The Council on the Brink of Change

These years were truly the Golden Age of Kievan Rus. The state stood at the peak of its power, flourishing thanks to the wisdom and foresight of the Grand Prince Yaroslav the Wise. His name had become synonymous with stability, strength, and order, and his reign - a symbol of unity.

However, with his death, this greatness came under threat. All of Kievan Rus began to sink into chaos.

Before his passing, Yaroslav bequeathed the division of the lands among his sons, so that each would lead his own principality. At first glance, this decision seemed wise: the division of power was intended to ensure peace and order. But fate decreed otherwise.

After the funeral of the Grand Prince, each of his heirs departed for their principality, but on the way, they were overtaken by the shadows of conspiracy. The attacks were as unexpected as they were ruthless. Among the killers were nomads, mercenaries, and spies from neighboring lands. It was a cunning and carefully orchestrated blow - a plot to eliminate Yaroslav the Wise's heirs and turn the once-unified Grand Principality into a battleground of chaos.

However, the conspirators overlooked one thing: Yaroslav's sixth son, Alexander. The young prince, whom some considered too modest for power and others too unthreatening, was not an obvious figure in the political circles of the boyars. His name rarely echoed in the chambers of the court, as he always remained in the shadows, preferring the forge of the blade and strict training to palace intrigues.

But within those shadows lay a strength that even the most discerning advisors failed to see. He devoted days and nights to training, becoming a master of the sword, yet being indifferent to worldly vanity, he stayed in the background of his brothers.

Had the conspirators known how strong Alexander truly was, they would have sent not one squad of assassins but two. At twenty, he possessed inhuman strength, reflexes, and a masterful command of weaponry.

Alexander not only focused on mastering the sword but also on hardening his body. From childhood, he walked barefoot in the snow and bathed in the icy waters of the Dnieper. His body had grown accustomed to deprivation and pain. These habits, honed over years, became his salvation.

Even his extraordinary skill could not fully protect him. On the road to his city of Iziaslavl, in Halych, Alexander was ambushed by a large force. The attack was brutal, and the enemy's numerical superiority nearly decided the battle's outcome.

Only he survived. When reinforcements arrived, Alexander, barely alive, was pulled from a pile of corpses. His body, wounded and exhausted, still clung to life. He was taken to Kyiv, where every step of the dangerous journey felt like a battle against death.

There, healers did everything in their power to save the prince. They used extracts from herbs known for stopping blood, compresses of honey and resin to heal wounds, and poultices of celandine and nettle placed on his chest. His body was wrapped in warm cloths soaked with bear fat. One of the oldest herbalists, kneeling at Alexander's bedside, whispered ancient incantations, calling upon the forces of earth and sky to aid the prince.

The deep wounds and loss of blood left him in critical condition. Their faces darkened with worry, and their words were filled with despair:

- He clings to life like a lioness protecting her cubs, but we cannot promise a miracle, - one of the elder healers said.

It seemed that Alexander's body, tempered in countless battles, had finally reached its limit. Each breath came with difficulty, as though fate itself was preparing to strike the final blow. Hope flickered like a dying flame, leaving only grim anticipation of the end.

But a miracle occurred. Alexander survived, defying all expectations. His miraculous recovery stunned the advisors and boyars. They saw it as a possible sign from above - a testament that the heavens had chosen him for a great mission. Alexander, the last son of Yaroslav, became the sole hope for restoring unity and greatness to Kievan Rus.

However, it was far from simple. The advisors and boyars knew little of Alexander and his abilities. To them, he was an inexperienced youth suddenly placed at the forefront of the princely throne.

Each of Yaroslav's sons - from the eldest Iziaslav to the youngest Alexander - had their supporters. But the chain of tragic deaths forced the boyars into a difficult dilemma: to support Alexander, the last legitimate heir, fulfilling their oath of loyalty to the late prince, or to attempt to manipulate the young ruler, turning him into a puppet for their ambitions.

On the surface, real power remained in the hands of the boyar council, but key influence was still held by those loyal to Yaroslav. These faithful boyars understood that dividing the principality into fragments would be catastrophic. For them, the loss of unity in Kievan Rus was not just a threat but a tragedy to be prevented at all costs.

For some, Alexander was a symbol of continuity and hope for the restoration of former glory. For others, he was merely a tool to be used for their purposes. But there were also those who saw an opportunity in the chain of princely deaths. They began to wonder: - What if we divide Kievan Rus for good, becoming the true masters of its lands?

Yet Alexander's position turned out to be far stronger than the boyars and neighboring rulers had anticipated. Upon hearing the news of Alexander's survival, those loyal to the memory of Yaroslav the Wise and his legacy, led by the seasoned leader Stanislav, rallied to the young prince's side.

These boyars saw in Alexander not just an heir but the last hope for preserving the unity of Kievan Rus. They realized that chaos and fragmentation would destroy everything their great prince had built.

These individuals, hardened by years of service and loyalty, understood that the disintegration of the state would spell the end of its glory. Rallying around Alexander, they not only emphasized their allegiance but also sought to demonstrate to all others that Kievan Rus remained strong.

The next morning brought not only the dawn but also an important event. Understanding that delay could prove fatal, Stanislav gathered all significant figures of Kyiv in the spacious hall of the princely palace. There, beneath high arches steeped in echoes of the past, the fate of Kievan Rus was to be decided. Waiting for others was not an option - time was working against them.

The grand hall, illuminated by the flickering light of dozens of torches, seemed even more majestic due to its high ceiling and massive wooden tables adorned with carvings. The heavy doors closed behind each arrival with a deep thud, emphasizing the gravity of the moment. Outside, the city's noise reached only as a faint echo, leaving those inside alone with silence and tension.

The first to enter the hall was Ignat, the Chief Commander and representative of the boyars' militant faction. His steps echoed across the stone slabs, and his stern face, scarred like a map of past battles, remained inscrutable. His heavy gaze swept across the empty hall, as if expecting to find a threat even there. Ignat took his place, resting his hands on his belt, standing in a wary pose.

Next came Stanislav, head of the late Yaroslav the Wise's retinue. Tall and broad-shouldered, he exuded the aura of a man ready to protect the prince at any moment. His gaze lingered on Ignat briefly, and they exchanged short, tense looks, as if testing each other. The air in the hall instantly filled with unspoken tension.

When the doors opened again, the representatives of the clergy entered. Metropolitan Illarion led the way, his tall and imposing figure draped in a heavy mitre that seemed to cast a radiant glow. Following him was Bishop Luka Zhidiata, known for his wisdom and measured reasoning, walking with a reserved expression.

Last came Abbot Antony of Pechersk, whose modest frame and quiet steps might have gone unnoticed if not for his name, already a legend. His gaze held a power capable of moving mountains.

Behind the clergy appeared Oleg, the head of Kyiv Rus' administration. His broad shoulders and calm demeanor revealed a man accustomed to maintaining control. He was followed by Dobrynia Vsevolodovich, the overseer of the prince's estates. His focused gaze and stern appearance reflected someone intolerant of idle chatter and deeply aware of time's value.

Following Oleg, noble boyars from various alliances began to arrive, representing a multitude of interests. While the concept of "factions" did not yet formally exist, boyar alliances were well-known. They formed around common goals, familial ties, or territorial proximity, uniting influential individuals in their pursuit of power, wealth, or the defense of their lands.

Later, Igor Rostislavich, the mayor of Novgorod, entered. His confident stride, slightly furrowed brows, and brisk movements betrayed his worry: the delay in the coronation of the young prince could cost his trading city dearly.

Miroslav, the chief diplomat of Kievan Rus, was absent - he was in Byzantium, strengthening ties with the Empire. The head of intelligence, ever secretive, remained as enigmatic as always.

The last to enter were the representatives of the merchants. Lazar Torgovich, the head of Kyiv's merchants' guild, walked with deliberate confidence. Despite his short stature, he radiated energy and cunning. His dark eyes scanned the faces of those present, searching for potential allies.

Milon Yaroslavich, representing the Novgorod merchants, followed with a slightly mocking smile, signaling that he knew his worth and wouldn't miss a chance to assert it.

When everyone had gathered, Metropolitan Illarion raised his hand, and an immediate silence fell over the hall, heavy and profound. The flickering torchlight cast shadows on the walls, creating images of ancient wars and mysterious spirits that seemed to watch over the proceedings. All eyes turned to the spiritual leader of Kievan Rus, whose words unfailingly cut through disputes like lightning through the night sky.

- Welcome, - Illarion's deep, commanding voice filled the hall, resonating like the roll of thunder within the vaulted chamber. - With the Lord's blessing, our young prince has survived the vile attack. But now, we face the most crucial question: where and how to hold the ceremony so that Alexander can ascend the throne and restore peace to the people of Kievan Rus

His words, steeped in solemnity, elicited a faint murmur of approval. Some boyars exchanged glances, while others quietly crossed themselves, as if the mere thought of the coronation brought them solace.

The first to rise was Vyshata, a noble boyar, military commander, and head of Kyiv's garrison. His stern voice rang with the certainty of a commander's order:

- Agreed. The people are restless. On my way here, I saw them whispering everywhere - at the markets, in the churches, at the wells. If the prince does not ascend the throne soon, the situation could spiral out of control. If we delay, we lose the people's trust - and with it, order

His words carried not only concern for order but also a veiled warning. The crowd gathered in Kyiv could become a weapon - or an enemy - if left without direction. His statement drew murmurs of approval among the boyars, but the sharp voice of Igor Rostislavich, the mayor of Novgorod, cut through the noise, silencing everyone:

- What are we waiting for? Where will the ceremony be held? Delaying the coronation will cost us all dearly. Our allies are already questioning whether the prince is alive or if it's just a rumor. And our enemies are merely waiting for the opportunity to exploit our weakness

- Saint Sophia Cathedral, - Abbot Antony said slowly, folding his hands in a gesture of blessing. His voice, soft but filled with power, resembled a prayer that reached every heart. - This cathedral is more than walls - it is the heart of our faith, our beacon in turbulent waters. Let the coronation take place there, so that the entire nation may see the heavens' blessing upon us

A brief, tense silence followed in the hall. Illarion slowly nodded, supporting the abbot, but before he could speak, a voice sharp as steel interrupted.

- And what about security? - Oleg's voice sliced through the air like a blade. - The Polovtsians and Pechenegs are not idle, nor are our other neighbors. Do you think they will miss such an opportunity? We risk not only the ceremony but the entire city. What if spies infiltrate the crowd on the day of the coronation? What if there are those among them ready to strike at the most critical moment? What if the prince himself becomes their target?

His words, like a warning bell, echoed through the hall, sparking a wave of muted whispers. All eyes turned to Ignat, whose granite-like figure remained motionless. He squinted, scanning the room, and with hands folded on his belt, he declared firmly and uncompromisingly:

- Security will be ensured. We will close all entrances to Kyiv, double the patrols, and on the day of the coronation, the retinue will surround the cathedral in a tight ring. Even if the Polovtsian spies attack, they will not get through. I guarantee it

His voice, harsh and resolute like the strike of a sword, stirred murmurs of discontent. Before anyone could object, Dobrynia stood, his figure imposing and steady. His voice, even and firm, carried the strength to move mountains:

- That is not enough. If an attack does occur, without carefully planned measures, the consequences could be catastrophic. We must anticipate evacuation routes for the nobility and prepare fortifications at key positions in the city. Relying solely on the cathedral's security will not suffice. We cannot afford to underestimate the enemy

Ignat frowned, his gaze darkened like storm clouds on the brink of a tempest. Before he could retort, Vyshata rose, his voice cold and tense, carrying an implicit threat:

- If we display fear, it will only embolden our enemies. Show weakness, and they will strike. I tell you, Kyiv cannot be taken. The city is secure, and I will see to it

His words, firm and confident, echoed through the hall, inciting another wave of murmured agreements. Ignat nodded in satisfaction, his face adopting a calmer expression, though his eyes remained wary. Silence once again settled over the hall, heavy and thick like a storm cloud looming overhead.

The tense silence was broken by Stanislav, head of the prince's retinue. His voice, steady and resolute like the beat of a war drum, carried the authority of a seasoned commander:

- Security will not be an issue. The entire elite retinue of the prince will be fully armed and prepared for any attack. Even a thousand spies will stand no chance. Three thousand elite warriors will form an impenetrable barrier against any foe

His words left no room for doubt. Questions about safety and protection quickly dissipated as Stanislav assured the gathering that Kyiv's full military might would be mobilized to ensure peace and order on the day of the coronation. His confident tone and firm, determined gaze extinguished any lingering doubts, like a dying fire snuffed out by the night wind.

The silence that followed was interrupted by the calm, almost playful voice of Lazar Torgovich. He stepped forward lightly, as though oblivious to the weight of the boyars' collective gaze now fixed on him. His hands rested calmly behind his back, and his dark eyes gleamed with cunning:

- Gentlemen, I'm glad that the issues of security are finally resolved, - he began, bowing his head slightly in a gesture of respect. - But we are overlooking a vital aspect. The coronation is not only a tool for internal stability. It is our chance to showcase the strength, unity, and wealth of Kievan Rus to the entire world

His voice was soft, almost gentle, yet every word was as sharp and deliberate as a finely honed blade. Lazar shifted his gaze to Ignat, who scowled but remained silent, waiting for him to continue.

- If our foreign guests witness excessive caution, - Lazar continued, his tone taking on a faintly mocking edge, - they may doubt our strength. Surely, we don't want them returning home speaking of us as timid or weakened?

Ignat, arms crossed over his chest, sharply interjected, his voice booming like thunder:

- What strength do you propose to show, Lazar? Do you suggest we leave the city open and allow our enemies to stroll freely through our streets?

Lazar's faint smile lingered as he met Ignat's gaze without flinching:

- I'm speaking of the strength of wealth. A grand coronation will demonstrate not only Kyiv's security but also its prosperity. Allies will see confidence, enemies will see power, and the common folk will witness the greatness of their land. Moreover... - he paused briefly, as though ensuring that everyone grasped the weight of his words - the merchant guilds are willing to support the festivities, provided the results align with our shared interests

A murmur rippled through the hall. Some boyars nodded in approval, while others exchanged grim looks. Lazar appeared entirely unfazed, maintaining his serene and self-assured demeanor.

Bishop Luka, who had remained silent until now, raised his hand. His voice, stern and unyielding like the toll of a bell, resonated through the hall:

- Excessive luxury may bring ruin, - Luka declared, his tone heavy with conviction, like a hammer striking an anvil. - At a time when people pray for protection from enemies, feasting is ill-advised. Forget our duty to the people, and we risk losing their faith

Lazar, unshaken by the rebuke, merely offered a subtle smile. His dark eyes gleamed with quiet defiance.

- The Lord's blessing is indeed invaluable, - he replied smoothly, his confidence unwavering. - But a river cannot be crossed on prayer alone

- And what then, Lazar? When the enemy strikes, shall we hurl gold at them? Prayer may not cross rivers, but it strengthens spirits rather than squanders treasures, - Luka countered, his voice rising slightly.

- Luka, a hungry spirit with a full purse stands a better chance of survival than the reverse. Let's not forget who fills the treasury, - Lazar retorted, his tone remaining mild but carrying an undeniable edge.

Lazar's words, thinly veiled as criticism, rippled through the hall, stirring whispers among the boyars. Tension mounted as some nervously drummed their fingers on the table, while others furrowed their brows, deep in thought. The atmosphere grew taut, like a bowstring ready to snap.

Luka rose sharply, prepared to continue the argument, but Antony of Pechersk, remaining seated, gently touched Luka's arm and shook his head slightly. His gaze, filled with calm yet resolute disapproval, seemed to say, "Why argue with those blinded by greed?" Luka exhaled deeply, reluctantly sinking back into his seat as silence once again settled over the hall.

Recognizing the need to refocus the discussion, Illarion's voice rang out once more. Rising to his feet, his gaze swept slowly over the assembly, a mixture of sternness and inspiration in his eyes. His voice, deep and commanding, cut through the tension like a sacred blade:

- Today is the 18th of Berezozol (March 18 by modern reckoning). I propose that we hold the coronation in a week, on the Feast of the Annunciation, the 25th of Berezozol. This day, symbolizing the beginning of new life and the fulfillment of the Divine plan, will mark the start of a new chapter in our history

A new wave of whispers swept through the hall. Some nodded in agreement, but a skeptical voice broke the murmur:

- Too soon, - came the cautious remark. - The people might not have enough time to prepare

Dobrynia, arms crossed over his chest, responded evenly, his voice firm and confident:

- Or perhaps it's just the right time. The people are waiting for a sign, not for delays

His words elicited murmurs of agreement. Luka Zhidiata raised his hand, crossing himself as he spoke:

- The Annunciation is a sacred day. The people will see this as a blessing from above. It's a fitting day for the coronation

Oleg gave a slight nod, adding his measured remarks:

- I see no objection. At this time of year, the people are free from agricultural work, and the roads to Kyiv will be open. The people will come

Stanislav, who had been observing the discussion with keen attention, slowly rose to his feet. His tall stature and commanding presence immediately drew the attention of all assembled. His voice, firm and resolute like a battlefield command, carried conviction:

- Then it is decided. - He paused, allowing the weight of his words to settle over the room. - In a week, on the Feast of the Annunciation, the coronation will take place in Saint Sophia Cathedral. Let this day mark the beginning of our prince's reign.

His words hung in the air like a benediction. The hall fell into a tense silence. Some whispered quietly among themselves; others gazed thoughtfully at the table. The atmosphere was thick, charged with the realization that the success of the coronation depended not only on their decisions but also on the will of the heavens.

*** 

I improved chapter 4 of Preparing for the coronation and split it into two separate chapters.