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A wave of justice June 14, 2020

Posted by dolorosa12 in books, reviews.
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Trilogies are tricky, and ending them in a satisfying way is the trickiest thing of all. S.A. Chakraborty had a lot of tangled threads in her Daevabad trilogy to weave into a coherent final tapestry — characters, beings and peoples with grievances lasting millennia, the struggle for power in a magical otherworld built on political feuds and entrenched inequality, her heroine Nahri’s mysterious origins, forbidden love, unrequited love, and at least one love triangle — but she managed this with gusto in the excellent final book, The Empire of Gold. I’ve done pretty much nothing other than read this book for the entire weekend, and now that it’s finished I wish there was more!

Cover - Empire of Gold

The Daevabad books take place in a fantasy otherworld populated with magical beings — djinn, marid, peri and ghouls, as well as their part-human descendents — inspired by Islamic folklore. The Daevabad of the series’ title is the capital city of a vast djinn empire, the site of endless political struggles between different ruling groups. At the end of the second book in the series, Daevabad’s tyrannical king Ghassan al-Qahtani had been violently overthrown, sending the city’s fragile stability into chaotic disarray, and replacing his dictatorial rule with something even worse. The trio of point-of-view characters: Ghassan’s earnest, virtuous and inflexible son Ali, the centuries-old Dara, and Nahri, raised on the streets of Cairo and possessing magical healing powers are all trying to figure out where they stand in relation to this abrupt change in political power, and how they should respond to it.

The Daevabad trilogy is about a lot of things. It’s a coming-of-age story for both Ali and Nahri, a journey of self-discovery. Nahri slowly transforms from a prickly, guarded street urchin who survived on scams and trickery to a woman with a family both blood and chosen, connections, and a fierce sense of ethics, and something to fight for. Ali’s is a change from rigid dogmatism to a more empathetic and compassionate understanding of others’ frailties. The books are also a wonderful vehicle for Chakraborty to showcase her vast and well-researched knowledge of history, mythology and folklore. But above all else the series is about what it means to truly build a just and equal society. It is about the sacrifices and personal growth necessary for those at the top of the political heap to realise that they have no divine right to rule, and that their empire of gold is built on the bones of those they dismiss as nothing. It is about Dara, coming to understand that he is viewed by those he admires as a weapon to be wielded, and that there is no possible justification for the monstrous violence he has wrought over the centuries for his cause. It is about Ali, understanding at last that replacing his cruel father with another ruling dynasty — no matter how good their intentions — will not bring about lasting peace and an equitable society. And it is a rebuke to any arguments that would claim that stability is more important than justice.

I’m tired of epic or political fantasy whose triumphant conclusion is to replace an unjust ruler with another leader deemed more worthy, rather than questioning the entire system of rule, and I’m really glad that Chakraborty didn’t go down this route in her trilogy — much as I love both Ali and Nahri, it would have felt like a hollow victory. I’m also tired of redemption equals death narratives, so again I am relieved that the series gave Dara a truer kind of redemption, one which was difficult, harder work, and longer lasting than a single sacrificial act. The series is in a way a love letter to the Islamic world and the various different cultures which form it, and the fact that the series ended with a celebration of multi-ethnic, multicultural communities was a very nice touch. It was entirely fitting to me that the series should end with the dismantling of Daevabad’s structural inequalities by a former prince with a love of books, economics, and the nerdy work of public servants, and a young woman with healing gifts whose dream was to build and staff a hospital open to all. The work of healers and community-builders is less glamorous than flashy acts of violence or supernatural prowess, but it is, of course, the most powerful form of magic in the world.

Darkness, banished December 22, 2019

Posted by dolorosa12 in books, novellas, reviews.
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Today — the morning after the northern hemisphere’s longest night of the year — seems like the perfect moment to talk about a delightful novella I read recently. Sing for the Coming of the Longest Night, cowritten by Katherine Fabian and Iona Datt Sharma is the story of families found and chosen, a celebration of queer love, life and community, and takes place during the cold, strange, interstitial time that is the leadup to the winter solstice. The novel is told from two points of view — Layla and Nat, who have never got along, but are forced into an uneasy alliance when their shared boyfriend, magical, flaky, fey Meraud, goes missing. They must work together to find and save him before the solstice, after which point he will be lost to both of them forever.

Cover - Sing for the Coming of the Lowest Night

There are so many things I enjoyed about the book. I loved the compassion and joy with which it celebrated its characters’ queerness — multiple nonbinary characters, characters of all sexual orientations (with the only straight characters kept mainly in the background), some characters living in same-sex married middle class respectibility, others in overlapping polyamorous groups, but all happy and supported by those around them. I also loved the somewhat rueful rendition of the weirdness that is the UK in the leadup to Christmas, and how bizarre, frankly, a lot of the ‘traditions’ of this time period (dreadful school nativity plays, tacky shop decorations, ghastly Christmas singles released on the radio) can appear. (The acknowledgement, also, that these ‘traditions’ are forced on everyone, whether they’re religiously or culturally Christian or not — given that Layla is Hindu and Nat is Jewish — was also very welcome.) I also adore stories where characters with really different perspectives are forced to make common cause and work together, so I really enjoyed seeing this with Layla and Nat, especially their slow moves towards trust, understanding and empathy for each other’s experiences and outlooks over the course of the book.

But my favourite thing of all about Sing for the Coming of the Longest Night was the way it portrayed the blurring of the supernatural into everyday life, imbuing London, home, and family with a sense of weirdness, wildness and magic. The story has a folkloric quality, reminding me of another winter solstice British classic which is very dear to my heart, Susan Cooper’s The Dark Is Rising, in the way in which wild, frightening British mythology intrudes into comfortable Christmassy familiarity. As in The Dark Is Rising, the characters are saved by the thing that all winter festivals, at their heart, are celebrating: warmth, light, and human kindness and connection. The result is a book that is both hopeful and cozy, which acknowledges that family (whether of blood, choice, or some combination the two), love, and relationships are messy and complicated, but also that they are the only thing that will save us. The novella was a shining candle of hope, illuminating the darkness with kindness and clarity.

The voyage home September 8, 2019

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G. Willow Wilson’s novel The Bird King starts in the Alhambra, in Granada, at the moment of the final collapse of Al-Andalus (Islamic Spain), but it does not finish there. I was drawn to it by its setting — I’ve long been fascinated by Al-Andalus, and love reading fiction set at any time during its existence — but what lingered with me were the clarity and beauty of the book’s tone and themes. Wilson’s novel is at once fairytale and fantastical, lyrical and resonant, with an elegiac quality that reminds me of medieval literature.

Cover - The Bird King

The story opens in Granada, as the Emir (called the Sultan throughout the book) prepares to surrender to Isabella of Castille, with this portentous political moment watched in fear by Fatima, a slave born in the harem who has never left the confines of the Alhambra. Although the other women of the harem — royal relatives of the emir, or slaves like Fatima — assume that little will change, that they will simply exchange one ruler for another and carry on as before, with the surrender come the forces of the Inquisition. The inquisitors, though content at this moment to leave the Muslims they encounter to convert to Christianity as and when they’re ready (their worldview is such that they cannot imagine that a person may never be ready to do so), any hint of magic is viewed with profound and violent suspicion. This causes immmediate problems for Fatima. While she possesses no supernatural abilities of her own, her dearest friend Hassan is a mapmaker with a strange and wonderful skill: the ability to create doors, paths and spaces where none existed before, simply by mapping them and drawing them into reality. When Fatima unintentionally reveals Hassan’s skill to an inquisitor, the pair are faced with a choice: give up Hassan to torture and certain death, or flee towards an uncertain future. The book follows them on their flight.

Once Fatima and Hassan flee the Alhambra, the story takes on a more folkloric quality. The pair encounter djinn and other beings from Islamic mythothology, convenient sailors pop up to convey the pair to safety across hostile oceans, and Hassan writes spaces of sanctuary into the land within which he, Fatima, and the allies they encounter on the road can hide. The bird king of the title is a mythological being who dwells on a hidden, magical island, and reaching this fabled place becomes the characters’ aim. There are near death experiences, hasty escapes from their implacable, terrifying inquisitor foes, and uncertain alliances with people (and supernatural beings) met along the way. The island which they yearn to reach is the realm of the bird king to them, Avalon to some Christian characters, and imagined as different otherworlds again to others — a place of peace and plenty, where characters imagine they will be protected from pain, violence, or cruelty. Their painful, meandering journey towards it reminds me somewhat of the immrama (medieval Irish voyage tales; immram literally means ‘rowing around’) I researched during my postgraduate studies, in which dispossessed, somewhat marginalised characters undertake sea voyages towards otherworldly islands, with the physical voyage representing the spiritual journey of the soul towards God.

There is a similar kind of grace and compassion at play here. At its heart, The Bird King is the story of a group of dispossessed, traumatised people finding their way to a place of safety, and finding a sense of family and a home in each other. They must fight battles both physical and supernatural, political and personal to get there, and the way to their island home is fraught, dangerous, and in no way straightforward — but Wilson shows that what the characters gain is worth this fight. It takes extraordinary courage to leave everything that is familiar behind, and reject — as Fatima does — opportunities to surrender into comfort and protection: but by making this courageous choice, again and again, Fatima is able to find her way home at last.

No more dreaming like a girl, for a body in the garden July 21, 2019

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It would have been easy to devour This is How You Lose the Time War, Amal El-Mohtar and Max Gladstone’s collaborative epistolary time travel romance novella, but something about its format, and its authors’ obvious enjoyment of the tactile, private pleasure of a correspondence through physical letters, encouraged a slower speed to savour their story. This exquisite work — told in letters between two rival, time-travelling agents as they manipulate the streams of history to the perceived advantage of their respective sides — is a marvel and a delight. The story is at once playful and tragic, with both authors revelling in wordplay and allusions, and the extremes of emotion engendered by their characters’ poignant situation.

Cover - This is How You Lose the Time War

Time travel stories are difficult to pull off well: there’s an inherent inequality between traveller and those who wait, and to whom the traveller returns. A time traveller venturing into the past can often come across as unbearably superior, revelling in their private knowledge of present-day science, technology, and social norms while withholding this knowledge for personal gain. A time traveller from the past to our present can play into unfortunate stereotypes and tropes. This is How You Lose the Time War sidesteps all these issues firstly by making both Red and Blue, its letter-writing antagonist-lovers, time travellers, rather than one journeying and returning while the other waits, and secondly by conveying the achievements and experiences of the past with a sense of genuine respect and wonder. It helps, too, that El-Mohtar and Gladstone’s wide-ranging journeys across space and time present us with our own world’s history — but slightly slantwise, with subtle tweaks and changes, and sharp divergences from the expected path, offering endless possible outcomes.

As someone who has long been a fan of both authors’ individual works, I was greatly anticipating this joint effort, although curious about how their two very distinctive voices would work together. Here the format really is a strength — to me (familiar with both Gladstone’s and El-Mohtar’s writing) it was clear which author was responsible for which component, but it felt very much like a free-flowing, coherent conversation, or a song in which two voices joined harmoniously. The novella length gives the story exactly enough space in which to unfold in all its vivid tragedy, its two characters spilling out their love, and pain, and fierce, sensual engagement with the world, in letters, scattered across space and time for each other to find. As spies, their lives, work, and even bodies are not quite their own — belonging instead to their respective causes — and so the intensity of their letters stands in contrast, a space in which their thoughts, words, feelings and dreams belong to them alone.

The authors have spoken in interviews and other promotion of the book of their own friendship, sustained and enriched over the years by a long, correspondence in physical letters. They talked of their appreciation both for the tactility of pen, paper, and other stationery, and for the privacy and slowness of such an exchange. In an environment where the community of SFF authors is increasingly global, the medium that enables this global community and exchange of ideas can be a bit of a double-edged sword: the price for easy communication with other authors and readers on the other side of the world seems to be that all ideas and conversations must be uttered at high speed, in public. The authors’ decision to correspond by letter, therefore, has the effect of carving out a space where some of their ideas, their thoughts, and their friendship can be expressed, but not offered up for public consumption. The novella that has emerged as a result of this friendship — and its analogue conversations and exchange of ideas — is a love letter, told in love letters, to the notion of the letter itself.

A thinking woman sleeps with monsters April 21, 2019

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I’m not sure I’ve ever encountered a book that glories in, and commits to, its darkness and the sheer seductive joy of villainy as much as Emily A. Duncan’s debut young adult novel, Wicked Saints. Most other young adult literature like this that I’ve read tends to hold back, pulling its punches. These books soften the men, making them less villainous, giving them a reasonable explanation for their behaviour that makes it justifiable. Or they take the opposite route, allowing the heroine to recognise the villainy at the last minute and recoil in righteous horror. But Duncan doesn’t just embrace the darkness — she revels in it, and lets her heroine follow her path without judgement.
Cover - Wicked Saints
The heroine in question is Nadya, a young cleric who can commune with her country’s, Kalyazin’s, pantheon of saints, raised in seclusion in a monastery until the moment she’s ready to be released like a weapon in the long, religious war her country is waging against its near neighbour Tranavia. Unfortunately, the war comes to her door before Nadya is ready, forcing her into a temporary, unwilling alliance with Malachiasz, a renegade blood mage from Tranavia whose motives are shrouded in secrecy. Serefin, the heir to the Tranavian throne — who drowns his father’s disappointment in drink and battlefield heroics — rounds out our trio of messed-up primary characters. Wicked Saints is, in many ways, the story of Nadya’s journey from righteous moral clarity to moral ambiguity and beyond. Much of the story takes place in enemy territory, as Nadya goes undercover at the behest of Malachiasz, and becomes mired in the various political intrigues that swirl around the Tranavian court. Nadya is at once attracted and repelled by Malachiasz, and her attempts to understand and second guess him come up short until the very end. I follow Duncan on social media, and so I was pretty sure I knew where the story was heading, but for those more steeped in the expectations and conventions of YA fantasy, the twist at the end — and how far Duncan allows Nadya to fall — is likely to come as a shock.

The world of Wicked Saints is certainly aesthetically Slavic (specifically Poland and Russia), but unlike recent fantasy works such as Katherine Arden’s Winternight trilogy, Rena Rossner’s Sisters of the Winter Wood, and Naomi Novik’s Uprooted and Spinning Silver, Duncan doesn’t seem to draw much on existing Slavic folklore or history. In this the book has much in common with Leigh Bardugo’s Grishaverse novels, which use their Slavic setting as scaffolding and structure, visible in the names of characters and places, and the look and feel of the landscape and cities, but then move beyond this real-world inspiration.

For those who, like me, found Bardugo’s original Grishaverse trilogy enjoyable but ultimately frustrating, Wicked Saints is a welcome breath of (chilling, gothic) fresh air. Bardugo’s heroine Alina Starkov’s story concluded with one of my least favourite tropes: a powerful young teenage girl, brimming with terrifying magical abilities, gives it all up because her own power frightens her and she yearns for an ordinary life. Not so Duncan’s Nadya: here is an unabashed power fantasy for teenage girls that doesn’t judge them for this fantasy or try to direct it in a more morally or socially acceptable direction. Sometimes power, villainy and darkness are attractive — and that’s okay.

In many lands April 20, 2019

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When I heard, after more than three years, that Zen Cho was returning to the fabulous world she’d first created in her debut novel, Sorcerer to the Crown, I was relieved and delighted. Sorcerer to the Crown was one of my favourite books, with a fabulous cast of characters, vivid setting, and, most impressive of all to me, a story that managed the difficult feat of being at once hilariously funny, and sharp social commentary. On the back of that debut success, a sequel was announced almost immediately. But for authors, sometimes a beloved and well received first novel can be a double-edged sword, and Cho has written frankly about her struggles to build on the success of Sorcerer, starting and restarting the book that would eventually become The True Queen, as if the weight of expectation (her own, her readers’, her publisher’s) was an impediment. Knowing the backstory to this second book’s creation, I approached it with a mix of trepidation and anticipation. I shouldn’t have worried: Cho’s return to the world of Sorcerer to the Crown is a triumph. She’s once again perfected exactly the same deft navigation between light and darkness, humour and horror, whimsy and pointed sharpness that I loved in her first book. And although it’s set in the same universe — a fantasy Regency Britain in which certain individuals openly possess magical power, with a whole political and social structure set up to accommodate this — the point-of-view characters are different, meaning we explore the same world, but with fresh eyes.

Cover - The True Queen

In the first book, the focus was firmly on Cho’s heroine Prunella, the penniless orphaned daughter of an Indian mother and a white British father, with powerful magical abilities, and her love interest Zacharias, the first African Sorcerer-Royal, and their attempts to navigate the intrigues and plots of a racist, sexist society which tolerated them at best, and only grudgingly allowed them entrance, requiring them to be extraordinary where their white counterparts would have been accepted as ordinary or even mediocre. In The True Queen, our protagonist is Muna, a young woman who journeys to Britain from Janda Baik in the Malacca Strait, seeking help from Prunella on the advice of the witch Mak Genggang. Although Muna arrives in Britain alone, she had washed up on the shores of Janda Baik with her sister Sakti, having lost her memory. Sakti has magical abilities, while Muna has none, and the two become separated from each other while travelling through an otherworldly forest on their way to England. Muna arrives at Prunella’s door desperate to be reunited with her sister, but quickly finds herself embroiled in intrigues in both England and the otherworld. Prunella may have clawed her way to her position as Sorceress-Royal through sheer magical power, and created her school for magical girls and women on the strength of her own bluster and chutzpah, but her position — and that of her school — is far from secure, and enemies both human and supernatural are waiting for a moment of weakness so they can pounce. Muna steps into this hornets’ nest with secrets of her own, and must navigate the treacherous waters of aristocratic Regency England with little information and few allies.

The result is a book that focuses on the stories of women, and shows us the many different ways that women’s power can look. At its heart, of course, The True Queen is a story about two sisters, and that central relationship between Sakti and Muna — love, generosity, support and frustration — is one of my favourite things about the book. But there is also Prunella — revelling in her unconventionality while at the same time wielding people’s racist assumptions about her like a weapon — and the little community she’s trying to build in her school for magical girls and women. There’s Prunella’s friend and fellow magical educator Henrietta, trying to find a way to stay true to herself and her hidden magical abilities while also complying with the expectations of her family. Henrietta’s own relationship with her sisters is like a little echo of that of Muna and Sakti. And, best of all, Cho’s novel is full to the brim with fabulous, powerful older women: chief among them is the glorious Mak Genggang, who was one of my favourite presences in Sorcerer to the Crown, and I was so happy to see her back again in The True Queen.

This book is such a celebration of women, and in particular the networks they form among themselves, and the stories and adventures they have, unwritten, unnoticed and unrecorded. It’s a glorious and triumphant return to the world of Sorcerer to the Crown, and a very worthy successor. I can only hope that The True Queen is not Cho’s last foray into this universe, and that she finds new stories to tell about these characters, and this richly imagined world.

Out of the abyss March 3, 2019

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When Samantha Shannon announced several years ago that she was pausing her Bone Season dystopian fantasy series to write a new standalone novel that had taken hold of her imagination, I was intrigued. I’d been a fan of her work since The Bone Season was first published, rejoicing in its wonderful protagonist, alternate London setting, and richly inventive system of magic and the supernatural, and was keen to see what she would do in a slightly different subgenre. Watching the novel which eventually became The Priory of the Orange Tree take shape over the past three years has been wonderful: a story that blends elements of real-world history (in particular Tudor England, the Reformation and subsequent tensions between Protestant and Catholic powers in Europe, and Tokugawa Japan) with lore about dragons from both East Asian and European cultures, and whose characters stand poised on the brink of apocalyptic annihilation. The result is an ambitious, sweeping fantasy that is epic in every sense of the word, from its stakes and scope to its immense weight and page length. In Priory, Shannon has moved from the tight, first-person narration and personal focus of her Bone Season series to a story told from four points of view, a cast of characters that fills several pages, and the intricate political manouevring of more than four kingdoms, and a secret religious order as well! She handles this complexity deftly — despite its length, Priory never feels bloated, and the shifting between several continents and points of view serves to underscore her broader point about the fluidity of history, and how interpreting the past is, ultimately, a matter of priorities and perspective.

Cover - The Priory of the Orange Tree

Shannon has been very clear in interviews and promotional writing that much of her motivation for writing Priory stems from a desire to speak back to history — and its misuses. One of the story’s main inspirations is the legend of St George and the dragon, which has a long history of being coopted for English nationalistic purposes; I’ve certainly witnessed it being used by the far right to advance an Islamophobic agenda, argue in favour of Brexit, and in other similar contexts. However, when digging into the roots of the legend, Shannon uncovered a whole other story that had been lost in the noise and bluster of nationalism: that it had uncomfortable undertones of religious intolerance, and hints of several interesting women, pushed to the margins but with intriguing stories of their own waiting to be told. These are brought to the fore in Priory. One of the powers in her imagined world, Inys, draws its authority from its legendary inheritance as a queendom ruled by the descendants of a dragon-slaying George-like figure, and the damsel he supposedly rescued from a fiery end. Its current ruler, Sabran — whose personal circumstances seem like a blend of those of the two Tudor queens, Mary and Elizabeth — is embattled, facing a hostile, dragon-ruled kingdom on the one hand, intrigue among her courtiers on the other, along with pressure to marry and give birth to an heir, and increasing political isolation. Her lady-in-waiting, Ead (one of the point of view characters) has secrets of her own, among them knowledge of the bed of lies on which Inys’s political legacy has been built. On the other side of the world, in the Japan-inspired island of Seiiki, the orphaned Tané aspires to become an elite dragon-rider. Seiiki itself stands in sharp rebuke to Inys, showing up its hatred of dragons for the disproportionate, convenient lie that it is. Both Tané and Ead live on opposite sides of an unquiet rift, the site upon which an ancient foe was cast down, but whose simmering menace has never quite been defeated.

Tané and Ead are the two female point of view characters of the four, and their centrality to the story (the two male point of view characters both have important roles to play, but, I would argue, not quite to the extent that Tané and Ead’s stories drive the narrative) reflects Shannon’s broader focus on the experiences of, and relationships between, women. In spite of the real-world periods of history she draws on (each with its fair share of sexism), she has, for the most part, created a world free of sexism, where female characters in positions of political and military authority are as unremarkable as their male counterparts, and where locations and occupations (such as a queen’s suite of private rooms and the women who work there) generally dismissed as unimportant women’s spaces are recentred as the sites that drive the plot forward. Most of the important relationships in the book are between women — mothers and daughters, religious communities of women, women working together to serve their queen, and so on. Although there are some secondary and tertiary relationships that involve men (some romantic, some familial), the primary romantic relationship is between two women, and it’s absolutely marvellous to see this queer romance brought front and centre.

Shannon’s two main female characters, Tané and Ead, are just some of the many people who must put aside their differences to contront the terrifying, supernatural threat to their entire world. I couldn’t help but feel there was an element of the real-world threat of climate change underlying Priory‘s tale of demonic adversaries and fiery chaos. In Shannon’s epic fantasy, things have got to such a dire, catestrophic state, and the only solution requires people who hate, mistrust and fear each other, who have extremely different perspectives, aims and motivation to make common cause, because what they’re up against is so huge, so destructive, so relentless, and so awful that this is what it will take to defeat it. As you can imagine, it takes a lot to get her characters to this point, and, like anyone who fears for the future of my own planet, I can only hope that we recognise the gravity of the existential threat facing humanity sooner — because we don’t have the luxury of sentient dragons, magic, or enchanted swords! For us, as for the characters of Priory, there is no elsewhere.

In full bloom January 12, 2019

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I am not, in general, a person who buys books on the strength of their covers, so Felicia Davin’s Gardener’s Hand trilogy was a bit of a departure for me. But the series’ eye-catching covers, spotted at some point when I was scrolling through my Goodreads feed, and the fact that the trilogy appeared to feature a central relationship between two women was enough to spark my interest, and I’m very grateful for the serendipitous moment that brought these excellent books to my attention. At its heart, this is a series about survival — surviving harsh landscapes, oppression and injustice, cruel family history, and threats both supernatural and mundane. It’s also a series about found family, with a pleasingly ‘us against the world’ dynamic that I always find really appealling.

cover - thornfruit

The setting of these novels is a tidally locked planet, and the various societies that have sprung up within such an unforgiving landscape have found different ways to cope with its inherent problems. Some, on the ‘Dayward’ side of the planet use shades to block out the eternal sunshine, and make ingenious use of courtyards, open windows, and gardens as ways to escape the heat, while other cultures have no taboo against nudity and wear minimal clothing to keep as cool as possible. Those in the hottest possible habitable zone live in carefully engineered underground cities, making clever use of mirrors, skylights and tunnels to let daylight shine into the depths. In the ‘Nightward’ side of the planet, there are heated, enclosed cities carved out of the ice.

But the challenges of this setting are not merely due to excessive sunlight (or its complete absence): there are frequent but unpredictable earthquakes and tsumanis, poisonous ‘medusas’ (which seem to be like giant squids) lurking in the ocean, and the constant human threat against any person exibiting magical powers.

cover - nightvine

One such individual is Alizhan, one of the two heroines of the series, who can read minds, and whose very touch causes pain. She has been raised in isolation as a weapon by Iriyat, a woman with secrets of her own. While Iriyat attempts to wield Alizhan against the various political intrigues of her city, Alizhan has other ideas, and, together with Ev, a physically tough but very soft-hearted childhood friend, she makes a break for freedom, inadvertently uncovering multiple conspiracies and unravelling clues into her own mysterious past. As the narrative unfolds, the two characters begin to realise the extent of what they’re up against: a devastating existential threat against an entire city, and an all-powerful antagonist determined to use this threat for personal and political gain.

cover - shadebloom

The series ranges widely throughout Davin’s imagined world, and it’s a joy to spend time in all its regions, getting to know the cast of characters who appear, disappear and reappear over the course of the series, helping or hindering Ev and Alizhan. My favourite among these would have to be Thiyo, a self-assured, extroverted young man with a flair for the dramatic and the magical ability to learn and speak all languages fluently without any effort. He joins Alizhan and Ev midway through their quest, and his flashy confidence and openness is a great contrast to their guarded, angst-ridden awkwardness.

Most pleasing of all about this trio of characters is their inherent, unwavering goodness. Beneath Thiyo’s attention-seeking and drama, Alizhan’s blunt tactlessness, and Ev’s shyness lies a common heroism, a desire to fight against all injustices, and the refusal to be daunted by the enormity of their task. And, set gloriously against this grander struggle are their own human struggles and growth — all three are in love with each other, and the resolution Davin chooses to deal with this made me so happy. Yes, this trilogy is that rare beast: a love triangle with three bisexual characters (Thiyo had past relationships with men and women) with a satisfactory resolution and a happy ending. For that alone I would recommend it.

We are not things November 17, 2018

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Ever since I first read the Iliad as a teenager, so long ago the exact translation into English escapes me, I was struck by the secondary story that seemed submerged beneath the war, honour, and claims to immortality through militaristic deeds of heroism: the story of the women. I never had much interest in the long recitations of characters’ ancestry, names of warriors killed on the battlefield, wooden horses or lucky arrows shot through vulnerable heels. Instead, I focused on the story that whispered in the margins: the calamity of war to the women and children it made most vulnerable, the ways such women coped with the ever-present threat of male violence, and the simmering presence of this violence even in ostensible peacetime, in spaces where women were surrounded by their own families. I sought out retellings of the Iliad that brought this story to the fore, finding hints of it in medieval and early modern versions of the story of Troilus and Cressida, an unsubtle and clumsy rendering of it in The Firebrand, Marion Zimmer Bradley’s story of Cassandra, and, later, Euripides’ The Trojan Women, a powerful tragedy which gives the Iliad‘s victims their voice. With the notable exception of Adèle Geras’ Troy (which is constrained by its young adult status, meaning it needs to steer clear of a lot of the darker pathways an examination of the effect of the siege of Troy on Trojan teenage girls should take), most modern female character-centric Iliad retellings have been a monumental disappointment. My suspicion is that the authors of these retellings often want to tell some kind of love story — and to make any love story palatable to a modern readership, they need to make what are pretty contemptible male characters palatable to that readership, resulting in pulled punches and attempts to redeem the actions of violent, destructive men who see nothing wrong with parcelling out women as spoils of war. At worst, you get attempts to turn the relationship of Achilles and Briseis into a love story (see: the ghastly film Troy), or to make the whole war a kind of backdrop for Achilles and Patroclus’ epic romance (see: Madeleine Miller’s The Song of Achilles, which renders the captive Briseis as a sort of chaste cheerleader for the Achilles/Patroclus relationship). As someone who is really interested in stories that take Briseis out of the margins and into the centre of the page, I find this incredibly frustrating — but it doesn’t stop me from reading every Briseis-centric Iliad retelling, searching for that elusive story that truly lets her speak.

It was through this roundabout, decades-long search, that I arrived at Pat Barker’s incredible, astonishing The Silence of the Girls. The title is a deliberate misnomer: hers is a book where Briseis — so silent for most of the Iliad — truly speaks, giving voice to the horrors she endures as a captive of first Achilles and then Agamenmon and bringing the experiences of the Trojan captives in the Greek camp vividly to life. Barker’s book sticks close to the plot of the Iliad proper, and plays straight the supernatural elements of Homer’s epic: the gods appear, Achilles is the semi-divine son of a sea nymph, and so on. Where she diverges is in the weight given to the perspectives of those dispossessed or unnoticed in Homer’s original narrative: women, both free and captive, children, and the unnamed hordes of mercenary soldiers brought over to Troy on the promise of fame and plunder.

Cover - The Silence of the Girls

There are so many moments of devastating power in Barker’s brilliant story that it’s hard to select just a few to give an impression of the narrative. There’s the point, early on in the book, where Briseis (at this point the young wife of a petty king of a city allied to Troy) is trapped, waiting a battle’s outcome with the other women of the palace, knowing that defeat in the battle will mean rape and enslavement, and she realises that all the slave women hiding with her have already experienced this at the hands of her husband and male relatives. There’s her constant focus, once captured, on Achilles’ moods and hands and body; like all women trapped in a situation of domestic violence, she has to maintain a state of constant vigilence to minimise the harm done to her and ensure her reactions to volatile male tempers don’t spark life-threatening brutality. There’s the scene where Priam — having slipped into the Greek camp to plead with Achilles for his son Hector’s body, and kissed Achilles’ hands in an attempt to persuade him — carries on as if this act of kissing were the greatest sacrifice and humiliation imaginable (something ‘no man has ever done before’), and Briseis reflects scathingly on the ubiquity of what she, and all women affected by war, have been forced to endure. It’s so ubiquitous that it goes entirely unremarked and unnoticed, like something of the fabric of the world.

At the same time, Barker focuses relentlessly on the resilient, fractious, messy community of captive women that has sprung up in the Greek camp over the ten years of the Trojan War. The war itself is essentially a half-seen backdrop: the real action takes place in the laundry tents, weaving huts, and at the edges of racous warriors’ feasts, where women circulate, pouring wine. All find different ways to cope with their situation: some force themselves to fall in love with their captors, or try to persuade one captor to fall in love with them, because one rapist is easier to endure than a whole camp of them. Others take refuge in maintaining a pretence of respectability, remaining secluded, weaving cloth, and only venturing outside when wearing veils, as if behaving like proper married matrons will convince the world that nothing has changed in their status. Briseis’ technique is to remain hypervigilent, not just to the mood in her own tent, but within the camp as a whole — and in this she is aided by the network of captive women, who move about unnoticed, slipping into spaces where they can pick up news with ease, and spreading it rapidly around to their fellow captives. Briseis is well aware that her only power is to be prepared: to know what is being done to her before it happens. She cannot avoid the blows, but she can brace herself for when they fall.

Barker is an author whose works frequently focus on the horrors war visits on ordinary people, and so the experience of women, swept up in the brutal violence of the Trojan War is a story she’s well suited to tell. She does so with honesty, clarity, and illumination of the small acts of resistance that go unnoticed when women are perceived to lack agency.

I wish I could say the same of Emily Hauser’s For the Most Beautiful, a story recommended to me as one that did justice to Briseis. Instead, what I got was a syrupy YA romance between captive and captor. I’m not averse to this kind of story (see, for example, my recent review of Aliette de Bodard’s Beauty and the Beast retelling, In the Vanishers’ Palace), but it needs to either embrace the darkness, or work harder to convince me that the captor is as trapped by their circumstances as the captive. When the captor is Achilles, a violent, volatile warrior whose talent, identity and sense of honour and prestige is entirely bound up in his ability to kill and wage war, the author is going to have work pretty hard. Hauser’s attempts remain, to me, unconvincing. It was a moment of almost comedic horror when I realised her Briseis was going to forgive and sleep with Achilles on the instant she realised he had just returned from killing her brothers on the battlefield. The justification for this forgiveness — if her brothers’ and her captor’s positions had been reversed, she would have felt his actions entirely reasonable, and that, as a mercenary leader his job is to wage war wherever he’s hired, so he’s as trapped in his role as scourge of Troy as she is in hers as a slave whose body is not her own — is outrageous. In the hands of a stronger writer, For the Most Beautiful could perhaps have served as the story of the pretty lies a captive tells herself to endure an intolerable situation, and the portrait of a fragmented and fraying mind, but Hauser seems to want us to see a love story. For the Most Beautiful certainly suffers in comparison with The Silence of the Girls, not least because it lacks the latter’s sense of a community of enslaved women, finding strength in each other, and navigating their circumstances with ingenuity, giving voice to those treated as nameless things in the original Iliad narrative.

Cover - For the Most Beautiful

It was interesting to read both these retellings in parallel with Emiy Wilson’s intelligent, perceptive, and remarkable translation of the Odyssey. While obviously needing to stick to the story that is actually there on the page, Wilson, like Barker, shines a light in areas that previous translations of the story chose not to emphasise. Where previous translators used the word ‘handmaid’ or ‘servant’, Wilson uses ‘slave’, ensuring readers will not look away from these slaves’ eventual slaughter. There is equal weight given to women’s work at the loom and the conversations that take place in women’s spaces, and Odysseus’s travails on his long journey home. Even Wilson’s choice of book cover is deliberate, featuring a trio of women, rather than the more normal ships on unquiet seas. As she has noted on several occasions, just as much of the Odyssey‘s plot takes place around the looms, laundries, bedrooms and kitchens of women as on Odysseus’ convoluted ocean voyages, so a book cover that highlights the latter is making a deliberate choice about what — and whose — stories are worthy of attention.

Cover - Emily Wilson Odyssey

While it is rare for most authors to get as much input into cover design as Wilson clearly did, it is worth noting that For the Most Beautiful has the sadly typical stock image of a headless woman, while The Silence of the Girls shows not only women and children in full, fleeing in terror, it also does not shy away from depicting what they’re fleeing from: the male warriors who have burnt their city. (There are, of course, other editions of these books with different covers.) When modern authors tackle the Iliad and the Odyssey — two epics which have occupied prime position in the Western literary canon for millennia — they are faced with many choices. What they choose to emphasise, whose story they choose to tell, and who they choose to forgive and redeem have a powerful effect. At brilliant best, like Barker, their choices bring justice and give voice to women silenced both the original narrative and myriad retellings. At worst, like Hauser, the choices of an author will take that voice away.

Hope in the ruins November 3, 2018

Posted by dolorosa12 in blogging, books, reviews.
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A dark retelling of Beauty and the Beast where both characters are female, the cultural setting is Vietnamese, and the Beast is a dragon: there is nothing about that sentence I don’t like. As you can imagine, therefore, I was awaiting Aliette de Bodard’s latest novella, In the Vanishers’ Palace, with great anticipation. It was definitely worth the wait! Her Beauty analogue is Yên, a failed scholar eking out a precarious existence helping her mother with her medical work in a community that despises them. An attempt to heal one of her friends of sickness has unintended consequences, and results in Yên being given to a dragon, Vu Côn, in indenture. Yên fears abuse and death at the dragon’s hands, but from this unpromising start, love, hope, and healing blossom. Like the fairytale original, In the Vanishers’ Palace is a love story between captor and captive — and it certainly doesn’t shy away from this element — but it takes that love story in intriguing and unexpected directions. Instead of being a lonely and cruel recluse, Vu Côn is a worried and overworked mother, and Yên becomes tutor to her two children. And instead of Yên’s love making her monstrous lover human, Vu Côn’s dragon identity is part of the appeal, and she remains a dragon to the end.

Cover - In the Vanishers' Palace

In the Vanishers’ Palace takes place in a world reeling from rapacious colonialism. The eponymous Vanishers are no longer present, but the effects of their greed had reverberations felt long after their departure, from the depletion and degradation of food sources to the supernatural threats that haunt the margins of the story. Rồng, or dragon spirits in Vietnamese folklore, are benevolent, but Vu Côn, responsible for killing people made ill by the plagues left behind by the Vanishers, has become something to be feared. And, as de Bodard notes, the Vanishers’ cruellest act of devastation is to the colonised people themselves, whose very values and sense of self have been transformed (and not for the better), leaving them unmoored and ill-equipped to deal with the difficulties they face.

De Bodard opted to self-publish this work, and has stated at several points that this was a conscious decision in order to avoid any painful compromises in terms of plot, characterisation and representation. While the resulting work is excellent, it’s a pretty damning indictment of the current SFF publishing scene if the only way to end up with a story where queer relationships are normative, trans and/or nonbinary people are present and visible, and where colonised people are allowed to express fury and rage at their predicament without editorial pushback is to self-publish. It may be that this self-publishing choice was merely a precautionary measure, but if not, I sincerely hope that the quality and reception of In the Vanishers’ Palace makes things easier for other authors hoping to (self- or traditionally) publish work in its vein.

This being an Aliette de Bodard story, there are all the familiar and fabulous features that I’ve come to expect in her work: loving and mouth-watering descriptions of food and cooking, a refusal to flinch away from the devastating effects of empire and colonialism, and an intricate exploration of the different ways survival can look. This last is crucial, and resonates deeply with me. De Bodard rejects an individualistic interpretation of heroism, where a lone, special individual bravely solves the world’s problems alone. Instead, courage in her writing is all about (inter)dependence and community building — the little acts that forge and strengthen networks, reinforce familial and non-familial bonds, and the way that sometimes merely surviving and helping others survive is its own victory. De Bodard’s writing is at its exquisite best when it’s focused on hope in the ruins, and this shines through most beautifully in In the Vanishers’ Palace.