The Musician of a Fallen Kingdom

If one day I, too, were caught in the whirlpool of history—unable to advance or retreat, living each day in confusion, fearing the future, dreading uncertainty, resenting the present—what would I do?

Sometimes, after finishing dinner and lying in bed on the verge of sleep, these thoughts inexplicably surface in my mind.

I turn over, my mind gradually emptying, and once again I sink into memories of him.

I

At that time, I was still a renowned and high-spirited envoy.

By imperial order, I traveled to Xiayu, once a powerful little kingdom. But after repeated changes of rule, its sovereign had grown negligent. Xiayu now resembled an aged elder, wheezing on the brink of death, yet still grasping for one final breath.

The empire could easily have crushed it with arms, but the Emperor preferred to persuade its surrender—thus he dispatched me. I climbed into the carriage without hesitation, urging the driver to hasten, eager to return and claim merit.

Once inside Xiayu’s gates, I surveyed the city. As I had expected, it was deserted and silent. Guards lounged idly, sprawled on the ground. I tossed a coin of silver to one of them, asking the way to the royal palace. Startled, he quickly pocketed it and led the way ahead of my carriage.

I asked why the city was so empty. He told me trade here was impossible: every passing official demanded fees, and any business would be driven to ruin. Merchants had long since abandoned the place. The king, with no revenue, could no longer support his army; he conscripted men from nearby villages instead, which only worsened the decline.

The man confessed he himself had been seized for service, and that this was the first piece of silver he had ever touched—ironically, from a foreigner’s hand.

Hearing this, I felt content. Such a feeble state would be easy to bend. At the palace gates, I tossed him another coin. He dropped to his knees, scrambling to gather the silver, bowing his head to check none had fallen. After knocking his forehead thrice to the ground, he ran off.

I revealed my identity to the palace guards. They shuffled inside, then returned lazily to admit me. Soldiers escorted my carriage inward.

After dismounting, I was searched, then led up the steps. Halfway, the guards knelt toward the throne, where the king sat chewing meat. He waved them away, leaving me alone. I bowed, reluctantly observing protocol.

The King of Xiayu invited me to sit. I chose the grandest seat. He dismissed most attendants, retaining only a few guards. Wine was served. Before I could speak, he raised his cup:

“I know why you are here. I do not wish for war. War brings me no benefit.”

At these words I rejoiced inwardly. He continued:

“I only ask that I may continue to enjoy the life I have now. Surely you can grant me that?”

I feigned difficulty, though inwardly elated. Thus, instead of debating surrender, we discussed his treatment after abdication. Cautiously, he set forth demands, then slyly pushed for more. Some I agreed to; others required the Emperor’s approval. I drafted a letter, and the king dispatched it with a messenger. Everything proceeded smoother than I could have hoped.

When business was done, the king summoned his troupe of dancers and musicians for entertainment. Truth be told, I had little liking for such spectacles—believing that these very indulgences had ruined his realm. But as a guest, I could only comply.

II

The courtesans entered, clad in revealing silks, dazzling and alluring. No wonder the king was so enfeebled. Off to the side sat a musician, hair untidy, seated quietly with his zither.

He began to play. The notes carried sorrow, laden with helplessness, as though telling a story. The dancers twisted suggestively to his heavy music, their movements grotesquely mismatched—as if trying to smother despair beneath fleshly allure.

I glanced at the musician. His eyes were closed, fingers weaving deep lament into sound—half accusation, half sigh. Perhaps this was his life: eternally bound by forces beyond his will.

The music ceased in the arms of the dancers. The king, entranced by their beauty, seemed indifferent to the melody. To him, the musician was merely backdrop for feminine grace.

Once the dancers departed, I praised them extravagantly, claiming even our own palace could not compare. The king beamed, raised his cup, and we drank together. Soon, state affairs were forgotten; instead, we spoke of which dancer was loveliest, most wanton.

The king, pleased by my candor, lodged me in fine quarters near a small pavilion—his favorite retreat from summer heat. It seemed he truly regarded me as a friend.

Yet strangely, it was not the dancers I remembered, but the musician’s mournful zither—so discordant with the revelry, yet far more captivating.

That night, drifting through the stillness, I heard the instrument again. It wept, like a living soul pleading before the dying, begging them to live again. But no matter the cry, the doomed soul could not be recalled. At last, the music subsided into resignation.

I pushed open the door and found the musician in the pavilion, gazing at the endless sky. He looked both thoughtful and lost—as though even if he knew what he sought, he could never reach it.

I approached. Startled, he rose and bowed.

“What are you playing?” I asked.

He hesitated, then said:

“It is my own composition. I am but an unknown court musician, playing daily to amuse lords. At first, I thought such a life carefree and pleasant, and I delighted in it. But one by one, those lords died. Their successors cared nothing for music, only for the dancers’ charms. My music lost its passion, and I was seized with worries I had never known. I began to wonder if my music had died—or was dying. It feels like a corpse, soulless—yet still breathing faintly, as though unfinished. I do not know how to revive it, nor what last message it wishes to deliver. So I practice daily, hoping someone might discern its purpose.”

“Do you think only of your music?” I asked.

He sighed:

“I have thought of my own life. But it is fragile, no more than an ant in the hands of nobles—my fate not mine to choose. And as a man of a doomed nation, am I not but a lamb awaiting slaughter?”

His words made me ponder. I told him I wished to help. Though I did not fully grasp his meaning, perhaps musicians in our own court might. He bowed again and again in gratitude.

III

After several days of negotiation, the King of Xiayu obtained what he desired: funds for pleasure, lands, and a residence for his concubines. He said he would miss me as a friend; I only smiled.

To thank me, he offered any courtesan I wished, even his favorite. Instead, I bowed and asked to borrow the musician. He was astonished—thinking I would choose beauty, not a zither player. He told me to keep him, for though the musician’s stipend was costly, his late father had bound him to retain him.

I bowed again, and the king drank with me one last time.

I brought the musician back to our empire. The Emperor welcomed me with delight, rewarding me richly, and asked if I desired more. I bowed and presented the musician:

“Majesty, in Xiayu I encountered a musician. He has composed a piece, which he wishes to dedicate to you.”

The Emperor, surprised, commanded him to play.

The musician straightened his robe, rolled up his sleeves, and gently stroked the zither. Slowly, the notes emerged—until it seemed a man himself had risen before us.

A man blessed with talent, taken by a lord to provide amusement, lived years in indulgence. Yet as time passed, his patrons died. Successors neither understood nor valued his gift; they cared only for fleeting pleasures. His music faded into neglect. Forgotten, he played sorrow, played of homeland, hoping to awaken them. But the courtesans’ hands blinded their eyes, their flirtations deafened their ears. Powerless, he could do nothing.

I feared the Emperor would be angered, deeming this dirge unfit. Yet when the music ended, he sat stunned—tears streaming.

“Such music…” he whispered. “This is the music of a fallen kingdom. Only one who has tasted ruin could play such notes!”

The musician wept, bowing again and again. At last, someone understood him. Only in the Emperor’s presence could his music find its end. The Emperor appointed him to the palace, the musician kneeling in gratitude.

Then the Emperor turned to me:

“I see your intent. A kingdom thrives only if its ruler governs with diligence and vision. Should he indulge in fleshly pleasures, neglecting the state, ruin is inevitable.”

He wiped his eyes, commanding the court to keep him ever vigilant, never to repeat Xiayu’s fate.

In that moment, he was radiant—and indeed, he lived as he promised.

Yet in the end, I too fell into ruin.

IV

I turn again in bed, trying not to dwell on these things. But sleep will not come. I rise quietly and walk outside.

To the east lies the palace. Once its towering walls filled me with pride, making me believe that serving its master was the highest honor. Now I see them as nothing more than barriers behind which rulers amuse themselves. I walk west, far from the palace where I no longer serve.

There I find a stone table, and beside it sits a man drinking. I recognize him—the musician of Xiayu. He too recognizes me, beckoning me to join.

He pours me wine. I wave my hand. “No need. I am no longer a proud envoy—just an old man waiting to die.”

He smiles. “It is thanks to you I survived at all. Without you, I would have been discarded long ago.”

We drink. The warmth of wine lets me see him more clearly—now aged, bearded, wrinkled.

I ask: “How is life in the palace? I have not been there in so long.”

He chuckles bitterly. “I have just been cast out. Your palace was grander, richer—but in essence, no different from Xiayu’s. At first, I played for worthy lords. But they died, and successors cared only for pleasure. My music died again. And now foreign envoys arrive, seeking our surrender.

I had suspected as much. Only days ago I saw a carriage flying foreign banners, escorted by a thin guard, the envoy inside as haughty as I once was.

The musician stared at his hands. “This time, it is truly over. I can no longer lift the zither. I have forgotten how to play.”

He turned to me, confused, and asked:

“Tell me, why is it that even with a diligent emperor, we still end in ruin?”

I was struck by the bluntness of his question. After a long silence, I answered:

“Perhaps because one day of extravagance by a foolish heir undoes the lifetime of labor of a wise ruler. Kingdoms die thus. The forefathers toil to build, but the heirs only consume. If they are not taught vigilance, they believe the heavens themselves granted them this bounty—and so they squander it all.”

I paused. “In truth, the fault lies with heirs too foolish, and with emperors who chose poorly. A lifetime of right deeds cannot outweigh one final misstep.”

The musician laughed softly. “So the late Emperor’s toil was all for his heirs. Who would labor so ceaselessly, if not for them?”

I too laughed. We clinked our cups and drained them. He invited me to his dwelling. “I suddenly feel like playing again. How can we drink without music?”

I followed. Together we set the zither in place, poured more wine. As he played, the notes were no longer mournful but joyous. The music leapt like dragons soaring, like phoenixes dancing toward the sun. We drank more, laughed more—he the musician, I the envoy, as though we were young again.

The music, like us in our prime, rose in unending passion—never to cease.