After the treasury, Alexander did not turn toward the refectory.
Each step sank into the earth, like into the palms of a dead man - not holding, but pulling downward.
Stanislav gave a short nod - and left. Without looking back. Like a soldier departing the field where the battle was not yet ended.
The courtyard groaned under the water. Puddles stretched behind him like shadows.
The meal waited - sparse, as it should be. Bread, radish, plain broth, kvass in a clay cup.
He ate slowly.
Not to be sated. To remind the body: live.
Each sip was not for taste - for duty.
Like a soldier drinking water before the last march.
He did not feel the food.
But the will swallowed for him.
Thoughts walked beside him. Black dogs on a short leash.
The treasury. The cracks. The treasurer. Lies. The land. The void.
Everything stands - until it tears apart.
Each piece in his throat was not bread. A stone.
He rose.
The silence hung heavy, like a bowstring before the shot.
The book lay heavy in his hand. The parchment smelled of ashes.
He ran his fingers along the edge of the page.
Did not read. Tracked.
The lines ran like paths through a dead forest.
Each - could lead to ruin.
- Where the iron. Where the salt. Where the bread. Where the void
His gaze struck the viscous gold of the setting sun.
The silence stood heavy.
Not with complaint. With bone-deep knowing.
Between the hands and the land of the country - a void.
And the void birthed the dead: villages without smoke, rivers without oars.
The gleam of figures in the treasury was beautiful.
Like ice over a bog.
Until it broke through.
The treasury - not gold.
The treasury - a path over rotted planks above a black abyss.
Numbers - deceit.
The land - truth.
It must be sought not by months. By days.
Without sleep. Without mercy.
He ran his finger down the list.
The first was the Cathedral of Sophia.
There - scrolls. There - memory.
There - bones of the earth, mixed with ash.
If not - then to those who bear the land in cracked hands.
He wrote in the parchment:
- Iron - blood. Salt - bread. Silver - ransom. Pastures - fear
Each line carved into the skin like a notch on a spear shaft.
He set aside the pen.
Wiped the pain from his face with his palm.
Blood pounded in his temples, heavy as a sledgehammer.
The chair beneath him creaked, as if unwilling to let him go.
Alexander rose.
His hand still gripped the parchment - as though afraid to release it into the world.
He set it down on the table, as one lays down a sword before battle.
Stepped to the window.
The night clutched the city like a blind beast.
And froze.
Alexander stood, looking down.
The city lay.
A neck beneath the blade.
He gazed.
For a moment, his heart clenched.
As though he himself must now fall.
He exhaled heavily.
Not for himself. For Rus'.
And the night answered him:
dully, iron-heavy, deep.
He knew:
Where there is salt - there is strength.
Where there is iron - there is blood.
And the earth will not accept everyone.
In the morning, after finishing his meager meal, Alexander did not waste time. Accompanied by his gridni, he headed to the library of the Cathedral of Sophia.
The vaults met them with a muffled scent: resin and dampness. Wax and decay crept through the air in a thin film.
The air did not hang - it suffocated. Heavy, like in a crypt where bones whisper.
Somewhere pages rustled. Floors creaked - not inviting, but warning.
Like the breath of centuries, forgotten even by themselves.
One of the monks, seeing the prince, bowed low.
- Prince. Do you wish to see the chief keeper?
- Lead, - Alexander threw curtly.
The chief keeper sat at a heavy table. Nearby - heaps of scrolls, smelling of damp leather.Hearing footsteps, he rose. Bowed.
- How may I be of service, Prince? - the voice was even, but something flickered in his eyes, something like anxiety.
- Lands, - said Alexander. - Where there is salt. Where there is iron. Where there are fields. Where there are wastelands
The keeper led him to the table. Fell silent. As if coughing out dust.
- Here - mostly theological books. Chronicles. About the land - fragments. Lists, censuses... but all in scattered scraps
Alexander clenched his fingers.
- Is there a full register?
- No, Prince, - he said quietly, with a heavy sigh. - The full records were kept by the grand princes. In the treasury. Under seals
He paused. Then added, almost apologetically:
- We preserve what has survived
Alexander nodded. Silent. An old pain ached in his side. He tightened his fingers under his ribs, unseen.
- Who knows better than the scrolls?
The keeper thought. Then answered, almost in a whisper:
- Voivodes. Starostas. Miners. Treasurers. Monks
- Monks? - Alexander's eyes narrowed like a knife.
- Yes, Prince. Those who live near the fields and mines. They write... their own
Alexander was silent. The ice of thought cracked inside. Starostas were heavy. Monks - patient ears.
- Who is reliable?
The keeper thought. A gust of wind disturbed the scrolls.
- Boris. Senior monk of the Monastery of St. Irene. Appointed by Yaroslav himself
Alexander nodded. Harshly. As if securing a shield behind his back.
- Summon him
The keeper bowed. Quickly sent a novice.
While he bore the message, the keeper led Alexander - not through the corridors, but downward, into a deep crack of stone where the air was older than memory.
Under half-rotted beams stood shelves packed to the ceiling with scrolls.
The air pressed on the shoulders like old, sour wine. The smell of wax and mold struck the throat.
The creak of boards did not call. It warned. Like rotten wood before it falls upon your back.
But somewhere above, under the dome, a dim lamp burned.
Memory lived. Faintly. But it lived.
Alexander walked slowly.
The pain in his side responded with each step, like a dull blow of a hammer into wood.
When his father fell, he grabbed not a sword. Not advisers.
Maps. Land.
As the last truth that does not lie.
Now - it was his turn.
He took the first scroll. Light, like an empty shell.
Unrolled it. Dust crumbled.
Took the second. The third.
His fingers slid over dead lines.
On the fifth scroll, his hand twitched on its own.
Alexander swept the pile onto the table and exhaled heavily.
And in that exhale - he almost retreated.
Almost.
The word broke from his lips, as a chip splits from bone:
- Dust
Only one scroll fell aside. Did not collapse.
Withered. Stubborn. Like a bone in an old hand.
Alexander lifted it.
Beneath a layer of grime trembled crooked lines:
"About the salt mines in Putivl. About the iron under Zvenigorod..."
He stabbed his finger into them - firmly, as one drives a knife into a map before a campaign.
Among the dust - there was a root.
And a shard sometimes weighs more than an entire vault.
Meanwhile, the senior monk Boris sat at the heavy table in the Monastery of Saint Irene, leaning over scrolls.
Beyond the partition - a hollow whisper.
Three dozen orphans recited psalms under the stern gaze of a junior brother.
The monastery could take in no more. And even so - it breathed with cracks.
Other cloisters held ten.
Boris knew.
But he himself had been a foundling, raised by strangers' hands.
And he did not know how to look away.
He taught the children not prayer - but holding.
Root.
Survival.
The monastery, entrusted to him by Yaroslav the Wise, was not a duty.
It was a vow: no abandoned soul would be lost to oblivion.
But care turned into burden.
Silver melted like ice in a cracked palm.
The offerings barely sufficed for bread and rags.
His thoughts were broken by the steward Simeon.
He entered silently. But the worry was already pounding in his step.
- Elder brother, news, - he whispered, as before a storm. - At dawn they brought a sack of silver - coins, cut money. Crates of grain. A barrel of mead. From a noblewoman
Boris raised his eyes.
His face was stone. Deep within - a vein of relief cracked.
- For how long?
Simeon hesitated. Lowered his gaze.
- Three months. No more. One-time.
Boris turned away.
Beyond the murky glass, the branches of the old apple tree bent in the black wind, as if trying to tear free toward the light.
- What else?
- The cells are rotting from damp. The walls breathe cold. Food - crumbs. No books. Clothes tear on the bones. The children pray
But without warmth, prayer breaks like ice beneath a heavy boot.
Boris listened silently.
Inside - iron creaked.
- As long as I can hold - I will hold, - he said at last.
Behind him - not a name. The shadow of Yaroslav.
And within it - knots. Nets. Vows. Blood.
Once he had seen too much.
Had seen who bowed - to kill. Who smiled - to betray.
Now - he was silent.
The monastery was a shield.
And its cracks grew.
Boris clenched the cross so tightly that his bones whitened.
- Lord... - he exhaled.
Not a prayer - the grinding of bone against bone.
The silence was torn by running footsteps.
Sava burst into the cell.
- Elder brother! Prince Alexander awaits you in the library of Sophia!
Boris rose - not quickly, but through a short protest of the body.
As if pain itself tried to hold him back - but could not.
- What does he seek? - the voice was hollow.
- Knowledge of lands, fields, mines
Boris nodded. His face did not flinch. Only something heavy fell inside him.
He turned to Simeon:
- Bring the scrolls. Those entrusted by Prince Yaroslav
Simeon paled. His breath faltered.
- Elder brother... those...
- I know, - Boris cut him off. - But if he is Yaroslav's son, he has the right to know. And the right to judge
While Simeon searched, Sava said quietly:
- They say the prince listens. He does not tear at the first word
Boris nodded slowly:
- We shall see
The walls held him.
The children held him.
The scrolls held him.
In his chest something tore, as if part of his heart wanted to stay here, to burrow into the stone, into the silence.
But he stood.
And stepped forward.
Simeon returned, carrying the scrolls, cracked by time like old wounds.
Boris took them himself. Checked each seal.
Placed them into a leather satchel. Tightened the straps until the leather creaked.
He threw on his cassock.
The wind met them at the doors - sharp, whipping like a lash.
Sava walked behind him.
Not as a companion. As a shield.
On the path to Sophia, Boris knew: he was not walking to a meeting.
He was walking to a trial.
And if the judge was just - Rus would yet hold.
If not - the monastery and memory would fall to dust.
While Boris and Savva hurried toward the library, Alexander, together with the senior keeper, was tearing into the chronicles.
The keeper, tired of dragging scrolls, watched him secretly: the prince was not searching - he was ripping fragments of the past out of decay.
Three-field rotation broke through in places. But without roots.
The land clung to the old ways like a dying man to a bone.
Two-field farming was choking the fields.
Iron ploughs - a handful. Iron harrows - even fewer.
The fields were withering. The people - with them.
Alexander saw: the land groaned. But it did not break.
The pain came not from the fields.
From the people.
Iron. Salt. Silver.
All sealed under the boyars' crests.
Strength was taken not by the sword.
Strength was taken when a mine was clenched in a hand.
He thought:
- Dare? To declare the mines princely?
And understood: too soon. Step - and a river of blood would drown all.
First - a foothold.
His own lands. His own people.
Then - the rest.
The princely pouch was emptying, like a wolf starving in the frost.
Alexander clenched his fist.
So much to lift...
So much to hold.
He opened a book.
The lines crept before his eyes - dry, brittle, like the veins of an old bone.
But within them was what could save the land.
Not the text.
The root.
In his mind grew the first shadow of the future:
An alliance where each held the other not by oath - but by bread and blood.
Where the defiant fell first.
Where the land would be judge to all.
He had not yet forged this thought fully - when the keeper's voice sliced through the silence:
- Prince... what book is that you have?
Alexander answered without lifting his gaze from the pages:
- From distant lands. A merchant brought it. Knowledge of land. Of rule
The keeper nodded, but his gaze remained sharp.
- A rare book. And, it seems, priceless
Alexander turned several pages. Slowly, as if weighing each word.
- Here they teach not only to till. Here they teach to hold the land. Bread, salt, iron, will.
The keeper listened, as if afraid to miss something vital. But in his eyes slid a flicker of incomprehension.
Alexander saw it.
Turned a few more pages. Stopped. Pointed:
- To divide the land differently. So that one part rests while the other feeds. Not to wring everything out at once
The keeper leaned closer. His brow furrowed.
He hesitated.
- I have heard, - he said slowly. - They say somewhere they plough every other year. The people grumble. They fear. Cling to the old with a death grip
Alexander nodded:
- Where my will goes - change will take root
The keeper sighed. As if a stone pressed on his chest.
He remained silent. But his eyes did not leave the book.
Alexander caught it.
- Want to look? - he asked shortly.
The keeper did not pretend.
He stepped closer. Took the book carefully, like a foreign talisman.
His fingers roughly brushed over the leather binding.
He turned the pages. Slowly. As if feeling out foreign land.
The writing was alien to him: neither Latin, nor Greek, nor Arabic.
He returned the book with a light bow:
- I do not understand the words. But I see: the book is heavy. Like a stone at a crossroads. Cannot be bypassed
Alexander nodded briefly:
- No need for words. We will speak by deeds
The keeper hesitated. In his eyes flashed something - not just interest, but worry.
- Prince... - the keeper faltered. - What tongue is this? And... how do you know it?
Alexander raised his gaze. The corners of his lips moved slightly - not in a smile, in a warning.
- A tongue from a distant land. Where power holds firmer than steel. - He paused. - How I know it... - his voice became lower, harsher, - you had better not know
The keeper, feeling the chill between the words, quickly bowed. He knew: in the affairs of great princes there are secrets even monastery walls do not penetrate.
To avoid stirring the waters further, he moved on:
- Prince, you asked about educated monks and scribes, - the keeper said. - There are a few worthy of trust. They have served the land their whole lives. They could serve your cause
Alexander nodded shortly:
- Bring them to me. I will find use for them. - Inside, he had already decided: he would test each. If he found grain - he would win them over
The keeper hesitated slightly - and added more quietly:
- Among them there is one in particular. Boris. The senior monk. You already ordered him summoned. But you should know: he is not just a scribe
Alexander raised his gaze.
- He works with the land, Prince. Differently. Teaches it to breathe. Tries to strengthen the fields with ash, to preserve fertility with compost. Without order. Without gain
Alexander frowned.
The keeper lowered his voice:
- And more. He holds orphans. Two dozen. Not for show. Not for fame. He holds them when others turn away
Alexander frowned deeper.
His hands clenched on the scrolls.
- Is that a feat? Should not every monk act so?
The keeper answered almost in a whisper:
- Should, Prince. But today, what once was duty has become a feat
Alexander froze.
The words fell into him heavily.
Honor - like air. It is not boasted. It is breathed.
Here - it was rare.
A feat.
He nodded slowly.
Ahead awaited a man who knew not only lands.
He knew how to hold life where already there was the smell of dust.
And Alexander felt:
Rus stands not on land.
On people.
That rare breed of people who do not seek glory.
Those who stand when all else falls.
Those who did not let go.