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.

Dancer left them when they reached the temple, circling around to join the others in the Acolyte Lodge. Willo split off too, to join the elders at the front of the temple. The grown-ups wore the ceremonial garb of their chosen vocations, a flower garden of colors. Han, feeling foolish, sat on the ground with the younger children, folding his long legs up out of the way.

The ceremony began with speeches from the elders of both camps. Han recognized Averill Lightfoot and resisted the urge to fade back into the woods. He’d last seen the trader during the disaster at Southbridge Temple, when he’d kidnapped Rebecca and escaped into Ragmarket.

It’s all right, Han told himself. The trader hadn’t recognized him then, and by now the red-brown dye had nearly washed out of his hair. Who would expect to find a Ragmarket streetlord at the Marisa Pines naming ceremony?

Cennestre Elena, Matriarch of Demonai Camp, told the familiar story of how the clans were carved from Spirit stone and the breath of the Maker brought them to life. And how, to this day, the queens of the Fells returned to the Spirits at the end of life, each claiming a peak as her final dwelling place.

Han found himself relaxing, the cadence of the familiar old stories soothing him as it always did. Why couldn’t real life be that orderly? Instead it was a tangled fish line, with knots and connections you couldn’t see.

For instance, Averill was the consort to the queen of the Fells, the father of the princess heir. Han couldn’t help but think it strange, this linkage between those glittering Valefolk who lived within the frowning walls of Fellsmarch Castle and the members of the upland clans, whose camps seemed like an extension of the landscape, who walked so gently on the land.