ancient symbols engraved on it from his neck. «There’s a secret compartment in the medallion. Inside is a parchment with instructions on how to open the box containing the crystal, should it be found.»
David’s eyes widened.
«Master, I cannot…»
«You can and you must,» Thomas interrupted firmly. «You must survive, David. Someone must preserve the knowledge. Not all of us will live to see tomorrow.»
David bowed his head, accepting the medallion and map.
«I will preserve them at the cost of my own life.»
«No,» Thomas smiled. «You will preserve them by preserving your life. Promise me you’ll try to survive.»
«I promise,» the young man whispered.
When night fell on the mountains, the arduous work was complete. Deep within the drained cave, in a niche hidden from prying eyes, they placed most of the treasures. Thomas personally installed the final slab covering the cache – a stone on which he had carved a cross with his own hands.
«Now let the water flow back,» he ordered when everyone had left the cave.
They dismantled the dam, and the stream, as if rejoicing in its freedom, roared back along its former course, flooding the cave and concealing the entrance to the treasury.
Thomas stepped away from the churning waters and looked up at the starry sky.
«Now prepare yourselves,» he told the others. «At dawn, we make our last stand.»
But deep down, he knew that none of them would live to see the next sunset. His only hope was that David, whom he had secretly sent along mountain paths toward Kashgar during the night, would manage to evade pursuit. And that someday, many years later, someone would find this medallion and map and understand their true value.
A blast of icy wind swept across the foothills. The water in the newly flooded cave bubbled, as if something were trying to break free from beneath the stone slabs, but then settled, concealing its secret for the time being.
The era of the Nestorian treasures was just beginning.
Chapter 1: The Discovery (Present Day)
Rain drummed against the roof of the old wooden house, creating a cozy background noise that muffled all sounds from the street. Alexei Sorin stood at the mansard window, gazing out at the wet St. Petersburg rooftops. His athletic yet not overly muscular build was discernible beneath his loose sweater, and his facial features – with well-defined cheekbones and attentive brown eyes – revealed the same academic focus that had characterized his grandfather. In his hand, he clutched a cup of cold coffee, which he had yet to taste. For the past three days, he had been sorting through the archive of his grandfather, Professor Igor Nikolaevich Sorin, a renowned historian and Orientalist who had passed away a month ago at the age of ninety-seven.
Sorin senior had been a legend in academic circles. A specialist in ancient Central Asian civilizations, author of dozens of monographs and hundreds of articles, a man who had dedicated his life to uncovering the secrets of the Silk Road. For Alexei, however, he had simply been Grandfather – somewhat eccentric, eternally immersed in his manuscripts, but at the same time incredibly kind and always ready to share another captivating story about times long past.
His unexpected death in his sleep had made Alexei his sole heir. Alexei’s parents had died in a car accident when he was twelve, and it was his grandfather who had taken him in, raised him, and set him on his path in life. Now, at thirty-two, Alexei was a successful archaeologist specializing in computer reconstruction of ancient artifacts. «A technician in a humanities field» – that’s how he jokingly described himself.
With a sigh, Alexei turned away from the window and surveyed the mansard. Everywhere stood stacks of books, folders with papers, boxes filled with photographs and slides. His grandfather had been one of those scholars who didn’t trust digital archives and preferred to store his materials in the old-fashioned way – on paper.
«I’ve almost finished with this box, Grandfather,» Alexei muttered, addressing the large portrait of the professor hanging above the desk. «But there are at least ten more to go. You could have been more organized with your notes.»
It seemed to him that the wrinkles around his grandfather’s eyes in the portrait formed into a mischievous smile. Alexei smiled back and returned to the desk, where an open cardboard box filled with folders lay.
The next folder was simply labeled: «Expedition 1953—1955. Personal.» It was strange that his grandfather had marked it as personal. Usually, he meticulously cataloged all his expedition materials by theme. Alexei untied the faded ribbons and opened the folder.
Inside were just a few documents: yellowed diary pages with faded ink, several black-and-white photographs, and a small sealed envelope made of thick paper. Alexei carefully removed the diary and began to read.
«May 12, 1954. Lake Issyk-Kul. Something unusual happened today. While exploring caves on the northern shore, Kambarov found a strange medallion. Judging by its style, it’s Nestorian, presumably from the 12th-13th centuries. Symbols are engraved on the reverse side, which I cannot yet identify. The expedition leader, Comrade Voronov, insists on immediately transferring the find to central administration, but something makes me hesitate. Perhaps it’s young Kambarov’s intuition. He claims the medallion ’wants to stay’ with me. The boy is only 12 years old, but his perceptiveness sometimes astounds me…»
Alexei turned the page.
«May 16, 1954. Voronov received orders from Moscow to wrap up work in the caves and relocate to the Cholpon-Ata area. The official reason is to concentrate efforts on more promising sites. But rumors are circulating that a KGB commission is coming to our camp. It might be about the deserter whom local shepherds discovered not far from our camp. Or perhaps it’s something else. In any case, I’ve made my decision. The medallion will stay with me until I solve its mystery. Kambarov has promised to help and to introduce me to his grandfather, who, according to him, knows ancient legends about the treasures of Issyk-Kul…»
The entries ended abruptly. The following pages had been torn out. Alexei frowned. It was unlike his grandfather to destroy his notes. He should have valued every line, especially regarding his expeditions.
Alexei set the diary aside and picked up the photographs. The first showed the expedition camp – tents on the lakeshore, people in field uniforms. In the second, a group of men in formal suits stood near some mountain slope. And finally, in the third – a young version of his grandfather next to a Kyrgyz teenage boy, both smiling, with the entrance to a cave in the background.
Intrigued, Alexei picked up the sealed envelope. It was heavier than it first appeared. Something shifted inside. There were no inscriptions on the envelope, only a small red wax seal with an imprint resembling a stylized cross.
Alexei carefully opened the envelope, trying not to damage the seal. Inside was a folded sheet of paper and something wrapped in a piece of dark fabric. Unfolding the paper, he discovered a short note written in his grandfather’s firm handwriting:
«Alexei, if you are reading this, it means I am no longer with you. Forgive my secretiveness, but some secrets are too dangerous to entrust to paper. This medallion is the key to one such secret. I have kept it for more than sixty years but never dared to use it. Now it is your inheritance and your choice. There is a hidden mechanism in the medallion. If you decide to activate it, be prepared for the consequences. Some doors are better left closed. With love, your grandfather.»
With trembling hands, Alexei unwrapped the fabric. On his palm lay a silver medallion the size of a large coin. Despite its age, the metal had not tarnished and shone as if new. On the front was an equilateral cross with widening ends, framed by an intricate ornament. On the reverse side were strange symbols, resembling both Syriac script and some astronomical signs.
Alexei’s