The potter beamed at the newcomer. “Otar Gleb! We only needed you to make this evening perfect. Come, come!”

The newcomer was a young priest whom Voran didn’t know. He was dressed in a linen cassock with no adornment other than a red embroidered belt. Blond ringlets and short beard with a few white streaks framed a sharp face with exaggerated features. At first glance, he seemed fantastically ugly, especially with a broken nose that covered half his face. But his smile came easily and illumined his pale-blue eyes. When he smiled, he was beautiful.

“Vohin Voran,” he said, approaching Voran and taking his forearm in the traditional warrior greeting. “We have not met, but I have long wished to know you. How fitting that it should be this day, and in such illustrious company.”

When he saw the Pilgrim, he went a little pale, as though he saw something in him that Voran did not. The Pilgrim smiled in acknowledgement and nodded once.

“By the…” Otar Gleb cleared his throat and chuckled. “What an honor to meet a Pilgrim. Truly you bless this day, when we bring joy to all our dead.”

“Vasyllia is blessed while its clerics still zealously labor for the flame in the heart,” said the Pilgrim enigmatically.

The conversation around the hearth grew even more boisterous, if that was possible. Voran watched the young priest intently. He was different from most priests he knew. Less concerned with outward appearances. When he spoke to someone, even the smallest child, he looked them in the eye and didn’t flinch or allow his eyes to flick away. His smile was always ready, always present in the corner of his eyes, but he only let it blossom fully when he felt joy in himself. Everyone seemed physically drawn to him, despite his ugliness.

“Otar Gleb,” said Voran in a rare lull in the conversation, “please forgive my rudeness, but are you a first-reacher?”

“No, Voran. I am a second-reacher. Merchant stock, as it happens. But with no interest or ability in the fine art of trading. And in any case, you know, I’m sure, that one of our priestly vows is the rejection of reacher status.”

Siloán chuckled. It seemed that he and Gleb shared a private jest.

“But now that you mention it,” said Gleb, “I find the division into reaches to be a crippling reality for the city, don’t you think, Siloán?”

“No, not in the least,” said the potter. “Only in our segregation can we hold to the traditions that are so fast disappearing, even in your second reach.”

“But the separation limits the reach of your wares, does it not?” said Voran. “Not many third-reachers will buy first-reacher work these days.”

In answer, the potter reached behind himself and pulled out an urn, very similar to the one he sold to the Pilgrim. Except it was more beautiful. At first glance, it seemed no more than a simple clay urn. But the longer Voran looked at it, the more perfect it seemed. Its proportions were flawless. Its form and color were unique. The gradations of the natural clay had been manipulated with purpose, but to look as though it were the work of nature. There were even words and figures in between the swirls of clay, invisible to the careless eye.

“Yes, I see you understand,” said the potter. “If this urn were to appear in a third-reacher stall at the market, it still would only sell to the discerning eye. And those are rare in any age. Especially our decadent one.”

“You do realize that by limiting yourself thus you are depriving your family of comfort and riches?”

“Oh, you third-reachers!” laughed Siloán. “You have so much that your hearts have become small. You can live very well with very little. Sometimes, it is better this way.”

Voran wondered if that were really true.

They spent most of the day at Siloán’s. Afterward, Voran was morose and unwilling to talk. He meandered through the first reach’s dingy streets, wondering at how few trees remained in these levels. The only greenery he saw was the occasional kitchen garden. The Pilgrim took his arm and led him up a staircase leading into the second reach. Just before entering the archway to the clean and orderly streets of the military sector, they stopped at a naked outcrop with a perfect view of the crowd in the plain still feasting in front of the city. From this vantage point, the embroidered designs of the pavilions of the rich took on a life of their own. Here was an embroidered dragon, there a longboat with sail unfurled, even owl eyes staring from butterfly wings. Everywhere the colors danced as the mist from the waterfalls showered the feasters with drops of gold and opal.

“Beautiful, is it not?” The voice behind them was low and musical.

“Good eve, Mirnían,” said Voran, feeling oddly abashed. “I had hoped you would be about. I wanted you to meet the Pilgrim in person.”

“A Pilgrim in Vasyllia,” said Mirnían, his right eyebrow barely rising.

Voran felt like a hump-backed invalid next to Mirnían, though the prince was not much taller than he. Curling gold hair resting on his shoulders, eyes grey as a storm, perfectly straight teeth—Mirnían had everything that Voran did not have, but desired greatly.

“My father the Dar will be pleased to see you, though he is much engaged with matters of state at the moment. I can walk you through the market in the meantime.”

“We spent most of the morning there, Mirnían,” said Voran.

“Well,” said Mirnían as though brushing off a mosquito, “I hardly have time today, in any case. Pilgrim, surely you have tales to tell of the other lands. Yesterday’s storyteller was a disaster. Would you honor us on the stage? Tomorrow will be the last triumphal day before the Dar calls off the hunt for the white stag. Your story may help alleviate the disappointment the city will feel at our famed hunters not finding any trace of it.” Mirnían stared at Voran significantly.

“I would like nothing more, Prince Mirnían,” said the Pilgrim.

“Excellent. I will send for you at the proper time. You must forgive me, but matters of state, you know.”

Voran breathed a sigh of relief at Mirnían’s departure.

“Why do you dislike Mirnían?” asked the Pilgrim.

Voran was annoyed at the Pilgrim’s astuteness.

“We were very close as children, and soon I am to be his brother. And yet…I don’t dislike him, it’s only…”

“Tell me, did he take the Ordeal of Silence with you that year, Voran?”

Voran’s heart sank. He nodded.

“He did not last, did he?”

“No, he broke after two weeks. But there is no shame in that. It is a very difficult ordeal.”

The Pilgrim stared without expression at Voran, until Voran looked down in shame.

“Voran, do you know why the Nebesti urn cracked so spectacularly, while the potter’s vessel did not?”

Voran shook his head, not daring to raise it yet.

“It was baked in too hot a fire.”

Voran looked up.

“I thought the heat strengthened the clay, Pilgrim.”

“The right amount of heat does, just as the right amount of adversity strengthens any relationship between two people. But there is one fire that is always too hot. Do you know what that is?”

Voran did not answer.

“Envy.”

They joined the main road of the second reach that led through the open marketplace—now empty of stalls—toward the center of Vasyllia. Ahead of them stood the large central square, at the heart of which stood the Covenant Tree. Pale flames danced over the translucent leaves of the aspen sapling, which stood barely taller than a man. For a moment, Voran thought the fire was low. But that was unlikely. It was months still until the day of the summoning of the fire.

“Pilgrim. Do you think the potter is right? Can we restore the ideal of Vasyllia? Or are we just idealistic dreamers?”

The Pilgrim exhaled a long, wheezy breath, all the while staring at the sapling. Finally, he looked at Voran with heavy eyes.

“Come, I will show you.”