When Han emerged from the Matriarch Lodge the morning of the ceremony, haunches of venison were already roasting on spits, and the succulent scent of roast pork wafted from fire pits in the ground. Long trestle tables had been set up under the trees. Han and the younger children brought back armloads of wild onions and garlic, and freshly baked pies were lined up on the cooling racks in the cooking lodge.

Han helped lay the fire in the outdoor temple, dragged more seating into place for clan elders, and flirted with some Demonai girls he hadn’t seen for six months.

Willo dressed in her Matriarch’s robes, then carefully laid out Dancer’s clothes, unfolding them from the trunk at the foot of her sleeping bench—leggings and moccasins, a soft shirt and fringed buckskin jacket painted and beaded in her distinctive style. Han studied it for clues. It was a nontraditional, somewhat jarring design, incorporating the familiar Marisa Pines and Matriarch symbols with rowan and jinx signs.

Willo even pulled out a beaded buckskin shirt for Han, the lone hunter symbols embroidered on the back yoke. Han stammered out a thanks, and Willo smiled and shook her head.

“Thank you for being a friend to Fire Dancer,” she said. “He will need you in the coming days.”

Han blinked at her. “What do you…?”

She shook her head. “You will see,” she said, turning away, dismissing him, and sitting down at her loom as if it weren’t a feast day.

And still Dancer didn’t come.

“Do you want me to go look for him?” Han asked, unable to stand the suspense any longer and wanting to do something useful.

“He will come,” Willo said, throwing her shuttle and catching it. “He has no choice.”

The feast began in late afternoon, the long tables groaning with platters and bowls, dogs circulating hopefully underneath. Han wasn’t as hungry as he thought he’d be, eating on his own. His friends were all sequestered, preparing to cross into the future.

Finally, at the last possible moment, Dancer slipped back into camp, looking haggard and dirty, like he’d slept for three days on the ground.

Willo silently handed him a basin, and he sluiced water over his head and face, scrubbing away the grime with a towel. He then dressed for the ceremony with quick fierce movements, making no comment on his new clothes.

Han opened his mouth, but his voice died in his throat. He was angry with Dancer for acting this way. Jealous of his friend’s place in the world and the ceremony that would confirm it. Whatever vocation had been chosen for him, he needed to accept it. Han wished someone would tell him what to do with the rest of his life.

And then it was time to go. The torches were already lit as they made their way along the path to the outdoor temple, even though the light would linger far into the night on this longest of days. A soft breeze kissed Han’s skin, carrying the scent of night lilies and the promise of the brief upland summer.