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smiles to their parents’ faces. Life was almost returning to normal in Valemidas.
    As he stepped into the city’s central plaza, Yates felt familiar awe at the outline of spires in the setting sun. Highest were the towers of the palace, rising from the rocky outcrop above. On the opposite side of the plaza was the single, high spire of the Cathedral. In the middle, the great white tree reached up to the sky, its branches swaying in the wind. The tree bore the scars of Tryst’s laws burned onto its trunk. Andor could not wipe clean the scars, so instead he ordered a new message be posted above them: Remember tyranny, Valemidans, and always be wary of its advances . Yates liked the message, but he feared it would take more than words to heal those wounds.
    He entered the Cathedral and its majestic sanctuary. He thought of a somber poem about the angels on the ceilings, their faded colors, and pieces left incomplete. As much as he strived, life on this earth would be incomplete. Fulfillment would come only after death. Deep inside he mourned the truth, but he would welcome the day when death found him. The thought made his eyes grow moist as he walked down the center aisle.
    He made his way to the stairs leading up to his quarters. Maybe it was just his time away from the Cathedral that stirred his emotions. Maybe it was that the Cathedral, as wonderful as it was, would never be complete because of the fallen people who used it. Fallen people like himself.
    He composed himself to face his duties. It was draining to stare deep truths in the face, and he needed to be strong for others. It was good to be back in his home.
    His quarters included three rooms, each with more space than he wanted. Years ago, when he had been elected to lead the Cathedral, he had protested the luxuries. Many of the high priests had insisted that he maintain the dignities of the position, for he might be called upon to host nobles and princes. After years of struggle, he had managed to make the space bare. He ordered the thick colorful rugs sold to fund the orphanage. The gilded framed paintings were moved. The four-post bed was donated to the city’s caretaker of widows. All he had left was a small desk, a simple dining table, a few chairs, and a straw bed. The rooms felt especially empty when there were no guests.  
    When he entered the dining room, his assistant of many years, the nun Petra, stood beside the table with her hands clasped before her. A feast was spread out, smelling delicious. Yates’ stomach twisted and clenched. Petra came to him and spoke tenderly.
    “Father, you look weak. When did you last eat?” She helped him remove his cloak and took his hand to lead him to the water basin.
    “You flatter me by suggesting I otherwise look strong,” he smiled at her. “It has been a few days, but I am not so weak that I cannot wash my hands on my own.” She stood close to him as he dipped his hands into the cool, clean water.  
    “Is Jon expected to arrive soon?” He asked.
    “He has been here an hour or so, Father, praying in the Cathedral’s east alcove.” She held out a towel for him to dry his hands. “Would you like me to bring him?”
    “Yes,” Yates said, but something about Petra’s behavior made him pause. “What is it, Petra?”
    She met his gaze. “Father, please let me come with you next time you visit the Mont. It is a hard journey, miles by foot and by sea. I would like to help you carry your load, draw your sails, prepare your meals.” She hesitated with her wrinkled lips pressed together. “There is little for me to do here while you are away.”
    “Thank you for being open with me, Petra. We shall see. I hardly know what I would do without you here.” Yates held out his arm to escort her. She took it and he walked her to the door. He stopped at the door and raised his hand to bless her. “May you and I always be vessels of the light, blessing the lives of each other.” Joy spread over her face as she