They were lying out in the middle of Barnslow village center, before the fire. Dayven was sipping whiskey out of his flask - a silver affair with a dragon carved around the neck that he had had since she had known him. He leaned over and kissed her every few moments, as though she were an afterthought. The air smelled stale, like tobacco smoke that had hung in the room for a week. She felt sick to her stomach. He kissed her again, only this time he kissed her ravenously, passionately. His fingers went her skirts, pushing them up above her knees, and then he was inside her and they were moving together, her eyes looking past his shoulder at the gray sky. She felt him climax, and withdraw. He pulled away, his fingers tangled in her air, and it was not Dayven, but Bishop.

She woke up with a gasp, the sheets tangled around her in a soggy, sweaty mess. She lay there for a moment, her face contorted in disgust, wondering what all it had meant. Her body felt hot, and she was damp between her legs, aroused in spite of herself, "Gross..." she sighed. If there was anything she hated, it was awkward sexual dreams. She got up, stripping off her nightgown and tossing it in a soggy pile in the corner. Just a dream... just a dream... just a dream, she repeated to herself, feeling her heart slow down and the panic recede from her throat. She pushed open the shutters. The air was freezing, but it felt good. She leaned on window sill, tilting her head up to the sky. It wouldn't be long before midnight, she knew, and despite herself she felt a little anxious.

"Sleeping well there?" an unmistakable voice called. She looked down, and to her horror, Bishop was sitting in the yard tossing a stick for his wolf. The window was narrow, but she crossed her arms over her breasts protectively and ducked down. She reached over and her fingers found a spare tunic, which she slipped over her head.

"What in the hells are you still doing up?" she called and got up again, decent this time.

"Couldn't sleep," he replied.

"Aren't you freezing?"

"I'll survive," he replied.

"Come up, if you want," she said, "No sense in freezing your ass off in the snow just because you can't sleep. Bring the wolf."

She crept down the stairs. Daeghun slept like the dead when he slept. Duncan had rolled his bedroll by the hearth in his brother's room. Bishop let himself in the door and sat down at the kitchen table. "How late is it?"

"Almost midnight. Almost midwinter now," Adahni said, "Where've you been?"

"Here, there. The Mere is an interesting area," he said, "Lots of interesting things to smell."

"I agree, but in the middle of winter?"

"The swamp's frozen solid. Nowhere to fall into," he replied, "I'd say this is the best time. I found something."

He reached into the pocket of his trousers and pulled out a dirty glass bottle. She took it from him and holding it up against the candle light.

"Does this have some kind of signficance?" she asked.

"On its own, no," he replied, "But I found it next to the ruin of a whiskey still about twenty minutes into the swamp. I think there might be more."

She got a cloth from the kitchen basin and wiped it clean. The bottle was closed with a wooden stopper than had wax melted around the outside. She breathed an easy spout of flame over it, melting the wax, and pried the stopper out. Bishop took it from her and gave it a sniff.

"Moonshine," he said.

She took it back and took a swig. She was fifteen years old, lying in the warm embrace of vines as the sunlight filtered down through the trees. She held a letter from the boy she loved in one hand, letting it trail into the murky water of the swamp. He was betrothed, he told her, and was sorry to have led her on, but he would not return for that harvest, or ever. The whiskey that Dayven distilled was strong and raw, but she welcomed it. She'd never been drunk before, and found that something inside her eased and swelled as the trees above her danced lazily around. She looked at Dayven as she never had before, saw that his green eyes were flecked with gray felt the softness of his blond curls. He was like her, abandoned and left to cope. She didn't object when he kissed her, even though she knew her father would never approve...

"All right there?" Bishop asked.

"This is my husband's whiskey," she said, setting the bottle down, "Brings back memories."

Bishop snorted, "You're still married?"

"Hardly," she said. She had read a few scrolls on the law, and it seemed as though, if a marriage were not performed in a temple or by a religious figure, that its validity only extended to the borders of the country or city-state in which it was performed.

The ranger nodded curtly, "Is it any good?"

"It's rubbish," she replied, "Only reason it's palatable is it's been sitting in the ground for nigh on eight years."

He took it from her and drank some. "Not bad," he said, raising his eyebrows.

"You're going to need it," she said.

"Why?"

She only smile mysteriously and went back up the stairs to her chamber. She had been ill the midwinter before when they came around to collect her for the midwinter brawl, a sort of unofficial, unsanctioned, and generally very dangerous and stupid tradition that had been a part of Westharbor since she could remember. At midnight on midwinter, the self-appointd referees would walk through the vilage in varying stages of undress, collecting all willing participants to go beat the shit out of each other in the village center. While the Harvest Fair was ostensibly for the young people of the village, it was organized by the elders and thus carried the stodgy, dusty sensibility that accompanied them. What happened at midnight on midwinter, though, she felt, better tested the constitution of the village youth for any trials that the cruel world might throw at them. The last man or woman standing won the title of Snow King or Queen, a crown of holly branches, and free ale at the midwinter celebration the following evening.

She changed into her underclothes, lacing her corset tight and tying a loincloth around her bottom. She wrapped herself in a blanket and went back down the stairs.

Bishop looked up at her in surprise, just as a horn blast echoed clearly over the land outside.

"It's midwinter," she said, cracking a sly smile.

"What...?"

The horn blasted again, this time closer.

"What is going on, Addie?"

"It's midwinter," she said again.

There came a rap at the door. She threw off the blanket and ran in her bare feet to open it. A small mob, twenty or so, of the unmarried men and women of the village, bearing torches, greeted her. Ward Mossfeld led them,bare except for a loincloth around his middle. The others were in similar states of undress, all barefoot in the snow.

"It's midnight!" he declared, "You know what that means!"

"The midwinter brawl!" she exclaimed, "Come on!" she beckoned to Bishop, who was staring at her nearly bare form in shock, "Strip down, we're going to the village center!"

"No!" he replied in consternation.

"Do it!" Ward commanded menacingly.

"You're all mad!"

"Perhaps we're sane," Adahni said, "And you're mad!"

"You're tromping about in your underclothes in the freezing weather," Bishop said, his voice sliding back into his familiar sardonic sneer.

"And so will you be!" Ward said, echoed by jeers and encouragements from the crowd.

"A test of constitution," Bevil, who had been standing behind the Mossfeld brothers, explained, "Or are you afraid?"

Bishop's pale eyes flashed, "Afraid?"

"Do it!" the crowd roared.

Obligingly, he stripped off his boots and breeches, down to his small clothes. Adahni first, and then Bishop, followed the mob out into the night. They stopped at several other farmhouses, recruiting two skinny lasses from their beds. Torches were flaming in the village center around a large bonfire.

"Last man standing," she hissed to Bishop.

"What is going on?"

"The midwinter brawl," she said, "Fists and feet. If you're too chicken, you can go back inside where it's warm."
"You didn't warn me about this..."

"I didn't think you'd be one to back down from a fight in your underwear in the middle of winter," she said, grinning.

She had no further time for explanation as she received a vicious right hook from one of the Lannon girls, a stout redhead who herded sheep by day and drank her sizable weight in beer by night. Adahni went sprawling in the snow, the heat from the bonfire at her back and the chill of the ground vying for a place in her brain. She lept back to her feet. The village center soon erupted into a free-for-all, bare fists and hands flying. She had not fought without a blade for some time. She was not drunk, as she usually was for such brawls, but found an exhilaration in the rawness of it, her feet gradually growing numb in the snow, the sharp scent of woodsmoke in her nostrils. The winner of the midwinter brawl, unlike the harvest brawl, was the one who could stand the cold for the longest, not the last one standing, and would have the privi. She fought the urge to breathe fire over herself to warm herself, and fought on, bravely, until it became too much for her.

As she went to leave the circle of battling bodies, she was tackled.

"No you don't, Farishta," Bishop growled, "You don't drag me into this and then leave me with these barbarians!" He struck her twice, hard, across the face and she felt her nose start to bleed. She struggled, her limbs slick with the melted snow, and managed to wriggle free of his grasp. He had a black eye and scratches on his arms consistent with a woman's long nails. She spat a mouthful of blood into his face and kneed him in the stomach while he struggled to wipe it from his eyes.

"You bitch!" he gasped, doubled over. She smiled a bloody smile, and while he was nearly on the ground, she took a flying leap in the air and landed with her elbow in the small of his back. He struck back this time, the base of his hand connecting with her chin and clattering her teeth together something awful.

The free-for-all, at that point, became a duel. She dipped and swerved, trying to stay out of his way as he struck out at her with fist and elbow.

"Come on, Addie!" she heard Bevil's cheer, "Show him what Harbormen are made of!"

She was distracted for a moment and Bishop took the opportunity to force her down and rub her bleeding face in the snow. She held her breath, unable to get any air with her nose and mouth plugged with cold, but managed to roll over and put a knee between his legs. He went down, this time for good. She roared her victory for a brief moment before someone hit her from behind, hard, and she went down, stars spinning behind her eyes and the world slowly fading to black about the edges.

When she awoke, she was at home, in bed, and someone had had the decency to cover her now torn corset with a blanket. Warmth had returned to her limbs, but she was bruised sorely and her nose was plugged, probably a result of the blow to her face that her comrade had given her. She rose and clothed herself gingerly in her holiday dress, a high-waisted dark green affair that had been a gift to her the midwinter before. She tightened the laces up to her collarbone.

Examining her face in the mirror, she had only suffered one marring injury, a small laceration above her left eyebrow, but her cheeks and nose her chapped and painful. She rubbed her face with a fingerful of beeswax balm, a jar of which she kept by her bedside, which restored a glow to her skin and eased the pain. She combed her hair out then and, because she expected she would be set to work above a steaming pan, pinned it up and covered it with a white kerchief. Except for the cut and the bruises on her arms and legs, she could have passed as a proper lady, the wife of a farmer or something.

She padded down the stairs to where Duncan, Daeghun, and Bishop were seated at the kitchen table, eating pieces from a pan of shortbread. There was a chicken roasting over the fire and potatoes in the ashes. Considering Daeghun had not known, first, that she was returning, and second, that she was bringing Duncan and another guest, he had managed in the tenday she had been home to prepare himself for the holiday.

"There you are," Duncan said, a half smile playing about his mouth, "So, I hear you took quite a drubbing."

"I put up a good fight," she said.

"My bets were on you. Wouldn't have expected the Starling kid to hit you from behind like that," Bishop said. His eye had swollen, but he didn't seem to be in much pain, "Well I'll be thrice damned, you actually resemble a woman today."

"Bevil hit me?"

"That he did," Bishop replied.

"Why that little..." she fumed, "Ah, I won't begrudge him victory."

"He didn't win, well... the brawl, anyway. A couple of village lasses took him down. He didn't seem to mind," Bishop said, smirking, "Carried one of them home, giggling like a maniac, over his shoulder."

Adahni nodded., "So who won?"

"One of the Mossfelds. Wastrel or Whelp or whatever horrid name they gave their inbred spawn."

Duncan spat out the hot cider he was drinking and laughed so hard that Daeghun gave him a sterner look than Adahni could ever remember receiving from him. "What?" Duncan said, "They're second cousins, everyone knows that!"

They ate their midday meal with ale, even Daeghun seeming a little merry to have two of his charges back under his wing, whatever unsavory company they had brought with them. Adahni forgot the beating she took the night before and felt more at home than she ever had before. As cold as her father's reception had been, he seemed genuinely pleased to have her back. In his own, unsmiling, Elvish way of course.

When the chicken was a carcass and the potatoes a memory, the four of them lolled in their chairs. There would be a dance in the inn later that day, dancing and carousing and whatever Mossfeld won the brawl lording it over the room wearing a crown of holly. Adahni sighed in contentment and listened to the men talking about something inane, as men were wont to do. She had several hours to lie back and digest before she would, no doubt, be called upon to play.

She did not know how many minutes or even hours had passed when there came a rap on the door. At first it was soft, but then, as Adahni crossed the room to open it, it came again, louder and more urgent. She pulled the door open to see a familiar set of armor standing behind it.

"Casavir?" she exclaimed, "What in the nine hells are you doing here?"

"My lady!" he said, "You... look like a lady!"

"I will take that as a compliment," she said, "But what are you doing here?"

Daeghun joined her at the door, narrowing his eyes at the newcomer.

"I had to come, had to warn you..." he said, looking from her to Daeghun and back again.

"Come in," Daeghun said, "You can explain it to us in front of the fire."

Casavir strode in, locking eyes with Bishop. Adahni felt the animosity in the air like a crackle of lightning.

"I am sorry for my rudeness," he said, giving a slight bow to Daeghun, "I am Casavir, a companion of your daughter's."

Daeghun nodded.

"Warn me about what?" Adahni asked. She found herself involuntarily putting her hands on her hips like an irate mother.

"The Watch has issued a warrant for your arrest," he said.

"For what?" she asked, thinking about the great number of things she had done that would merit such a circumstance, "I've only been here ten days, what is the problem?"

"The village," he said, "Ember, the one we passed through, has been sacked. Burned, pillaged, the villagers murdered in their beds... it is no more. And they accuse you."

She stood there for a moment, images of the green, peaceful village fleeting through her head. "How could... But I've been here for the past ten days!" she exclaimed, "Of all the ridiculous...who is my accuser?"

"I am unsure of that," Casavir replied, "Sir Nevalle, Lord Nasher's right hand man came by the inn looking for you. I convinced him not to pursue you, to let me ask you to come quietly first."

"I thought you were something of a persona non grata among the knights in Nasher's service."

"I am," Casavir said, "But Nevalle and I have known each other for some time."

"But..."

"I have known him for a long time and know a few things about him," the paladin said, one corner of his mouth perking up in a slight smile.

"Thank you, I suppose," she said, "So what now?"

"You return to Neverwinter immediately," he said, "Or they send a party to arrest you and bring you back forcibly. In front of the entire village."

"Happy fucking midwinter," she muttered. Her head ached from the blow she had taken, "I'm sorry, Cas, to have caused to so much trouble," she said, putting a hand on her arm, "It must have been quite a journey to take alone." In her peripheral vision, she saw Bishop rolling his eyes.

"It was nothing," he said, "If you return now, it will prove the purity of your intentions. You must turn yourself over."

"I have every intention of doing so," she said, looking at her father. Daeghun nodded gravely.

"Pack your things," he said, "You should leave as soon as possible."

"Khelgar is at the edge of the village. We took the liberty of hiring horses..."

"Horses?"

"...with the gold in your chest," he said, a little sheepishly.

"Whatever has to be done," she sighed, "All right, then, I suppose I'll get my things together."

Adahni turned her back on them so nobody could see the tears in her eyes. Each footstep felt leaden, falling heavily onto the floorboards as she dragged herself up the stairs. She remembered the horrid smell of the fires in Barnslow, the shrieks of people she was powerless to save. When she had said those things to the girl in Ember - that she ought to learn to fight or would die the next time - she hadn't thought it would actually come to pass. She regretted her words, and her failure to keep the ranger from opening his mouth. And that boy, the little boy who had seen it... and said that he would survive.

I've got to find him, she thought, I need to know what happened.