
People were rare: servers removing soot from the lamps; a woman with a pitcher setting water by the porch; a gray - haired scribe with a tablet under his arm. They bowed but turned their eyes aside, not meeting his gaze.
A narrow passage led to the stair tower; up the winding steps - to the choir. From there a short passage ran to the scriptorium at Sophia. The smell was stronger there: parchment, glue and tanned leather mixed with wax. The grydni's footsteps faded; they exchanged glances and halted, letting the prince go first.
Alexander entered the library.
A low vault, a narrow arrow - slit window; along the walls - rows of cupboards with doors and chests, some with leather ties and lead seals on cords. On the table - bundles of wax tablets, goose quills, a penknife.
The air was cold and dry - here they did not bury, they stored. Not the shadows of ages, but the smell of wax and parchment, tart glue, tanned leather, without damp admixtures.
Somewhere a page rustled, a latch clicked on a door, a drawer of tablets creaked - as if to say: everything under count, everything in place. By the door hung a tablet - inventory: "issued / returned," nearby - a bundle of cords with seals and a key on a strap. On the spines - cinnabar marks, in the margins - brief "by whose hand."
Not a "temple of decisions" - a storeroom of memory.
Everything here looked workaday, even spare. But in that dryness lay the essence: bundles of parchment quires worn where they were taken most often; up on the cupboards - tags reading "Lands," "People," "Trade," "Court," "War," "Faith" - not as a slogan, but as warehouse markings. Each word fixed, the quires with running numbers, each figure in its place.
He ran his fingers along the rim of a cupboard - under the pads the knot of a cord and the chill of a seal stood out.
He understood: it was not the hall that had changed, but his gaze; now he sought not "meaning," but the needed shelf.
The lamp burned dimly - the light was enough to read the labels; the rest remained in shadow.
In the depths someone, without lifting his head, turned leaves: made notes, dried a line with his breath. The library worked - like a storehouse where they count not swords but lines.
One of the monks, seeing the prince, rose from the bench and bowed low; damp and smoke clung to his habit.
- Prince. Would you see the senior keeper?
- Lead on, - Alexander said briefly.
The monk bowed again and only then, before leaving, quickly pinched the lamp's wick, took off the soot so it wouldn't smoke, and set the light on a stone ledge.
He moved ahead, leading the prince between the rows. The passages were narrow: cupboards with doors, chests on shelves, bundles of tablets on benches. They passed scribes: one carefully dusted a fresh line with sand, another unwound a cord on a scroll, a third murmured words aloud, checking what he had written.
The air was heavy, smelling of ink and warm wax; here and there a wisp of smoke from the lamps hung.
Farther on the corridor widened, and in the depth, by an arrow - slit window, stood a large oak table. Behind it sat the senior keeper - a monk with a spare face and strict eyes. His office was one of counting: he kept the ledger of issue and return, checked seals, gathered scrolls into a register.
A penknife lay before him, and beside it - a narrow wooden bar scored with notches, each notch a sign of account. Hearing footsteps, the keeper raised his head: first he gave a short nod to the monk, and seeing the prince behind his shoulder - he rose quickly, stepped aside from the table, and bowed low.
- How may I be of service, prince?
His face remained still, but in his gaze slid a restrained surprise, as if he were checking whether a young prince truly stood before him.
Alexander did not answer at once. He nodded silently, stepped past, and took his place at the table.
He did not snatch the keeper's things, but neatly moved them to the edge - as another man's tools, taken only for a time. Then he raised his eyes and met the keeper's gaze.
The latter bowed lower: he understood that the prince had come not in passing, but in earnest.
- I need records. Everything that concerns land and the flow of goods. Where the large villages and volosts are - districts with tribute and ploughlands, what the boyars or monasteries hold. How much land is mine, how much is the boyars'. Where the iron and salt pits are, where the apiaries and wax works are, where the most fur is gathered
The prince spoke quickly, as if urging himself on:
- Which roads lead to Kiev, which to Novgorod, where the myt stands and the ferries are. Charters of gift - even copies. The names of those who hold these places. And most of all - when the boat convoys gather on the Dnieper, who leads them and where they go
The senior keeper listened to the end - and froze for a moment. It seemed he was gathering his thoughts, struck by the rush of requests. Then he drew a quiet breath, stepped aside to a shelf, and spoke:
- Prince... for the most part we have theological books, - his voice was even, but without certainty. He lifted down a scroll, set it on the table. - The "Pravda," the Kormchaia, commentaries. Lists of feasts, memorial books
He pulled out a drawer, took several tablets with extracts.
- Charters of gift - some have survived in excerpts, but not all. Who holds the volosts - is mentioned in statutes, but not as a complete list. We have no stewards' accounts. Myt and ferries - are not with us. A calendar of caravans... that, too, we do not have
He gathered it all into a little heap, pushed it closer, and lowered his head a little.
- We keep what has reached us, - he said quietly. - But here is more for memory and learning. Not for the running of affairs
Alexander frowned and let his gaze travel over the whole library: over cupboard doors, over seals on cords, over tags on spines - and back to the keeper.
- My father gathered a library famed across all Rus'. Did he not order the lands to be drawn into a book?
The keeper lifted his brows slightly - not in surprise, but as if clarifying a thought:
- The grand prince Yaroslav ordered that books be gathered. Theological, learned, Greek. The word - yes. Land - by statutes. A gift - in a charter. Where there is an endowment to a monastery - there is a record. Where there is judgment - the Pravda. Where there is measure - the church statute. But to know who holds and how much - you must go to the court, to the volosts, to the stewards
Alexander drew breath. In the eleventh century, things were not as he wished: statutes, charters, records - scattered. No single system. Here - scraps.
- Then who has it?
The senior keeper pondered; a pause hung, and in that instant a cupboard door creaked softly somewhere in the depths. He raised his eyes and said:
- Those can know who live at the very business. Land - the volost elders and headmen. Iron and salt - the miners. Fur and wax - hunters and beekeepers. On roads and myt - the stewards, the merchants' elders. And most of all - the monasteries: they write their own - who gave what, who trades in what, where the ploughlands and works are
Alexander raised his gaze.
- Monks?
- Yes, prince, - the keeper nodded. - People stream to the church. There are both rumors and records there. Memory is kept there longest
Alexander narrowed his eyes slightly; the corner of his mouth barely moved. He had found the first thread. The church is not only prayer. It is a knot of information.
- Which of them might know the most? - he asked quietly. - Let's start with Kiev. With the lands. Down the Dnieper
The senior keeper hesitated. But Alexander's look was hard, direct - there was no room to evade. The keeper lowered his voice:
- There is one. Boris. A senior brother, the key - keeper and almoner at the Church of St. Elijah on the Podil. He keeps the sacristy and the lists of gifts, runs the shelter for orphans and travelers. Much is written by his hand: who gave what, which volosts are in whose endowment, which ferries draw the myt, when the merchants' caravans set out down the Dnieper
Alexander leaned forward:
- So he gathers what is not in these scrolls?
- Yes, prince, - the keeper nodded. - He may have the information you seek. Not all - but the threads by which it can be gathered
Alexander gave a short nod.
- Then summon Boris here
The keeper bowed. He turned to the monk by the passage and quietly ordered:
- Send a novice. Let him bring Brother Boris
The monk bowed and hastened out.
Meanwhile Alexander slowly ran a finger along the edge of the table, then began to tap softly with his knuckle, as if measuring time. Suddenly he rose sharply and stepped toward the cupboards.
- While he is on his way, show me what you have here
The keeper nodded and led him deeper.
Behind a narrow corridor a stair ran down - not a dungeon, but a cold lower storage where they kept scrolls rarely brought into the light.
The steps were stone, damp could be felt in the walls beneath the fingers. Here they kept "the old" - what was no longer read every day, but still preserved: copies of statutes, ancient lists, fragments of chronicles.
The air was heavy, tainted with mildew and tanned leather. The keeper lifted the lamp, and its light snatched from the darkness a row of scrolls with faded labels; beyond, all was swallowed again by shadow.
Alexander walked slowly. Each step answered in his side dully, like a fist striking wood. He remembered: his father had raised Saint Sophia, gathered a library, ordered that laws be written. He had known: power rests not only on the sword, but on the word and the number. Now - it was his turn.
The keeper drew a wooden hook, caught the upper shelf and carefully slid a scroll down. Dust sprinkled onto his shoulder. He laid the scroll on the table before the prince. Alexander unrolled it - fine powder poured from the folds, the remnants of old glue. A second. A third. His fingers slid over dead lines.
On the fifth the hand stopped of its own accord. He brushed the dust away with his palm, blew - the bitterness lay on his tongue.
- Dust
One scroll rolled aside. It hadn't broken. Withered, stiff, like an old bone. Alexander picked it up. Beneath the grime crooked lines showed through:
"On salt pits in Putivl. On iron near Zvenigorod..."
He rapped the edge of the scroll on the table, squared it, opened it and pressed his finger to a line.
- Here, - he said firmly, as if setting a knife to a map.
Among dozens of dead leaves there was at last something that had weight - a point from which to begin the reckoning.
And into that same silence a bell cut. Deep, heavy, it forced its way through the stone of the library. Matins was calling to Sophia.
Down on the Podil, in the cramped church of St. Elijah, the bell had already gathered the people.
Inside it was half - dark: lamps burned and a few wax candles before the icons. A carved screen with a veil divided off the altar. From both sides the choirs sang psalms in an even ancient chant; the reader would stretch the words in cantillation, then shift to level reading - low, like footsteps on stone.
The deacon brought out the censer - the incense smoke hung beneath the vault, the chains rang, the people crossed themselves and bowed softly.
Boris stood to the side, by the sacristy - a little room for vestments and vessels. Keys jingled at his belt; in his sleeve lay a wax tablet and a bone stylus. He kept order: trimmed wicks, straightened candle - stands, with a nod reminded the thurifer to feed the coals.
By the door, close to the narthex, the orphans crowded.
The older nudged the younger, and the whisper died when the reader took it higher. A few wayfarers stood by the wall with their bundles, and exchanged glances when the priest named the benefactors. Boris nodded to the doorkeeper: after the dismissal, distribute bread, kvass, and stew.
When the prayer ended and the people drifted toward the doors, Boris lingered by the sacristy: he counted the candle stubs, tightened the ties on the coverings, and with the sharp bone stylus made a note on the tablet: "wax - three; bread - two ladles; wayfarers - seven."
Only then did he return to the house at the Church of St. Elijah - the shelter for orphans and a night's rest for travelers - where the children and a chest of scrolls were already waiting for him.
The house, raised on the prince's charity, was for Boris not a service but a vow: not one cast - off would go into oblivion. But care turned heavy: silver melted like ice in a cracked palm, and the offerings barely sufficed for bread and cloth.
He sat at his table, bent over the scrolls. Beyond the screen ran a hollow whisper: three dozen orphans droned psalms under the stern eye of the younger brother. The house could take no more, and so it breathed with cracks.
Boris counted and planned expenses months ahead. Each soul taken in lay on him with weight. Under Yaroslav the aid had flowed generously, but with his death the deliveries ceased. The new prince of Kiev, Iziaslav, gave less and not for long - soon he fell himself.
Now the last son had cares enough of his own, and Boris understood clearly: in the coming years no one would look back to the orphans and the church. For now they held to what they had laid by - bread, candle - wax, a little grain and salt. At ordinary expenditure it would last half a year; at strict measure - a year.
But that is only in the reckoning. In reality supplies do not sit as dead weight - they flow. Each month more goes out than comes in. Today a merchant gives, tomorrow a boyar's clan brings something, and then - silence. Let the gifts be late, and from a year a month remains.
A gray light crept through the little window - the mica pane trembled dully in the wind. The lamp over the table cracked, the wick spat a spark. Boris lifted his head - and at that moment the door creaked softly.
The epitrope Simeon, the church steward, came in - soundless, and haste spoke in his step.
- Elder, news, - he said in a whisper, as if fearing other ears. - At dawn they brought a gift: a pouch of silver, several sacks of grain, and a small cask of mead. From a boyarynia's clan... It seems they want not only prayers but memory in the books
Boris raised his eyes. His face stayed stone, but for a moment his gaze softened.
- How many sacks?
- Five of grain. One of groats. The mead in the cask is good. The silver - a small pouch, not great, but not empty. I counted - it comes to about half a grivna
Simeon hesitated, lowered his eyes.
- It's three months if we stretch it carefully. No more
Boris turned away. Beyond the mica window the old branches of the apple tree bent in the black wind, as if trying to break toward the light. He drew a quiet breath - not of relief, but of weight: the gift was no salvation, only a stay of the inevitable.
- Three months is not little. But not much either. Did you write the name?
- Yes. The clan of the boyarynia Irina, - Simeon nodded. - They ask commemoration - for her husband and parents. She wants the family name to stand in the books closer to the altar; that the service be not once, but for a year. She ordered a lamp lit before the icon of St. Elijah, and to be shielded by the orphans: let it be said her bread feeds the children - then the family's memory will not fade
He paused, lowering his voice a little:
- There is more than prayer sought here, brother. The Podil is crowded: whoever comes into the church will hear the name. For the boyarynia that is glory no less than salvation
- Lord... - Boris squeezed the little cross until the bones whitened. It was not a prayer but a heavy sigh, like when you accept what cannot be avoided.
He turned to Simeon:
- We will do as they ask. One does not refuse gifts. They have silver and grain; we have books and prayers. Each pays with what he has. Write it in the memorial book, by the altar - for a year. We'll set the lamp today
He fell silent. Beyond the screen the children's psalm stretched on. Simeon did not leave at once - he stood firm, a man at his post, yet held back his words, as if deciding what could be said and what had better be left unsaid. Seeing it, Boris sighed:
- What else?
- The spring cart from the princely granaries was delayed, - Simeon said quietly but evenly. - The charter with the steward is still in the name of the late prince. A new one has not been issued. By Pascha we may be left without fresh supplies
He spoke without gestures. Only his palm clenched at his belt, as if keeping tally.
- The salt - merchant demands ready silver. Before it went "on the court's account," now - no. We had to cut the measure in the pot
His voice grew lower, as if each word went to the ledger.
- Now each boyar pulls the blanket to himself...
Simeon had not finished when the monk Sava burst into the cell.
- Elder! Prince Alexander awaits you in the library of Sophia!
Boris rose at once, without needless questions.
- Why?
- He needs information on lands, ploughlands, mines, and roads, - Sava answered quickly, out of breath. He had run from Sophia herself down to the Podil
Simeon scowled. Few knew what their church truly did, and still less that they kept records on lands, ploughlands, and mines: the boyars would have taken it long ago. He stepped toward Sava and looked straight at him:
- How did he find out?
Sava met the look steadily. Though a monk, he held himself like a seasoned warrior; in his eyes - no fear, only resolve.
- Elder Brother Ioann told him and advised him to come to us
- Is he mad? If the boyars learn of this, they'll tear us apart for these records, - Simeon almost broke, but quickly dropped to a whisper.
Boris was silent, calculating: there were more reasons to risk than to wait.
- Bring the scrolls. The ones kept by the prince's word
Simeon turned and went pale, his breath catching.
- Elder... this...
- I know, - Boris cut him off. - But if he is Yaroslav's son, he has the right to know. And the right to judge. We will ask for his protection in return for remembrance. There's no other way. Bring them
Simeon sighed and, bowing, went out.
A vow to keep is not broken if it is passed to the heir - so Boris persuaded himself - and he thought of the children whom he could shelter beneath the prince's hand.
Soon Simeon returned, carrying scrolls - dry, cracked, like old wounds.
Boris took them himself, checked the seals, slipped them into a leather bag, pulled the straps so tight the leather creaked. He threw on his cassock. The wind met them beyond the doors - sharp, lash - like, like the strike of a whip.
On the way to Sophia Boris knew: he was not simply going to a meeting.
He was going to judgment.
If the judgment was just, both the house at St. Elijah's and memory would stand; if not, dust would lie upon both.