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Kayo’s skin, pale brown in Winter, had ripened to a freckled bronze under the summer sun, peeling bits of sunburn clinging to her shoulders and the bridge of her nose. Cajira draped a shawl around one shoulder, twisting it around Kayo’s hips, where she pinned it in place with an ornate gold pin. Kayo looked at her reflection in the long mirror, frowning at the young woman with the sour expression she saw there.

“Any last words of wisdom, High Priestess?” Kayo asked, pinching the rose-colored fabric between her fingers. It was the first time in almost fifteen years that she’d worn anything but the pure white [i]kashra[/i] of the priestesses in training. It made her feel mature, somehow. She wasn’t any different than she’d been that morning, yet the simple act of exchanging her white [i]kashra[/i] for one with color made her feel... accomplished. She was no longer devoid of color, a blank slate waiting to be painted. Now she could choose her own colors, and she’d carefully selected this one. Why the saturated, dusty pink appealed to her, she couldn’t say. Perhaps because it reminded her of the sky at sunset, or the Sweet Alyssium that bloomed beside the river. Maybe because it was feminine and soft and beautiful--words never before applied to her, but which some small part of her longed for.

“Rely on each other,” Cajira said. She inspected the long, golden-brown plait draped over Kayo’s shoulder, and for a moment the younger woman thought Cajira might comment on the fact that even on this day--probably one of the most notable of her life--she’d still done nothing with her hair but the same usual single plait. But Cajira only pinched her lips. “This journey is not a time to be independent. This is to test how you and the man who may become our next chieftain work together. There will be trials, Kayo. Things you can only get through if you work together. Put aside your stubborn streak, even if it has served you well in the past, and work together with him.”

They weren’t really the words Kayo had been hoping to hear. She knew the High Priestess was forbidden from giving her any clue as to what sort of ordeals they might face, but she’d still hoped Cajira might give her just a tiny hint.

“Alright,” she sighed. “I’ll... [i]be nice[/i].”

Cajira laughed. “You make it sound like a punishment.”

Kayo grinned. “Don’t forget. ‘Nice’ is a four-letter word.”

Cajira swatted her backside, then took her by the shoulders and steered her out of the room where she’d been getting ready. Outside the temple, the festivities were already underway. The immense garden was filled with people. Great, colorful swaths of cloth draped overhead, offering respite from the glare of the sun. It was low in the sky now; she had only a few hours till it set and she would leave, tied wrist-to-wrist with the future chief.

Fires were lit in the bronze firepits, which neatly dissected the gravel walkway. The white-clad priestesses in training--formerly her peers--were adding spices and incense to the fires, scenting the evening air. Around her, people were cooking and eating, and the smell of roasting meat and simmered grains made her belly grumble. For the purposes of purification, she hadn’t eaten since yesterday, and now her empty stomach felt like a pit.

“Let’s find your future husband before you eat and make a mess of yourself,” said Cajira. She must have seen the look of longing on Kayo's face as she gazed at a the skewers of goat meat roasting over glowing embers nearby.

Kayo puffed out her cheeks. “I wouldn’t make a mess. I’m twenty, High Priestess, not [i]two[/i].”

Cajira seemed to ignore her. “Where is he?” She raised up on her sandaled toes, scanning the crowd. “Kayo, do you see him?”

“No,” she responded, though she hadn’t bothered to look. She felt uncomfortable with the whole arrangement; not because she disliked him--she’d barely spoken to him and knew little about him, despite the fact that their training sometimes overlapped--but rather, because she suspected he disliked [i]her[/i].

“Come, let’s go to the dais,” said the High Priestess, already weaving through the crowd toward the sandstone platform. “I see my husband. Perhaps he’s seen his protege.”