He doesn't even know where to begin, really. To tell Xellos about the Church, and what it meant and did, and how virtually owning Pamplona and Valencia is not what they call character-building for an 18-year-old, not to mention all those souls, next to the fat stipends.
And he doesn't know where to begin to speak to him of saints, true saints, the few he's seen, those pale, shrieking little nuns, and himself torn between piety - his father's naive legacy, that - and scoffing pragmatism.
"Convenient. Ah, why yes, it is." He smiles, but it looks as if he'd tried to eat a quince. "Speaking in tongues. Adding to the general confusion."