Melcher Fitz's personal journal offered me a more interesting perspective on the next day's events.

He awoke that morning to a voice outside his tent. "Master Fitz! Master Fitz! News from the city!"

Fitz rose up, his head still in a daze. "What is it?"

"It's Giradin, master!"

Fitz's irritated groan interrupted the messenger. "What has the fool done this time?"

"The people of Elekvaz say he's a saint!"

The messenger may as well have said Giradin had grown five additional heads and gave birth to a cockatrice for how absurd the declaration sounded. Giradin? A saint? The boy was clearly a coward, and his service to the Crows had been mediocre at best.

Even so, with all the mass hysteria in Elekvaz after the fire, and Giradin's argument with Fitz the other day, Melcher could imagine the young man making a spectacle of himself and gaining the mob's favor.

But Fitz had no idea just how much favor Giradin had gathered until he entered the city with seven other Crows. The streets seemed strangely empty on the way to the church, where he'd been told Giradin was waiting for him. The city was quiet, unsettlingly so, and Fitz's own boot-steps echoed back to him, along with those of his seven companions.

After a long, eerie stroll through vacant streets, he found the crowd as he rounded the corner toward the church. It must have been every man, woman, child, and dog in the city what gathered on the steps and in the streets before the church. Fitz had never seen so many people gathered around a church, save at Christmas. But none of them spoke in anything above whispers.

When Fitz drew close, he saw that there was no clear path to the door. He tapped his cane on the ground thrice to get their attention. A few of the men closer to him turned their heads. "Allow me to pass," Melcher Fitz commanded. "I need to speak to Giradin."

A burly man in the crowd with a beard pulled down into three braids chuckled and folded his arms. "You'll have to wait with the rest of us, then. EVERYONE wants to talk to Saint Giradin and Fulk the Blessed."

Fitz snorted with suppressed laughter at the phrase, "Fulk the Blessed." Under any other circumstances, he might have let his laughter loose at that, but the devotion on these people's faces when they said it told him this would not endear him to the crowd.

"The Saint has summoned me by name," Fitz said.

Many in the crowd turned and gave him skeptical looks.

"Melcher Fitz," he said.

A few of them murmured to each other, their voices just low enough that Fitz could not hear them. Finally, one spoke louder than the rest. "Oh! Yes, he did mention that name!"

With grumbling and rolls of their eyes, the men moved out of Fitz's way and gently pulled their wives and children out of the way.

Fitz gave a polite nod and started his way up the stairs, between the masses of people. Dogs barked and snarled at him as he walked by, but their owners pulled on their leashes. The moment brought Fitz's mind back to Father Hewlett's death, and he gripped tightly the pommel of his sword. If these swine dared attack him, he'd not hesitate to cut them down.

Filthy, plague-ridden pigs...

As he drew near the top of the stairs, Fitz saw the doors were already open, and within the church the candles were lit. More people parted out of his way as he entered the sanctuary and approached the pulpit.

The local priest stood beside the pulpit, his eyes cast downward. Giradin stood on a lower level, in front of the pulpit. The woman before Giradin knelt and held up her baby to him. Giradin placed his hand on the baby's forehead, closed his eyes, and appeared to mumble something. The old priest standing above him gave a kind smile and a loving nod of his head.

What in God's name?

On Giradin's opposite side stood two men in plague doctor uniforms. Fitz assumed they were Shlomo and Mu, whose apparent affection for the former cobbler Fitz would never understand. Where they stood was one of the few spots in the church which wasn't crowded.

Just beyond them stood Fulk, his face still wrapped in bandages, with his back to the wall and his arms folded. His hunched shoulders spoke of his skittish disgust as men and women gathered around him, posing all manner of questions.

"Master Fitz!" Giradin called out, and Melcher's attention snapped back to the lad.

Is he... he's missing an eye!

Yet, in spite of the burn scar where the young man's eye should have been, Giradin wore a smile so genuine, so innocent. Fitz hadn't seen anyone smile like that in many years. And yet, as his eyes fell on the woman with her baby, he saw that smile again. And again on the face of the next woman in line, who walked with a limp.

Fitz drew nearer to Giradin, his cane tapping the floor with every step. "They tell me you've been chosen by God."

Giradin nodded. "I'm just as amazed as you are, master, I promise!"

"Tell the story again!" said one of the children in the crowd.

Fitz braced himself for what was to come next. True to everything he knew about the young man, and everyone in Fulk's team, Giradin spun a wild story about vengeful spirits made of ash and fire, desperate prayers when all hope seemed lost, and light emitting from his fingertips to drive back evil. Then, of course, no story about sainthood would be complete without a miracle healing.

By now Giradin had told it so many times that the people in the crowd were reminding him to include details. Giradin became as animated as a marionette when he retold the tale, his face turning to make eye contact with everyone in his audience. Everyone in the church sanctuary, except his fellow Crows.

Fitz was certain all of this was nonsense. There was any number of explanations for what these people might and might not have seen to make them believe such grand tales. Yet, the possibility that at least some of it might be true made Melcher's jugular twitch. If there was any sort of power in this lad, he would have to deal with the matter delicately. The Crows already had enough accusations of witchcraft thrown at them.

"Is it true, Fulk?" Melcher called out, raising his voice above the crowd. The priest made a gesture for him to keep his voice down. But Melcher knew that the crowd needed to hear this. If the story was false, this needed to be exposed here and now.

Out of everyone in that particular team, Fulk was the one who'd proven most cynical about wild tales. Even if there had been a supernatural healing he'd be likely to deny it.

But the look in Fulk's eyes was one of trembling fear when he met Melcher's gaze. "Leave it," came Fulk's firm response.

Normally, Melcher would have challenged Fulk for his insubordination. Thrashed him with his cane for the subtle threat. It was the look in Fulk's eye that changed his mind. Fulk was known as a man who had only anger where other men felt fear, but it was clear he was deeply rattled.

Melcher turned back to Giradin. "Well, if what you say is true, then hail to thee, Saint Giradin." Melcher bent at the waist to give a hint of a bow. "And surely a saint has such honor as to uphold his oath to the Order of St. Ida of Louvain? You are still sworn to the life of a plague doctor, my friend."

"Indeed I am," said Giradin. "That's why I summoned you."

Summoned me? Melcher Fitz clenched his fist tight around the handle of his cane. I am your superior, boy!

Already, the arrogant lad was acting like he was in control. As if his word was law, and not Melcher's.

"As long as we stay in Elekvaz," Giradin continued, "I would like to spend my time healing these poor people as best I can. How much longer does Mujahid's experiment need to go on?"

Oh, that's all we need... him taking credit for a Moor's medicine... They'll think it was a miracle if it works, but if it doesn't they'll blame the Moor. Damn it, boy! This had better be naivety and not malice! By exposing Mujahid's name you may have doomed him!

"I suppose one more week is all we shall need," said Melcher. "And I shall write to the Pope immediately about this glorious news!"

"Thank you, Master Fitz," said Giradin, his eyes turned back to the people gathered around him. "Please don't forget to let me know what he has to say."

You cannot hope to heal the whole world yourself? One person at a time, boy? You'll never keep up with the spread of the plague! If the Moor's medicine works we need it...

"I'm sorry, dear people, but you heard it yourselves," said Giradin to the crowd.

Melcher's heart froze.

Giradin continued, "By my oath I must leave in one week's time. So, please, give everyone a chance to come to me. I need to heal as many people as I can before I continue the Lord's work elsewhere."

Melcher saw the crowd cast their disgust upon his dark mask. His cold, unfeeling mask as contrasted with Giradin's kind and smiling young face. Their saint was abandoning them, and it was Melcher's fault.

"Giradin! Take me with you!" cried out a young man with strong arms and a stubbled jaw.

"Me too!" cried a much older man with a ragged, white beard.

Giradin shook his head. "I can't. Only plague doctors can go where I am going."

"Then I'll become a plague doctor!"

"I shall swear your oath too!"

"So shall I!"

And by the dozens, men in the crowd raised their hands to join the plague doctors.

In the eyes of his superiors, Melcher would have been a fool to refuse so many volunteers. Making a blunder so terrible would surely cost Melcher is job, if not his life. He could already hear the Cardinal's voice in his ear, screaming at him for his newest mistake. Yet, if he agreed to take on so many volunteers, they would all be loyal to Giradin, his own little army of zealots. Melcher would already be a leader only as long as Giradin decided to follow him.

"We welcome you all!" said Melcher Fitz, "Surely, with all that we have to face ahead of us we need all the help we can get. But being a plague doctor isn't just giving people medicine. It's also burning the bodies of those who died of plague so they cannot spread it anymore. It's cleaning chamber pots and washing filthy streets. You deal in more muck than medicine. You'll wade through vomit and pus. Then there are the rats! Are you sure you wish to take on this responsibility?"

The young man with strong arms threw his fist forward in the air. "We'll do whatever God wills!"

The others did the same, though not quite in one voice, "God's will!"

"Deus vult!" the old man shouted. Melcher could swear he saw Shlomo, Mu, and Fulk all jump at the phrase.

"Deus vult!" another man in the crowd cried.

"Deus vult!"

"Deus vult!"

"Deus vult!"

And on the chanting went, with more and more men, young and old, raising their fists in the air.

The next note in Melcher's journal speaks of him pulling Fulk aside to speak to him. When he finally got Fulk to talk, the penitent murderer told him the following:

I heard a creak in the gates of Heaven and Hell last night...