The Singing is the fourth and final book in the Pellinor series. It swiches between Maerad and Hem's points of view.
Back Cover Text Edit
I am the Lily that stands in the still waters, in the morning sun the lights on me, amber and rose;
I am delicate, as the mist is delicate that climbs with the dawn; yea, the smallest breath of wind will stir me.
And yet my roots run deep as the Song, and my crown is mightier than the sky itself,
And my heart is a white flame that dances in its joy, and its light will never be quenched.
Though the Dark One comes in all his strength, I shall not be daunted.
Though he attack with his mighty armies, though he strike with iron and fire, with all his grievous weapons,
Even should he turn his deadly eye upon me, fear will not defeat me.
I will arise, and he will be shaken where he stands, and his sword will be shivered in the dust,
For he is blind and knows nothing of love, and it will be love that defeats him.
-From The Song of Maerad, Italian of Turbansk
The Weight of the WorldEdit
Down came the hail, a frosty flail,
Down fell the icy rain.
The torches flared with desperate light
And savage lightning stabbed the night
Which screamed like a soul in pain.
His black brow bound with clouds around
The Landrost raised his hand:
”Be they so fair and strong and tall,
I’ll crush these walls and golden halls
And I will rule this land!”
Their hearts aflame, defenders came
With staff and sword and bow
And bravely on the walls arrayed,
Where Innail’s maid stood unafraid
Before her stormy foe.
”Not all your might gives you the right
In our fair streets to tread,
And you’ll not take this fearless town
For I’ll cast down your iron crown
Or die,” the lady said.
-From The Ballad of the Maid of Innail, Anon.
The Hollow LandsEdit
Nor was such love often seen, as that between Saliman and Hem: for each held that to lay down his life were a small price for the other's good. As the reeds standing in the river, they bowed side by side before the gentle breeze; as broad oaks in the forest, they resisted the fierce tempest together; nor did one ever fail the other in his promise. Truly he is blessed, who rejoices in such a friend!-From The Tale of Saliman, Maerad of Turbansk
Alas! Alas! The dead have come,
The newborn babe, the withered king,
And pale Bards whose empty hands
No blessings bring.
Poor shades, no hearth can warm them now.
They walk beneath the roofless skies
Forlorn and lost, and all men dread
Their fading cries.
Death has robbed their limbs of love
And starved their gentle flesh to bone:
At last beneath the starless sky
Each stands alone.
They pluck at me, in my dark mind
Like burning rain their voices fall,
And who can count their Legion ranks
Or name them all?
-From The Elidhu Chronicles, Horvadh of Gent