Sir Emeric pulled the shroud over his mouth and nose as he drew near to the holding cells. Through the gray, stone bricks beneath his feet grew mushrooms, mold, and other fungus. The hall was dark, save for the lantern in Sir Emeric's hands, and those in the hands of the guards Melcher Fitz had stationed there. Sir Emeric could hear the patients coughing as he passed through, and he desperately hoped none of that was from St. Giradin or Sir Cristoff.

"Giradin?" he called. "Giradin, which cell are you in?"

"Sir Emeric!" came a distant call in the young man's voice. "Over here!"

Sir Emeric hurried over to the door through which he could hear the saint's voice. "Giradin?"

"Sir Emeric! Thank you for visiting," said the saint.

One of the guards drew closer to St. Giradin's cell and rested against the wall nearby, his hand on the hilt of his sword. The dark lenses on his plague doctor mask were a cold, unfeeling reminder that the Templar was being watched carefully.

Sir Emeric leaned against the wall, his every movement deliberate and slow so as not to startle the guard. "They tell me you're not eating."

"That's right," said St. Giradin.

Sir Emeric sighed. "Why? This place is infested with plague. You need to eat to keep up your strength."

"No," said St. Giradin. "I'm fasting."

"Fasting?" Sir Emeric repeated. "Did God tell you to fast?"

"The Virgin Mary did, actually," said St. Giradin. "In a dream I had last night. Besides..." The young saint paused for several moments before finally saying in a dark tone, "The food tasted strange."

Sir Emeric felt a chill. Could the food the guards were giving St. Giradin be poisoned? Or, perhaps, full of miasma? Deliberately infected so that St. Giradin may die? It was no secret that Melcher Fitz hated St. Giradin and didn't believe he was truly a messenger of God. Sir Emeric's blood boiled the more he thought about the possibility that the master of the order might be trying to poison him. How easy it would be for Fitz to kill St. Giradin and make it look like he succumbed to plague, disproving his sainthood.

"We're going to find the killer," said Sir Emeric. "We'll get you out of there. I swear it."

"Someone's bound to confess soon," said St. Giradin, though there was no hope or joy in his voice.

"Why do you say that?" said Sir Emeric.

"I keep hearing screams from the cells further down the hall, in the areas where I've never visited. Screams of agony, not fear. They're... interrogating people. I think Sir Cristoff is among them."

Interrogating. Obviously, he meant torturing. Sir Emeric glanced down the hall, to the areas where shadows obscured the path. Somewhere in there, Melcher Fitz's men were torturing their suspects, trying to force confessions out of them. St. Giradin was right, if that was allowed to continue, soon they would have a confession from someone who had absolutely nothing to do with the crime.

Does Fitz really want to catch Mujahid's murderer? Or does he just want someone to pin the blame on to protect his reputation?

Sir Emeric turned back to face the door of St. Giradin's room. "I'm going to talk with Melcher Fitz. This isn't right."

"Please don't leave me," said St. Giradin. "Not yet... it's so lonely here."

Sir Emeric's heart stung at the young saint's plea. He needed him, wanted him to stay. Sir Emeric never wanted to leave this wonderful young man's side, but he feared he must if justice were to be achieved.

"I'll come back soon," said Sir Emeric. "I promise."

For a moment, only silence met Sir Emeric's words. Finally, St. Giradin said, "You're a dear friend, Sir Emeric."

With his heart fluttering, Sir Emeric responded, "Greater love hath no more than this, that a man should lay down his life for his friend. You, young saint, are a far greater friend than I can ever hope to be. To do this for Fulk..." Sir Emeric pressed the palm of his hand against St. Giradin's door, painfully wishing he could have reached out and held the young man's hand in that moment. "I will return for you."

Sir Emeric stormed out of those halls, up the stairs, and to Melcher Fitz's office. Those in his way quickly departed to the left and right, fearing that they might get bowled over by the furious Templar.

Sir Emeric burst through Melcher Fitz's door. The master sat at his desk with a quill in hand.

"Get out," were the first words out of Fitz's mouth.

"Not until you hear me out!" Sir Emeric snapped.

"Fine, speak your peace," said Fitz.

Sir Emeric's nostrils flared and he pounded his fist on Melcher's desk. "You need to release Giradin. NOW! You cannot expect to hold a saint of Almighty God without penalty. Even if you don't think he's a real saint, you must understand that the Church holds a different view."

"Have you made your point?" Fitz asked, his face even colder and more unfeeling than the plague doctor masks.

"Not nearly!" Sir Emeric growled. "I know you're trying to torture confessions out of people, and it's going to stop! You and I know full well that people under torture will say anything to make it stop."

"You and I know full well that no one tells the truth about crimes they've committed unless they have damn good reason to." Fitz shook his head. "What am I to do? Bribe the killer to admit that he stuck a knife in Mujahid's throat? Speak kindly to everyone and hope someone decides to confess? No one saw the murder happen, so I'm doing all I can to solve this mystery."

"You're doing all you can to find a scapegoat!" Sir Emeric snapped back.

"Get out of my office," Melcher Fitz said, flatly.

In a fit of rage, Sir Emeric swept his hand across Melcher's desk, knocking all his papers and his ink well onto the floor, then stormed out while the master doctor cursed at him and scrambled to pick up all his work.