Chapter 3: The Founding Part 2: The Council Divides
When the council at last gathered beneath the banner in the keep’s hall, the air was thick with breath and misgiving. Vseslav’s gaze lingered on the empty space by the hearth. “We should wait for Yevdokia. She is never late without reason.”
Rostislav shrugged, knife tapping at his belt. “There’s always reason, and half of them her own. We could freeze waiting.”
Sofia drew her mantle close, her voice gentle but steady. “We do her no favor making the city hold its breath for one shadow. Let us begin. She will join us when she chooses.”
Vseslav hesitated, then nodded. “Very well. The city cannot wait.”
Sviatoslav stepped forward, an old charter in his hand. The seal, pressed with wax and faded blue thread, trembled in his grasp. “The saints remember what men forget,” he said, lifting the parchment so all could see. “This names Polotsk as guardian of the Brasla, written in the time of our fathers’ fathers, before that land turned from the cross.”
Trifon squared his shoulders, jaw clenched as he shifted his weight. The lines of his youthful face twisted in the torchlight, irritation clear. “Fine words won’t fill the ranks. There are too few men on the walls. The men will fight if they are led and paid, but there’s not enough of either. If war comes, we’ll need more than prayers and Greek parchment.”
Theodosius set his tally stick down, lips pressed tight, a faint tremor in his hand. For a moment, the torchlight flickered on the white of his knuckles, but his voice held steady. “The treasury is thinning. Silver spent on walls is not silver spent on swords. If we are to speak of coin, let those born to the city’s burdens be heard first. It is a steward’s duty to weigh such costs.”
He glanced, just a shade too long, at Zelekman and the empty chair reserved for the city’s new doctor.
Zelekman closed his ledger, gaze steady. “A steward’s task, yes, but sometimes it is the man at the threshold who sees the storm before the master of the house. If we act boldly, others may hesitate, or they may call our bluff. Stories do not fill the granary nor mend broken bones, but they have their worth.”
Theodosius’s silence was brittle. He folded his hands over the tally stick, knuckles white.
Sofia looked around the ring of faces. “Courage alone will not hold the walls, but neither will fear. If we waver, every neighbor will sense blood in the water. We must show them we stand, even if our numbers are few.”
Vseslav listened to each, his gaze sweeping council and shadow alike. He stood, cloak stiff with frost, and gave his answer. “We do not have the luxury of caution. If Polotsk is to rise, we must shape our own fate and make our victory count before the chance is lost. Sviatoslav, gather your charters and prepare whatever proof or prayer we need. Trifon, see to the levies and tell Koz’ma to double the watches. Zelekman, count what coin we have left and what men we can raise if the gates must open. The rest, see to your posts, and let Polotsk remember this night.”
A hush settled over the council as the debate circled and sharpened, drawing old divisions into the open. Even the wind seemed to lean in, carrying away the last warmth of the day. The shadows along the timbered walls deepened as the council’s debate circled itself. Vseslav had nearly given the order to disperse when a current of cold air swept through the room, and all fell silent.
Yevdokia entered as if conjured from the dark behind the doors, her dark fur mantle dusted with a rim of frost, eyes sharp above cheeks flushed by the wind. She stepped lightly, silent boots skimming the rushes, moving not with the deference of a courtier but the certainty of one returning to her rightful place. At her approach, Rostislav shifted, jaw tight, his pride pricked by how easily she had passed him, unannounced and unchallenged.
Without pause, she laid a sealed strip of beresta—thin birchbark used for letters and notes—before the prince, her gloved fingers lingering just long enough for every councilor to register the significance. The bark, stiff with cold and curled at the edges where snowmelt had touched the wax, carried the rough marks of hurried writing. Her voice, when it came, was steady and precise, as though she addressed only the facts, not the men and women gathered around her.
“Proof,” she said, “of what I warned. A letter intercepted at the western road. In it, men of Braslav promise safe conduct to those willing to weaken Polotsk’s walls from within.” She did not blink as her gaze slid from Sofia to Sviatoslav, then to Rostislav, who met her eyes with a scowl.
Sviatoslav, catching her glance, looked quickly away, fingers worrying the beads at his wrist. Of late, he seemed uneasy in her presence, and would not meet her eyes for long. Whatever hold she had found on his conscience, it left him more troubled and silent than before.
For a long moment, only the pop of resin in the hearth broke the silence. Theodosius reached for the parchment, his movements wary, as if the letter itself might bite. He began to read it.
Rostislav’s hand rested on his knife hilt. “Anyone can write a threat and call it truth,” he growled, his pride still stung. “You slip past me in the dark, and now you bring shadows into our hall.”
Yevdokia met his challenge with a flat stare. “I bring what the city needs to survive. Shadows do not care for pride, only for opportunity left unguarded.”
Sofia’s posture was poised, but her eyes darted between the prince and his spymaster, weighing cost and necessity. “If the letter is real, we must act. If it is not, even the rumor will serve to ready our defense. What does it say, chancellor?"
Theodosius’s voice was thin but urgent. “We cannot afford delay. Every day the walls stand unfinished, the treasury empties further. Action, of any kind, must be justified, for our neighbors will know if we act on lies.”
Vseslav watched the faces around him: old loyalties, new suspicions, and the precarious trust binding his house together. He let the silence stretch until the tension became nearly unbearable. Yevdokia stood unmoving, offering no apology, she was the city’s shadow, indispensable, and never to be loved.
“We will act,” Vseslav said at last, his voice low and final. “On warning or on proof, we cannot wait for certainty while danger gathers at the gate. Let the story serve our need, and let the saints judge us after.”
A cold wind rattled the shutters as the council, bound by doubt as much as resolve, murmured assent. None met Yevdokia’s eyes for long, but none dared dismiss her, either. In that moment, Polotsk’s fate turned not on steel or coin, but on a single strip of beresta and the will to wield it.
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