"So, how does it work when the Church uses a miracle of healing?" Diarmuid asked in a voice that had gone dry and hoarse with strain. "And what is the price that we're paying when we do so?"
He'd thought that he was strong enough to face this head on, but the deeper they waded into the inner workings of the Church and its miracles, the harder he found it to remain his usual detachment.
It was one thing to confront the Church's lies about the Eldritch. He'd seen enough half-truths and misunderstandings to understand that even the well-intentioned could wander astray when they thought they were doing the right thing based on their limited knowledge or their past experiences.
He could even accept that many in the Church had become lost in the quest for power, and that they'd gone astray from the Great Prophet's teachings. After all, no one was perfect, and that extended to the men and women who donned the vestments of the faithful.
