father’s study, a rush of memories overwhelmed him. He saw it glittering with Doctor Kazimir’s tubes and alembics, transformed into a chemical laboratory as the scientist worked on the elixir to reverse the Drakhaoul’s influence on his mind and body. And then the Tielens had come . . .
The
druzhina
had nailed up sheets of vellum to cover the broken windows so that the room was infused with a turgid sepia light, even at midday. At least the books and maps were protected now from weather damage—although it was necessary to light a lantern to read or write in the gloom.
There were still fragments of glass everywhere: colored shards from the shattered windows and fine, clear splinters from Kazimir’s broken phials. Before the repairs, wind, sleet, and smoke had blown in, causing yet more damage to his father’s maps and books; some lay open, sodden pages a mush of paper pulp.
“They must still be here,” he muttered. “They must be.”
The first time he had come to the Kalika Tower with Kostya, he had noticed the books lying on his father’s desk. At the time he had wondered why Volkh had been so interested in titles such as
Through Uncharted Seas: A Sailor’s Account of a Perilous Voyage of Exploration.
Now he wondered if his father and grandfather had also been cursed with the Drakhaoul’s dreams and had been searching for clues as to their origins in these ancient volumes.
The top of the desk was covered in a layer of dirt, dust, and broken glass. Gavril began to brush the debris away. Beneath, he could just make out two or three volumes. The first was
Travels in the Westward Isles,
but as soon as he picked it up, he could see that a corrosive chemical of Kazimir’s had leaked onto it, burning a great, brown-edged hole into the heart of the book:
The tempest had blown our vessel so far from its course that we found ourselves far beyond the bounds of our maps and charts,
the page that lay open read.
Almost dead for lack of fresh water, we sighted land toward nightfall of the third day and anchored in the bay of an uncharted island, lush with green vegetation and fresh springs of clear water.
Having slaked our thirst and refilled our water casks, we made camp on the shore. In the dark of night, we were awakened by a terrible sound, like groaning or roaring. Some of the more superstitious men called on the names of the holy saints to protect them—
The rest was illegible. Gavril put the book down and picked up another, trying to suppress the growing feeling of frustration. As he brushed the dust from the cover, the title glinted dully in faded gold:
Ty Nagar: Legends of the Lost Land of the Serpent God.
“Ty Nagar,” Gavril whispered and felt a shiver, as though saying the name aloud invoked some latent enchantment long dormant in the dusty pages. He opened the book gingerly and, flicking through the first few pages, saw with a growing sense of excitement that most of the text was intact:
The fabled land of Ty Nagar cannot be found on any chart or map. Although mentioned in the ancient chronicles of the Rossiyan Empire, scholars have long dismissed its existence as mere fable. However, as this account by Captain Hernin records, there may be some truth in the old chronicles after all. When his ship was blown off course by a tempest, he and his crew found themselves sailing in uncharted waters far to the west. . . .
Gavril leafed on through the rough-edged pages until he spotted some paragraphs marked in red:
There lies one island far to the south, dominated by the cone of a volcanic peak, said by the people of these isles to be sacred to the powerful Serpent God of their ancestors. They will not go there, as they maintain that the island is haunted by hungry ghosts and ghouls who suck the blood of unwary travelers.
Another legend tells how the priests of the Serpent God, Nagar, built a great temple to their god, at the heart of which was a gateway to the Realm of Shadows. From this gateway they
The
druzhina
had nailed up sheets of vellum to cover the broken windows so that the room was infused with a turgid sepia light, even at midday. At least the books and maps were protected now from weather damage—although it was necessary to light a lantern to read or write in the gloom.
There were still fragments of glass everywhere: colored shards from the shattered windows and fine, clear splinters from Kazimir’s broken phials. Before the repairs, wind, sleet, and smoke had blown in, causing yet more damage to his father’s maps and books; some lay open, sodden pages a mush of paper pulp.
“They must still be here,” he muttered. “They must be.”
The first time he had come to the Kalika Tower with Kostya, he had noticed the books lying on his father’s desk. At the time he had wondered why Volkh had been so interested in titles such as
Through Uncharted Seas: A Sailor’s Account of a Perilous Voyage of Exploration.
Now he wondered if his father and grandfather had also been cursed with the Drakhaoul’s dreams and had been searching for clues as to their origins in these ancient volumes.
The top of the desk was covered in a layer of dirt, dust, and broken glass. Gavril began to brush the debris away. Beneath, he could just make out two or three volumes. The first was
Travels in the Westward Isles,
but as soon as he picked it up, he could see that a corrosive chemical of Kazimir’s had leaked onto it, burning a great, brown-edged hole into the heart of the book:
The tempest had blown our vessel so far from its course that we found ourselves far beyond the bounds of our maps and charts,
the page that lay open read.
Almost dead for lack of fresh water, we sighted land toward nightfall of the third day and anchored in the bay of an uncharted island, lush with green vegetation and fresh springs of clear water.
Having slaked our thirst and refilled our water casks, we made camp on the shore. In the dark of night, we were awakened by a terrible sound, like groaning or roaring. Some of the more superstitious men called on the names of the holy saints to protect them—
The rest was illegible. Gavril put the book down and picked up another, trying to suppress the growing feeling of frustration. As he brushed the dust from the cover, the title glinted dully in faded gold:
Ty Nagar: Legends of the Lost Land of the Serpent God.
“Ty Nagar,” Gavril whispered and felt a shiver, as though saying the name aloud invoked some latent enchantment long dormant in the dusty pages. He opened the book gingerly and, flicking through the first few pages, saw with a growing sense of excitement that most of the text was intact:
The fabled land of Ty Nagar cannot be found on any chart or map. Although mentioned in the ancient chronicles of the Rossiyan Empire, scholars have long dismissed its existence as mere fable. However, as this account by Captain Hernin records, there may be some truth in the old chronicles after all. When his ship was blown off course by a tempest, he and his crew found themselves sailing in uncharted waters far to the west. . . .
Gavril leafed on through the rough-edged pages until he spotted some paragraphs marked in red:
There lies one island far to the south, dominated by the cone of a volcanic peak, said by the people of these isles to be sacred to the powerful Serpent God of their ancestors. They will not go there, as they maintain that the island is haunted by hungry ghosts and ghouls who suck the blood of unwary travelers.
Another legend tells how the priests of the Serpent God, Nagar, built a great temple to their god, at the heart of which was a gateway to the Realm of Shadows. From this gateway they
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