Inquisitor Cardenal Modesto Mejía de Sandoval: loud at parties, deep in his cups, universally liked, and the subject of the longest unbroken stare a bear has ever directed at a churchman. The bear was right.
There are hooves beneath this robe, friends. Be kind.
He confessed it only when Crespo lay dying: not a man and never was: a thing of the old green places that "played at faith and it took me." He risked exposure to work the cure anyway, boiling the Flor de Medianoche over a copper brazier and praying in a dialect half Old Théan and half forest. "Let this lie do some good before it dies." Then he folded his Inquisitor's robes on the bed and walked out of the city, whistling.
He left one warning, that things were getting hot for his kind, and one open question: his full style is de Sandoval, the royal ducado. Make of that what you will. Everyone else has.