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“That was when they noticed that every musician on the stage was wearing mourning black. That was when they shut up. And when the conductor raised his arms, it was not a symphony that filled the cavernous space.
It was the Song of Eyllwe.
Then Song of Fenharrow. And Melisande. And Terrasen. Each nation that had people in those labour camps.
And finally, not for pomp or triumph, but to mourn what they had become, they played the Song of Adarlan.
When the final note finished, the conductor turned to the crowd, the musicians standing with him. As one, they looked to the boxes, to all those jewels bought with the blood of a continent. And without a word, without a bow or another gesture, they walked off the stage.
The next morning, by royal decree, the theatre was shut down.
No one saw those musicians or their conductor again.”
― Heir of Fire
It was the Song of Eyllwe.
Then Song of Fenharrow. And Melisande. And Terrasen. Each nation that had people in those labour camps.
And finally, not for pomp or triumph, but to mourn what they had become, they played the Song of Adarlan.
When the final note finished, the conductor turned to the crowd, the musicians standing with him. As one, they looked to the boxes, to all those jewels bought with the blood of a continent. And without a word, without a bow or another gesture, they walked off the stage.
The next morning, by royal decree, the theatre was shut down.
No one saw those musicians or their conductor again.”
― Heir of Fire
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