The Historian
Elizabeth Kostova
Language: English
Pages: 720
ISBN: 0316070637
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
To you, perceptive reader, I bequeath my history....Late one night, exploring her father's library, a young woman finds an ancient book and a cache of yellowing letters. The letters are all addressed to "My dear and unfortunate successor," and they plunge her into a world she never dreamed of-a labyrinth where the secrets of her father's past and her mother's mysterious fate connect to an inconceivable evil hidden in the depths of history.The letters provide links to one of the darkest powers that humanity has ever known-and to a centuries-long quest to find the source of that darkness and wipe it out. It is a quest for the truth about Vlad the Impaler, the medieval ruler whose barbarous reign formed the basis of the legend of Dracula. Generations of historians have risked their reputations, their sanity, and even their lives to learn the truth about Vlad the Impaler and Dracula. Now one young woman must decide whether to take up this quest herself-to follow her father in a hunt that nearly brought him to ruin years ago, when he was a vibrant young scholar and her mother was still alive. What does the legend of Vlad the Impaler have to do with the modern world? Is it possible that the Dracula of myth truly existed-and that he has lived on, century after century, pursuing his own unknowable ends? The answers to these questions cross time and borders, as first the father and then the daughter search for clues, from dusty Ivy League libraries to Istanbul, Budapest, and the depths of Eastern Europe. In city after city, in monasteries and archives, in letters and in secret conversations, the horrible truth emerges about Vlad the Impaler's dark reign-and about a time-defying pact that may have kept his awful work alive down through the ages.Parsing obscure signs and hidden texts, reading codes worked into the fabric of medieval monastic traditions-and evading the unknown adversaries who will go to any lengths to conceal and protect Vlad's ancient powers-one woman comes ever closer to the secret of her own past and a confrontation with the very definition of evil. Elizabeth Kostova's debut novel is an adventure of monumental proportions, a relentless tale that blends fact and fantasy, history and the present, with an assurance that is almost unbearably suspenseful-and utterly unforgettable.
buried, but it is not very likely that the tomb is here. I think you must prepare yourself for a new trip. You will probably need succor from the good aunt again, also.’ Despite the static, I could hear a grim note in his voice. “‘A new trip? But where?’ “‘To Bulgaria!’ shouted Turgut, far away. “I stared at Helen, the receiver slipping in my hand. ‘Bulgaria?’” Part Three There was one great tomb more lordly than all the rest; huge it was, and nobly proportioned. On it was but one
the stairs and classrooms. I pushed my way through and spoke to the policeman. “Where’s Professor Rossi? What’s happened to him?” “Do you know him?” asked the policeman, looking up from his notepad. “I’m his advisee. I was here two nights ago. Who says he’s disappeared?” The department chairman came forward and shook my hand. “Do you know anything about this? His housekeeper phoned at noon to say he hadn’t come home last night or the night before—he didn’t ring for dinner or breakfast. She
When he was done, a cheer went up from the whole company. ‘Stoichev! Za zdraveto na Profesor Stoichev! Nazdrave!’ Cheers rang all around us. Everyone’s face was lit up for Stoichev; everyone turned to him with a smile and a raised glass, and some had tears in their eyes. I remembered Rossi, how he’d listened so modestly to the cheers and speeches with which we had marked his twentieth anniversary at the university. I turned away with a lump in my throat. Ranov, I noted, was drifting around under
they opened some bundles and found only food. The body could have been hidden in the woods nearby, if the monks had some warning of the search.’ “‘Or perhaps they constructed the wagon so that there was a special place to hide it,’ pondered Helen. “‘But a corpse would have stunk,’ I reminded her bluntly. “‘That depends on what you believe.’ She gave me her quizzical, charming smile. “‘What I believe?’ “‘Yes. You see, a body that is at risk for becoming undead, or is already undead, does not
followed the congregation into the church, which was dark as a tomb after the brilliance of the fields and groves. It was a small church, but the interior had a kind of exquisite scale the bigger churches we’d seen couldn’t boast. The young priest had put the icon of Sveti Petko in a place of honor near the front, propped on a carved podium. I noticed Brother Ivan bowing before the altar. As usual, there were no pews; the people stood or knelt on the cold stone floor, and a few old women