Excerpt from the book:

If I hadn't sneezed, none of this would have happened. But who could have known that my allergy to mold, mildew, and boring archival research would lead to murder, mayhem, and but I'm getting ahead of myself.

It all started when my nose began to twitch. Muttering "Damn this dust!" I dug a wrinkled piece of Kleenex out of my canvas shoulder bag. Once I had the Kleenex in hand, the sneeze subsided, lying in wait somewhere behind the bridge of my nose. Tricky little devil. With a sigh, I leaned back in my squeaky library chair and stared at the tattered, leather-covered books on the table.

That morning Brother Mateo, one of the archivists at the National Library of Madrid, had brought me ten newly discovered books, found together in a decaying box in a damp cellar in a village in north-central Spain. He had carried them gently, like newborn puppies, and carefully laid them on the wooden desk before me. I had smiled insincerely and thanked him profusely. I didn't share his enthusiasm for the musty, worm-eaten tomes. All I wanted to do was to end my library research quickly but honorably and find something more productive to do for the rest of the summer.

Distastefully, I selected one of the books at random. It was about the size and thickness of the paperback mystery I was reading, but I knew from experience it would be a lot less interesting. The deeply embossed leather front panel was covered with furry, moss-green mold, as was the rest of the book. Centuries ago, the covers had been fastened with thin leather straps attached to riveted brass fittings. Now only three tarnished brass pieces and a fragment of one frayed strap remained. The book had obviously seen better days, but whether its current state resulted from use or abuse, I couldn't tell.

I began turning the cream-colored vellum pages, trying to read the faded handwriting. My knowledge of modern Spanish is quite good, but the ornate fifteenth-century writing was full of abbreviations, elaborate swirls, and unknown expressions. Besides, the ink had faded to a light purple, making the words even harder to decipher in the dim light that found its way through the distant, dirty windows of the room.

My nose twitched uncontrollably. I complained to myself, "Whatever made me think I'd enjoy archival research? I'm a cultural anthropologist, not a historian?and I hate mold."

As I reached around to get another Kleenex from my bag, my elbow hit the book, sending it flying off the table. It landed on the stone floor with a crash that seemed to reverberate throughout the cavernous room. I glanced around quickly. Fortunately, I was alone.

When I picked up the book, I saw that the spine had split from the impact. What looked like a piece of paper was wedged between the leather spine and the binding. I tried to pull it out, but it was stuck fast. Taking a nail file from my bag, I attempted to pry the paper loose. After carefully twisting it back and forth, I managed to extract a yellowed, concave piece of vellum. It crackled and split as I unfolded it and pressed it flat. With great difficulty, I translated the nearly illegible message:

14 June, Year of Our Lord 1493
Most Honored Master,
I have done as you ordered and hidden our most important treasure from those who would take it from us under the guise of sovereignty. We and only we are the true Knights of Santiago, and we cannot let this greatest treasure of all fall into the hands of those who have destroyed us. I will reveal the details when I talk with you, but know now, in case anything befalls me, that the path begins where our comrades in faith and battle, the Knights of Charlemagne, lie resting. Only the true pilgrim who follows the Milky Way will reach the treasure, and only if St. James the Apostle guides him. I have made a key to the treasure?"

The letter ended abruptly.