Esmeralda: An Oddlot Tale, part 1

Author’s Note: As with the other short stories in the blog, this is a “rough” draft with limited editing.

In a rain forest deep in the Feywild, the Oddlot made camp for the night. Their destination was the safety of the Seelie Court, but that night the only safety they had was what they could provide for themselves. Their charges were refugees fleeing enslaving hobgoblins, goliaths and humans who have been driven from their homeland. The companions got their charges settled before taking a rare moment to relax around the campfire.

Ander, the strikingly handsome half-elf bard, sank wearily to the ground and leaned against a fallen log. They’d been on the road without stop lately, and he was feeling the weariness in his bones. Still, his friends, even the new ones, got him through it. He wasn’t comfortable with the mantel of leadership that seemed to default to him, but he’d always do his best to help them.

The party’s newest and smallest member, Snow, pulled out a spell book and starting studying his spells. The little kobold had endeared himself to the companions, despite their history fighting his brethren months ago in Ellery. He compared notes with fellow wizard, the mechanical 2zard, while the halfling Nedwyn took her time surveying the perimeter of the camp for dangers. Tyrael, the tiefling sorcerer practiced his casting rituals, determined to make himself more potent in battle.

Not all of the companions remained. Westendorf, the wizard they’d brought out of Ellery, had departed the group, choosing to explore a personal issue. His replacement claimed to be a monk of the drunken master variety, the group’s second goliath member. He called himself Northwind. Ander had seen flashes of his prowess in battle, but thought maybe the alcohol played too strong a role. He snored loudly, already asleep. Still, he had his charms, and wasn’t unlike another strong personality the grouped missed. Ander felt his heart hurt when he didn’t see Mordo’s hulking metal form around the fire.

Ander looked over at Enolo, the party’s original goliath. The bard had come to count on the huge paladin over the weeks and was happy that his friend had become smitten with one of the female goliath refugees. Truth be known, Ander had helped out Enolo with a little magic to soften his rough edges when he talked to the female. Those two were sitting next to each other chatting, Enolo as happy as Ander had seen him. The sight gave his heart hope that even in a world that had been so hostile to his own romance—real romance, not simple evenings of pleasure—love might have a chance. So caught up in his feelings, he didn’t notice the group’s gnome druid approach him.

“Say, Ander,” Dalvin said, louder than he needed to. The difference of three vertical feet from Dalvin’s mouth to Ander’s ear wasn’t the issue; Ander suddenly realized Dalvin had already tried to get his attention once. All the companions had turned to regard them.

“Sorry, Dalvin,” Ander said. “I was lost in my own thoughts.”

“I can see, that, old friend. It’s not the first time lately. The other night, you reacted very strongly to the thought of confronting that sorceress sister of the loxodon we saved.”

“Oh, that…” Ander felt a hot flush on his face. “She, she certainly sounded formidable.”

“She did, but you’re not one to let that stop you.”

“You overestimate my bravery, perhaps.”

“You’re cautious, but no coward.”

Ander’s eyes shifted away. He wasn’t so sure.

“Anyway,” Dalvin continued, “that night, in your sleep, you called out the name ‘Esmeralda’.”

“I did?!” Ander’s flush face was threatening a cold sweat. “I—I…You must be mistaken.”

“It’s not the first time you mentioned her name. Back in the elven temple, at the Test of Poetry, you mentioned Esmeralda and Sevrin, and claimed to dislike poetry.”

“Well, you know poets, with their berets and everything.”

“It occurs to me, old friend, that for as long as we’ve been together, I don’t really know where you’ve come from.”

“Does it matter?”

“Not completely, but recently I’m thinking it might be significant. Who is Esmeralda?”

“I don’t wish to talk about it!” Ander leapt from the log he’d been sitting against and took two stomping steps toward the forest. Then, realizing he had nowhere to go, and realizing Davlin was only asking because he cared, he turned around and looked at his small friend.

Ander took a moment to wrestle his emotions. This was the one story he didn’t want to tell. His friends had a right to know, though. He took a deep breath.

“All right, it’s time you knew. All of you.”

The rest of the companions, looking rather awkward at the outburst, had started to look away or to feign menial tasks. Enolo, though, had broken off the conversation with the goliath woman. He stared steadily at Ander.

“The truth is, I’m a phony,” Ander said. He sighed, picked up his lute, and took a seat on the fallen tree trunk. He took a deep breath to begin his performance. “It’ll be easier for me to sing you story, as a narrator to events that happened to someone else. I may assume thoughts and motivations of others, which may not be entirely accurate.”

The friends nodded they understood, even Enolo, concern on their faces.

“Very well, then,” Ander said. He took another breath and began.



# # #



Ander’s vanity, humor and love of insults is all a façade. In his youth, he was indeed a lighthearted young half-elf, the child of a human bard named Zane and a missing elvish mother. He grew up in the city of Khord, the Crown City of the Monarchy of Mahn. Specifically, Ander’s family was a troupe of performers called the Magic Lantern Society. The troupe had its own theater and also toured the realms. More than just a professional entity, The Magic Lantern Society was an unusually stable and caring extended family for Ander.

Still, not all family members get along. Ander understudied for an older boy named Sevrin. In troupe parlance, an understudy wasn’t limited to just knowing the script for a role in a play, but for learning the rules, mores, and traditions of the Magic Lantern Society. Sevrin had been a good “big brother” and mentor for Ander, but that changed as Sevrin progressed further into adolescence. He became more selfish, cocky, and cruel toward Ander, though not quite reaching the point of out-and-out abuse. That is, until one fateful day when Ander was ten years old and Sevrin sixteen. On that day, Ander and Sevrin saw Esmarelda Villa Lobos Garcia.

The first time Ander had laid eyes on Esmeralda Villa Lobos Garcia, he’d been a boy, four years her junior. He sat on the steps leading into the Magic Lantern Society Theater, a building as close to a home as he ever had. Ander watched as the teenaged Esmeralda made her way down the aisle of merchant stands in the open market. Esmeralda’s namesake emerald eyes eagerly darted from shop to shop as Ander watched her. Her long black hair, cascaded from her head in loose curls and rivulets, framing a face born with the darker skin of the southern coastal kingdoms. It was a skin she shared with Juan Carlos Villa Lobos, her father and General of the Army.

Ander had known about her father before he’d ever seen Esmeralda, though not many knew the true story about the general and his family. Ander’s father Zane was a learned bard with his ear to the pulse the royal city and knew such secrets. General Villa Lobos had carved a glorious and bloody path for himself as a sell-sword, a mercenary hired by the Mahn royal family. Eventually, due to some convenient battlefield deaths, Villa Lobos stepped in to guide the army to victory when all seemed lost. Ander’s father might have said that it was a little too convenient, but only in a whisper.

Ander, in contrast to the exotic beauty of Esmeralda, was pale and lean due to the elven half of his heritage, though already showing that his childhood cuteness would blossom into something extraordinary when he matured. Esmeralda stood a foot taller and dozens of pounds of muscle heavier; strong, fast, and talented with a sword. Ander preferred a lute, and with it, caught the teenager’s interest. Like a fisherman who accidentally hooks a shark, Ander didn’t know what to do with his catch. He had only known that the girl was pretty and in his immature mind, had acted on it. As she sauntered up to him, he felt hot and confused as something stirred within him for the first time that wasn’t in a dream.

“Hello, pretty boy,” Esmeralda said. The accent of her homeland played in her words, mesmerizing Ander. “Do you play that lute for me?”

Ander nodded, the capability for speech suspended even as his jaw drooped.

“Well, do you have some other tune for me, pretty boy, or was that it?” Esmeralda’s tone teased softly, a juvenile flirt that she only partially understood.

Ander had been born with musical instruments in his hand, and the reminder that he held the old comfort stirred his faculties into order. Zane, his father, entertained audiences with music and magical effects as part of the Magic Lantern Society. Ander hadn’t yet managed any of his father’s magical effects, but had proved himself a prodigy early on. He strummed the lute and listened to the notes he had produced at random, and found his song. He couldn’t fully remember afterward what he played, but he knew he’d moved Esmeralda. Her teasing playfulness had fallen away. She stood transfixed, her mouth parted. A single tear rolled from her eye and down her cheek.

“Beautiful,” she whispered when Ander finished. The boy still could find no words to speak, despite the power of what he’d sung.

“Yes, he’s quite a singer, our little Ander,” said a voice from the stairs. During the song, neither singer nor listener had noticed the door open. A lithe boy of sixteen leaned against the doorframe, his small but chiseled arms exposed by his leather vest. He wore tights and no codpiece, for he was confident he needed none. Soft leather boots slumped over his shins and his sandy hair had been carefully disheveled.

“Quite the singer, yes,” the teen repeated. “But not much of a talker. Now, if it’s cunning verse and stirring word you wish, m’lady, allow Sevrin to be at your service.”

Esmeralda blinked, remembering who she was. “Ah, a poet. Yes. When I become General of the Army, I plan to have them all flogged for wasting ink and paper.”

“You wound me, dear lady.”

“Not yet.”

“Please!” Sevrin said, unwinding himself from the doorway. He made a grand sweep of his hands, imploring Esmeralda. “Perhaps you’ve heard only the limericks of fools before. Give me but a moment of your time to save my skin. The future me would be ever so grateful. Perhaps I could move you in ways that little Ander can’t, if you catch my meaning.”

“Go on, poet,” Esmeralda said.

Ander’s head moved between Sevrin and Esmeralda. He felt a burning anger for the older boy, but swallowed it back. He’d never really felt jealousy before, but one of the rules of the Magic Lantern Society was to never act on jealousy toward a brother or sister in the troupe. If he felt slighted, he could bring it to the elders, who would deliberate. Still, he didn’t have to let Sevrin have an easy go of it.

“Would you like me to accompany you, Sevrin?” Ander asked in a stage whisper. “You know, to fill in should you forget the words again?”

Sevrin’s fair skin blushed red. Esmeralda hid a giggle behind her hand.

“No, I don’t need any help from a pretty boy like you,” Sevrin said. With the bottom of his boot, he pushed Ander off his step. The younger boy twisted, his instinct to preserve his instrument instead of himself. He’d heal, but his lute would require precious coins to fix, should it break. As a result, he landed awkwardly on the cobblestone street next to the marble stairs, and the wind blasted out of him. He sucked air in ragged gasps.

Esmeralda looked at him. Concern flashed for a minute, but it was chased away by disdain. She’d had an instant liking for the Ander. He was innocent and beautiful. Her father, the general, ignored such things. He had told Esmeralda that if she were to ever achieve her ridiculous goal of being a female General of the Army, she’d have no room for sentiment in her life. Esmeralda worshipped her father, partly because she feared him, but she had not quite been convinced that he was right about innocence.

Sevrin began his poem:

“An elven maiden fair, from a forest deep and green,

Fell in love with a traveling man, an actor raw and green.”

“Sevrin!”Ander hissed. The older boy paid him no mind.

“Their loved bore her far away, and one night a mistake was formed,

In her belly grew a piteous thing, one with brain deformed.

Upon birthing this terrible child, the elven matron cried,

And flew from the human man, for the comfort of the countryside.”

Two tears ran down Ander’s face. Sevrin had teased him about his half-elf heritage before, but to bring up his missing mother burned tears of anger, and a long hidden pain, out of him.

Esmeralda giggled again. Perhaps she didn’t notice Ander’s pain.

“Aw, look at him,” Sevrin said. “The halfie’s getting angry.”

“Halfie?” Esmeralda said. She held her grin, but the amused light died in her eyes.

“Look at his ears, m’lady. His mother was an elf,” Sevrin said, meaning it as an insult.

Esmeralda’s eyes flashed as hard as her father’s steel. “Ears like these, you mean?” she said, pulling back her wavy black locks to show the point of her own ears. She stomped up the stairs to the stunned Sevrin. "You may have a nice way with words, Sevrin,” she said. “But you should know when to keep your mouth shut.” She grabbed his vest and planted her hip into his midsection, flipping him over her and down the stairs to lay gasping next to Ander. She descended the stairs like and empress and stood with leather clad legs wide and hands on hips.

“Little boys, both of you. Mother said boys matured later than girls, but I didn’t know what she meant. I’m disappointed to learn for myself.”

Ander by this time had managed to scoot himself into a sitting position. “I’ll do better next time,” he croaked, his first unsung words to the girl.

Esmeralda bent down until her face was an inch from Ander’s. “And who says they’ll be a next time, little singer?”

“No next time?” Ander asked. “Then I better get it this time.” Quicker than Esmeralda could have expected, Ander lifted up and planted a kiss on her mouth.

“How dare you!” she said when she pulled away. She raised her hand to slap him down, but stopped herself short. She touched her lip instead, then smiled. “Perhaps you are not as soft as you look, little singer.” She grabbed him and planted her own kiss on his lips, far more mature than the peck he’d given her. “You can’t be soft and be with me,” she whispered, then pushed him flat on to his back. She stalked off on the hard heels of her boots.

Sevrin had seen it all. Recovering his breath, he planted a punch on Ander’s jaw.

“Hope it was worth it, runt,” he said before stomping back into the theater.

As the door slammed close, Ander held his sore jaw. He looked after Esmeralda. “Absolutely,” he said to her retreating form.

Time passed. Ander grew into a stunningly handsome youth who became a special feature at the Magic Lantern Theater. Sevrin did not. Thought the Society had roles for everyone, and profits were shared evenly, it never did sit well with Sevrin. He was handsome enough and his poetry was good, but the oddness of his topics alienated some audiences, while a strange theme of cruelty and sorrow undercut most of his poems. Esmeralda, though, turned up regularly for Sevrin’s recitals. She understood the pain in the poet’s words. Still, Sevrin played to small audiences, while Ander’s seemed to grow every performance, especially amongst the maidens of the city.

Esmeralda attended Ander’s concerts, too. The theater was the one of two pleasures she allowed herself in her adolescence. By eighteen, she’d built herself up to become a lieutenant in her father’s army. Though many assumed she benefited from nepotism, the opposite was the case. Juan Carlos Villa Lobos threw every obstacle he could at his daughter, at first to dissuade her from an “unwomanly” career. He did not relent even when he was convinced of her skill and resolution to succeed. Esmeralda never stopped trying to please her father, though in sullen moods, she questioned why it had to be so much harder for her. She never understood that her father silently grew to support her, and that his obstacles, though sometimes cruel, served to strengthen her for a command role.

The second pleasure took place in the dark of night. Esmerelda twisted her notorious rivulets of hair into a bun and hid it under a hood. A mask went over her face, black as the night she prowled in. Her body she hid under flowing black silks and trousers. Dressed this way, she danced through the alleys and upon rooftops, seeking adventure. She did not walk alone.

Ander awoke near midnight, his mouth dry. It had been a long hot day in the theater of moving out old scenery and building new to replace it. He sat up into the cool breeze, feeling it wash over his bare chest, a chest that had finally filled itself with tight cords of muscle. He often slept on top of the Magic Lantern Theater when summer’s heat made his regular quarters too unbearable, or when Sevrin’s snores ripped him from slumber. Or, gods help him, when thick-bodied Cort had gotten into the beans at dinner. That lad could rip a deadly one, and Ander had actually camped on the roof in the dead of winter before, rather than inhale the noxiousness. Now, though, the gentle sea breeze came off the coast that the city of Khord abutted. It was a magical night, with the stars piercing the inky veil above. Cricket sounds were pleasantly muted three stories below, providing just enough of a gentle drone to lure him back to sleep. But first, Ander cast round for his canteen. Sleeping on the roof had its drawback, especially being far from the water pump—and the privy, he suddenly realized. He briefly considered the rain gutter down spout, but decided against it. He pulled on his trousers and made for the winding stairs leading below.

Ander’s elven heritage blessed him with darkvision, but he wasn’t fully awake and banged his hip against a prop vase left in the corridor next to the privy. It rattled loudly on its base, wobbling around. Ander caught it and reset it, but used his elfish ears to listen for movement. Sevrin would be a right bastard if Ander awoke him, and the room he shared with the older youth and Cort was right next to the privy. Hearing nothing, Ander went about his business and returned to the roof of the stairs.

Ander had just stripped back down to his skivvies when he heard a familiar sigh. He jumped and exclaimed, turning to see Esmeralda perched on the edge of the roof.

“Aw, I’d hoped you had nothing on underneath,” she said. “I wanted to find out if what they said about elven boys is true.”

Ander, despite his heart pounding faster that his drum during the Chaos Dance, answered. “I’m only half elf,” he said picking his trousers back up. “But yes, it’s true.” He smiled.

“Perhaps I’ll see for myself,” Esmeralda said, not missing a beat. She sprang from her perch to land lightly in front of Ander. The sea breeze rippled her black silk blouse tight against her body and Ander was surprised to see she was cold despite the warm night.

And unintelligible phrase fell out of Ander’s mouth as Esmeralda grabbed the waist of his trousers and pulled Ander toward her. “What was that, Little Singer? And here I though you bards were silver-tongued. Or does that have a different meaning?”

Ander was suddenly aware of how hot his face felt, despite the goosebumps rising on his bare chest. He knew she’d fed him and easy line, but for the life of him, couldn’t figure out how to turn it into a cunning linguistic reply.

“What’s going on here?” Sevrin barked, jumping up from the winding stairs. He held a cudgel in his hand, and a lantern in the other. Unlike Ander and Esmeralda, Sevrin had no elven blessing to see in the dark. “What?!” He gasped, seeing the two before him practically in an embrace. It did not help that Ander had his shirt off and Esmeralda still pulled at the waist of his trousers. His face reddened.

“Ah, my poet,” Esmeralda said. She slid smoothly from Ander to Sevrin, running her fingertips down the cheek of his face. “I had hoped to see you, too, on this hot lonely night.” The comment only served to deepen the crimson on Sevrin’s face, though now it was for different reasons.

“Tell me, my beautiful boys. Are you ready for an adventure this night?”

“With him here?” both boys said at the same time.

“Oh yes. I need you both.”

Ander and Sevrin shared a bewildered look.

“Come boys,” Esmeralda said. With that she danced away from Sevrin, to the edge of the roof, and dropped down.

“Esmeralda!” Ander and Sevrin shouted together. Ander with his elven eyes saw it first, the clever grappling hook and fine silk cord. Esmeralda dangled by one strong hand from it, staring back up at their slack jawed faces as they peered over after her. Her green eyes danced with mischief in the starlight, and her laugh invited them down as much as it mocked their concern.

Sevrin pushed Ander aside, grabbed the cord, and lowered himself down. He already wore tunic, trousers and boots, so he had quite a head start on Ander, who had to quickly don his clothes. The older boy stood on the ground next to Esmeralda by the time Ander got himself over the edge of the flat roof and he shook at the rope, playing at dislodging Ander.

“Knock it off, Sev!” Ander called. The half-elf had no problems with heights, but the vibrations up the rope were no joke to him.

When Ander finally got to the ground, the three embarked on what would become a regular routine for them. Each would take a mask and cowl, and scurry over the rooftops, scale walls, and sneak past guards to see the unseen. Largely, the worst of their crimes was trespassing, but Sevrin grew restless and saw the possibilities their stealth and disguises offered them. One night, Sevrin used his honied words to tell the other two about an artifact of the Gi’malti clan that had been stolen years ago. The artifact was a wooden hunting mask, said to be blessed by the nomadic Gi’malti’s dwarven ancestors. The theft had been a high crime and a great injustice for the tribe, and he sold Ander and Esmeralda on the idea of setting things right. Sevrin told them that the mask was on display of a particular merchant that was unloved in the city, a man named Horiel that was said to have obtained his wealth by exploitation and corruption.

“It will be fine justice, then,” Sevrin whispered on top of the theater. The three had gathered for their weekly outing. The nights were cooler now, as fall shortened the hours the sun marched across the sky. “We return a relic to its people and punish a wicked man.”

Sevrin had chosen his words carefully, as the whole caper depended on Ander, their most accomplished burglar. The Magic Lantern Society were forthright performers, but that didn’t mean that every playhouse and theater shared their honor. A fair number of unscrupulous stage owners tried to screw performers out of their share of the gate’s proceeds. Accordingly, the troupe knew how to take payment when they’d been ripped off. This included “collecting” what they were owed in some cases. Sevrin smirked at the distinction with adolescent scorn, but to Ander it was important. The younger teen was a devotee of Tyr, god of justice. He’d never willingly steal what was not righteously owed.

Sevrin inwardly sneered at Ander’s sense of justice. He’d passed by halls filled with fine art and jewels during the companions’ night-time exploits, all because Ander would have tried to stop him. Sevrin had been sorely tempted to push the issue, confident he could have beaten Ander physically, but he wasn’t sure how Esmeralda would react to such a fight. He decided to play the long game with Ander instead, and slowly put into place the details that would force Ander to his side, for once.

Esmeralda often found herself in the middle, torn between the appeal of Ander’s goodness and Sevrin’s boundary-breaking. Ander kept them from vandalism and untoward robbery, but the thrill of Sevrin’s ideas tempted the young warrior in ways that delighted her soul. They’d never stolen anything. At least, anything that Ander had known about. Esmeralda suspected that Sevrin had helped himself to carelessly unguarded trinkets here and there during their nocturnal missions. Esmeralda found such acts dishonorable, according to the warrior code she’d been brought up in, but thrilling nonetheless.

That long night in Horiel’s house changed everything for the group. The nature of what they did switched from harmless fun to something else. At first, Ander thought it was a sort of divine justice, and had felt swollen with zeal for Tyr as they worked their way through the merchant’s extensive mansion. Sevrin, despite his words, was quiet. His eyes, if his companions had been wise enough to read them, flashed with excitement, but also something more sinister. Esmerelda’s green orbs, though, shone with exhilaration. The three avoided guards and dogs. Ander even defeated a trap in the room where the mask sat perched on a pedestal. They’d slid the mask into a sack and left with it before dawn had pierced the horizon.

“Where do we meet your friend from the Gi’malti?” Ander asked, once they had returned to the top of the theater. “Is he in the city, or do we have to travel to their hunting grounds?”

“First things first,” Sevrin said. “Let’s have look at that mask in the light.” Ander pulled the wooden mask from the sack he carried. It was a two foot oblong, a stretched and grotesque version of a Gi’malti face.

“Hells, this thing is hideous,” Esmeralda said as Ander passed it to her. “Stretching out a dwarven face, you’d think it make it look more human. This thing looks like an ogre stepped on it.”

“I agree,” Sevrin said, taking it from her. “Accordingly, it can’t really be worth all that much gold.” He took the mask and spun it like a discus off the roof. It was a good toss, and the mask landed in the flowing brown Hesper River that ran a block from the theater.

“Tyr’s stump!” Ander cried out. He had shot to his feet and stood mouth gaping as the mask had gracefully arched to the river. “What in the nine hells did you do that for?”

“Like I said, it’s worthless,” Sevrin said, sitting back down. “This on the other hand…” The older teen pulled a green jewel, an emerald, from a pouch on his belt. “This is worth a fair fortune, I’d wager.”

Esmeralda’s eyes locked on her namesake jewel. “It’s beautiful,” she said in a hushed tone.

“Did you take that from the merchant’s home?” Ander said, suddenly understanding Sevrin’s true motivations. “Did you lie to us, just to steal this?”

Sevrin’s cunning eyes smiled his answer.

Ander fell speechless, slumping to lean against the parapet of the roof. He hadn’t performed Tyr’s will at all. He was nothing but a common thief.

“He’ll find out,” Ander said at last, breaking the other two from ogling the jewel. “Horiel will call the constabulary. He wouldn’t have it was just the mask, because he would have known he had that illegally. But for this jewel, he’ll go to the Watch. Did you forget how rich and powerful Horiel is?”

“Oh, but have your forgotten that you, too, have a powerful friend?” Esmeralda said not breaking her gaze from the emerald. “The daughter of the General of the Army can offer her friends protections that none of your street-trash maidens can, Ander.”

“You, you know about the girls?”

“Aye, but I’m not mad. Have your playthings. I have my own,” Esmeralda said. Ander did not like the thought of that, though he had not been holding chaste while he waited for Esmeralda to notice him.

“Protections?” Sevrin said to Esmeralda.

“For a price,” she answered.

“M’lady!” Sevrin said, dipping a low bow. He held up the emerald. The young warrior took it from him and cradled it in two hands like it was a baby bird. Then, it disappeared, tucked into her cleavage as she gave the boys a sly grin.

Ander’s disappointment with Esmeralda was only exceeded by his own. He stalked down the stairs from the rooftop, batting away the girl’s attempt to caress him.

Ander pursued other romances in his youth, as Esmeralda had guessed. For a while, he lost himself in a series of girls, keeping himself in bedchambers for the night and away from the rooftop. He wouldn’t say a thing against his former companions to the authorities, but he didn’t have to associate with them either. Both the theft and the promiscuity tarnished the teen, and his performances suffered. It didn’t help that Esmeralda was no longer in attendance. While he no longer wished to swing from the rooftops with her, a tender part of his heart had hoped that she would choose to come back to him and leave behind Sevrin’s cold exhilarations.

When spring arrived, Ander once again found himself on the roof of the theater. A romantic interlude had fallen through and he couldn’t stand the idea of sharing his old bunkroom with Sevrin, especially now that Cort had moved out. He set up his bedroll on the roof once again. Sleep did not come to him, though, and he sat for an hour staring over the city, a city that had seemed so thrilling not that long ago.

“It’s lost its luster for you, yes?” Esmeralda said from behind him. Ander did not startle as she had hoped. The boy was getting better at knowing his surroundings, a trait developed in part by his fear of Horiel’s knee breakers finding him.

“Luster is for jewels, Es,” he replied. “You should know that.”

Esmeralda slumped a bit. “I was hoping we could talk, Little Singer.”

“I’m not little anymore. I’ve had to grow up recently. You know, we do the coming-of-age plays as part of the theater’s regular run of shows, but even when I was acting in them, I didn’t really understand the pain they showed the audience.”

“I’m a warrior, Ander. I thought I knew pain, too. But the pain of the heart is something my training did not prepare me for.”

Ander looked up at her wiping away the pooling of one eye. Esmeralda’s eyes, too, rimmed with tears.

“I had the emerald returned, Little Singer. I hated it after a while, once I realized it had broken us up.”

“Truly?”

“Aye, Horiel has it back. My father’s agents have also convinced him to not look into the matter any further, or to try for vengeance against whomever might have stolen it.”

“I’m relieved,” Ander said, “But I meant the other thing. Have you really missed me?”

“At first I thought I just missed the nights out, the exhilaration of it all. Sevrin and I went out a few times, poking in here or there. But he became less about the thrill and more about what he could…take.” She crossed her arms over her chest, hugging herself and fighting a shiver.

Ander stood up. “Did he hurt you?”

Esmeralda shook her head. “He made advances. Some, well, I welcomed them at first. Without you around, too, I was lonely. I thought fate had decided things for me, that Sevrin must be the one. He could be rough, though, like it wasn’t about me, but how much he could get me to do. I see that I made no choice in the matter, and that satisfied me less than Sevrin’s indelicate hands.”

“You made a choice, Es. When you accepted that emerald, you made a choice.”

Esmeralda stiffened, a shot of truth to her spine. She started to form a hot retort, but looking at the pain in Ander’s face, she felt her shame.

“Ander. Forgive me.”

The young bard stood torn, emotions warring in him. Some part of him wanted to forgive her, but not let her back in. Another part, the one that had sparked to life on the steps of the theater when he’d first seen her, had greater sway. He’d fed that fantasy for years, and it did not die to harsh reality as it should have.

“I forgive you.”

Esmeralda took a slight step toward him, then another. She rushed to him a moment later, pressing her mouth against his. Ander returned her kiss and the two stood locked in embrace. She seemed smaller to Ander, though he knew she was as tall as and stronger than he. He could feel the strength in her body as he pressed his into her, holding her in his arms. Her kisses fell on his mouth, his face, his neck, surging with their urgency. He returned them in kind, tickling the nape of her neck as she pulled open the silken blouse. They slid down, pushing against each other to fall on his bedroll. Their lovemaking lasted deep into the night.

Below them, under the trapdoor to the roof, Sevrin seethed.

{End part 1}