“Is that important?” Erik asked doubtfully.
“No, I just thought it was a fascinating bit of trivia,” Griffin replied, ignoring the groan from his colleague. “However, I did find a relevant clue in the achronical rise of the star cluster.”
“The who of the what now?” Cassie scowled. “I know that the heliacal rise is when a star is on the horizon at the same time as sunrise, but what’s an achronical rise?”
“It’s just the opposite—when the star appears above the horizon just as the sun is about to set. I looked up the date of the achronical rise of the Pleiades in 1000 BCE when our Minoan friends most probably visited Dholavira. It occurred on October second which was also the date of the autumn equinox at that time.”
“But what does that mean for us?” Cassie urged impatiently.
The scrivener paused to consider the question. “I believe the Minoans employed the Pleiades as a secondary method of emphasizing the importance of the autumn equinox in case we failed to understand the clue of the western-facing lily. After I realized how much the star cluster factored into our riddle, I delved further into its astronomical significance. The course of the Pleiades between heliacal rise and achronical rise once marked the beginning and end of both the seafaring and farming seasons. For that reason, many different cultures around the world identify them as the bringers of rain. The color blue is frequently associated with the Pleiades not only because the cluster appears blue to the naked eye, but also because they are said to control the flow of waters.”
“I thought you said rain,” the pythia objected.
“Not merely rain. At the beginning of the planting season, at least in the northern hemisphere, melting snow is also a phenomenon which would fall under their influence.”
Erik rubbed his head wearily. “I don’t see how all of this connects together.”
“Nor did I at first,” Griffin agreed. “I searched for links among all the subjects I’ve just mentioned and eventually discovered the missing piece of the puzzle.”
Both Erik and Cassie leaned forward, all ears.
“The combination of rain, melting snow, and seafaring led me to consider the subject of rivers, and that’s when I found it.” The Brit paused for effect, obviously enjoying the suspense he’d created.
“Griffin, if you don’t spill the beans I’m going to kick you in the shins,” Cassie threatened. She was only half-joking.
The scrivener laughed. “Alright. I imagine I’ve tortured you both enough for one evening.” His face took on a sly expression. “Long ago, before desiccation set in, the Indus River flowed directly into the Rann Of Kutch.”
“Since the Rann of Kutch surrounds Dholavira, that means the Indus must factor into the riddle too,” Erik speculated.
“Oh, yes indeed.” Griffin’s voice sounded fraught with portent. “Though the overlord name for the river is Indus, Tibetans knew it by an entirely different appellation. They called it the ‘Lion River.’”
Cassie blinked once as the implication struck her. “The Lion River!” she echoed. “Then the Lion’s mouth—”
Griffin completed the thought. “Doesn’t refer to the king of beasts at all. It refers to the headwaters of the Indus.”
“So what’s that business about a flock of doves opening the jaws of the lion?” Erik sounded suspicious as if he wasn’t entirely convinced that Griffin knew what he was talking about.
The scrivener remained unflustered. “As I mentioned earlier, the Pleiades are frequently associated with the advent of spring rain, the melting of snow, and the opening of navigable channels for sailing vessels.”
Cassie nodded, comprehending. “I get it. The doves would bring the rain that would melt the winter snow that had frozen the headwaters of the river. In riddle-speak, the doves fill the jaws of the lion with water.”
“Quite right.” Griffin agreed.
The pythia frowned as a new thought struck her. “Wait a minute. Let’s not forget where we are. In this part of India, the average temperature is about a hundred degrees all the time. I can’t see any reason why the headwaters would freeze at all.”
“They wouldn’t,” Griffin paused. “If the headwaters were actually in this part of India.”
“I don’t like where this is going,” Erik muttered.
“OK, I’ll play,” Cassie said. “Where are the headwaters of the Indus?”
“In Tibet, of course,” the scrivener answered smoothly. “Hence the relevance of the Tibetan name for the river.”
The paladin clenched his jaw. “Now I know for sure I don’t like where this is going.”
Cassie’s reaction was just the opposite. “You’re kidding!” She smiled. “We get to travel to Tibet. For real?”
“As you would say, ‘for real.’” Griffin chuckled.
The pythia gave a knowing smile. “Now it all makes sense. The Minoans wanted us to wait at the tower for six months until the spring melt. Back in the day when they were at Dholavira, it would have been suicide to start a journey to Tibet right before winter.”
“Fortunately for us, we live in the age of air travel. Since it’s only mid-October, we ought to be able to fly there, retrieve the artifact and be on our way before the first snowflake falls.”
Erik still appeared troubled. “Where in Tibet are the headwaters exactly?”
“They flow from the slopes of Mount Kailash which is one of the holiest mountains in the world. According to Hindu mythology, it is the abode of Shiva and Pavarti. Buddhism considers it the home of the Buddha Of Sublime Bliss. In Jainism, Kailash is the site where the founder of the faith attained liberation from rebirth. The Tibetan indigenous religion of Bön considers the mountain to be the seat of all spiritual power because it is the home of the sky goddess Sipaimen. Thousands of believers from all four faiths travel to Kailash each year to circumambulate the mountain on pilgrimage. Knowing the Minoan affinity for sacred peaks, I am confident we’ll find the artifact hidden there.”
“I know all about Kailash.” Erik’s tone was ominous. “Too much in fact. I arranged a retrieval in Tibet a couple of years ago and had to travel there. It’s part of the
