While below, in the princely courtyard, Stanislav was gathering men and sorting the morning orders, two figures entered the prince's chambers.
Alexander raised his eyes.
They wore neither servants' clothes nor boyar dress. Plain dark kaftans cinched with belts, worn leather satchels on their shoulders. They carried the smell of herbs, resin, and something bitter, medicinal the scent arrived before their steps.
They stopped at the threshold and bowed shallow and precise. Straightened at once.
"Prince," said the elder. "Senior Healer, Miroslav."
The second inclined his head after him.
"Senior Herbalist, Sviatomir."
Alexander studied them for a few moments, then dipped his head slightly.
"Proceed," he said calmly.
Only then did Miroslav step forward.
Sviatomir remained by the table. He slid the satchel from his shoulder, loosened the leather strap, and began laying out its contents without haste: folded cloths, a knife with a dark blade, several clay vessels sealed tight with wax.
Miroslav came to the bed. He did not touch the bandages at once. He examined first. Then nodded to Sviatomir.
Clean cloth was passed.
"May I," Miroslav said shortly.
Alexander inclined his head.
Miroslav cut the outer wrap, then the next. He worked slowly, carefully. No wasted motion. Sviatomir stood beside him, already holding a vessel of salve. He did not open it he waited.
Beneath the wrappings lay more than one wound. A hacked mark on the shoulder. A long drawn cut along the arm. A tightened line on the cheek. Miroslav's gaze passed over them without pause.
He stopped at the thigh.
A deep wound, punched through flesh, had already drawn together. The edges were dry, firm. No swelling. No heat.
Too early.
Miroslav ran his fingers along the edge. Carefully. Then pressed just enough to see whether the body would lie.
Alexander did not move. Miroslav did not withdraw his hand at once.
"Clean," he said at last.
His fingers hung in the air.
"And cold," he added, without looking.
Sviatomir stepped closer. Bent down. He breathed in not the wound, but the bandage.
"It should pull here," he said quietly. "Or burn."
He ran his thumb once along the edge, short, as if testing not the skin but himself.
Miroslav said nothing.
Sviatomir saw the other wounds from the corner of his eye. They behaved the same. He leaned closer. Then closer still. Looked from another angle, passed his fingers over the wounds again and again. Slowly, as if checking not flesh, but his own sense.
"This should be rotting," he said under his breath.
He stopped at once. The hesitation came uneven.
His fingers settled on the wound again. A little firmer. Then from another place. Then again, without hurry. He traced the edge, paused, moved his hand higher to other marks. For a moment his gaze slipped. The wounds were nearly like old scars.
"Maybe…" he began and stopped.
The word hung, unnecessary. He straightened, but did not open the vessel.
Miroslav slowly passed a hand over his beard and turned his head to him.
"Don't continue," he said quietly.
Sviatomir did not answer. He was still looking at the wound. He nodded. Then again. His lips moved and he murmured something to himself, not looking at Miroslav, nor at the prince.
Miroslav shifted his gaze to Alexander. Not to the wounds. To the face.
Alexander was silent.
He knew what those wounds had been.
He knew how much blood had gone then. He knew that with such wounds one does not lie abed - one dies. He slowly turned his eyes aside.
In the red corner, beneath a darkened lamp, hung an icon. The face was stern, nearly worn away by time. Nothing could be read from it. Alexander looked at it for a long while, not turning away.
Miroslav did not notice at once. Then he stopped. Sviatomir lifted his eyes as well. They followed the prince's gaze and understood. Both lowered their heads deeper than before.
They continued the work in silence.
Miroslav applied the salve thinly, without pressure. He did not heal. He sealed. Sviatomir passed the cloth. The bandage lay light, almost symbolic. They checked nothing further.
Miroslav withdrew his hands first.
"We have done all we can," he said calmly. Without excuse. "What follows is no longer our craft."
Sviatomir nodded. He sealed the vessel, as if setting a period.
"Now the body holds itself," he added. "We only do not interfere."
They stepped back. Before them now stood not a wounded man, but the Prince. Miroslav bowed - deeper than before.
"If there is pain, tell us."
Sviatomir hesitated, as if weighing not words, but measure.
"If there isn't…" He did not finish. "Then this is how it must be."
Alexander shifted the bandage on his thigh, checking whether it hindered him. The movement was calm, no longer cautious.
"I will rise and walk," he said, as if no other course existed.
Miroslav did not answer at once. He looked at the bandage, then at the prince's hands - already steady, gathered.
"We do not prescribe that," he said at last. Quietly. And yet he nodded not in agreement, but in acceptance.
"Guard the stitches," he added after a pause. "The rest… is no longer ours."
They gathered their tools quickly, neatly. Without fuss. At the door Miroslav turned back. Bowed once more. No longer as a healer.
They left.
The door closed softly. Their steps dissolved quickly beyond it. The chambers stood empty. Silence did not come.
Emptiness remained.
Alexander sat a while longer without moving. He stayed still and waited. The body answered evenly, without gaps. The pain was bearable.
He shifted the blanket aside, found the leather boots by the bed with his feet, and slowly lowered his weight to the floor. The boards took the step at once hard, without give. It sobered him better than any pain.
He braced a hand on the edge of the bed and rose.
The body jerked sharply. His vision dimmed for a moment. Alexander froze, not taking a step until it passed. He breathed evenly, shallow, letting the pain move through him.
When it eased, he straightened.
Standing felt unfamiliar. The body searched for balance and did not find it at once. Weight settled differently than he expected. The thigh pulled, but held. The arm obeyed. His back did not break.
He took a step.
Then another.
On the second step the thigh answered with a sharp stab. Alexander swayed and instinctively dropped his hand, planting his palm on the floor.
The boards were rough, warm from the stoves, with sand and dust ground into the seams. His palm slipped, caught. The wound on his arm flared with a short, vicious pain.
He stayed like that for a moment, catching his breath, until the body gathered itself again.
A brief, dry anger rose inside him. Not at the pain at the fact that he was moving like a wounded old man, not like a prince.
He exhaled, leaned, and slowly straightened, waiting out the pain.
Then he turned to the window.
He approached carefully, set his hands on the sill, and leaned forward. The wood creaked softly under his palms. The window faced southwest toward where, beyond the citadel walls, the city began.
From the height of the terem not all of Kyiv was visible, but enough.
Below the citadel walls the market roared. People gathered in a dense mass with baskets, with sacks, or empty-handed. Trade ran from early morning and did not quiet: authority was nearby, the court was nearby, and it was always crowded here.
Lower down the slope the streets stretched. They ran together toward Podil, split toward the settlements and the gates. Along them moved not only people along them traveled rumors, agreements, fears.
From the Golden Gate the road ran straight, without bends, binding the upper city to the rest of Kyiv. Roads like that are not used without reason. Roads like that carry intent.
Above it all stood the domes of Saint Sophia and the bell tower. They were close, almost over the terem. Not decoration a bearing. Here, what was lawful was decided.
Somewhere below, gates creaked. Then wheels. Wagons were entering the princely yard earlier than usual.
Alexander exhaled slowly.
He recalled his conversation with Stanislav.
The voivode had come before dawn, before the healers. Without haste. Without sympathy. He spoke plainly: there were no other heirs left. In seven days Alexander would be seated on the Kyivan throne. Formally - there would be no one to dispute it with.
Stanislav paused, then added more quietly:
"But they will argue anyway."
Alexander had not answered then.
So they were already riding toward Kyiv. First those closest. Then those who waited. Then those who would see whom he received first.
He closed his fingers on the window sill. The wood creaked softly.
First the senior boyars. Then his kin and foreign envoys. Those with firm ground under their feet. And those with little ground, but with memory, debts, and old promises. Each with gifts. Each with a calculation. Not for an order - for a sign.
Stanislav had not tried to frighten him. He had simply warned: if weakness were shown, Rus would not rebel - it would spread apart. Not by war. Slowly. By conditions. By delays. By reminders of old debts. By promises of "later."
The voivode offered what Alexander did not have: the Kyiv druzhina and men from his own circle. The support of boyars who still held not to a name, but to the order of the house of Grand Prince Yaroslav. They did not ask for power. Not yet.
Alexander understood that this debt would be remembered. But there was no choice. Either with them or alone.
He looked down at Kyiv and did not see a city.
He saw courtyards, gates, roads along which people were already moving. And he knew: whoever entered first would grow stronger. Whoever was made to wait would remember it.
He exhaled and took his hands from the windowsill.
Decisions would have to be made soon.
Whom to receive. Whom to delay. Whom to leave unanswered.
He stood by the window a little longer, until the body adjusted. The pain remained, but no longer interfered. That meant he could move.
Staying in bed would have been reasonable. Acceptable. But only if time allowed it.
And there was no time.
Alexander stepped away from the window. The room was unchanged - the bed, the bandages, the quiet. It was safe here. And useless.
He knew too little about how one ruled properly here. War he understood. That was simple. But people, alignments, who held what and what they waited for that he did not. The prince's memory kept campaigns, strikes, formations - not the tally of houses, not treaties, not the subtleties of power.
His own knowledge was different - from another time. He understood how power is built, how systems hold, where they break and what they rest on. But without local supports, that knowledge was empty.
The logical thing would have been to ask.
But he understood: he could not ask. Not Stanislav. Not the boyars. Any question now would be heard as weakness. And weakness here would be noticed at once and pressed.
So he would have to sort it out himself.
He thought of Saint Sophia. Of the books his father had gathered. There was no other place where this world could be understood quickly.
Alexander did not reach for his clothes at once. He walked the room slowly, along the wall, letting the body grow used to the load. One circuit. Then another. The pain pulled, but without sharp collapse, and the body accepted the movement.
When his step grew steadier, he stopped.
Now.
He took the clothes and dressed slowly, in parts, testing each motion. The body was heavy, unfamiliar but it held.
Finished, he stood a little longer, evening his breath.
Then he stepped toward the door.
Opening the door, he stepped over the threshold, and the corridor answered.
To the right, iron rang softly. To the left, boots shifted dryly. Short, restrained sounds - movement without alarm.
Alexander slid his gaze to both sides.
Four men stood two steps from the door. Two on the flanks, two slightly forward - positioned to block the passage and at the same time see everything happening near the chambers. The formation was familiar down to detail. This was how those were placed who did not wait for orders and did not ask questions.
Gridni. Princely.
Not a watch. Not palace guard. Those who hold the threshold. Those who decide who may approach and who will not reach it.
For a moment surprise flickered in their eyes, then vanished. What remained was readiness.
Farther down, near the turn of the corridor, other figures were visible. Motionless, like part of the wall. Alexander noted them with the edge of his vision and did not count.
Two of the nearest gridni stepped forward.
They did not fuss or lunge. They stood the way one stands when looking not by regulation, but by purpose. Their eyes did not rise to the prince's face, but stayed lower shoulders, torso, how the body held itself.
"Good morning, Prince," the first gridnik said evenly.
The pause before the last word was short, almost imperceptible.
"You look… steadier than we expected."
The second remained silent. His hand settled on the sword hilt earlier than it should have. He watched not the prince's face, but his movement - whether the body trembled, whether the weight drifted. That rarely lies.
Alexander looked at them for a few moments, trying to recall where he had seen them.
The same bearing. The habit of holding as a pair. Slightly different breathing rhythm, but one movement. He had seen them dozens of times by the tent, by the fire, over the map. Always together. Always without excess words.
"Mstislav," he said quietly.
Then shifted his gaze.
"Mirnomir."
The names landed cleanly. Both nodded almost at the same time.
The other two stood a little aside. They did not intervene, but watched more closely than required. One of them, younger, leaned forward for a moment and stopped himself at once.
"Morning," Alexander added calmly.
He did not explain. He did not justify himself. He simply stepped forward and walked.
"Come."
Mstislav nodded at once and moved first, half a step ahead, to go as a shield. Mirnomir followed, slightly behind and to the side, covering the back.
They did not ask. Their task was not to ask.
By the wall the two gridni exchanged a glance. One of them, older, stepped forward sharper than needed and caught Mirnomir by the shoulder as he moved.
"We were ordered to guard the prince and the chambers," he said under his breath. "Let no one through."
Mirnomir did not turn at once. He threw a short glance at the prince's back, already heading for the stairs.
"Then guard them," he said evenly.
He shrugged his shoulder free of the hand and went on.
Alexander glanced over them and continued.
The gridnik clenched his teeth. Turned to the younger one and nodded quickly. While walking, he signaled back to those waiting beyond the corridor bend. They were already watching. Seeing the sign, they moved at once and took position at the doors of the princely chambers.
The post was taken.
Alexander did not see it. He was already moving on.
The narrow second-floor corridor was quiet not empty, but working. Low ceiling, dark beams. The boards underfoot answered with a familiar, subdued creak. Light fell from narrow windows, scattered, morning enough to walk without peering.
Doors ran along one side. Solid, uncarved service rooms. From one came the smell of wax and birch bark: scribes were already at work. From another damp cloth and iron, as if straps or armor had recently been sorted.
Farther on the prayer room. The lamp burned evenly, its light lying in a narrow strip along the wall. No one entered. No one left.
Alexander walked slowly. The corridor did not hinder him. Did not hold him.
The stairs began.
Narrow. Steep. Stone steps worn smooth, edges rounded. Alexander descended carefully, counting steps. Here a mistake would cost too much.
On the third step the thigh answered with a dull burn. He swayed slightly and caught the handrail at once. The wood beneath his palm was warm. The body did not accept the support immediately - it tested whether it could go on.
Behind him, Mirnomir shifted half a step, almost imperceptibly. Already ready and immediately stopped, seeing that the prince held himself.
Mstislav walked ahead without turning. He heard the steps and knew the rhythm.
Not too close. Not too far. Exactly so that the prince walked on his own. If he stumbled - they would not support him. They would catch him. They adjusted to the step without looking, feeling the movement.
Below, the air grew denser.
The sound of footsteps changed - no longer dull as above, but hollow, with echo. The space was wider, the ceilings higher. Light fell sharper from openings and open doors.
To the left stretched the long hall of the princely gridnitsa. The doors stood open. Inside, no one spoke. Several servants cleared tables: collecting cups, wiping benches, sweeping ash from the hearths. Movements quick, habitual.
Everything had already been decided here. What remained was to set the place in order.
A little farther - the armory. The door stood ajar. It smelled of metal and oil. Helmets hung on hooks, shields stood by the wall where they could be taken in a single motion.
Gridni stood at the entrance. Several men.
They noticed Mstislav first. Their gazes lingered for a moment just enough to recognize. Then they saw the prince.
No one snapped to attention. No one asked questions. One nodded briefly. The others lowered their eyes and returned to their own.
Beyond the next door began the service rooms. It was tighter there. Someone carried a bundle of birch-bark documents, pressed to the chest. Someone hurried past, nearly brushing a shoulder, and yielded the way at once without looking up.
Here they did not write - here they sorted. Compiled. Selected. What to keep. What to pass on. What would go to Sophia, to the bookmen. What to the court. What to the prince. One scribe hesitated, slid a sheet back, then shifted it aside again and only then moved on.
Alexander passed without slowing.
His gaze caught on hands in motion, on stacks of birch bark, on how one sheet went aside while another traveled farther along the table. He did not stop. He did not look back.
A few people did lift their eyes. Not at once. Someone froze mid-motion, bark still in hand. Someone dropped their gaze quicker than necessary. But gridni walked beside him, and that was enough for questions to stay unspoken.
Mstislav walked ahead, not quickening his pace. Mirnomir stayed slightly behind, shifting to shield the prince from stray looks.
Without turning, Mstislav moved a fraction aside, making space beside him.
"Where to, Prince?" he asked quietly, on the move.
"To Saint Sophia," Alexander answered just as softly.
Mstislav nodded once and stepped half a pace ahead again.
They came out into the western wing of the terem.
Here the space changed. The ceilings rose. The air grew colder. Sounds dulled, as if the walls took them in and did not return them.
At the end of the corridor began the covered passage to the Cathedral. It had been ordered built under Grand Prince Yaroslav, so that the prince could reach Sophia without entering the courtyard. Without retinue. Without the crowd's gaze. Simply to walk.
Alexander stepped into the gallery.
The passage was long and calm in proportion. Narrow enough not to gather people, wide enough to walk with confidence. Beams held the ceiling evenly, without overhang. The walls ran close, but did not press.
He walked carefully, but did not linger. The stone underfoot was cold and dense, each step answering dully. Light came through narrow window slits - cold, scattered. There was no draft, but the air lived: the wind was felt, the city's hum, the breath of space beyond the walls.
Kyiv was there - felt even from here.
The gridni kept behind him, silent. Not close, but close enough. Their presence was felt like a shield at the back not yet raised, but already in place.
As he moved on, the dome of Sophia appeared more often in the window openings. First at the edge, between stone and light. Then whole. Matte. Calm. Without shine. It did not pull the gaze upward or press. It was simply there.
The nearer the cathedral, the higher the space grew and the harder the light. The final steps rang underfoot clearly, distinctly.
Mstislav stopped at the door and, without a word, stepped aside, clearing the way.
Alexander took another half-step and only then understood that no one was walking ahead of him now.
He did not wait.
The threshold did not invite. It tested.
At once the air changed - cold, dry, with a thin scent of incense and old ash.
Alexander crossed first. Mstislav and the gridni followed, half a step behind.
The cathedral did not open itself all at once.
Space rose upward without effort, as if the walls did not hold it, but let it go. Light, even and scattered, fell from above and from the side, showing the volume without warmth.
Rows of pillars ran before him. Massive, with dark bases, they climbed upward and vanished into the half-dark of the dome. Mosaics began above eye level - made so they would not be studied up close, only from a distance. The faces were stern, stretched, without gesture.
The floor underfoot was stone, cold, worn in places. People had walked here a long time. Steps answered short, without echo - sound died inside the volume.
Alexander slowed for a moment, without stopping.
He did not lift his eyes to the icons. He watched people. Who stood where. Who moved. Who gave short orders and to whom. The cathedral lived its own work.
By the far wall two monks carried scrolls. One spoke, the other only nodded. A little farther on, an elder said something under his breath, and the movement around him changed, as if on a signal. One of the monks hesitated and only then adjusted.
Alexander marked it at once.
On the right, by the lectern, stood a deacon. Not young, with a tired face. He laid out scrolls neatly, without hurry, like a man who did this every day. At times he stopped, looked at a page, crossed himself briefly, and moved it to another stack.
Alexander let his gaze pass over him once more and went on without lingering.
Farther on two novices worked by the lamps. One trimmed a wick, the other gathered wax drips. As they passed, one novice's hand paused for a moment.
The wick went out. The novice froze and the flame flared back at once.
He adjusted it and continued, not lifting his eyes toward them.
The gridni moved quietly, without metal, at a distance. In the cathedral they did not stand out they were simply part of the order.
Alexander walked ahead steadily, not slowing.
The book repository began to the left of the altar. He knew the turn. Between the pillars, then a narrow passage where the light grew weaker and the air heavier. It was always cool there, even in summer.
He turned without looking back.
An arch led into a low room along the cathedral wall. The air here was different: not incense and stone, but dry wood and old wax.
Two gridni stood by the entrance.
Not in sight. Not like a guard. They were simply here in the way men stand in places you do not enter by mistake. Their weapons were not spears, but swords. No shine. And they did not face the door straight on - they stood slightly off, so they could see both the corridor and the entrance at once.
One recognized the prince at once. Straightened. Nodded.
"On your recovery, Prince. We prayed for you."
Alexander stepped closer and recognized him. Vseslav - the one who often went after the instructor Vyacheslav.
"Thank you, Vseslav."
He touched his shoulder briefly and, without turning, said:
"I'll be inside."
The senior gridni, Mstislav and Mirnomir, took their places. The threshold was accepted.
The door behind him closed softly.
Inside it was tighter than Alexander expected, and higher than it seemed from outside. Shelves climbed up into half-dark. Between them ran narrow aisles where you could not pass without yielding.
On the shelves lay scrolls, birch-bark letters, books in leather bindings. Translations from Greek and Latin, chronicles, treaty lists, court records. Each row had its purpose.
Lands. People. Trade. Court. War. Faith.
On some margins there were notes. Other hands, different scripts. Here a line struck out. Here something added.
Among the books stood small chests with seals, bound with cords. Marks of treaties, lists of tribute, old agreements. The lamps burned low. Light was enough to read. No more.
Looking around, Alexander went deeper between the shelves, toward the rows he knew too well.
He had not taken a full step when a voice sounded behind him.
"Prince. Glad to see you on your feet. They said you were badly wounded."
Alexander turned.
A monk stood by a shelf as if he had been there the whole time. Short, dry. A simple robe, no marks. Hands clean - not from prayer, from constant work. He held himself calmly, without fuss, like a man who knew his place and did not hurry to claim it.
"How may I serve?"
The face seemed familiar.
Alexander remembered. The keeper of the library. Ioann. The old instructor in languages and the man who knew what lay where and who had been allowed to read what.
"I need books and records," Alexander said, and shifted his gaze to the shelves.
Ioann looked at him a little longer than usual. Not with distrust - with attention. As if he were comparing the man before him to the boy they once had to seat at lessons almost by force.
"Which ones, Prince?"
"My father's and my brothers' treaties and charters. Everything that's left," Alexander answered at once and then paused, thinking what else he would need.
Ioann nodded slowly. Not surprised - more as if he noted it. His gaze held on the prince a moment longer than before.
"Then you will need Grand Prince Yaroslav's court statutes as well," Ioann said, looking at the young prince. "Dispute rulings. Land records."
Alexander turned toward him. For a moment surprise appeared in his eyes - not because it was new, but because Ioann had spoken aloud what he himself had only begun to reach for.
"Anything else?" he asked more quietly.
"Land tallies, tribute, duties. Church charters too. Sit. I will bring what we have."
"Bring it."
Ioann inclined his head and disappeared between the shelves.
Alexander went to the table by the window and sat so the light fell from the left. He did not take up the scrolls at once. He simply sat, looking at the shelves, at the birch bark laid in rows. Only after a few breaths did he realize: for the first time since morning, haste was not pushing him. Time was not pressing into his shoulders.
He was sitting in a place where one could think.
The steps did not return at once. First came a careful rustle - unhurried, without fuss.
Ioann was not alone.
Two youths came with him. They moved quietly. One carried scrolls bound with leather, the other birch-bark sheets and thin tablets. They did not look at the prince. They set the load on the table and stepped back to the wall. The table filled halfway.
Ioann stayed at the table edge.
"This is not all," he said, looking from the stack to the prince. "First - what all your brothers read. Duties, treaties, old rulings, and court decisions."
Alexander nodded and took the first scroll.
A treaty. Short, dense, written to the edge. He frowned almost at once. The lines ran without indent, the formulas stumbled, signatures sat not at the bottom but on the side, wherever they fit.
He turned past it without finishing. Took another, then the next.
The texts were different. Some written evenly, others broken. In places lines ran tight; elsewhere there were additions between them. Dates were set however they pleased: by feast days, by princes' names, by "that summer." There was no single order.
He read slowly. Not because it was hard - because he had to adjust. The formulas repeated, but each time slightly differently. The same meaning appeared in different spellings. He had to reread.
Old treaties. Land records. Duties. Decisions made not for memory, but for use.
After several scrolls it grew easier. He stopped reading everything in full. He began to hunt immediately for what he needed: who pays, to whom, for what. Where conditions shifted. Where disputes broke. But not everything aligned.
In two charters the terms were almost the same, yet the outcomes were different. Alexander frowned, leaned closer. Read again. Then again - slower. He set one charter aside, took the other, compared lines, notes, signatures.
The logic slipped away.
"Ioann," he called softly.
The keeper came quickly. Bent, looked over the shoulder. Alexander silently showed him the two charters. Ioann recognized them at once. He did not even read.
"They were written at different times," he said. "And for different men."
He added nothing else.
Alexander took both charters again. Now he looked not at the lines, but at names and signatures - at who stood behind them. He held, then nodded slowly and set one aside.
Ioann nodded once and stepped away without lingering. His presence was no longer needed.
The library grew quiet again. The prince did not call.
About half an hour passed. Ioann looked in again from a distance. Not approaching.
A pile of what had been read lay to the side.
He opened his mouth to remind him that such things are not read quickly, that here it matters more to remember than to skim - but saw how Alexander stopped on a line, reread it in silence without moving his lips, ran a fingernail along the edge of the parchment, and made a short note on birch bark.
Ioann closed his mouth. The young prince was not learning them by heart. He was looking for how they worked.
The old man only nodded and left.
Alexander kept reading and writing. He quickly understood that some of these records no longer held force. Names had changed, lands had passed to others, treaties had aged out. But that was not the point.
The point lay between the lines. How disputes were settled. Who had the right to drag time out. Who paid not to come to court. Where the princely word was decisive and where the boyars acted each on his own, sheltering behind old charters.
He did not copy names in a row. He marked order. How a talk began. Where they yielded. Where they pressed. Which formulas repeated when someone wanted to step around a ruling.
His hand jerked. Pain answered in the shoulder. His face changed, but he did not stop. He shifted the birch bark, clenched his fingers, kept writing. Pain became background. It even helped - it would not let him loosen.
Somewhere deep in the library steps rustled. Someone changed a lamp. The light over the table wavered and steadied. The morning cold eased. The day moved past its middle.
Ioann looked in again, briefly. Each time he saw the table change: some scrolls went aside, others took their place. At times he silently slid a new bundle closer. At times he waited until the prince lifted his eyes on his own.
Once he stayed longer.
"It is already noon, Prince," he said quietly. "Your meal is ready…"
He did not finish.
Alexander did not lift his head. He only gave a short shake - not out of stubbornness, simply to show: not now.
"Later," he said, and kept reading.
Ioann looked at his hand, the bandage, the way the fingers paused on a line for a moment and then moved again. He nodded.
He left softly, trying not to interfere.
By evening Alexander finished the last scroll. Set it down. Leaned back and exhaled.
He did not know everything. That was not required.
It was enough to understand where they spoke to the point - and where they stretched time. Where a word had weight and where it was used as cover.
Now he knew what he would go to the boyars with.
Between the shelves stood a shadow. Then a second. Senior keeper Ioann and Voivode Stanislav.
They did not exchange glances. Stanislav had come quietly and stopped by the wall. He remembered what the prince had been yesterday. Now he sat at the table. Reading. Writing. Not lying down. Not calling. Working.
The voivode stood only a moment. Exactly long enough to see it. Then turned and left, not coming closer.
Boyars came to the library door as well. Briefly. The gridni did not let them in. No one argued. In Saint Sophia one does not make noise and does not press.
When Alexander finished the last scroll, he did not rise at once. He sat, looking at the empty space on the table where the charters had lain only moments before. Then he called softly:
"Ioann."
The old man stepped out from between the shelves, a lamp in his hand. Its light fell on the table's edge and on the birch bark sheets. He came without haste, the way he had come all day.
"I will take some of the records with me," Alexander said. "Not all. Only what I've already sorted."
Ioann nodded. Without questions. He had no habit of arguing with someone who had finally begun to walk the path of a prince. At his sign the boys went for the gridni. Moments later the gridni entered the library - quietly, contained.
Alexander raised his hand and pointed to the table.
"Take these," he said. "And these."
Mstislav took the bundle of scrolls and charters. Mirnomir took the tablets with notes. They took only what the prince indicated. The rest remained where it lay.
Ioann watched to make sure nothing extra was touched.
They returned the same way, without delay. The corridors were quieter than before. Fewer people. More gridni.
Back in the chambers Alexander sat again at the table. The light had changed - lower, softer. A lamp was set closer so it would be enough for reading. A otrok Igor brought supper and placed it at the table's edge.
"Stand by the door," Alexander said quietly. "If I need you, I'll call."
Igor nodded, stepped out, and closed the door softly. For a moment Alexander's gaze lingered on it.
A Otrok.
Why they were not simply called boys.
He shook his head, pushed the thought aside, and reached for the bowl. At that moment two figures knocked.
The healer and the herbalist. The same ones from the morning.
They examined him quickly. Without talk. Checked the bandages, touched the shoulder, asked a few short questions. They did it not because they expected trouble, but because that was the order. Even when all is well, a round is still made.
A few minutes later they left.
Alexander sat down to eat. A bit of bread, a bowl of stew, kvass. He ate in silence - not rushing, not lingering. Without taste, without pleasure. Simply restoring strength.
When finished, he pushed the bowl aside and stood. He did a few careful squats, testing the body. It answered unwillingly: pain pulled, reminded itself. He stopped sooner than he wanted, sat for a moment, then returned to the table.
Now he was no longer reading, but sorting. The same scrolls and charters that during the day had lain before him like a stream now began to form patterns. The connections were becoming visible, but the consequences were not and that irritated him.
One thing came out of the records again and again: there was no vertical of power here. The prince did not decide everything. He never had.
Power was held not by command, but by a web. The same man could be bound to several masters at once: paying one, serving another, swearing to a third. Formally subject to the prince in fact acting alone, sheltering behind charters and old arrangements.
In his former life historians liked the word centralization. Here, such a word simply did not exist.
That raised a second question: if the prince was not all-powerful, how had his father, Yaroslav, ruled?
Alexander returned to Yaroslav's court rulings to the records that would later be called the Rus' Justice. He read more carefully now, more slowly, no longer hunting for facts, but assembling logic. Gradually it became clear: his father had not been a "king with a button." His power rested on three things.
Personal weight age, name, memory of who he was and how many years he had held the peace. Kyiv - the knot through which everything passed: trade, faith, recognition. And the ability to negotiate in a way that did not let the land fall apart.
Yaroslav did not command Rus'. He held it back from a war of all against all.
Under him it was a bundle of principalities bound by blood, profit, fear, and habit of order.
With the second and third Alexander could still work. Authority was a matter of time and deeds. Kyiv he would soon have. He knew how to negotiate. What remained was to understand the people of this age.
The third point became clear closer to night.
He remembered the voivode Stanislav's words: the boyars were already riding in. At first he had not understood why. If power was not vertical, if each ruled his own land anyway - what were they to him? A prince without real power.
The answer lay in the same records.
As long as there was a senior prince, power in the lands was legitimate. Without him it became provisional.
If a boyar began to rule on his own, without Kyiv's recognition, he started to look like a usurper a convenient target for neighbors, kin, and the Church alike. But if he was confirmed by the senior prince, he was "seated by order."
Formally protected.
The same was true of faith. Bishops looked to Kyiv and the metropolitan. Without their approval any ruler remained suspect.
So the boyars were not riding in for commands. They were riding in for recognition - so their power would not become a cause for war. Alexander made a note, confident in the conclusion, then halted his pen at once. The data was still thin. That angered him more than the pain in his shoulder.
His eyes began to close sooner than he expected.
Alexander set the pen aside. Working at night would be unprofitable; the day was worth more now.
He lay down quickly, without the usual turning. The body took the bed at once - the fatigue was honest, earned. Thoughts still moved, but slowly now. He sorted what could be used, and how. Whom to touch early. Whom not to touch at all.
Then the thought came. Short. Uninvited.
He needed to go back.
He opened his eyes.
Back - where?
The question rose at once, sharply. Not as a memory, but like an error in calculation. He tried to turn the thought over, to see where it had come from, but it would not go further. It did not explain itself. It simply was.
He frowned.
Why only now?
And why, for the first time, did he not search for the answer at once?
The thought did not leave. And it demanded nothing. It simply lay nearby, like a splinter one cannot yet reach.
Alexander closed his eyes.
He did not fall asleep because of an answer. The body simply took what was its due.
The thought remained.