Dowry and Blood

The guard walked past the benches, knocking over the charred stubs with a heavy staff - hissing resin splattered into the dark. Warmth exhaled. The hall inhaled cold air, drawn up from beneath the earth.

The hum didn't vanish - it shed its skin. Thinned into a film of ice over a well. Didn't fade - contracted: into shoulders, the arch, the scribe's goose - quill.

The ritual faded; the ranks sealed; oaths sank into lead. The wax was still warm - but brittle already.

What followed wasn't prayer but barter. Not led by a quill, but by tale. Not answered by the boy - but by blood.

Mirnomir nodded; the grydni led the boys out - silent, without a glance back. Not to barracks - but to duty, where silence is command, not rest.

The boyars did not rise. Did not breathe. Behind the leaving backs trailed their houses, their blood, their wager. Only Radomir slowly traced a finger along the carved handle - testing for cracks. They did not tremble. But something held them.

Cold seeped into the hall - not wind, but obligation, bitter as the scent of resin. The vault exhaled those who had given - and closed around those who would bear. Silence stumbled - and fell like lead.

Against the northern wall, the princely table was raised - like a stone. Not for a vow. For memory. For judgment.

Gavril nodded, rolled his tablet, and sat by the hearth - not for heat, but for word. Before he did, he cast a sharp glance at Simeon, then the prince: a scribe confirms, does not decorate. Simeon stood half a step closer.

Two quills in shadow. Absorbing.

The hall no longer hummed. Expectation locked like a dropped bolt.

No argument. No fear. Only calculus. Whoever stands with this prince becomes a brace in the new frame.

Resisting - risk. Accepting - power. Fear, when sold timely, costs more.

Alexander stood, refusing to lean.

His palm whitened against the bench, his joints like nailed iron. One more breath - and blood. He listened to the silence - alive, like a verdictless court. Some waited for command, some for a mistake, some - for collapse. All reached not for him - but for weight. For a chance to be part of it.

An oath isn't a chain. It holds while the knot is inside. Flinch - and it unravels. You need fabric. Tether. Not a bridle.

A prince isn't a summit. He's the center of flow. Not of water - but of blood. A tourniquet, as long as the pulse holds. Loosen - and it floods.

In another life, he'd have called it an invisible loom. A net of threads - rumor, silver, fear.

He saw Rus' as bloodstream. Grain at the Ros' node, furs at the bridge, smoke rising from towers. Pull one vein - and everything shakes.

Now Rus' is held by fear. Lives by tourniquet, not by root. While he's at the table's head. While the cross still shines. While those who claim by blood - haven't arrived.

Hence the net: to hold, when he no longer can.

Outside, the blacksmith's tongs clanged - once, twice. Metal shut and silenced. The hall accepted that silence like skin.

And the first to step wasn't the prince.

Illarion.

He didn't rise - he entered, like water into a crack. The shadow of his staff crossed the floor, fell across Simeon. The censer trembled beneath its weight.

He walked not toward the prince, but into the tension. Between the tablet and the smoke. Between the word - and its shadow.

His voice - a seam over ice, not a cry.

The Metropolitan didn't lower his staff - he struck it down. Not onto the floor - but into the meaning.

His gaze met the prince's - direct, unswerving.

- Five days, - he said quietly. And it was enough to make the torchlight flicker. - Then the ascent. But without a wedding, the throne is a tent - not a fortress. Grand Prince Yaroslav - may his memory shine - sought a princess for you. He did not live to see it

He exhaled - not from fatigue, but from bitterness, like he'd held breath too long.

- Now you are not just a son. You are the crown. And Rus' waits

The silence wasn't absence. It was pressure. Like a ceiling cracked above every head - not yet fallen, but ready.

- Without a princess - the throne stands in question. Oaths don't birth blood. Rus' cannot rest in a tent

He dipped his staff - not as symbol, but as blade. His words didn't settle - they fell like verdict.

And the hall knew - time had begun. Five days to choose. To wager. The one who would become princess - not a name, a knot.

Each family - a weight. Each daughter - a stake.

A tent is not a home. It is pitched for travel. Until it is sanctified. Married. Sealed.

Illarion did not speak of fabric - but of essence. Rus' without a princess is not a throne - but a crossing. Everything is there - but only until.

The silence did not cool. The hall pondered - not by hearing, but by root.

Radomir moved his hand - almost to speak - but stopped.

Stanislav inclined his head. Slowly. And looked at Illarion.

- I hear you, - he said. - The weight. The time. The crown

He didn't argue. Didn't cut. His voice wasn't a reply - but a pillar.

- But even without a princess, the throne is no tent. While I stand - Rus' stands. Not by canvas, not by crown - but by faith

He didn't raise his voice. But there was stone in it.

- Grand Prince Yaroslav didn't build a flimsy canopy. He built a stronghold. If it collapses from five days without a bride - then he built the wrong Rus'

No answer. Only a slow resonance - like a bell, long after the strike, echoing in the chest.

Alexander looked at Stanislav - and knew: if, right now, the walls broke with arrows, if death sang above the citadel - the first to stand between it and him would be Stanislav. Without cry. Without shield. He would simply stand. Like a door in a frame. Flesh as threshold.

He did not swear. Did not demand. Did not call.

He was already standing.

And no one knew why. Not the prince. Not God. Not himself. Only that to remain seated would be betrayal. Not of someone. Of everything.

Illarion didn't nod - but stepped back. One pace. Like one who had spoken - and heard. He didn't argue. Didn't bend. He simply let the weight land.

The hall didn't stir. But even the crackle of kindling in the rafters seemed to still: even fire was listening. Not to words - but their weight.

Radomir finally straightened his back - as if driving a brace into a beam. His palm rested on the waxed tablet, nail etching a notch.

- By the princely record of Grand Prince Yaroslav,- he spoke not to Alexander, but to the memory of these halls, - he did not wait for the crown. He built ahead. Thought of who would lead next. By gain - not by heart

Silence froze upright.

- First mark: Elizaveta, blood of the Árpád house, fifteen winters. Eldest daughter of Béla I. Year 6559 from Creation. The Hungarian pass - five kun per cart; the Duklja crossing - a grivna and fifty in silver. Duke Béla holds the Upper Land - salt and horses

Then Dobrynya - he didn't rise, but his word landed like an iron brace in stone:

- The root's already in: András, king of Hungary, is our kin by marriage. Anastasia Yaroslavna is his princess. That stake is set. You don't drive in a second. You don't brace with the same nail twice

He didn't shout - just laid the weight.

- No one said 'unfit.' But the air shifted. The wax on the tablet shivered: all knew - a copy is no knot

Radomir didn't flinch. He knew what he carried - and from where.

- And that's accounted for. Grand Prince Yaroslav did not repeat. He built - by design. Béla is not András. Brother, not shadow. Another branch, another pass. One Hungarian key holds the border. Two - hold the ridge

He scanned the hall - no longer verifying, but reminding:

- Today András is strong. Tomorrow - Béla will take the crown. Rus' - is kin. No matter who wins. Not a wager - a safeguard. Two braces in one spine - to keep the bridge from falling

He turned. No one objected. They looked - not to argue. Which meant - they listened.

- The second candidate... - he began, unfolding the next tablet.

Vishata scoffed. Like an axe into a block.

- By the princely record.. he echoed, savoring it. - As if we're not speaking of a prince - but a bolt of cloth

He turned - not to Radomir, but to all:

- And if the path bore a scythe - and the name 'Elizaveta'? Would you sell just the same?

Radomir didn't react. He simply smoothed the wax with his finger - not a reply. A verdict.

- I wouldn't wed her, Vishata. I'd warn the prince: don't take - surround

He didn't return the look - just brushed it off, like dust from accounts.

- But the Grand Prince sought no fee - but a knot. Not with whom to walk - but what to stand on

He spread his fingers - not a gesture. A measure. Feeling the air, where the weight of calculus rang.

- Second: Jadwiga. Seventeen winters. House of Přemysl. Bohemia. Silver - hers. Ledger - foreign. Between the Vltava and the Morava. Between yoke - and fury

And then - into the hall, like a stone into a scale:

- There, blood rules - not favor. Every fief - like a sword on a chain. But a way exists. Through fur, through Kraków, through speech. Rus' has walked that path. Not once

In the hall - it was like a taut strap. Not quivering - cutting.

- War did not ask for crowns. But a crown can outrun war

Someone shifted. Not noise - a scrape. As if the prince's seat cracked.

Dobrynya crossed his wax with a sign. Silent. But his gaze - cut to the core.

- Between yoke and fury, - he echoed low. - And between altars?

Illarion didn't flare. He struck:

- They'll bring a crown - but with it, incense not ours. A Latin candle - in Saint Vladimir's house? While our choirs sing 'Lord, have mercy,' their clerics will enter the altar - and the heart. And from there - into will. Through the princess - into the prince. Through faith - into law

He spoke softly, but the words pressed deep, like a seal into warm wax.

Gavril froze - his quill hovered over the wax, as if afraid to touch. Silence no longer listened - it calculated.

Igor coughed - heavily, like iron on the tongue:

- And the path through Kraków? We haven't forgotten Gniezno. The Poles will ask: are you with those who stole their relics - or with us? Fur can become an arrow. Silver - a latch that seals the gates

Then Vishata. Short, like shaving a splinter:

- The Bohemians are rich in ore. But weak in roads. The Pole will smell the fur - shut the gate - and silver won't reach Prague. But Latin faith - will reach Kyiv

Pause - not a bowstring. A veil before the storm.

Radomir tilted his tablet, as if deflecting a blow. Spoke - not louder. Just farther:

- Then the third...

His hand reached for the next slate - and froze. Didn't tremble - locked. As if the thought moved - and hit a wall. Not fear. A void.

He stared at the wood - as if something cracked inside. Not sound. A thought. As if, for the first time, he doubted: is he keeping the ledger - or is the ledger keeping him?

And Oleg - saw. Not with eyes. With weight.

The keys clinked. Like a rod across the cheek. He rose - said nothing. Hewed it off:

- Enough of abroad

Not a rebuke. A reckoning.

- The Grand Prince gave away three daughters - beyond three seas. Francia. Norveg. The Kingdom of Hungary. Our word lives there - in seals, in castles, in crowns

He looked not at faces, but into the root of Rus'.

- And here? No princelings. Blood runs thin. Chernigov stirs. Pereyaslav holds. Podol lies quiet. We've lost Rus' not to the sword - but to rupture. We need not bridges. We need pillars. So we don't sink into our own courtyards

The pause fell like a board over an ice hole.

Gavril traced his quill through air - without touching the wax. Counting without numbers. Radomir shrugged - - write

Oleg struck next - short, like a nail into timber.

- Podol is Kyiv's spine. Berestovichi, Pretychi, barns and docks. The blood isn't foreign - it's from the porch. My eldest - Vera. Fifteen. Counts the docks like a psalter. The younger - next year. You take them - you take the chain. From granary to quay

He spoke not as a merchant. But like one stepping onto ice - and hearing the crack.

- Not dowry. Rearline

Alexander gave no answer. But his gaze shifted. Stanislav was already watching. Not stern - like a blacksmith eyeing a blade: will it hold under hammer.

No one in the hall spoke. But something shifted. As if the board tilted - one man laid down a stone, and you could see where it would roll.

Dobrynya didn't rise. But his voice closed like a gate latch.

- The dock feeds. But it doesn't hold. Podol is closer to Kyiv than to Rus'. Take root from Oleg's house - the rest fall to bark. Chernigov. Volhynia. The North. Whoever's not kin - is suspect

His gaze moved - not to the prince. To the whole table.

- Better root sideways. Where blood waits - not cools. In Chernigov there's the daughter of Stalnogorsky. Her name isn't written in gold - but in memory. Her knot binds not for gain - but for binding

Oleg raised his chin. His voice gathered weight. He was ready to speak - of Podol as a wager. Of the rear - not as a gift, but as a claim.

But he didn't get the chance.

Igor spoke. Didn't interrupt - cut through.

- The North is not merchandise. But boyar Vadim Miloslavich has a daughter. Eighteen. Not wed. Not turned away. He seeks a match. If the prince agrees..

He spoke like silver is weighed - by ounce. Not to gleam - but to bear weight.

- Then Novgorod is no ally. It's foundation. Fur. Ships. Varangians. Not by pact - but by blood. The knot binds stronger than seal. But the price - is higher

Silence hadn't returned - when Ignat already rose.

- Pereyaslavl is not behind. My brother holds the border. His eldest - seventeen. Fair. Even. Mother's from Tmutarakan. House in a ring. If the prince takes her - he takes not a name, but a brace

He spoke like a signature is laid.

Alexander gave no nod. But inside - a weight shifted. Not from words. From tally. Name, dowry, land - each one a sinker in a net. And the net - not cast by him. On him.

He stared - through. Not at benches. Not at boyars. As if he saw not a hall - but snow. A stone. And a hand. Never found. Only the ring. And that was all.

- We tally daughters. But my brothers - they've already paid

Not anger. Just a glint. Like wine in broth. Bitter - but not burning.

He said nothing. But it wasn't a pause. A drop.

And silence - broke. A word slipped. Rolled. Like someone struck bronze - and the shudder ran across the stone.

- And in Peremyshl? The land is soft - but the root is old. Their blood runs in our warbands

- And the Chernozersky line? Salt, iron, blood - three links. Their daughter, they say - not a princess - a vow in the flesh

- And from Suzdal? There's Ksenia. Looks like flax - but in her dowry - two monasteries and the steppe road

- And Bolokhovtsy - they have mead! And fields - many. The girl is mild - but her brother's a snake. Crown her - he'll bite. Don't - he'll wait

- And the Murom princess? - She's silent. But they whisper of her. Holds a candle in church - haggles at market

- And there's also... - someone cried out - but never finished. No longer names - just noise.

Voices poured. Some tried to shout. Some stood. They reached for gold, for grain, for the name of every girl who'd ever sat by a hearth with a kerchief.

And then - a voice. Not loud. But like a splinter.

- And Volhynia? She's not silent. Olga Strumenskaya - governor. Holds Vladimir since her husband fell. Her house is not in dowry - but in decision. The daughter - not a princess. A knot. Give her the crown - she'll be your shoulder. Deny her - she'll be your stare. Not hers - the whole of Volhynia

The words hung. Not as threat. As fracture in ice. Not yet a break - but no longer a path.

Stanislav was already standing. Behind the prince. But his voice - like a bolt across iron:

- SILENCE

Not a shout - a blow. Not a threat - a wall.

- You stand before the prince. Show respect

Everything settled. As if the benches recalled what held them. Whispers - froze. Seats - stilled. Even the fire - seemed to shrink into its wick.

And the air - stood. Not from fear. From measure.

When the hall stilled, Alexander did not rise.

He only lowered his head - as if listening not to voices, but to a line in his own chest. And when he spoke - silence didn't change. It obeyed.

- The throne will not break for want of a princess

His voice was steady. Neither arguing nor striking. Like a crack in marble - not loud - but permanent.

- I'll sit the throne - we'll return to the matter. But not a day before. Rus' stands now not on crown - but on blood. And there's a matter that cannot wait

His gaze shifted - not to the benches. Not to the boyars - but to the center of the hall.

- My brothers. The princes. Were killed. That is the question. That is the beam. All else - later

Illarion shuddered. Not in body - but in being. He raised his staff - not to threaten - but to speak.

- Prince... Rus' is no tent. But without a princess it..

- Vladyka - Stanislav. Sharply. Like a bar over a gate. - You heard the prince's will

And silence dropped again - but now not empty. Crushing. Like a tombstone.

- Now - the question is of the killers. Rus' always pays in blood. But not in dowry - in truth

Illarion gave no answer. The staff lowered - as if yielding the ground, not the word.

And in that silence, the hall understood: the matter was closed. For now.

And at the center - no longer the prince. No longer the choice. But the shadow. Of a fire still smoking.

While some count bridal knots - Rus' counts the dead.