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Summer, 1273 The village of Emmern was uncannily silent. Until a few days ago, her people had not known a moment’s peace for as long as their tortured minds could remember. They were still nervous, jumping at the sound of unoiled hinges or the squeak of a floorboard. But with each false alarm came the reassurance that it was over. They were rid of their affliction. The rats were gone. In the unfamiliar silence, two companions walked south of the village to see that all was ready for a day of tilling. They carried a lantern with them, for the sun had not yet risen. They looked over many ravaged lines of dead crops, where the rats had left nothing edible behind. They could only hope that working the stalks into the soil would help to nourish their next attempt at sowing. Dawn was creeping over the hills to touch the easternmost houses when a light breeze carried the first shrill notes of a flute to the attentive ears of those preparing for the day’s labor. Was that—? It could not be.

June, 1299 Wikerus awoke to perfect darkness. The air was cool, but his bed was warm. Having no way to check the time without light, he sat up and felt the table at the bedside for his tinderbox. He knew the items inside by their feel. After some arranging, he struck steel on flint. The red spark fell into the tin lid of the box, where he attempted to ignite his sulfur, but it disappeared before he could bring it to life. On his second attempt, the sulfur flared, dazzling his blue eyes, which were completely adjusted to the darkness. He brought a paper spill to the little flame. From there, the spill transported a dancing emissary to his taper candle, and the candle carried it on to a lantern on the shelf hewn into the wall. Steady light at last. He checked the clock beside the lantern. The sun would be down by now. Wikerus carefully packed his things away so he could find them again in total darkness. Then, he quickly put on his day clothes over his nightshirt. Having completed his