Silence and Bone
Music flowed through the hall like meltwater over ice - softly, yet with a crunch beneath. It didn't disrupt order but pressed upon the silence - like a wind stirring flags before a storm. And everyone in the hall understood: now - it was permissible.
Not everything. But to begin - it was permissible.
The prince said not a word. He watched - and that was enough.
The boyars began to move, as if each had received a secret sign. But cautiously. And not only they.
At the distant tables, where the younger ones sat - merchants, untitled voivodes, deputies' subordinates - spoons also began to move.
The speech of the boyars resounds loudly. But a feast is built not only on words.
Even those who were not supposed to speak now ate as if they were deciding something.
Because decisions were being made - in every glance, in every silence.
Alexander did not eat. Did not drink.
He simply watched. For a long time. Without gesture.
But in that gaze, the hall felt weight - as one senses the approach of thunder, even before the first strike.
And they ate differently.
Stanislav of Ratyn, the Polish voivode, ate as if memorizing the taste of each piece - not for himself, but for a report to the king.
Beside him, Bishop Wladyslaw ate almost beatifically - slowly, with concentrated detachment, as if the food required approval from the heavens. Castellan Kazimir ate differently - precisely, quickly, restrained. He ate like a warrior, for whom tomorrow on the road - there is no feast, but concern.
A bit further, the Hungarians.
György of Eger ate with a slight squint, as if weighing each piece. Laszlo, the chancellor, hardly ate - but watched. He awaited, not food, but the moment when eating would become an occasion.
And the knight Miklós ate quickly, like a man accustomed not to ceremonies, but to the road, meat over a fire, to rough hands and understandable hunger. But even he restrained himself - because he felt: here they observe, not entertain.
Khan Tugorkan barely ate.
His movements were slow - not from fear, but from intention. He seemed to weigh not the taste, but the meaning of each piece brought to his lips.
He ate not for satiety, but for observation.
As if tasting not the food, but the feast itself - for flavor, for weight, for power.
His fingers glided over the food like claws over stone: no haste, no greed. He chose, examined, brought it up. But hardly ate.
His gaze did not fall downward. He did not watch the food - he fixed on those who ate.
The prince. The boyars. The entire hall.
As if he ate - with his eyes. And decided: does this feast acknowledge strength? Or merely pretend at it.
Sophia did not avert her eyes.
Not because she was afraid - but because she was reading.
The Polovtsian ate silently - but ate as one who judges.
And she saw - not only him.
Her gaze slid across the table like water over a blade.
There - her uncle, Nikodim Doukas: almost motionless, as if every movement needed prior approval from the throne.
Leo Komnenos - ate strictly, with that dignity in which even a piece of bread cannot be accidental.
Sebastian Phocas - did not eat, he listened: to the hall, to hands, to others' pauses. He bargained - without words, without goods.
Only then did Sophia take the spoon.
She did not eat - she held it.
Where she grew up, food did not touch the skin. Coarseness was covered by cloth. Even among barbarians - in a decent house.
But here - fat ran down fingers like bronze. Bread cut fish, the spoon scooped stew from a common bowl, and no one considered it shameful.
Here it was strength. Simplicity, grown from the earth.
And she - watched.
To get used to it - means to become a part. And she had not yet decided if she wanted to.
For now, she held the spoon as a symbol. Not food. Not hunger. Decision.
The first spoons touched the food with such delicacy, as if applied to a sacred object, not to stew.
No one took knives - not because there was no need, but because there was knowledge: a knife on the table - is not a sign of a feast, but a sign of war.
Someone - one of the younger boyars, with a face still immature, but with movements honed in the hunt - out of habit reached for his belt. Fingers touched the hilt.
He froze. And quickly let go, as if he had touched coal. No one said anything - but several glances lingered on him.
Longer than necessary.
They ate with their hands and wooden spoons - as they had been taught in houses where someone always listened from behind.
Even the turnips in clay bowls seemed part of a ritual.
The pike, baked with horseradish root, steaming softly on thin cabbage leaves, vanished not greedily but steadily - as if following an oath.
Sofia watched their eyes.
Where a gaze lingered - there was an attempt to seize power. Where it paused - there lay cracks, hesitations, desires for too much. And where eyes darted - there, fear or betrayal had already begun.
Olga Strumenskaya raised a cup to her lips, looking at no one, but in that instant - precisely, deliberately - glanced at Turovsky.
One moment, a fraction of a second. Enough.
Gleb answered with a glance, expressionless. Then lowered his eyes again.
He didn't eat. He only drank, very slowly.
Water with honey and elecampane root - not mead, but no less bitter.
The drink of those who wish to speak - but dare not yet.
They were not the first to speak.
Illarion's voice sliced through the gentle weaving of the gusli, not clashing, but hovering above it:
- Blessed are those who seek peace. But let none forget: peace without order is an illusion. And may everyone eating here tonight remember - their shadow watches each bite
A pause. Not a toast. A reminder.
The younger boyars exchanged glances. Someone coughed - not from food, but from the weight of words.
Then Nikodim spoke.
He did not rise. Nor did he speak loudly. Yet everyone heard.
- When the Empire dines with allies, it grants more than bread - it grants equality. Who knows, perhaps one day these tables will be joined not merely by gifts, but by names. History, like a feast, favors those who can wait
He took a sip. That was all. Neither a toast nor a threat. But beneath the skin of several boyars, blood chilled.
Elder Boyar Mikhail Podolsky stood up slowly. His movements carried no flourish, but conveyed the confidence of someone accustomed to holding power - not through the sword, but through the weight of silver.
- It's good when the table is full. But far better when no one hides to whom and for what they are indebted. - He paused, slightly inclining his head. - For nothing binds an alliance like clear accounts. And nothing destroys it faster than promises abandoned
He raised his cup.
- To everyone who calls himself an ally of Kievan Rus - may he know the price of his words and pay without delay
He drank slowly. Then sat without looking at Nikodim or the prince. But many eyes already rested upon him.
Three toasts - like three hammers striking different edges of the table.
The first - by faith.
The second - by blood.
The third - by coin.
The hall still echoed, no longer in ears - but in fingers, spoons, and furtive glances.
The pause stretched but no longer held the hall in its fist. It flowed between tables like wine from an unsteady cup.
Someone laughed - not boldly, but as if air had returned. The sound of gusli grew confident, spoons louder, conversations freer.
And Alexander knew that if he did not rise now, the hall would breathe without him.
The boyar with the chestnut beard - the one who controlled half the river tariffs - nodded to his neighbor, as if agreeing: Elder Mikhail had struck true.
Younger boyars near the walls began exchanging whispers. Someone feigned talking about food, yet their eyes remained fixed on the prince. Another scooped up broth but never raised the spoon: waiting.
Two servants walked along the walls, pouring kvass from clay pitchers. One slipped on a smear of fat, the jug wobbled - but didn't break. A guest caught it quickly, lightly, as if by hunting reflex.
The gusli whispered no more - they began narrating. Yet not freely: as if an invisible ear still hovered behind the sound, reminding - this was still a feast, not a tribunal.
Alexander didn't move.
Only his gaze - seemingly casual, yet precisely measured - slid across the hall, noting:
- Illarion had not commanded but blessed quietly, a prayer before the storm; Nikodim had already placed pieces - marriage, power, shadows; Mikhail had spoken for himself but accounted for everyone. And in that accounting already hung a question: - You, Prince, how do you pay?
Alexander gave no answer.
He merely placed his palms on the table - not forcefully, just precisely.
The gusli ceased not by gesture - but by gaze.
As if silence itself had decided continuing would be dangerous. One musician lifted his eyes - not understanding why he had stopped playing.
But the hall understood.
Alexander stood.
The air in the hall thickened suddenly - like before a storm.
One younger boyar, soft-faced, straightened involuntarily - as if awaiting command. Nearby someone coughed - not from cold, but to slice through silence.
Further back, closer to the wall, a spoon touched the table prematurely - not from fullness, but because the hand sensed everything had changed.
Now every movement was not a gesture - it was an answer.
Alexander did not raise his cup. He simply stood. Everything in his figure was silence - and authority.
- Many words. Powerful words. And as Elder Mikhail reminded us - each word has its cost. But silence does too
His gaze moved from Nikodim to Illarion. Slowly, without sharpness.
- Rus remembers friends. But she remembers even better those who decided she owed them
A pause. No further words were needed.
- Tonight I drink to those who don't just await the future - but take responsibility for it. Who build instead of calculate. Who pay - not just in silver
He took a cup. Drank - steadily, without drama. Set it back on the table.
But he did not sit. He stood another moment. Allowed the hall to breathe.
And as the hall inhaled - he walked. As if choosing for himself whom not to fear.
Not along the main table - but across the hall.
Silence did not return - but the sound diminished.
As if space itself watched his passing.
Past the torches, past those still eating. Yet each person he passed froze for a moment - as if unsure whether the prince might stop at them.
Alexander did not look into faces - just out of the corner of his eye. That was enough.
He moved like one not seeking the loyal - but the ready. And the hall could feel it: the prince was no longer gathering allies. He was choosing those with whom tomorrow would begin.
At the eastern column, he slowed. His fingers brushed the stone - not by accident. Not a gesture. A sign.
Mirnomir slid along the wall - precise and silent, like a hunter who knows: the prey is marked, only the closing remains. His steps were soft, but carried the certainty of someone who already knows the answer.
Mstislav remained by the arch, silent. A moment later, he began walking. Not toward the center. Around it. Like a scout in an unfamiliar forest. His pace was unhurried, but his fingers brushed the swordbelt - not out of fear, but memory.
Gleb of Turov did not rise - he was already standing. As if he knew: no need to summon. Just don't get in the way. He met the prince's gaze - nodded. Briefly. Precisely. Not like a vassal, but like a man tired of waiting, now ready to speak.
And he walked. Without words.
Mirnomir approached Radimir of Turov. Bent close, whispered:
- The prince awaits
And walked on. Without looking back. As if he were speaking not of a circle of power, but of a missing cart.
Vsevolod of Pinsk stood later. Took his cup - as if to drink. Sipped - did not finish. Set it down. His fingers ran along the rim, testing its weight. Then - stepped forward. Slowly. Without hesitation. The kind of step made when the decision was already taken.
Jaromir did not rise - he vanished. Between a phrase and a sip, between a glance and a gesture. As if he had never been there. Gone from speech, but inside the movement. The air shifted slightly - and he was no more.
Dobromir of Zhitkovichi walked beside Radimir. At first - casually. Then - quicker. Mirnomir only turned his head. That was enough. Their shoulders tensed. Their steps quickened.
Mstislav moved between the tables. Not hurried. As if merely surveying the room. But his gaze scanned, caught on the boyars of Turov-Pinsk. Each one - a test.
He laid a hand on Stanimir's shoulder - firmly, but without force. His gaze weighed more than words. Stanimir stood. Without hesitation. Without a word. Just stood. The way one rises when silence means retreat.
Mstislav did not slow. Past - Bronislav. Davyd. No words. Only a hand adjusting his belt. Out of habit. But too precisely.
Bronislav stood as if tearing free of a rope that bound him. Davyd - slower, but steady. His face showed no doubt. Only accepted inevitability.
Oles of Svetlogorsk was the first to rise. Not because of words - but because of a shift in the air. He felt it on his skin - like a change in pressure. Miroslav of Ptichsk followed - not as an invitee, but as one who knows how to read silence.
The stone walls did not echo - but seemed to absorb the names of those who rose.
They moved - not in formation. But toward a single point. Some - alone. Others - in pairs. The movement was not to the doors - but to the center. Where the prince stood.
Somewhere behind the tables, a boyar of Turov leaned back - as if just now realizing: he would not be called. Not forgotten. Excluded.
The feast did not stop - but the heart of the hall shifted. Not toward the meat. Toward the place where silence became an event.
Not toward the tables. Toward silence.
Words were still spoken - but differently. Softer. Sparser. As if tasting the air before a storm.
The gusli trembled - as if aware their sound might now disturb the order. The strings fell silent - not stopped by fingers, but by a gaze.
Heads didn't turn - at first.
But then - one by one. Slowly. Not to the sound. To the meaning.
Nikodim did not look directly. His gaze drifted - lazy in appearance, sharp in purpose.
He noted who stood first, and who - after. Who moved - and who remained. He knew: on nights like this, the course of things changes.
Not on paper - in reality. And this was one of them.
Tugorkan didn't move. Only his fingers touched the table's edge - a little too firmly. He wasn't participating. But he knew: this wasn't a feast. It was positioning. And the one who called - was not calling for merriment.
Stanislav the Great watched - not the prince.
The boyars.
His gaze, calm and heavy, passed from one face to another. He saw the board assembling anew.
Not out of whim. Out of inevitability.
- Alexander is no lesser than Yaroslav. And perhaps more dangerous. For the Grand Prince ruled by loyalty. But he - by understanding
Stanislav had no doubt: Alexander was building order. But who was he gathering? Allies? Subjects? Or… pieces he would later move?
At the Hungarian table, György of Eger didn't eat. He leaned slightly toward Chancellor László, whispered something. The other didn't turn. But his cup almost cracked in his grip. They heard - and they understood: within Rus', weight was shifting.
Mikhail of Podolia finished his kvass slowly. And did not rise.
Alexander stood in the half-shadow. Waiting. But not for everyone. Only for those who realized: they'd already been chosen. All that remained - was to respond.
They became six. Then nine. Then more.
They didn't form a circle. That would be too obvious. They gathered in small clusters. A little off. As if simply stepping out - for air. To talk. To make it seem accidental.
But their eyes - all drew to the center.
Mirnomir, without glancing, slid toward the gusli-player.
One look - and he understood: silence now is forbidden.
Moments later, the strings stirred, and the voice rose - steady, calm. But in that calm was something final: what happens now, happens forever.
Song "To the One Who Keeps Silent"
Not by word, not by cup - the will is decided.
Not by thunder - by silence comes law.
Where the prince does not eat - there is no feast, only bondage.
Where the gaze calls - there the throne is judged.
A man stood among oaks, without a crown.
They came not for bread - but for the choice of pain.
He did not call, he was silent - and the capital rose.
Not for gold, not for fear - but for order and share.
Where strings tremble - it is not music in the hall.
But a shadow above heads, like a sign without face.
And whoever eats - let him hear what the sounds said:
- Not for all will the rightful cup of end be given.
Not to the first - glory. Not to the fastest - fullness.
He who sits - does not mean he stands with the prince.
Where the spoon shakes - there truth is decided.
Where gusli sing - there one speaks.
Where they are silent - they prepare. Where they rise - they believe.
Who sang - has covered. Who heard - is no longer a guest.
And though the hall is merry, though the door whispers -
Tonight in power is silence. And bone.
Who fears the gaze - will leave before dawn.
Who has heard - is in the circle. Who stayed - is in the game.
Not the shout is remembered by the people, not advice.
But the moment they choose who shall be on the mountain.
The hall didn't immediately understand what it was about. Some listened. Some ate. Some pretended not to hear at all.
But as long as the song played - the boyars walked.
And the gusli covered their steps.
Alexander said nothing. He just stood. And that was enough. A single word could have changed everything. But he gave no word, no question. He waited - for silence to speak for him.
And then Gleb of Turov took a step.
He did not bow. Did not ask. Simply came closer.
His eyes narrowed - not from mistrust, but from trying to see the move that had not yet been played.
That morning, the prince had already taken away his old power. Broken the old arrangement, pulled his stewards away, pushed not only him but Olga, Boris, and Vasily to the wall. Back then, Gleb thought Alexander had taken what he wanted.
But now - he understood: the morning had not been the end. It had been the first move.
Now the circle gathered not those who ruled Rus' - but those who held the land of Turov and Pinsk.
All of them.
The elders. The young.
Those who once whispered behind backs, who bargained for furs, for pastures, for the right to be called by a name.
Alexander called them not into submission. Into something new.
And that - was more unsettling than anything.
Gleb didn't know what the prince was drawing them into. What tomorrow would bring - an agreement, a union, dependence, or a trap.
But he felt it: if he didn't step forward now - tomorrow he wouldn't be invited to rise. He'd be ordered to fall in line.
- If we're here, prince, - he said quietly, - it means we want to listen. Not to believe. Not to swear. To listen
Alexander nodded. Not like a ruler. Like a man who had just tied a knot - and now held it in his hands.
Behind him, steps crunched - Rostislav of Dubrovitsa approached. Then - Stanimir. Then - others.
The feast was in full swing. Music played - the gusli didn't stop, cups clinked, speeches flew as toasts. But all of that - was in one part of the hall.
And in another - something else was being born.
Here, no one laughed. No one rose to toast. Here, footsteps sounded different. Here, power moved.
The music still played - but it didn't perform. It was present - but in another time.
Nikodim didn't move. But in the depths of his eyes, understanding flickered.
- The prince is gathering a hand, - someone thought.
No. He wasn't gathering a hand.
He was gathering order.
- Then listen, - said Alexander. - Because from this evening on, everything said - begins to build
***
Thank you to everyone who read this to the end.
I intended this chapter to be in my usual style - expansive, dense, saturated. But it turned out to be more. Too tense, too dramatic, too intricate. Even the most attentive readers will find it hard to take it all in at once.
The next part will shift the tempo. Negotiations will grow harsher, new economic systems will be dissected, and the rhythm will change - more direct, at times sharp.
That's why I cut the chapter here. Not out of mercy - out of calculation. To avoid overloading. Maybe it won't be just two parts - perhaps three. We'll see how it flows.
To be continued soon.
Song "To the One Who Keeps Silent" (poetic English adaptation)
Not with a word, not with a cup - the will is decided.
Not with thunder - with silence, the law is invited.
Where the prince does not eat - there's no feast, only chains.
Where the gaze gives the call - there the throne is at stake.
He stood among oaks, a man with no crown.
They came not for bread - but to choose their own wound.
He called out to none, yet the city arose -
Not for gold, nor for fear - but for order and share.
Where the strings start to shake - it's no music you hear.
But a shadow above - like a faceless sign near.
And the one who partakes - let him hear what's been said:
- Not for all will be poured the true chalice of end.
Not to the first - the glory. Nor the fastest - the meal.
He who's seated - may not with the prince truly stand.
Where the spoon starts to shake - truth begins to reveal.
Where the gusli are singing - it's one who commands.
Where there's silence - they're forging. Where they rise - they believe.
Who has sung - now conceals. Who has heard - is no guest.
And though the hall laughs, and the doors softly breathe -
Tonight at the head - is the silence. And bone.
Who fears a mere glance - will be gone before dawn.
Who has heard - is encircled. Who remains - joins the game.
It is not the loud cry that the people pass on -
But the moment they choose who shall rise to the flame.