"What do you think happened to Ermek?" Alexei asked.
"I don't know," Dinara shook her head worriedly. "But I believe he's all right. He's an experienced and respected man; even Karabaev's people wouldn't dare harm him seriously."
"What should we do next?"
"We'll wait here for the night. In the morning, we'll try to reach the village where my grandfather lives. It's about fifteen kilometers from here."
Alexei nodded and unconsciously touched the medallion under his shirt. It still felt warm.
"May I see the medallion?" Dinara asked, noticing his gesture.
Alexei removed the chain from his neck and handed her the medallion. She examined it carefully in the lamplight.
"Amazing craftsmanship," she whispered. "Even today, it would be difficult to create such fine engraving." She turned the medallion over. "And these symbols… some resemble Syriac script, but others… I can't decipher them."
"My grandfather wrote in his diary that he couldn't fully identify them," said Alexei. "And he was a specialist in ancient languages."
Dinara returned the medallion to Alexei.
"Perhaps it's some kind of cipher or conventional notations, understandable only to initiates."
Alexei put the chain back on. The medallion seemed to press against his skin with relief, becoming warm again.
"Strange," he noted. "It's as if… it's alive. Always warm."
Dinara looked at him intently.
"Warm? Are you sure it's not just your own body heat? Metal usually takes on the temperature of the body."
"No, this is different." Alexei shook his head. "It was warm even when I first took it out of the envelope. And… this will sound strange, but sometimes it seems to pulse, as if it has a heartbeat."
Dinara nodded thoughtfully.
"In our mountains, there are legends about sacred objects possessing their own life force. Some shamans believe that certain stones or metals can 'remember' a person's energy or events." She smiled. "Of course, from a scientific perspective, this sounds fantastical. But here, in these ancient mountains, you sometimes start to believe such stories."
They fell silent, listening to the sounds outside. The wind rustled in the shrubs; somewhere in the distance, a night bird called. The pursuers, it seemed, couldn't be heard.
"We need to get some sleep," said Dinara. "Tomorrow we have a long journey ahead."
She turned off the lamp, and the grotto plunged into semi-darkness, illuminated only by moonlight filtering through the entrance. They made themselves as comfortable as possible on the narrow bench, pressing against each other for warmth. Nights in the mountains were cool even in summer.
"Thank you for coming to my aid," Alexei said quietly. "You could have simply refused when I called."
"I wanted to refuse," Dinara admitted. "But then I realized this might be my chance to learn the truth. About my grandfather, about the past… about everything."
"What truth?"
"I don't know. But all my life, I've had the feeling that there's some secret in our family. Grandfather never spoke of it directly, but sometimes, especially when he thought no one could hear him, he would whisper strange phrases. About light in water, about a key that would open a door… I thought it was just an old man's muttering. But now…"
She didn't finish the sentence, but Alexei understood. Now, with the appearance of the medallion, these strange phrases were beginning to make sense.
"We'll solve this mystery," he promised. "Together."
Dinara didn't answer, but in the darkness, her hand found his and squeezed it. And so they fell asleep—shoulder to shoulder, holding hands, under the protection of ancient rocks that held many secrets.
At some point during the night, Alexei had a strange dream. He stood on the shore of Issyk-Kul, and the water before him glowed from within, as if an enormous fire burned in its depths. From the water emerged the figure of a monk in dark clothing, who extended something shining toward him. Alexei wanted to move closer, but the water around the monk began to bubble and foam, forming a whirlpool. The monk shouted something Alexei couldn't understand and disappeared into the depths, and with him, the glow vanished as well.
Alexei awoke with a pounding heart. Beside him, Dinara breathed quietly, still holding his hand. Beyond the entrance to the grotto, dawn was breaking—the sky in the east was brightening, taking on a delicate pink hue. A new day was beginning, one that might bring them closer to unraveling the secret of the medallion and what it had protected for centuries.
Chapter 4: The Keeper of Secrets
Twilight descended on the mountain road as Bakyt's UAZ, having left behind the winding serpentine, entered a small valley. The last rays of the setting sun gilded the peaks of the surrounding mountains, but below, among gardens and low mud-brick houses, shadows were already deepening.
The vehicle bounced over countless potholes on the dirt road, raising clouds of dust from under its wheels. Alexei, who had been leaning tiredly against the door, straightened up when the first houses of the village appeared among the trees.
"My father, Rustam, lives in this village," said Ermek.
"Does he know we're coming?" asked Alexei.
"Of course," Ermek nodded. "I contacted him by radio while you were hiding in the grotto. He's expecting us."
Alexei looked at Dinara, who was silently gazing out the window. Her face revealed impatience and anxiety. Evidently, meeting her grandfather was an important event for her, but thoughts of pursuit and danger gave her no peace.
The UAZ drove along the main street of the village, raising dust and attracting the attention of the few pedestrians and dogs dozing in the evening shadows. It was a typical Kyrgyz village—single-story houses surrounded by high mud-brick walls, behind which the crowns of fruit trees were visible, occasional small shops, and a small mosque with a low minaret.
"Life here flows almost the same as it did a hundred years ago," Ermek remarked. "Of course, there's electricity, televisions, mobile phones. But the foundation remains the same—the land, the mountains, traditions passed down from generation to generation."
The car turned toward the outskirts of the village and stopped in front of a mud-brick fence painted blue. Bakyt cut the engine, and the sudden silence, broken only by the distant barking of dogs and bleating of sheep, seemed deafening after the long journey.
"We've arrived," announced Ermek, opening the door. "Welcome to my father's house."
They got out of the car. A tall elderly man in a traditional Kyrgyz kolpak—a conical white hat with an ornamental design—was already waiting for them at the gate. Despite his age, Rustam Kambarov looked fit and robust. He had a swarthy face with deep wrinkles, penetrating dark eyes, and a neatly trimmed gray beard. He held a carved walking stick in his hand but leaned on it lightly, more for convenience than necessity.
"Grandfather!" Dinara ran to him and embraced him.
"Kenzhem, my little one," the old man smiled, hugging his granddaughter. "How glad I am to see you."
Then he turned his attention to Ermek and warmly embraced his son. Finally, his gaze settled on Alexei. Something in that gaze—attentive, scrutinizing, as if looking into the very soul—made Alexei feel uncomfortable.
"And you must be Igor Nikolaevich's grandson," said Rustam, extending his hand. "I see his features in your face. The same eyes, the same chin."
"Alexei Sorin," Alexei introduced himself, shaking the old man's dry but firm hand. "Very pleased to meet you, Rustam-aga."
"You knew my grandfather?" he asked, surprised by how accurately Rustam had identified his relationship.
"Oh yes," the old man nodded. "Igor Nikolaevich was a good man. Honest. A true friend." He gestured for everyone to enter the