The anger rose in Voran with the suddenness of nausea.

“Which tales, Pilgrim?” he asked, unable to hide the quiver of anger in his voice. “That he massacred innocent people? Or that he beat my mother, forcing her to run away from Vasyllia in a half-mad state?”

The Pilgrim stopped, abashed.

“Surely that is not what is said of Aglaia?”

Voran stopped in mid-stride. The Pilgrim had knowledge of his mother. The possibility made his heart run circles in his chest.

“Pilgrim, do you know what happened to my mother?”

The Pilgrim smiled, but did not answer the question.

“Voran, am I wrong to believe that you have never spoken of these things to anyone? Will you consider it brazen of a Pilgrim to ask your confidence?”

Voran’s mouth began speaking even before he gave it permission.

“There is no one I can confess to, Pilgrim. Lebía—my little sister—is still haunted by nightmares. She was only eight years old when we lost both our parents. The Dar is eternally sympathetic, but I don’t feel comfortable burdening him with personal worries. His daughter Sabíana, my…intended…” The heat rose in Voran’s cheeks. “Well, she is very protective of Lebía, and has a flinty nature. I find it better not to speak of it in her presence.”

The Pilgrim smiled knowingly. He pointed forward with his staff, offering Voran to continue speaking while they walked. Voran nodded, and they both walked forward as the carpet of fallen leaves rustled comfortably underfoot.

“Pilgrim, have you heard of the Time of Ordeal?”

“Who has not? Vasyllia’s warrior seminary is famed for it. Though I believe my knowledge of it to be several hundred years out of date.” He laughed, with a faraway look, as if remembering. Surely he was not that old. “Tell me, how many houses are still extant of the original seven?”

“Three remain. All three are segregated, as you know, coming together only for the training and vigils of the Ordeals. The gates of the seminary close, and no one is allowed in or out, not even with messages from family members. The Dar himself has no right to open the gates, except in times of war. The vigils, physical training, and period of intense contemplation are every bit as grueling as the tales have it.

“Eight years ago, I volunteered for the Ordeal of Silence four years before my allotted time. It’s a vow that few take, and hardly ever in their sixteenth year, but I sought out the opportunity with pleasure.”

“Voran, did you know that some of the oldest legends claim that the successful Ordeal of Silence fulfilled before its time is rewarded with a Sirin’s song?”

It explained a great deal. “No, Pilgrim. I did not.”

The Pilgrim’s smile was knowing. Chills ran down his spine. It was strangely pleasant.

“A week into the ordeal, my mother fell ill. None of the physicians understood it. There were lesions and bruises, and she just withered away. Then she disappeared. No note, no sign of departure, nothing. She just vanished. When I successfully finished the ordeal, the Otchigen I found was half the man he used to be. He had recently returned from a week of searching the wilds, but had found no sign of her. His state grew steadily worse, until I was forced to beg release from my studies, something I hated to do.

“Soon after, Father volunteered for a commission to Karila. There were unfounded rumors of nomad uprisings in far Karila, and it had led to a worsening of tensions between Vasyllia and Karila. He joined the garrison guarding a group of ambassadors who hoped to strengthen Karila’s ties to the throne of Vasyllia. I was against Father’s going from the start, but the Dar insisted. Said it would do him good.”

Through the haze of memory, Voran saw that he and the Pilgrim walked along a more recognizable path than before, and the aspens interspersed with pines hinted that they were coming nearer home.

“You never saw him again,” said the Pilgrim.

Voran nodded. He didn’t have the heart to speak of the murder of the ambassadors to Karila, or of his father’s assumed guilt in their murders.

“Voran, I thank you for your confidence. You may not understand yet why a Pilgrim would be so interested in your family history. I hope, when the trials begin, that you will find some solace in our shared confidence.”

Before Voran could answer, he was distracted by a white streak to his left. The stag.

The path turned sharply and led them to a bald patch in the wooded hills, where they entered open sunlight for the first time since leaving the sleeping-wood. The white stag walked toward them in a straight line. He stopped a foot in front of them, and Voran saw that there was a shimmer in the air between them. Voran touched it, and his hand could not pass through. A transparent wall.

“Never mind, old friend,” the Pilgrim said to the stag. “We have need of you after all.”

The deer raised his head and shook it. Snorting, he pawed the ground with a foreleg. The Pilgrim smiled at Voran.

“He’s annoyed with you. He would much rather remain in Vasyllia. Good country, he says, even if a bit on the forgetful side.”

Voran was dumbfounded. “Vasyllia is on the other side of that…transparent wall?”

The stag bowed as he had in the clearing, and the gold light from his antlers burst out. Voran raised an arm to his face, but the stag was already gone.

The mustiness of Vasyllia’s birches inundated Voran’s senses. He and the Pilgrim stood next to a saddle-shaped branch that Voran often slept on during the hot afternoons.

“The white stag is a bearer,” the Pilgrim explained, “a sort of…doorway. Between the worlds, you know. But to bear us to Vasyllia, he had to return to the Lows of Aer.”

Voran felt no more enlightened than before, but the Pilgrim only rumbled hearty laughter and strode uphill toward Vasyllia.

All of Vasyllia feasted before the gates. Close to the walls, rows of wedge-pavilions marked the families closest to the Dar’s regard, all from the third reach. Farther downslope, canvas tents flapped on sturdy frames. First and second-reacher families gathered around makeshift hearths. Heavy pots boiled over with stew. Carts pushed by pantalooned merchants wended their way among the feasters, regardless of social standing. In the midst of it all, a smaller replica of the market day stage had been built, and a storyteller had all the children in stitches, while their parents feigned seriousness, though most couldn’t hide their abashed smiles at the ribaldry their children didn’t catch.

On any other day, the spectacle would have cheered Voran. He loved a good pageant, as did any Vasylli. To see the entire city together like this, the reaches mingling, was a rare thing. And yet, something was lacking. Somehow, everything about Vasyllia now seemed half-empty, devoid of meaning.

The master bell roared in the palace belfry, announcing the return of the unsuccessful hunting party. Copper bells followed in syncopated chorus, beating in rhythm to the bay of the hunting dogs. Silver bells clamored in the rhythm of a thousand blackbirds.

“Pilgrim,” he said, straining to hear himself over the din of the bells, “Will you do my house the honor of staying with us while you visit Vasyllia?”

“Of course, Voran. I thank you for the offer.” His voice was more resonant than the bells. For a quick moment, Voran thought that the grey cloak and the stony visage were a kind of mask that the Pilgrim chose to assume for his own purposes, and that his real face was different. But the moment of intuition faded. Voran shook his head, befuddled.

The mountain city loomed before them, many-tiered and many-terraced. Its houses and streets hugged a sloping peak that curved upward like a saber to a pinnacle high above the mists. Amid the pines and spruces, the city of Vasyllia seemed to have grown from the mountains’ bones many ages ago. Towers were extensions of crags. Alleys, bridges, and archways were natural hollows and caves, gently bent to human will.

Something deep within the city compelled Voran. Not the Vasyllia built of wood, cobbled with stone, and planted in earth. No, that was little more than a mask, like the mask of the Pilgrim. The real city lay beneath it. For the first time in his life, Voran sensed there was something living, something vital in the heart of Vasyllia, something no one knew about or even suspected. The hidden Vasyllia whispered to him, though he could not parse out the words.

“You surprise me, young Voran,” said the Pilgrim. “How quickly you pierce to the heart of things. Whatever happens, my falcon, do not forget this. Vasyllia is everything. You must never let Vasyllia fall. She is everything.”

Vasyllia is the Mother of Cities. Nebesta, our first daughter, will forever be jealous of her second place. Karila, the runt of the three city-states, will seek every opportunity to thrust thorns into the side of her mother. But I charge you, my sons, remember this. A true mother always slaves for her children…

From “The Testament of Cassían, Dar of Vasyllia”

(The Sayings: Book II, 15:3-5)

Chapter 3

The Market

To Voran’s annoyance, the Pilgrim plunged into the middle of the assembled throng of Vasylli. Voran had hoped that he could have the Pilgrim to himself for a time, before the tide of adoration inevitably took him. But Voran’s worries were unfounded.

The Pilgrim walked among the people of all reaches, speaking to none and being addressed by none. It was almost as if the people could not quite see him. And yet, everywhere he went, faces brightened and conversations turned boisterous. Even the colors of fabrics seemed brighter after he had passed.