With whatever it took.
Chapter 17
Cassiopeia had made the decision quickly yesterday. She would involve Simone Forte. If, for nothing else, her presence may irritate Beláncourt and throw him off guard, as clearly there was a history between the two.
Simone had arrived bright and early at the chateau and started working. Viktor had stayed with her, keeping an eye on the book, a precaution that the professor seemed to understand. They’d been ensconced in the lab for the past four hours, the noon hour approaching. A week had gone by since the book had been found and a lot had happened. She’d talked to Cotton several times and he’d advised caution in dealing with Beláncourt. Get the answers before asking the questions.
Good advice.
Which had cinched bringing Simone into the fold.
The legal attack on Terra had not waned, nor had Beláncourt been back in contact. She’d instructed corporate headquarters to sit tight and be patient. She was handling the problem in the most direct way possible.
Simone had brought with her an array of old maps, some dating back to the 13th century. None were hard copy originals. Instead, they were all high-resolution images on a laptop, capable of magnification down to the smallest detail. She’d also brought a chart of symbols, many of which appeared in the various illustrations inside the book, embedded in clever, nearly imperceptible, ways, looking more like art than letters.
“What are these?” she asked Simone.
“The Cathars lived in dangerous times, but they still needed to communicate. So they devised their own language, one that only the Perfecti utilized. We know this because a sort of Rosetta Stone survived that provided a means of interpreting the symbols. It wasn’t found until the early part of the 20th century. This chart was composed from that.”
She studied the odd assortment of scribbles, with little rhyme or reason to their shapes. Which was probably the whole idea.
“To my knowledge,” Simone said, “no one back then ever deciphered them. So the code worked. Thank goodness a means to read it survived.”
Viktor was watching with intense interest. They’d found many artifacts at the construction site, but nothing like this. She’d brought him into her confidence with the condition that everything he saw and heard stayed between them. She did not want a repeat of the leak with Nouvelles de l’art. Shelby had been dismissed, after being non-apologetic at her clear breach of trust. And thank goodness she was gone. With Simone Forte around, the last thing she needed was an untrustworthy, nosey reporter. Also, being Monday, the construction site was closed to visitors. Another fortuitous occurrence.
“Those symbols are here,” Simone said, “on every page of this book. The key, though, is the dove. It’s correct on every page, head facing skyward, wings extended, similar to what you saw yesterday in my lab. Except for the twenty-sixth illustration. There, it’s different. That cannot be a mere mistake.”
The Book of Hours lay open on the table. Not the best way to examine its pages, but the spine was already in poor condition. She studied the page Simone had noted and saw the Cathar dove, reversed, its wings extended but its head down, buried within the margin illustrations. She counted nine birds among the symbols from the chart, all woven together in a rich, artistic pattern. She had lots of questions but did not want to share all of those answers with Viktor.
“Could you wait outside for a few minutes?” she said to him. “I’ll stay with the book.”
He nodded and left the lab. She loved that he never argued nor questioned, just trusted her judgment.
“I appreciate that,” Simone said. “I would prefer to keep this between us.”
“I agree. This is our problem.”
“There may only be three people in the world who can decipher this puzzle,” Simone noted. “Lucky for you, I’m one of those. I first came across The Story of Arnaut while working on my doctoral thesis. It’s fascinated me ever since.”
“I assume your ex-husband knows that?”
Simone nodded. “We often discussed the possibility that this Book of Hours existed, and its possible importance to Cathar history.”
“He told me his involvement here was intensely personal.”
“An understatement. Our marriage did not end well. My ex-husband hates me, and has for a long time.”
“Can you tell me why?”
“I could. But I’m not.”
It seemed no matter which road she took, with either Simone or Beláncourt, it led to a dead end.
“Your ex-husband doesn’t have this book,” she said. “We do. That gives you an advantage. Can you interpret it?”
Simone nodded. “Le Camin de Lutz. The Path to Light. I think I may be able to follow it.”
She was listening, totally intrigued.
Simone pointed at the twenty-sixth page. Drawings filled the right margin, then angled left and spread across the top. Text filled the space framed out by the illustrations. The upside-down dove appeared at intervals, a few centimeters apart, forming a line up the outer edge that stopped about halfway across the top.
“The Cathars lived among their enemies in plain sight. They were there, but not there. I can only assume that the dove being upside down only on this page is representative of that. It’s there, on every page of the book, but different on this one. Look at the illustrations on page twenty-six. The doves stop here and here.”
Simone pointed to one upside-down dove at the upper left, the other a few centimeters away, right before the line of doves angled down the right edge of the page.
“Between the two stops, the symbols are no longer random. Instead they form two words. Lac. Saber.”
She knew her Occitan.
Lake. Learning.
“Then, beneath is three more words. Rosa. Bèstia roja.”
She caught the connection to the other clue Simone mentioned yesterday.
Le menarà al lac del saber.
The rose will lead to the Lake of Learning.
But bèstia roja?
“What is the Red Beast?”
“I have no idea. It’s new information.”
“What now?” she asked.
“I need some more time with this.”
Two hours later Cassiopeia returned to the lab, having been summoned by Viktor, who’d returned inside to babysit their visitor.
She entered the door to see a smile on his face.
“She’s got it.”
Simone seemed excited too. “I was able to link some of the words from the book to points on the ground. They correspond to a crude map of Occitania that has survived, which was what this whole region of modern France was called in the 13th century.”
That she knew. The land of rebels and troubadours.
Simone directed her attention to the old map on the screen. “Here, where the River Valarties joins the Garonne, near Arties, right on the French-Spanish border, there was once a lake. It’s there on the map.”
She saw its outline among what appeared to be mountains and high terrain, delineated with squiggly lines. “What’s that in the middle?”
“An island is my guess. Lots of lakes in the Pyrenees have small islands, high spots that weren’t flooded by the water coming down from the hills. Look what the lake is called.”
She’d already noticed. Rosa.
Rose Lake.
“It’s not there anymore,” Simone said, changing the image to a modern map of the same region, which showed no body of water. “It dried up. That’s happened all over, as rivers alter course and glaciers in the Pyrenees shift. That may have also helped, over time, shield the location from anyone looking. But that doesn’t mean there’s not something there to find.”
Cassiopeia smiled. “There’s only one way to find out.”
Beláncourt steered the powerboat down the River Garonne, keeping a respectable speed, but taking each turn smooth and gentle. Nina St. Clair stood toward the stern and cheered as her ten-year-old son held his own on the skis. Six months ag
o the boy could hardly stand on them. Now he handled himself with ease. Next step? Losing one of them and trying slalom.
But not quite yet.
He came to a straightaway and glanced back, checking the boy’s posture. Everything looked great. Straight spine. High shoulders. Arms extended. Knees flexing. The river seemed a bit malevolent today, increasing in strength, dragging and lunging at the boat.
“He’s doing great,” he shouted over the motor to Nina.