What to do with the surviving cultist occupied the ride back to Schneeberg.
"Hand him to the real tribunal," Isfrid said. "Let the actual Church deal with him."
"The actual Church will burn him within the week," Faust said. "Publicly, as an example. They'll learn nothing useful from the ash, because a burning man doesn't talk."
"He tried to help summon a monster. He deserves whatever they decide."
"Perhaps. But the tribunal won't ask the questions I need answered, because they don't know the questions exist." Faust rubbed the bridge of his nose. "If I keep him, I become his jailer and judge in one, with no oversight beyond my own conscience—which is not an authority I'd trust if I were standing in your boots."
He riffled through the deck in his coat pocket. His thumb brushed a card that grew warm and heavy against his palm before he had even formed the question.
[XI — JUSTICE].
He hoped that it would help him make up his mind.
The card's pressure settled over him—impartial, refusing to soften a hard truth.
You already know what's fair. You're only asking permission to avoid it.
"We hand him to the tribunal," Faust said, releasing the card. "After I've extracted what we need, without a pyre hanging over his head. If his information is genuine, it matters more than his execution as a lesson to a village that will forget him by winter."
Isfrid looked at him for a long beat.
"That isn't an easy answer."
"No," Faust said. "It's just the correct one."
He clicked the reins, urging the horses forward.
"The tribunal gets its heretic. We get whatever truth we can pry loose first."
"But how do you know he'll tell us the truth?"
Faust snorted, looking at the [XI — JUSTICE] card.
"Hm, might be just luck... or a coincidence."