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Divarra’s first memory is not an image, nor is it a sound, a taste, or anything that can be sensed. It is a feeling, a feeling so pervasive that it colours everything that comes afterwards.
Shame
Divarra is five years old.
Mother Hedda is thin, dry and wrinkled as last year’s apples. She takes care of the orphans, if you could call it care.
They are not supposed to ask questions, but one question keeps tugging at Divarra, will not let her go. It whispers to her when she lies in her bed at night, gnaws at her the way old Ruff, chained up in the yard, gnaws at his bone.
One day, she gets the courage to ask. She knows she shouldn’t. But she has to.
‘What happened to my parents?’
Mother stops what she is doing and raises her head. She sniffs, her eyes hard, her mouth set in a thin little line.
‘Didn’t want you,’ she says gruffly. ‘Left you on the doorstep.’
They did not want her.
Her own parents.
Did. Not. Want. Her.
They gave her away.
Shame
The other children know she is different. Mother tells them, warns them to stay away.
Drow
Dark-skinned, white-haired, evil. A wicked creature with a devil inside.
Mother tries to make her good. Mother tries to beat the devil out.
Divarra cannot tell when she commits a crime. It could be anything, something she does, something she says.
When Mother is angry, it feels like a storm. Divarra never knows when the lightning will strike.
But she knows it will strike, every time.
Mother watches her constantly and nothing escapes her eye.
Shame
Mother says she’s a wicked little liar.
And slowly, Divarra learns to lie. Lies to save herself a beating, lies to make Mother stop.
Even though Mother is doing it for her own good, beating the evil out.
Divarra promises she’ll be good, knows she never can be. Wickedness colours her skin. Colours her the whole way through.
Shame
Mother tells the schoolmaster Divarra is simple. He gives her a slate but he lets her draw all day.
Divarra sits at the back of the class and quietly learns her letters. She does not tell anyone she can read. Mother wouldn’t like that.
Divarra steals books from the older children.
She learns the lessons the master leaves on the board before she cleans it at the end of the day.
The other children tell Mother about the books and Divarra is beaten for stealing.
She is wicked, ungrateful and she tells lies.
Shame
Divarra is eight years old. She is in the yard with the other children. They form a ring and dance around her, singing:
Here it is the ugly Drow,
Who will come and save us, now?
Dark and twisted, full of spite,
Strike it down now, brave sir knight!
They shout the last words, and when they do, red-haired Mara, who Mother loves so very much, darts into the ring and gives Divarra a slap that sets her face on fire and sends her reeling.
The ring breaks, the children laugh and run away.
Mother is watching them from the doorway. When Divarra meets her eye, she turns and walks inside.
Shame
The children play the ring game every day.
One day, Divarra hits back.
Mother gets a switch and beats her, beats her until she cries, and carries on beating her until she can’t cry any more.
Shame
Divarra does not cry after that.
But the children never play that game again.
<<<>>>
When Divarra is nine, a lady from the House of Eternal Summer in Athkatla visits the orphanage.
She has come to see if any of the children are fit to be apprenticed as courtesans. She insists on seeing them all, even Divarra.
Mother pulls Divarra’s hair into a rough plait. She pulls a clean pinafore over her dress and sends her to wash her face in the trough. There is no soap and no towel. Mother slaps her when she asks for them.
She tells Divarra to stand at the end of the line, to speak when she is spoken to and not to show everyone up. She digs her bony fingers into Divarra’s shoulder and shakes her when she gives this last instruction. Although she does not understand what Mother means, Divarra knows better than to ask.
She stands where she is put, twisting her hands into the pinafore, until Mother slaps her and tells her to be still.
<<<>>>
When Imari walks into the room, the season turns from cold, grey winter to glorious summer.
Imari is beautiful, so beautiful it hurts to look at her. Raven-black hair frames her face. Her skin is pale like cherry blossom, her lips vivid scarlet. She is dressed in layers of gauzy fabric that flutter when she moves, like petals dancing in the breeze.
Divarra gazes at her in amazement.
And wonder of wonders, Imari notices her.
‘And what have we here?’ she asks, her voice soft and melodic. ‘A little drow? How very intriguing.’
‘She’s a spiteful little thing!’ Mother’s voice is sharp, like a wasp sting; Divarra winces at her words. ‘There’s a devil in that one! We set her to clean. It’s all she’s fit for. Not that we get much good out of her.’
Imari puts her head on one side and takes Divarra’s hands.
‘So I see,’ she says. Her fingertips brush lightly over Divarra’s reddened fingers, her touch soft against Divarra’s chapped and roughened skin.
Divarra wants the ground to swallow her.
‘Such a lot of cleaning!’ Imari says with a smile. ‘You must be very wicked indeed!’
Divarra shakes her head, too frightened and overawed to speak and Imari laughs and brushes her cheek, ‘Oh, don’t look so worried, Sweetling! I’m teasing you. Come with me.’
Teasing?
That is what the children do. When they pinch and hurt. Mother says they’re ‘only teasing’ and not to make a fuss, but Imari hasn’t hurt her at all.
Divarra frowns.
She does not understand.
Imari holds out her hand and Divarra follows her.
<<<>>>
That afternoon is both wonderful and strange.
Imari sings a song, and the six children she has chosen sing it back to her. She shows them a dance and they have to copy her movements. She asks them about their lessons but red-headed Mara jumps in and tells her Divarra is slow and stupid. Imari pouts then. She asks Divarra to write her name on the board and Divarra prints it as neatly as she can. It feels good to see Mara standing with her mouth open, when she has done it.
‘What else can you write?’ Imari asks.
Divarra writes out a little poem about a cat.
‘And where did you learn that?’
‘I stole it.’
The other children laugh and Imari laughs, too. But it is true, Divarra did steal it. It came from one of the books she is not allowed to read.
She feels her cheeks burning.
‘My, you’re such a serious little thing!’ Imari says. ‘But, you don’t seem slow to me. I think you’ll do just fine.’
Four children are chosen to be apprenticed and Divarra is one of them. She is scared. She does not know what ‘apprenticed’ means. The others will not tell her, but they seem excited.
<<<>>>
The House of Eternal Summer is in the middle of Athkatla. It is a beautiful building with archways, pillars and domed towers, surrounded by a high wall. There are two guards at the gate, but people walk in and out quite freely. The guards look fierce with their thick moustaches and curved swords at their sides, but they smile kindly at the children.
Beyond the gates are lush gardens planted with rosemary, rose and hibiscus. Bougainvillea and jasmine tumble over the walls and delicate ferns send up coiled shoots in their shade. The path leads them to a courtyard with a fountain in the centre and a shaded walkway all around. Straight ahead are two huge brass-covered doors that swing open as they approach.
It is cool inside, dark and quiet like a temple. The air is perfumed with incense, and along the walls are gilded benches with pillows covered in jewel-coloured silks. Divarra stares open-mouthed at everything, the marble pillars, the intricate tiled floors, the painted ceilings.
The House is like something out of a story; it’s hard to believe it is real. And she is going to live here. It is like a dream.
Everyone is dressed in silk and velvet. People bow respectfully to Imari as they pass and, to Divarra’s delight, many cats also wander along the halls. A beautiful white one, sitting on a cushion, stares at Divarra as she passes, regal as an emperor on his throne.
Imari leads them to the teaching area. They walk past classrooms, rehearsal rooms, dining rooms and libraries. Divarra feels her head spinning as Imari points everything out. They have more than one library! She cannot imagine so many books.
First, the children have to sign their contracts. Imari leads them to a room where an elderly woman sits behind a large desk. The woman explains that all the money spent on them will have to be paid back. She pushes a piece of paper towards Divarra, turning it so she can read it. Divarra does not understand everything, but the cost of each year’s tuition is written clearly. Divarra has never had any money of her own, but the numbers look worryingly large.
The woman behind the desk must be as old as Mother, but her hair is snowy white where Mother’s was gray. She is smiling and she looks kind. Divarra tucks her hands behind her back, just in case.
‘Is that a lot of gold?’ she asks.
‘It is,’ the woman says. ‘But if you study hard, and pass your exams, you’ll have no trouble paying it back.’
‘What happens to the children who don’t pass?’
‘They work as indentured servants, until their debts are paid.’
Divarra does not know what ‘indentured’ means and she is too shy to ask; it does not sound good.
The woman hands her a piece of coloured glass and Divarra turns it over in her hands admiring the patterns that swirl within it. She has no idea what she is meant to do with it.
Imari clasps her hands in front of her and turns to the woman. ‘Isn’t she precious!’
The woman takes the glass back. ‘It’s a pen,’ she explains. She dips the spiralled point into a little bottle of ink and shows Divarra how to use it. Then she hands it back. ‘Now you try.’
Divarra writes her name as neatly as she can, but she has never used a pen before and her writing looks untidy, the letters sloping back and then forward, as if they can’t make up their minds where they should sit on the page.
She can feel her cheeks burning.
After signing their contracts they are taken to the bath-house. Divarra does not like baths. Baths feel like punishment. Standing in cold water while Mother scrubs with harsh soap and a cloth until her skin is raw. Sitting shivering on a bench while Mother drags a comb through her hair, pulling so hard Divarra’s head is jerked right back. When she is finished, Mother cleans out the comb and Divarra’s hair tumbles across the yard like a sad little earth-bound cloud.
Here, things are different. There is a tub for soaping and big pool for rinsing and best of all, you are allowed to bathe yourself. Fresh water is drawn for each child. Divarra edges to the back of the queue.
The water is warm. Divarra yelps with surprise at the heat and jumps out. Red-haired Mara looks up and snickers. Divarra turns her back to her, picking up a rough cloth from the tiles like the one Mother uses and some soap. An attendant rushes over and snatches them from her hands, her expression shocked. That soap and cloth are only for cleaning the floor.
The other children look at her and whisper.
The attendant gives Divarra soap for washing. After the bath, Divarra dries herself and the attendant combs her hair. Divarra flinches when she approaches and the woman sighs and shakes her head. To Divarra’s astonishment the combing does not hurt. She sits, patient and mute, as the attendant plaits her hair. Once the attendant is satisfied, she is given a new dress and soft shoes to wear. The woman holds onto the shoes, and tells Divarra she is not to wear them outside. She speaks very slowly and clearly, as if she thinks Divarra is deaf or stupid. The other children giggle and point at her behind the attendant’s back, and Divarra’s cheeks burn even hotter. She looks around for Imari but she has disappeared.
By the time she is shown to her bed in the girls’ dormitory, Divarra is tired and homesick. She wonders at that, turning the feeling over in her mind, trying to understand the why of it.
She does not miss Mother and she did not have any friends at the orphanage, so why does she feel an ache inside?
It is nice here, nobody has hit her or even been unkind.
Divarra lies awake, teasing her feelings apart like knots, until she gets an answer.
At the orphanage, she knew what to do and she knew what was going to happen. Here everything is strange and new.
<<<>>>
Divarra does not make any friends. Mara is partly to blame for that, whispering to the others about how Mother had to punish Divarra for hitting and stealing.
‘Don’t let her near you! If you try to be nice, she’ll hurt you. Look! We were just playing a game one day, and look what she did!’
Mara shows them the scar she got when Divarra split her lip and everyone crowds around her. Mara is petted and comforted, because she is crying just remembering it.
Divarra wishes she could make herself cry, but then, who would care about the tears of a drow?
Months pass. The other children continue to shy away from her and gather up their possessions when she comes near. They don’t talk to her and they look relieved when she goes and sits on her own.
Occasionally, someone does try to talk to her, but Divarra is wary and suspicious. Eventually, they leave her alone.
Divarra would like to have friends, but she does not know how.
Divarra tells herself she does not mind. She is used to being on her own. She spends her free time in the library or sometimes with the masters after lessons. They are always happy to explain things to her, or to give her extra work, and she takes it, because she knows she is behind everyone else and there will be exams at the end of the year.
This makes the other children dislike her even more.
Divarra enjoys all her lessons, but the music lessons are the ones she loves. Singing is easy and fun. She has a good memory for words and a good ear as well; she quickly learns all the popular songs. She is expected to play at least one instrument and she can choose anything she likes. Divarra chooses the lute. She practices until her fingers are sore. Soon, she can play a tune and after that, she is seldom seen without her lute by her side. Her tutor praises her hard work, but it does not feel like work; playing is pure joy.
Divarra’s reading improves quickly, but her writing is awful. Her tutor gives her a book to practice in.
‘It’s like drawing,’ she says. ‘Learn to draw each letter just as it’s written here. Don’t rush, try and make it perfect.’
Divarra practices a little everyday and by the end of the year, her writing is neat and legible.
She is amazed when she passes her exams.
Lessons start directly after breakfast and continue until dusk, often later. Divarra is not only instructed in the arts, but also the sciences. Then, when the academic work is done, there is dancing, music, deportment, etiquette, conversation, persuasion, fashion and politics, which is basically gossip about the rich and powerful people who run the city.
By the end of her fourth year, Divarra can not only speak and read Common but Elvish and a smattering of Dwarvish.
<<<>>>
At the age of fourteen, Divarra’s singing is considered good enough for public performance and she earns her first wages as part of the chorus for a musical production put on by one of Athkatla’s most prominent nobles.
Seventy percent of her earnings are deducted to go towards her debts, and then the House takes its cut. There is not much left. The others grumble bitterly, but Divarra feels as rich as a king. She buys sweetmeats and a pretty comb for her hair.
She also makes her first friend, Rosa whose chosen instrument is the flute. They spend hours together, composing, playing and just talking. Rosa is plump and fair, with a ready smile, and a kind word for everyone. Being with her feels like standing in sunshine. Rosa has many friends, and they occasionally invite Divarra to join them in the coffee houses or to play cards, though they keep their distance when Rosa is busy, or maybe Divarra keeps hers. She finds it hard to believe they really enjoy her company.
‘You should try putting those lessons to use,’ Rosa tells her one day. ‘Charm and persuasion are not just for patrons.’
Divarra blinks at her and Rosa puts an arm around her shoulders and pulls her close. She feels soft and warm and safe. ‘You should practice a little.’
‘But it feels so false.’
‘Taking an interest in someone doesn’t have to be false, silly. You should stop hiding behind that lute and try talking to people. You never know, they might even like you!’ Rosa laughs. ‘And if they don’t, well, that’s their loss. You’re a brilliant musician, but that won’t be enough to get you a patron. We have to be artists and, what was it they said in class?’ She pauses, trying to remember. ‘Ah yes! “the balm that soothes the harshness of this world.”’
Divarra bites her lip. Maybe she knows the harshness of the world a little too well, expecting any of them to soothe it away with a smile or a song, no matter how charming and talented they are, seems overly optimistic.
Rosa picks up a basket of flowers left over from their last stage performance and dances barefoot across the practice-room, bending, graceful as a willow, as she scatters the petals.
‘We exist to bring beauty, art and pleasure into the world. We do the things we love, our patrons enjoy our company, and everyone’s happy! It’s perfect!’
If only. They exist to make a profit for the house. Patrons pay and courtesans do whatever is required, regardless of their own preferences.
Their fortunes will depend entirely on gaining and keeping the favour of rich and powerful people. Most courtesans will never be in the position of being able to choose who they serve, and the less fortunate will be indebted to the House for their entire working-life. There are worse ways of earning a living, but a courtesan’s life is far from the carefree idyll depicted by her friend.
But Rosa’s joy is a precious thing, so Divarra simply smiles and says nothing.
<<<>>>
At fifteen, their formal education is over; now they specialise. Divarra chooses music although to her, it feels no more of a choice than breathing.
To her surprise, Rosa chooses to concentrate on pillow-work. Slowly, they grow apart and although Divarra sees her occasionally, it is not like it was before. She feels abandoned, cast adrift with only her music to comfort her.
The last time she speaks with Rosa is bittersweet. Rosa is even lovelier than she remembered, charming and perfectly dressed, everything about her carefully designed to delight the senses.
For months after that meeting, Divarra can recall her perfume, the way the lamplight turned her hair to gold, the softness of her skin.
Rosa leans forward and touches her cheek. ‘I’ve missed you so much,’ she says. ‘Why don’t we go somewhere quiet? You can play me your latest composition and then, I can show you some of the lovely things I’ve been learning. I think you’ll find I’ve been an attentive student.’
Divarra stares. She does not know what to say. She only hesitates a few seconds, but it is too long. The next thing she knows, Rosa is standing up.
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I thought... I... It seems I was mistaken...’ Rosa shakes her head and the gold ornaments in her hair ring together like tiny bells. She smiles brightly as she gathers her skirts, ‘No, no, don’t get up. I didn’t mean to embarrass you.’ A gentle pat on her hand and Rosa is gone. Leaving Divarra aching from all the words she failed to say.
‘I love you,’ she whispers to the empty room. ‘I always loved you.’
A week later, Divarra hears that Rosa has found herself a patron. She sees them out together quite often, but Rosa never speaks to her again.
<<<>>>
Divarra is not the only one to feel Rosa’s absence. Petyr is two years older than Divarra and he too, had been close friends with Rosa. He taught Divarra to play cards, but though he was always polite, he has never shown much interest in her.
Now, he seeks Divarra out. Like Rosa, Petyr’s speciality is the pillow. He tells Divarra they could work well together, but she is still a virgin and the idea of offering to have sex with strangers makes her nervous. Obviously, she will have to do it one day, and her earnings will be much higher when she does, but she is getting plenty of work as a musician and singer, and she is in no rush.
Petyr laughs at her, says her head is full of romantic nonsense, but Divarra is adamant, she would like her first time, at least, to be for love.
She tells Petyr she is not interested in working with him and, as she expects, he goes off in a huff. She does not see him for several weeks after that, but then he seeks her out again, asking if she would do him a favour.
He has, he explains, no major talents besides his charm and his face. He desperately needs to find a patron and it would be a great help if Divarra would accompany him to the fashionable places he used to go with Rosa, at his expense. She accepts gratefully, scarcely able to believe her luck.
Petyr is charming and witty; his dark hair and blue eyes enhance what will no doubt be a ruggedly handsome face once he has filled out a little. He still has the awkwardness of youth, his hands and feet looking too large for his frame, but despite these flaws, being seen out with him elevates Divarra’s status. For the first time, she finds herself the subject of jealous whispers. There is a wonderful, almost guilty thrill to it.
It feels natural that Petyr should be Divarra’s first lover. She gives her heart to him and is overjoyed when he assures her that her feelings are returned.
To love and to be loved, it is everything she could have wished for. Divarra gives herself without reservation; she is his body and soul, until the day she discovers their relationship is not what it seems.
<<<>>>
Divarra has just finished practising for a private performance. As she is putting her lute into its case, the Master of the Pillow enters the room.
He is a large man, with skin the colour of mahogany and a voice so deep it makes her shiver. If honey, poured off a spoon, had a sound, it would be his voice.
He takes her to one side.
‘I understand you wish to change your specialisation,’ he says. ‘I am surprised, considering your dedication to your music. But we would be most happy to welcome you.’
Divarra frowns. ‘I’m sorry Master but no, there must be some mistake.’
Now, the master looks puzzled. ‘But my dear, if you don’t wish to join us, why did you agree to an assessment?’
‘An assessment?’
‘Petyr tells me, you have proven to be a most apt pupil. He says you show a lot of promise.’
Divarra stares at the master in shock.
‘Petyr...’ her voice is barely a whisper. ‘He was assessing me? But....’
The master takes her arm and steers her towards his office. Divarra allows herself to be led.
‘Sit down,’ he says.
There is a samovar on a side-table with a gilded teapot sitting on top. The master goes over to it and pours fragrant jasmine tea into a tiny porcelain cup. He sets it in front of her.
‘Be careful, it’s hot.’
Divarra nods numbly.
Petyr...
All the things they had done, everything... it had been an assessment, and he’d told the master...
How many other people had he told?
And she thought he loved her?
And she had told him she loved him.
Divarra puts her hand over her mouth, as if she can take her words back and keep them in.
But it is too late.
Was everyone laughing at her?
She picks up the cup and scalds her lips on the tea. The pain is almost welcome.
Quickly, she gathers her scattered thoughts. ‘Petyr did propose we work as a pair, months ago, but as you said Master, I have my music. I told him I wasn’t interested.’
The master gets up, he places a heavy hand on her shoulder. ‘Stay here. Drink your tea and help yourself to some sweetmeats. I’ll be back soon.’
Divarra sits, curling her hand around the cup. She feels stupid. She feels physically sick.
Of course, someone like Petyr would not be interested in her. What had she been thinking?
When the master comes back, Petyr is with him.
‘Why?’ she asks.
‘Why? Because you were being ridiculous!’ Petyr scoffs. ‘We would have worked well together, but no, you wouldn’t hear of it. Anyone would think you were a temple virgin the way you carry on, well you’re not! You’re a courtesan and you’ll be earning your living on your back like the rest of us. I was doing you a favour. It’s not like you were any good! You needed those lessons and nobody else was interested in giving them, were they?’ He turns on his heel and walks out without another word.
‘Don’t worry,’ the master says. ‘He will be punished.’
Divarra puts her cup down. ‘I’ve been such a fool,’ she says quietly. Tears prick the back of her eyes. Petyr was right; she is a silly, romantic little fool, just like he said.
The master shakes his head and takes both her hands in his. ‘You are a courtesan of Amh,’ he says. ‘You are well-educated, charming and beautiful, and you have your music and your voice. Once you graduate, your price will be above rubies.’ He sighs. ‘I always advise my students to seek love here, not out in the world, because here we learn to treat each other with kindness. You have been most unfortunate; Petyr was unworthy.’
She would like to believe what the master says, but Petyr was right, no one else was interested.
Shame wraps itself around her like an old friend.
<<<>>>
Divarra is not sure how Imari finds her. She had slunk off to the furthest corner of the gardens to cry, taking care to avoid everyone. Yet, here she is.
‘I heard what happened,’ Imari says, taking a cushion off the bench and sitting down at Divarra’s feet. Her gown pools around her, her sleeves fluttering as she reaches out to take Divarra’s hand.
‘We don’t always get to choose our roles,’ she says. ‘But we can choose how we play them.’
Divarra suppresses a sniffle and blinks through her tears.
Imari settles herself more comfortably, ‘Let me tell you a story about something that happened to me when I was just a little older than you. My patron dropped me and they were not kind about it. I was thrown out of my apartment and they even asked me to return their gifts. I nearly died of shame.
When I got the message, I went somewhere quiet and I cried, much like you’re doing now, but then I realised something. I had been scorned and nothing I could do would change that, but I could play that role on my own terms.
‘My patron adored the opera. So, before the next performance I spread the rumour that I would be attending and that I intended to make a scene. I think he might have been looking forward to that; he always enjoyed seeing me beg. He was there with his new paramour, decked out in the jewels he had once given me.
‘I wasn’t in the audience; I had bribed the female lead to let me take her place for one aria. She very kindly agreed to fall ill at the end of the first act.
All the lights went down. The chorus started to sing and I made my entrance.’ Imari holds out a hand and examines her nails.’ I looked exquisite. I was dressed all in white. My gown was embroidered with crystal beads and gold threads and my hair and make-up were immaculate.’
Divarra listens, absorbed, watching in her mind, as a younger Imari takes the stage.
‘I stood in that little circle of light as the chorus faded. My heart beating so hard, that for a moment, I feared I would not be able to sing, but I reminded myself I was a courtesan of Athkatla, and we do not run from our fears. I sang Allanril’s lament, when she realises her lover has betrayed her and is about to marry the princess. I gave the performance of my life, and as the song ended, I let a single tear trickle slowly down my cheek, courtesy of an alchemist friend, since real tears never look so good, and then I bowed. When the lights finally dimmed, I swear, there was not a dry eye in the house. I was an overnight sensation, the understudy that nobody had head heard of; people talked about nothing else for months.’ Imari laughs. ‘Of course I had to bribe so many people to make that little scene happen, I was in debt to the house for an extra year, just for my costume alone! But it was worth it. I allowed myself to be comforted by an even richer and much kinder patron, and here I am today, Athkatla’s most feted courtesan!
‘And the moral of this story? A good courtesan makes art, but a great courtesan is a work of art in themselves.’
Divarra looks at her. ‘I understand what you’re saying Imari, I do, I just... I wanted something real.’
Imari leans forward and gives her hand a squeeze. ‘Who says art isn’t real?’ She pauses, turning her face to the light and adjusting the fall of her sleeves, a thoughtful expression on her face. Eventually, she says, ‘I think, you should compose a piece of music and dedicate it to Petyr.’
Divarra stares. That is the last thing she wants to do.
‘The ephemeral nature of youth would be the perfect theme, don’t you think? Remind him, and the world, that his looks will fade all too quickly, while your music will live forever.’ Imari smiles at Divarra, watching as she turns the idea over in her mind. ‘So, tell me,’ she says. ‘How am I doing in the role of wise, elder sister?’
Divarra blinks back her tears and smiles.
‘You’re playing it beautifully. Thank you.’
<<<>>>
Divarra does take Imari’s advice. She composes a particularly melancholy piece, lamenting the fleeting nature of youth and dedicating it to her ‘most beautiful friend, Petyr’. To her delight, the tune becomes popular and even better, Petyr hates it. As an added bonus, Divarra finds herself increasingly in demand both as a musician and a composer, but despite her success, a patron eludes her.
It doesn’t take Divarra long to work out why. There are very few drow courtesans and most people hire her as an exotic novelty, expecting her to be either a follower of Eilistraee or possibly a Loth-sworn female from the Underdark. They are inevitably disappointed to discover she knows nothing of drow culture.
Pride had led Divarra to believe she could ignore her heritage and rely on her talents alone, but clearly she was mistaken. Reluctantly, she starts studying the drow languages and the various beliefs of her people. Even thinking of the drow as her people feels wrong, but the truth is undeniable. Her looks alone dictate the part she is expected to play, and it seems there is no escaping it.
Dedicating herself to the goddess Eilistraee is a natural choice and fits well with her profession. Though Divarra takes the unusual step of adding blade-work to her lessons, mainly as part of her devotions, but also because proficiency with swords and daggers would allow her to take work where protection of a patron is required.
It is her music, combined with her prowess with a sword, that gets her chosen to accompany a prominent merchant to Baldur’s Gate.