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Warning: Full spoilers for the book follow.

Well, I continue to make my way through Robin Hobb’s Royal Assassin, which continues to be a remarkable piece of high fantasy storytelling. Every time I sit down to read just a couple of chapters of this book I end up sitting with it for hours. Hobb’s prose is just that powerful, and her ability to develop a character and a world in equal measure is really quite remarkable to witness. Once you tumble into this world, it’s impossible to get out.

Roughly the second third of the novel follows Fitz as continues to grapple with what it means to be a member of the royal family and a key part of the royal court, with all of the sacrifice and heartache that entails. At the same time, he continues to have to deal with the machinations of Regal who, it appears, has managed to infiltrate his father’s chambers and works to turn him into little more than a zombie. Regal is, as I wrote last week, a truly terrible person, and he makes for a great foil. At the same time, Fitz also finds himself more closely bound to Molly, the wolf Nighteyes and, of course, Prince Verity.

Speaking of Verity. In the second part of the book our dear prince continues to show his quality, putting a tremendous strain on his own physical and mental health so as to keep his people safe. By the time the middle third of the book is over he’s poised to go off on a journey to find the Elderlings, in the hopes they might be able to give the Six Duchies the help they so desperately need. Obviously our understanding of Verity is always filtered through Fitz’s point of view, but if he can command the loyalty of someone like our hero, then there must certainly be something about him that is worthy of love and respect. We see, again and again, just how much his service to the Six Duchies has cost him, and yet he continues to believe in his service. At the same time, there’s also the threat of his being led down the road to addiction to Skill.

This portion of the novel is also notable for shedding some important light on the character of the Fool, who up until now has been an enigma to both Fitz and to us as readers. In addition to trying to get Fitz to take a more active role in helping and protecting King Shrewd from those who would manipulate him for their own gain, the Fool also speaks, for once, fairly straightforwardly about where he came from and why he’s now in the Six Duchies. It’s a haunting reminder that the Fool is not all that he seems, that he has his own history and motivations that are not always easily understood. Moreover, this emphasis on the Fool and his history also gives us more insight into the broader and bigger stakes of the story as a whole. Fitz is no longer just a bit player in court intrigue; instead, he might just be key to averting the end of the world itself.

As with the first third of the book, however, the second third sometimes makes for grim reading, particularly when Fitz sets out to kill the Forged before they can continue wreaking havoc on both the region around Buckkeep and the other coastal Duchies. Fitz, like many other high fantasy heroes before him, constantly has to try to hold onto both his humanity and his compassion, even as he is constantly buffeted about by those with more power and more knowledge. Indeed, the question of Fitz’s agency–or lack thereof–is one of the key themes that Hobb explores in this part of the book, and one can feel his frustration as many people in his life, including Chade and Verity, seem determined to keep important information from him, information that would help him to make decisions that affect not just his life but that of the kingdom. Only the Fool seems inclined to be forthcoming, and even his utterances are almost always given in the form of inscrutable riddles.

There are two bright spots to Fitz’s life, though neither of them comes free of complication. One is, of course, Molly, with whom Fitz has fallen head over heels in love. It’s really quite touching to watch as he goes through all of the expected awkwardness of adolescent love, even if there are all of the expected stumblings that we associate with young people, particularly when they come from two very different social positions. As Fitz slowly realizes, it’s one thing to say you’re willing to give up your entire life for someone; it’s quite another to do so, particularly when you happen to be the grandson of one king, the nephew of the heir to the throne, and a sworn servant and assassin to both. This is another instance of the extent to which Fitz remains caught in a cleft stick, at once too important to marry someone of common birth and yet not quite powerful enough to make his own choice. There’s a poignancy to Fitz’s moments with Molly that grants his story yet another layer of melancholy (and I’m here for it).

The other bright spot, of course, is the wolf, who goes by Nighteyes. I’m a sucker for a fantasy novel where the protagonist develops a deep and powerful relationship with an animal, and Hobb knows how to use this particular plot device without making it feel silly or childish. Indeed, Nighteyes offers a refreshingly honest take on Fitz’s foibles and those of humans more generally. It’s only when Fitz is with Nighteyes that he can truly be himself, even as he’s also aware of the risk they’re both taking by continuing to forge and maintain their bond. It’s no exaggeration to say that Nighteyes might just be my favorite character.

Long story short: I continue to be absolutely enchanted by Royal Assassin. I’ve been thirsty for some good-old fashioned high fantasy, and Robin Hobb more than delivers. This is really the kind of book in which you can lose yourself for hours, letting yourself be carried along by her rich prose, her detailed world-building, and a character who just seems to leap off the page. Fitz may not always be the most likable person, and there are times when you just want to reach into the pages of the book and shake some sense into him, but this is precisely what makes him so understandable and so human.

I can’t wait to see what’s in store in the rest of the book!

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Warning: Full spoilers for the book follow.

Having finished Robin Hobb’s Assassin’s Apprentice, I decided to jump right into Royal Assassin, which pretty much picks up right where the first book left off. Fitz, having been poisoned by his uncle Prince Regal, now hovers on the very cusp of death, and it’s only through careful nursing–particularly from Burrich–that he’s kept alive. He eventually returns to court, and while some things go well, including a romance with Molly and a bond with a young wolf, others do not. King Shrewd is failing, Verity is overtaxed and struggling with his marriage to Kettricken, Chade is not quite as strong as he was, and Regal continues to scheme. It’s a lot for a teenage boy, but somehow Fitz manages to hold his own.

As with the first book, Royal Assassin can sometimes make for grim reading, particularly since it’s clear that while Fitz has grown a great deal since he first went to the Mountain Kingdom, things at Buckkeep are largely the same. He’s become more of a man and–as Burrich and Verity and Chade all seem to see–he has become very truly his father’s son. However, he’s still a bastard and a servant of King Shrewd, which means he has to be very careful how he treads in the royal court, particularly when everyone, including and especially Prince Regal, is just looking for a chance to bring him down and utterly destroy him.

Indeed, Prince Regal continues to make an utterly compelling and repulsive villain. Suave and sophisticated and seemingly in control at all times, he remains as determined to destroy Fitz as he was in the first novel. This is a man, after all, who goes so far as to lead the Queen-in-Waiting out into the woods and leave her there, with the result that she’s very nearly slain by a group of the Forged. Regal might not be the most complicated villain, and there are times when you can almost see him twirling a mustache as he prepares to visit some new hell on Fitz and the rest of the court, but sometimes you want someone like that in your fantasy, someone that you can hate without apology or compunction.

As for our own main character, Fitz isn’t always the most likable or charismatic hero, and to be quite honest he can be sometimes a bit of a pill. All the same, one has to keep in mind that, at the time of the novel’s action, he’s a teenager, and so it makes sense that he would have his head up his own ass more times than not. What’s more, he has a lot on his young shoulders, bearing burdens that men much older than he is would no doubt struggle under. After all, by this point he’s not only managed to survive an assassination attempt but has also taken the lives of others

In these nine chapters, we also get a very pointed sense for how much unrest still roils the Six Duchies. The Red-ship Raiders continue to savage the shores of the Six Duchies, leaving behind the Forged to cause further chaos and heartbreak. Regal, as we’ve noted, continues to scheme and manipulate and try to get closer to the throne, while Shrewd ages and Verity seems ever more withdrawn and taxed by his use of the Skill. A sense of claustrophobia and impending doom hangs over these chapters, as it remains unclear to what extent Fitz is going to be able to change any of this and, indeed, whether he’ll be able to do so at all.

However, while it can sometimes be depressing to read, the first several chapters of Royal Assassin do have some points of brightness. It’s genuinely delightful to see Fitz reconnect with Molly and begin a romance, and it’s even more of a delight to see him bond with a young wolf cub. Maybe I’m just a hopeless romantic, but I was genuinely delighted when he not only discovered that Molly was alive and well and serving in Buckkeep but that the two of them start up a little romance. I don’t know how things are going to up with them–with Fitz, nothing is ever quite as simple as it might appear to be on the surface, and some sort of tragedy always seems to be lurking on the horizon–but for now I’m just going to enjoy the fact that at least one of the people in his circle hasn’t been harmed just by being with him.

To me, though, the bond with the wolf cub was genuinely more affecting. To begin with, there’s the fact that Fitz’s relationship with canines has been difficult in the past. Seeing not one but two dogs die in the course of Assassin’s Apprentice is a lot to take, and so I sort of feel like this book is trying to make amends for that. More importantly, though, it’s only in his time with the cub that Fitz can ever be truly free. True, he might still feel the nagging bit of doubt about the Wit and what it might be doing to his humanity–one can just about imagine what Burrich would do if he found out that Fitz was hiding a wolf so near the castle–but the truth is that he needs this wolf as much as the wolf needs him. For so long Fitz has been a loner, and to see him finally have a companion, the beginnings of a pack, does both him and us as readers a world of good.

I give Robin Hobb a lot of credit for crafting a deliberately-paced fantasy that never feels boring or like it drags. I wrote in my review of Assassin’s Apprentice that it’s the kind of book that really does draw you in and wrap you up in its world, and that is even more true of the sequel. This is truly a world in which you can completely lose yourself, with all of the pleasure and peril that entails. I can’t wait to see what the rest of the book holds in store!

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Once upon a time, I would’ve been thrilled that we’re seeing so much Tolkien content on our screens. In addition to The Rings of Power, which will return this summer for its third season, there’s also The Hunt for Gollum, which has now announced its cast. Alongside established stars of the franchise Ian McKellen, Elijah Wood, and Lee Pace–who will be reprising their roles as Gandalf, Frodo, and Thranduil, respectively–there will be some newcomers, including heartthrob Jamie Dornan, who will be stepping into Viggo Mortensen’s shoes as Aragorn. It’s all heady stuff, to be sure, and it’s clear that the studio, at least, is hoping to bank on the established IP and the idea of getting the gang together again in order to sell lots of tickets.

Now, on the one hand, I’m obviously thrilled that we’re going to see Ian McKellen return as Gandalf. To be honest, I’m not sure that there’s anyone who could ever really step into his shoes, and not just because the film trilogy continues to cast a long shadow. He’s just one of those talents that’s vanishingly rare in the world of Hollywood, which remains far too invested in being as risk-averse as possible (and thus would never dare to take a chance on an actor more famous for his work on stage than in the movies). When it comes right down to it, and as trite as it might sound, I can’t think of anyone else as truly Gandalf.

And yet, at the same time, the fact that so many of the actors are returning is also a source of consternation. It’s worth keeping in mind that it’s now been over 20 years since the film trilogy came out, and it’s been over a decade since the three Hobbit movies lurched onto our screens. At some point, isn’t it okay to let them go and move onto new things? The two trilogies are always going to be there, and sometimes it really is healthy for actors to just let a role go and not cling onto it with everything they have. I’m particularly vexed by the decision to have Elijah Wood return as Frodo, for while he’s certainly aged well, there’s no way he’s going to be able to look as fresh-faced as he did in 2001, at least not without digital trickery (which is janky at best). Taken in conjunction with the recent trailer for the film with an AI version of Val Kilmer, I’m starting to think Hollywood is more in the game of digital necromancy than in making actual movies.

I’m also starting to think that the best decision Viggo Mortensen ever made as an actor was to decline returning to Aragorn, the role that made him a superstar. Sometimes, the most dignified thing to do is to bow out gracefully.

Moreover, the decision to make this film at all is just another instantiation of Hollywood’s pathological refusal to think outside of the IP model. As Ben Child puts it so perfectly in The Guardian, the industry as a whole seems to abhor anything even remotely resembling a vacuum and this, combined with the notoriously stringent conditions that the Tolkien Estate tends to put on any screen adaptations of JRR’s work, means that any studio that wants to make money from these stories has to draw on basically The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and the crumbs contained therein. As Star Wars has shown, there’s a lot of potential in the corners–particularly in a vast world like Middle-earth–but there are only so many unexplored cracks and crevices in a narrative that you can explore before it starts to feel rather wan.

In this case, it doesn’t help that the hunt for Gollum has a.) already been done, in the short fan film of the same name and b.) isn’t exactly the most interesting thing that happened between The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings. I get that Serkis’ performance as Gollum was, and is, terrifying and electric and a game-changer but, as with the other roles, I find myself just being like…is this really where it is? Is this really what fans and fantasy aficionados are clamoring for? Isn’t this all becoming just a bit nostalgic and a little, frankly, embarrassing?

This puts me, as an ardent fan of Tolkien lore and screen adaptations, in something of an awkward position. If the film fails at the box office–and based on the performance of The War of the Rohirrim, that’s a very real possibility–then it might force the entertainment industry to rethink some of its practices. At the same time, I would be genuinely disappointed to see a piece of Tolkien lore, no matter how unnecessary it might be, fail. Like many other Tolkien nerds and millennials, I still have a lot of genuine love for The Lord of the Rings film trilogy and some (very mixed) fondness for The Hobbit. There’s no doubt Peter Jackson changed the face of cinema but, to reiterate, at what point does the constant mining of Tolkien in the style of Jackson start to feel like a greatest hits concert pandering to a certain millennial nostalgia rather than attempting something new?

I’m starting to think that it might be a good idea if the various fantasy IPs that I used to love–not just Tolkien, but Game of Thrones, Harry Potter (blech), and Star Wars–run out of steam. When it comes right down to it, the only language that Hollywood moguls understand is money. As long as they think they’re going to be able to attract dollars and eyeballs, they’re going to continue milking the same old IP cows until there’s nothing left but desiccated corpses. It doesn’t take a genius to see the stifling effect this has had and will continue to have on the future of movies and TV. For every Tolkien adaptation that gets made, for every TV show or movie we get about the Targaryens, for every decades-long IP that continues its slow churn, there’s another new or exciting fantasy and sci-fi voice not getting adapted. At what point does all of culture become an ouroboros, a serpent endlessly eating its own tale, spewing out empty simulacrum after empty simulacrum? At this point, I’m starting to think that moment might not be that far in the future. In fact, if the teaser trailer for Harry Potter is anything to go by, it might already be here.

And you know what? Maybe that’s okay. Maybe it’s okay if the great lumbering best of Hollywood collapses in on itself. Maybe whatever rises in its place will be better, more egalitarian, more artistically vibrant.

Hope, as they say, springs eternal.

Hello, dear reader! Do you like what you read here at Omnivorous? Do you like reading fun but insightful takes on all things pop culture? Do you like supporting indie writers? If so, then please consider becoming a subscriber and get the newsletter delivered straight to your inbox. There are a number of paid options, but you can also sign up for free! Every little bit helps. Thanks for reading and now, on with the show!

Warning: Full spoilers for the book follow.

I’ve yet to read a book of Kate Quinn’s that I didn’t absolutely adore. I’ve been reading her since I discovered Mistress of Rome in a Wegman’s in Syracuse, and every single one of her novels has been a banger. Now, after having written several successful historical fiction novels, she turns her considerable talents to fantasy, and the results are as delightful and as badass as you would expect. The center of this story is Alix, who grew up in foster care and is just doing what she can to make ends meet. Her entire life changes, however, when she stumbles into a mystical place called the Astral Library–accessed, in her case, through the Boston Public Library–where she meets the feisty Librarian, who informs her that she can enter any book and live in its world (so long as it’s in the public domain). However, a series of attacks on other patrons leads the two on a merry chase through various literary worlds as they try to figure out what’s going on.

Indeed, it soon becomes clear that there’s something far more sinister at work than just some disgruntled folks trying to find those who escaped from them. In fact, the entire thing is a setup by the nefarious Board, which seeks to remake the Astral Library in its own corrupt image, and in order to do so they need to make sure the Librarian and her acolyte are out of the way. Thus the stage is set for a titanic confrontation between our heroine and those who would destroy the library that she’s come to hold so dear. Suffice it to say that she more than proves herself the hero of her own story.

Now, perhaps it’s just the fact that I grew up watching The Pagemaster and wishing that it really was possible to go into the literary worlds of some of my favorite novels–including, of course, the Middle-earth of The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings–but I love love love stories like this one. Quinn has always had the power to transport the reader to distant worlds, and she puts her considerable skills to use throughout The Astral Library. Her love for the written word, and for the power of books to transport us, is clear on every page. When I say that this book is written for book lovers by a book lover, I mean it. It’s there in the way Quinn captures the imaginary worlds the Astral Library opens, it’s there in the way that Alix uses books as escape, and it’s there in the way the Librarian is a true dragon lady (and I mean that literally), someone you can’t help but respect, even as she’s also terrifying.

It’s also worth pointing out that, as with all of Quinn’s other heroines, Alix is a true badass. She might be down and out when the book begins–low on money, verging on homeless, struggling to get by–but she still has an unquenchable agency and, just as importantly, she also has a fierce and brightly burning imagination. It’s this combination of fortitude and imagination that proves key as she sets out with the Librarian to rescue the endangered Patrons, and it’s also what keeps her going when all seems lost and when the Board comes perilously close to victory in taking over the Astral Library and destroying it from the inside out. If life has taught her anything, though, it’s that you don’t give in to bullies. You, with the Astray Library behind you, stand up to them.

However, it’s not just that Alix is a badass. She also has that trait that is so often lacking in our own world these days: empathy. Because she’s so long been a member of the subaltern, she has an awareness of and an understanding of those who occupy similarly fraught and sometimes downtrodden positions and have fought safety and solace and comfort in the Astral Library: a young trans man who finds a haven from his transphobic family; a young woman fleeing from an abusive husband; and all the numerous others who’ve sought to escape from unfortunate circumstances. It’s precisely Alix’s sense of empathy that both makes her a compelling heroine and also fires her up to protect the Library and its patrons when they face an existential threat.

Now, you should be warned, this is the kind of novel that wears its politics on its sleeve. It makes it very clear who the bad guys are, both in this world and in the one in which we find ourselves. The members of the Board are, just like the people in our world, bent on turning the library into a for-profit institution and taking away books deemed “dangerous.” It’s filled with bureaucrats who are either spineless or downright evil, and it’s incredibly satisfying to see them get their comeuppance. It’s also worth remembering that there, indeed, quite a few people out there who would love nothing more than to turn libraries–one of the last few public spaces left untouched by capitalist’s grasping, cadaverous hands–into for-profit institutions, just as there are those who would love to do nothing more than to strip them of the very books that are so valuable and life-saving for the most vulnerable (including queer and trans youth).

That, though, is precisely what makes The Astral Library so powerful. It is, in some ways, a call to arms to all of us, a reminder that we have it in our power to stand up to those who would see libraries stripped of their purposes and their collections and turned into something far less useful, and far less joyous, than they currently are. Sure, the book takes place in a world in which magic is possible and in which the books themselves can fight back against those who would destroy them, but it has just enough realism woven through the fantastical to allow us to feel both the thrill of escapism and the bite of reality. To my mind, though, it’s often those books that are in escapist genres that have the most power; they allow us to feel what it’s like to make a change in the world and, as such, they inspire us to make it so.

It’s not every author who can go from writing immersive historical novels to powerful adventure stories, but Quinn does so with her usual elan. This is the kind of book that will truly sweep you off your feet. It certainly helps that the Astral Librarian–who I suspect is based more than a little on Quinn’s own mother–is a badass in her own right. I don’t know about anyone else, but I would most definitely read a prequel that’s all about her. When it comes to Kate Quinn, there’s nothing I won’t read.

Go read this book immediately. I promise you that you won’t regret it!

Hello, dear reader! Do you like what you read here at Omnivorous? Do you like reading fun but insightful takes on all things pop culture? Do you like supporting indie writers? If so, then please consider becoming a subscriber and get the newsletter delivered straight to your inbox. There are a number of paid options, but you can also sign up for free! Every little bit helps. Thanks for reading and now, on with the show!

Warning: Full spoilers for the book follow.

I think it’s safe to say that I’ve become a T. Kingfisher stan. I’ve yet to read one of her books that didn’t blow me away and keep me absolutely riveted, and her new(ish) horror novella What Stalks the Deep is no exception. This is the third of her books focusing on Alex Easton, Sworn Soldier of Gallacia, who is called to America by ka’s old friend Denton to find his missing cousin Oscar, who went to excavate an abandoned mine in West Virginia and hasn’t been heard from since. Once there, however, things take the usual horrifying turns, as Easton and the rest of the company find an ancient mystery lurking within the mine.

Though brief, What Stalks the Deep has all of the things I’ve loved about the other entries in this series. Easton makes for a delightfully wry and sarcastic narrator, and I love getting to spend time with kan. I mean, Alex is just a delight, you know? Ka have such a dry sense of humor, and a certain kind of wisdom, and you can’t help but laugh at some of ka’s observations about the people around kan. While ka experiences no small amount of fear during the course of the novel–how could one not, when faced with a sentient form of land jellyfish that calls itself “the wholeness?”--but ka still manages to survive with ka’s mind intact. I daresay that a lesser person than Alex Easton would’ve been driven absolutely mad by some of the things hiding in those West Virginia caves.

West Virginia, as anyone who’s ever been there can attest, makes for a great location for Lovecraftian horror like this. Those hills and hollers are old beyond old, and they’ve seen many ages of the world pass by, as many have learned to their cost. It thus makes sense that the wholeness would seek out a place like this in its search for a place where it can simply exist. I know that if I were a primordial being with a collective consciousness I’d want to hide in some place like West Virginia. The unfortunate thing, of course, is that the Mountain State is also the place that people go when they want to extract various fossil fuels, which is what takes the unfortunate Oscar into their path.

As with the previous volumes, there are some moments of both body horror and cosmic horror, and Kingfisher knows just how to bring these two strains of the genre into productive conversation. The scene in which Easton is attacked by an independent offshoot of the wholeness is truly a disturbing scene, particularly since it takes place within the confines of a mine tunnel. Anyone who has even the slightest bit of claustrophobia will probably find this aspect just as terrifying as the creature itself.

And speaking of the creature. It’s quite a nice twist to have not one but two different parts of the wholeness that have broken off and taken on a sort of life of their own. One of these, dubbed the Sentry, has been killing folks and animals and just generally causing chaos while the other, Fragment, is a much more benign force. They’re just trying to find a way back to the wholeness and doing what they can to keep it safe. In some ways, these two beings represent the perilous choice that awaits those who break away and become their own consciousness. Being an independent being, as any human can tell you, is very dangerous, indeed.

What Stalks the Deep also makes for an interesting companion piece to What Moves the Dead, both thematically and morally. Whereas the former paints the horrifying being as a danger to humanity, the latter suggests that not all alien intelligences pose a threat. The wholeness, unlike the fungus of the Usher estate, just wants to continue existing; it has no desire to spread and take over others. Denton, of course, doesn’t see it this way and, tormented by the thought that he failed his cousin and let it be devoured by a creature so like the one that destroyed the House of Ushur, very nearly kills both Sentry and Fragment, despite the fact that the latter is saving them all from the former. It’s fortunate for Fragment that Easton is present, because otherwise it’s very clear that would be just as happy to set them both alight and let God sort them out. As always, Easton is an invaluable presence.

This novel is also unapologetically queer, and I continue to adore Kingfisher for her ability to bring this element to her storytelling without feeling pandering. Easton is, unsurprisingly, as nonchalant about their gender identity as someone who is completely comfortable in their own skin could be, and I absolutely love this for them. In fact, ka seems quite stymied by Americans and their obsession with trying to fit kan into their own very rigid understanding of gender and how people are supposed to behave. This move on Kingfisher’s part is really quite brilliant, as it repeatedly makes clear that Easton is the one that’s in the position of power rather than those who repeatedly refuse to kan as who ka are. In doing so, ka helps both kan and Denton to find a way out of the terrifying morass of PTSD (and kudos to Kingfisher for using horror to explore a very real issue).

Just as remarkable, though, is the revelation that Denton is in love with John Ingold. I give Kingfisher so much credit for giving us all sorts of queer characters in her works, and I give her even more credit for allowing these characters to survive rather than killing them off (as is far too often the case in speculative genres). Instead, this very lovely little gay couple gets to have a happy ending. And who knows? They might end up coming into Alex Easton’s story again.

Overall, I loved this book. I mean, it’s T. Kingfisher, so I was pretty sure I was going to love it, but even so, there’s a unique pleasure to be had in picking up a book that meets and exceeds your expectations. To be honest, as long as she wants to keep writing about Alex Easton and ka’s adventures with various supernatural beings, I’ll keep reading them. If there’s one author out there who has the true knack for combining the slyly hilarious and the truly terrifying, it would be T. Kingfisher, and I can’t wait to devour whatever she has in store for us next.

Hello, dear reader! Do you like what you read here at Omnivorous? Do you like reading fun but insightful takes on all things pop culture? Do you like supporting indie writers? If so, then please consider becoming a subscriber and get the newsletter delivered straight to your inbox. There are a number of paid options, but you can also sign up for free! Every little bit helps. Thanks for reading and now, on with the show!

Warning: Full spoilers for the book follow.

I tried reading James Islington’s sprawling epic fantasy The Will of the Many a few years ago and, while I made it roughly halfway through, life got in the way, and I ended up putting it down. Fast forward to a few weeks ago, and I saw a copy of it at Barnes & Noble and thought, “I need to start that again.” Well, this time around the book has its hooks in me, and I’m pretty sure it’s not going to let go until I get to the final page. However, since it’s just such an enormous book, I thought I’d do a series of in-depth readings of various parts of the book. As you know if you’ve read this newsletter for any length of time, you’ll know I’m a fan of deep dives into big books, and so here we are. Over the next few weeks I’ll be doing these little write-ups, starting with, appropriately enough, Part 1.

The main character is Vis, also known as Diago. The exiled prince of a nation conquered by the ever-growing and mighty Catenan Republic, he’s managed to largely fly under the radar. That call changes when he’s adopted by Magnus Quintus Ulciscor, an influential senator, who plans to use Vis as a spy within the prestigious Academy. However, there are many other powerful players who want to use Vis for their own purposes, and as he’s pulled in various different directions it will be everything he can do to survive.

It’s not every author who can strike the balance between immersive worldbuilding and captivating character development, but Islington is one of those people. From the moment we meet Vis we find ourselves bound to his point of view and his struggle. Islington’s prose has an immediacy to it that allows you to fully identify with Vis, despite the fact that he’s not very forthcoming–to either us or to the various people that he encounters–about his real backstory. This is the kind of book that only slowly reveals itself to you, and while that might be frustrating in less capable hands, Islington has the ability to be both methodical and propulsive with his narrative, a feat I’ve only rarely seen (certainly in the realm of fantasy, which tends to skew more toward the former than the latter).

There’s no doubt that Vis is a badass, as he shows by his remarkable fighting ability. At the same time he has a bit of a problem when it comes to his own arrogance, and he tends to have an inflated view of his own abilities. Islington excels at giving us a character who is deeply flawed and prone to acting on impulse and yet who, remarkably, also draws us in and allows us to appreciate the extent to which he is a product of the world that produced him. While many aspects of his life remain shrouded in mystery, it’s still clear he is the product of conquest, and so one can’t blame him for bearing a deep hatred and disgust for the Catenan Republic and the oppression upon which its prosperity is based.

As Vis discovers again and again, he’s swimming in very deep waters. There are forces, both within the Republic but outside of it, who will always seek to use him to their own advantage, though not necessarily to his. Again, though, Islington only gives us just enough information to keep us intrigued and turning the pages, but not enough to let us see the full picture. Of course, this is just the first part of the novel, and that’s precisely what makes it so captivating. What’s going to happen to him once he enters the Academy? Just how dangerous is his adopted father, and just how good are his intentions? I suspect that Vis, and we as readers, will find there are no easy answers to these questions.

Islington is one of those writers who knows how to build a world from the ground up, and this is especially evident in The Will of the Many. This is a sprawling world, one that operates according to its own laws and logic, but as should come as no surprise to anyone I’m especially drawn to his innovative use of the history and nature of the Roman Republic. Here, the oppression and exploitation that were key parts of the real Republic are given the gloss of magic, as the most powerful Catenans rely on the life force of others–called Will–to buttress their physical stamina and their political power. So far we’ve only gotten glimpses of the full complexity of this world but, as with the narrative itself, that’s precisely what makes the book so impossible to put down. We want to learn more about this magic system and this world, and Islington is a master of giving us just enough to whet our appetites.

Like all of the great fantasy, The Will of the Many also grapples with some pretty big philosophical questions. Vis, like so many other epic heroes before him, has to contend with the fact that, when it comes down to it, he’s a very small cog in a very big imperial machine. This, in turn, begs the question: how much can one person change the fate of an empire? Is it possible for one exiled prince to not only survive in this environment but bring about meaningful change? At this point it’s not at all clear that Vis has the power he needs to do so, though there are hints that there’s more to him than meets the eye. If anyone is in a position to get to the bottom of various goings-on in the Academy and also potentially bring the Republic to its knees, it might just be Vis.

Overall, I think it’s safe to say that I am loving this book. It’s kept me turning the pages long past my bedtime for the past several nights and that, to me, is always the mark of a truly great work of fantasy.

Hello, dear reader! Do you like what you read here at Omnivorous? Do you like reading fun but insightful takes on all things pop culture? Do you like supporting indie writers? If so, then please consider becoming a subscriber and get the newsletter delivered straight to your inbox. There are a number of paid options, but you can also sign up for free! Every little bit helps. Thanks for reading and now, on with the show!

Warning: Full spoilers for the book follow.

Robin Hobb is one of those classic fantasy authors whose work I’ve been meaning to read for quite a while. For some reason, though, I just never got around to it until, one day, I decided on a whim to buy a copy of Assassin’s Apprentice from my local Barnes & Noble. Once I sat down and started reading it, I knew this was going to be one of my favorite reads of the year. It’s the kind of grim fantasy that can make for heavy reading at times, but it’s also potent and poignant storytelling, and Hobb is an expert at both deep character development and rich world building.

In short, it’s everything good fantasy should be. The story hooked me from the very first page, and I lost count of the number of nights I stayed up, just turning through the pages as fast as I could, determined to figure out what was going to happen next. It’s the perfect blend of coming-of-age story and political intrigue, with a main character who can be a bit irritating at times but who, nevertheless, manages to make us cheer for and love him.

The centerpiece of the story is FitzChivalry, a bastard born to a prince who ends up becoming a trained assassin in the service of his grandfather, King Shrewd. Abandoned by both of his parents as a child, he grows up as something of an outcast, ignored and/or mistreated by all but a few, including the stern and tough Burrich, one of his father’s retainers. Once he’s trained to be an assassin by the enigmatic Chade, however, everything becomes more complicated, and more dangerous, and as the kingdom lurches toward catastrophe Fitz may be the only one who stands between disaster and redemption.

Fitz makes for an excellent fantasy narrator. He has a wry sense of humor and, though he is prone to missteps here and there, he’s remarkably wise for a man his age. One suspects this has much to do with the circumstances of his upbringing as with any native talent. After all, from the moment he’s kicked out by his paternal grandfather and sent to the royal court he occupies a vexed place in the royal hierarchy. As such, he has a unique perspective on the world around him and in particular on the royals who are his kin but who might as well be strangers. It’s precisely this perspective that makes him such a valuable instrument for King Shrewd, even as it his birth proves to be both a boon and a bane.

I also love the various side characters who appear. Burrich is your typical gruff retainer, but there’s a lot of depth to him, too, and he proves that his support and love is conditional. Prince Verity becomes more complex and richly-imagined as the novel goes on, and the same goes for Chade, the mysterious figure who becomes Fitz’s mentor. There are also quite a few nefarious characters, including the tutor Galen–who has his own sinister past and proves to be one of Fitz’s most inveterate foes–and the reprobate Prince Regal (who puts the lie to his name). Whether hero or villain or something in between, these characters all play a key role in creating the glorious tapestry that this novel becomes.

Now, to be sure, this book sometimes makes for grim reading. Periodically during the story we get reminders that Fitz is relating all of this from the distant future, when he seems to be an old man, ailing and increasingly frail. Moreover, the world in which Fitz is born is one that teeters right on the edge of instability, with violence and betrayal lurking around every corner. What’s more, poor Fitz loses not one but two dogs during the course of the story, and though both canines die honorably and in the service of saving Fitz, it’s still heartbreaking to read about dog death, however noble it might be.

Personally, I’m a fan of fantasy novels that give us a little bit of horror with the fantastic, and in that regard Assassin’s Apprentice does not disappoint. Fitz’s first encounter with the Forged, for example, sears itself into your mind, and Hobb excels at showing us just how unsettling it is for him to not be able to encounter these beings, these people who’ve had all that makes them human stripped away from them, leaving them nothing but husks of who they once were.

As far as the world-building goes, I love that we get to see so much detail about what makes the Six Duchies work, even as there are many parts of this world that remain beyond our vision. This is a world that has its own history and its own customs and, though we’re limited to Fitz’s point of view, his status as an assassin and a spy on behalf of the king means that we get to see and understand a lot of it. Hobb excels at giving just enough information and detail to make us feel as if we’re right in this world, without weighing us down with too much.

Remarkably, given that this is the beginning of a long-running series, Assassin’s Apprentice is self-contained, giving us a satisfying conclusion to Fitz’s arc. After all, Fitz has managed to not only grasp some of the Skill; he’s also managed to head off what could’ve been a truly catastrophic series of events that could well have ended with the ill-suited and deeply selfish Regal sitting on his father’s throne. He’s also managed to hang onto the Wit–the ability that allows him to bond with animals–despite Burrich’s attempts to get him to abandon it. That’s quite a journey for a boy born out of wedlock to a prince!

At the same time, this novel also leaves us hungering for more. The Red-Ship Raiders, after all, are still a threat, and I doubt that Regal will be satisfied with continuing to play second fiddle to Verity. It probably comes as no surprise, but I’ll be heading right on over to Barnes & Noble this weekend to pick up the second volume. I simply can’t wait to devour it and to share my thoughts with all of you.

Stay tuned!

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Warning: Full spoilers for the book follow.

As most readers of this newsletter probably know, I’m a sucker for a mythology retelling. Fortunately for me, there are more than a few to choose from these days, and Ayana Gray’s I, Medusa is one that’s been on my radar for quite a while. It’s not just a gorgeous book–seriously, look at that cover and those sprayed edges–but it’s also a necessary one. In addition to reimagining Medusa as a young Black woman, it also paints her as a beautiful and tragic figure, led down the road to damnation by both her own choices and those who have more power than she does.

From the moment we meet her, it’s clear that Medusa isn’t quite like the rest of her family. At the most basic level, she’s mortal, whereas her parents and siblings are immortal, but it goes deeper than that. While they seem to have a firm understanding of both themselves and their role in the world, she feels adrift, always yearning for something more. She’s also lonely, for while she has a close bond with her sisters, the fact that her lifetime is limited and theirs are not imposes a firm chasm between them. Her only true friend is Theo, the slave, but even this is a relationship marred by a difference in power and status. And, unlike her parents, who really seem to revel in their misery and their cruelty, Medusa (or Meddy, as she is often called) is a gentler soul.

Nevertheless, there’s also a kernel of something more sinister beneath her people-pleasing exterior, and it’s for this reason that Athena takes an interest in her. She sees that, beneath that seemingly calm and docile persona there lurks the spirit of a woman who is hungry for something else, who wants to be the mistress of her own destiny, who even yearns, however faintly, for the power that only feminine rage and violence can give her. Small wonder, then, that she accepts the gift of servitude that Athena offers her,

Medusa discovers, however, that there’s always a cost when you tie yourself to the gods, and she soon gets involved in a bit of a tug-of-war between Athena and Poseidon. Just as there is a strict hierarchy separating the old gods from the new, so there is a sharp dividing line between male and female deities. Medusa, as almost any young woman would, loses her head–and ultimately her virginity–to the sea god, and she is punished with the infamous hair made of snakes. Even though you know how the myth goes, and even though you know what awaits Medusa at the hands of the goddess who was once her protector and her mistress, Gray’s skill as a novelist lies in her ability to make you feel as if you’re hearing of this for the first time.

As a result, there are many moments of genuine heartbreak in I, Medusa. We watch as Medusa slowly has her innocence and her naivete stripped away from her by the brutal realities of the world in which she lives, first among her parents–whose marriage, to put it mildly, is deeply dysfunctional–and then in Athens. She soon discovers that there are those, even within the temple of Athena, who are more than happy to tear her down just because she’s a foreigner and isn’t like the other young women serving their divine mistress.

By the time her punishment happens, we’ve already seen Medusa come perilously close to rock bottom. Arguably the most devastating moment is when her beloved Theo tries to help her immediately after her transformation, only for Medusa to turn him to stone. This is a true turning point in her character and, though she eventually learns to control her powers–and though she becomes an agent of vengeance, alongside her sisters, who’ve taken on the curse as well–Meddy learns that simple retaliation isn’t enough to give her life meaning. Indeed, while her sisters are happy to continue turning men to stone and turning the tables, Medusa feels the sting of conscience and of mercy. Even though this part of the book is rather short–as other reviewers have pointed out–to me that was part of the point. Because we’ve already gotten to know her so well, we can see why she would come back from the brink of pure vengeance into which she has sunk.

Like I said, this novel is powerful. It peels away the layers of the myth to reveal the true woman beneath and, though it does have a lot of YA vibes, there’s an emotional maturity to it that I found very rewarding. Since we’re wedded to Medusa’s point of view and since it all takes place in the present tense, we’re right there with her as she encounters both the beauties and the horrors, the power and the powerlessness, of being associated with the divine in the ancient world. What’s more, she also manages to claw her own bit of happiness via a queer relationship, and it’s at that moment that she really seems to come back to herself. Unlike some others, I actually loved that queer desire became a road to salvation.

Now, while I did enjoy this novel quite a lot, there were a few blips here and there that raised an eyebrow. At one point a merchant arrives on the sisters’ island from Alexandria, which is pretty remarkable, given that, if this novel takes place in the distant Greek past, Alexandria wouldn’t have been founded until several centuries later. This is obviously a small point, but it does rather take away from the flavor of authenticity that one usually looks for in a novel set in antiquity. I’m sure that most readers would just gloss over it, but for me it rather disrupted the sense of time that had been established up to that point in the book.

That quibble aside, however, I will say that this is one of the better myth retellings out there, and it adds further complexity to Medusa, arguably one of antiquity’s most maligned and misunderstood villains.

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Warning: Full spoilers for the book follow.

I have yet to be disappointed with anything written by T. Kingfisher. Since I was first introduced to her by my queer bookclub I’ve been devouring all of her new releases, and I have literally loved every single book of hers I’ve read, including one of her more recent books, Hemlock and Silver. Like so many of her other words, this one offers a unique take on the beloved story of Snow White, giving us a book that weasels its way into our minds and doesn’t leave.

Our heroine this time is Anja, an expert on poisons who’s recruited by the king to figure out who, or what, is poisoning his beloved daughter, Snow. Anja soon finds out that the solution to this particular mystery is much more complicated, and much more terrifying, than she ever could’ve imagined. It all involves a journey through a mirror, a sinister queen, a talking cat, and a handsome guard named Javier with whom Anja becomes more than a little smitten. By the time the novel comes to a close Anja has found her scientific mind challenged and stymied by forces that can’t be entirely defined, let alone controlled, by rational thought.

As so often is the case with Kingfisher, she manages to combine the fantastic, the horrifying, and the wryly humorous into a remarkably coherent and entertaining package. This is truly one of those books that, once you pick it up, you can’t put it down. In large part this is because Anja, like so many of the author’s other heroines, is just a delight to spend time with. I give Kingfisher a lot of credit for crafting female heroines that aren’t your typical damsel in distress and who are middle-aged (or on the cusp of it).

One of the most appealing things about Anja is her sense of humor. It’s always fun to spend time in the head of someone who has a wry sense of humor, and this describes Anja to a “T.” She is also the kind of woman who never takes herself too seriously, even as she’s very much aware of her own intelligence and her skills. She’s just…a normal kind of person, which makes her the perfect heroine for a story like this one, and it’s precisely both her normalcy and her skill with detecting and understanding poisons–as well as her rational mind–that proves key to solving the mystery of who’s trying to poison Snow.

Anyone who’s ever read a fairy tale knows that there’s often a lot of horror involved, either under the surface or–if you’re reading, say, one of those collected by the Grimms–right there on the surface, ready to terrify you and make you cover your eyes. In Hemlock and Silver, likewise, horror is always lurking right under the surface, and Kingfisher wisely doesn’t just throw it all at us at once, instead letting it creep up on us like a slow dread. We’re always sensing that it’s there, somewhere, but we’re never quite sure of where, not until it suddenly bursts out into the open.

Yet here, too, there are more than a few surprises waiting for us. Kingfisher is savvy enough to subvert our expectations time and again. The mirror-gelds, for example, might be terrifying to look at, but they have an intelligence of their own and, more importantly, they also end up being remarkably reliable allies for Anja and Javier. This is vintage Kingfisher, and while she isn’t afraid to tweak genre conventions, she is never cynical, and her books always give us reason to believe in simple human tenacity.

While I love Anja, I also found myself strangely compelled by the Shadow Queen. I love this character so much, even if she is the villain. We only get tantalizing glimpses of her–and always through Anja’s eyes–but what we get of her is enough to show that this is not a woman (or mirror creature) to be taken lightly. Her origins remain somewhat mysterious, and that helps her to really stand out as a villain. After all, we’re most frightened of that which we don’t or can’t fully see or understand. Indeed Kingfisher, like every great fantasist, doesn’t over-explain every single detail of her world or her story. We never do get a concrete explanation for how it is that the original queen managed to bring her own reflection to life, nor do we ever really get a full explanation for why the Mirror World exists at all. And that is perfectly okay with me.

Speaking of things that don’t quite make sense according to the logic of our world and our accepted view of things: how about Grayling? I’m always going to be a sucker for a talking cat, and this one is a delight, even if he’s also a little bit menacing. He remains something of an enigma right up until the end and, since this is very much in keeping with just general cat behavior, it checks out. After all, the magic of a fairy tale–or, in this case, a reimagining of a fairy tale–lies in the mystery of it. Some things, it seems, just aren’t to be explained or rationalized away. (Also, as a side note, I love that this feline character is based on one of Kingfisher’s own pets).

I also enjoy the way that Kingfisher weaves romance into her plots. I wouldn’t go so far as to classify this book as romantasy–certainly not to the same extent as, say, her other book, Swordheart–but the bond between Anja and Javier is nevertheless an important part of the plot. What’s more, it’s clear from the moment they meet that something is likely to happen between the two of them. It’s just a matter of when and how long it’s going to take for them to realize they have the hots for each other. Perhaps most importantly, the romance plot doesn’t work to sabotage or tame Anja. Instead, it’s a love story of equals, and it’s very clear that Javier doesn’t just love her; he also respects the hell out of her. I’m sure I’m not the only one who finds such a romance really refreshing.

So, long story short, I adored this book. If you haven’t yet checked out a book by T. Kingfisher, this is the perfect place to start!

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Warning: Full spoilers for the book follow.

The Second Death of Locke is another of those books that was one of the ones chosen by my romantasy book club. While I’ve enjoyed pretty much every book we’ve read–with a few notable exceptions–I can say without reservation that this one is my favorite. It’s beautiful and lyrical, and it’s even a bit heartbreaking, which means it’s just the kind of romantasy I think we could use more of. What’ s more, though it’s hetero–and we know how I generally feel about straight romance–I actually found myself pretty moved by it.

In other words, it was pretty damn good.

Grey is a well, which means that she is essentially the living source of magic for her mage, Kier. Together, the two of them are basically an unstoppable team, and they play a key role in the wars being waged across the continent. As it turns out, however, things are much more complicated for both of them than either could have imagined, thanks to both Grey’s past, her feelings for Kier, and a whole host of conflicts of which they are but a part. Somehow, they have to figure out how to navigate their feelings for one another as well as their entangled past, present, and future.

It’ll probably come as not much of a surprise to readers of this newsletter that I’m a sucker for a story featuring a lady knight (if you’ve read my review of The Daughters’ War, you’ll know just what I mean). I particularly love a lady knight, the more grim and slightly melancholic the better. And they don’t come much more melancholic than Grey who, as it turns out, has not one but two secrets. Not only is she the secret heir to the lost island of Locke–source of all magic–but she is also hopelessly in love with her mage, Kier. As the novel goes on, she has to contend with these two secrets and the impact they have on her life and her loyalty to her beloved.

This is very much a slow-burn romance, and it takes both Kier and Grey quite a few pages before they end up admitting their feelings for one another. Even then, though, there’s still a rocky path ahead of them, particularly since Grey has to decide whether, and how, to resurrect the vanished Locke from its watery grave, all while contending with the trauma that brought the island down several years ago. This is one of those books that grapples with some big and deep emotions and, because we’re led to identify so strongly with Grey, we feel with her as she grapples with the reality of her past and her future. As a member of my book club put it, this book definitely leans into the miscommunication trope, but it was totally working for me.

As some of the other members of the book club pointed out, there’s something almost Arthurian about Bovalino’s prose throughout this book. This is, of course, very much in keeping with the novel’s overall high fantasy aesthetic, and reading The Second Death of Locke is a truly remarkable experience, as it invites you to inhabit a world that is both beautiful and brutal. Bovalino doesn’t shy away from some of the more gruesome aspects of warfare–among other things, Grey is a remarkably adept healer, which means that she comes into contact with quite a few wounds during the book–but she also makes it clear there’s beauty here, too. It’s there in the romance between Kier and Grey, obviously, but it’s also there in the remarkable group of friends they form, their own little found family.

And, like all of my very favorite fantasy, this book also asks some pretty deep questions, particularly in the latter half of the book, when Grey has to decide just what and how much she’s willing to sacrifice: for her power, for the island of Locke itself, and for her love of Kier. Much as we might wish it were otherwise, there are no easy answers when it comes to choosing between keeping your power, sacrificing the love of your life, or keeping both but robbing said love of his freedom. In the end, she chooses to keep her power and to save Kier’s life, though he will now be forced to stay on the island for the rest of his life.

The beauty of this ending is that it so nicely reflects the imperfect nature of our own world. As my father told me once long ago–in his inimitable way–life isn’t perfect. The Second Death of Locke obviously gives our two heroes a happy ending, in the sense that they both get to live and to pursue their lives and love together. At the same time, there’s no getting around the fact that Kier is now bound to Locke, forbidden to ever leave. It’s a burden he’s happy to take on, but one still can’t help but feel a pang of grief for the life the two might have lived. (While I’m on the subject, Kier makes for a truly fantastic romantic hero. He’s just such a sweet and giving man, a blessed relief from the sort of brooding assholes who are often the romantic leads in romantasy these days).

Lastly, I want to give this novel all the props for being so queer-inclusive. Though the primary romance is of course very straight, Bovalino makes it clear that this is very much a queer-normative world, one in which women marry and raise children together, where people are nonbinary, where queer folks of every sort exist and no one bats an eye. This is the sort of worldbuilding I’d like to see more of in the world of romantasy, and it’s certainly something I strive to create in my own work.

The Second Death of Locke is a gem of a novel, and I was pleasantly surprised by the fact that it’s actually a standalone. Don’t get me wrong: I love a sprawling series as much as the next person. Every so often, however, you want a book that you can just devour and that will satisfy you rather than leaving you wanting more. While I will certainly welcome any other books that we get in this series, I’m glad that Kier and Grey get their own happy ending. This is the type of novel that subverts all of our expectations and all of the tropes and narrative beats we associate with the genre, and for this, and for so many other reasons, I can’t recommend it highly enough.

Hello, dear reader! Do you like what you read here at Omnivorous? Do you like reading fun but insightful takes on all things pop culture? Do you like supporting indie writers? If so, then please consider becoming a subscriber and get the newsletter delivered straight to your inbox. There are a number of paid options, but you can also sign up for free! Every little bit helps. Thanks for reading and now, on with the show!

Warning: Full spoilers for the book follow.

A couple of years ago I read Christopher Buehlman’s The Blacktongue Thief a few years ago and really loved it. Buehlman is one of those fantasy authors with a keen sense of character development, world building, and narrative that only comes along once in a great while. His books are on the grimdark side of things, but there’s hope in them, too, if you know where to look. I think it’s safe to say that this is one of my very favorite recent fantasy reads, and I can’t praise it highly enough.

When the novel begins Galva dom Braga is part of an elite unit of warrior women who’ve been dispatched to fight against the sinister goblins, creatures that are as utterly inhuman as it’s possible to be. The ongoing wars have been going on for so long that it’s now necessary for women to go to battle, no matter how much this might irk some members of the male aristocracy. As the novel goes on her fate intersects with some very important folks, including none other than the Queen In the end, she endures more than her fair share of tragedy and heartbreak but also, and perhaps more importantly, she knows what it is to taste true love .

Galva is, I think it’s safe to say, one of the most extraordinary female characters I’ve yet experienced in a fantasy novel. She is, in a word, badass. I mean, how else would you describe a woman who not only helps to train giant war ravens but also goes to war against goblins with only the faintest chance that she’s going to emerge out of this whole thing alive? For that matter, how else would you describe a woman who’s willing to leave her degenerate and cruel and sadistic brother behind to get devoured by those same goblins?

I have a real soft spot for those fantasy novels that manage to immerse you in their worlds while not shirking in the character development department. The Daughters’ War excels in both arenas, and while there were many times when I really did feel as if I was immersed in this world and encountering the horrors of war (and the beauties of love), I also enjoyed getting to spend so much time with a character like Galva. She’s the kind of person who takes a rather jaundiced view of the world but, given what she’s had to endure–including an eldest brother who’s a real jackass–one can see why she’d be a bit cynical about the world around her.

And, of course, there’s also the fact that she’s knee-deep in a war that is the very epitome of horror. Those goblins…man, they are just absolutely terrifying. I know Tolkien set the bar high when it comes to the convincing depiction of Orcs, but Buehlman takes this to a whole new level. It’s not just that goblins are the enemies of humans; they are so different from them as to be almost from another planet. They butcher humans and eat their flesh; they seem able to communicate through some variant of a hive-mind; they wear masks and create sails out of human skin; and so much more. These are creatures we are led to fear and to hate, and we can’t help but heave a sigh of relief when the war corvids prove remarkably effective at turning the tide of war.

Most of the novel is told from Galva’s point of view–presumably from some far point in the future–but at certain key points she shares with us the journals written by her younger brother Amiel, who has been assigned as an apprentice to a powerful wizard. Unlike his sister, who approaches the world through a rather grim mindset, he is a tried and true romantic, someone who sees the beauty in the world, even through all the ugliness. And yet, tragically, he loses his life during a siege and, to make matters even worse, we never really get closure as to what happened. It’s moments like this, though, that make The Daughters’ War rank up there with the very best war fiction, whether in fantasy or in more mainstream literature. The ugly truth about war, as in life in general, is that we all too often don’t get the resolution or the closure we might desire. Sometimes, we’re just left to pick up the pieces of our broken lives and hearts the best we can and go forth into an uncertain future.

This is not to say that it’s all doom and gloom. Galva’s wartime life and conflict with her eldest brother. She has a brief romantic interlude with none other than a queen, and these portions of the novel are really quite beautiful and evocative, reminding us that great tenderness can sometimes flourish even in the darkest of times. These passages hit all the harder given just how ugly the world outside continues to become. The love may be an ephemeral thing, but it clearly leaves an impression on our hero that will last the rest of her life, even after she has completely sworn her service and her soul to the goddess of death.

Suffice it to say that I loved this book. Despite the rather wry and cynical voice of its narrator, this is still a book all about big emotions and big ideas, about how triumph in war cannot be gained without tremendous sacrifice. There are some books that just get the visceral and brutal ugliness of war and the aching beauty of love, and how those two things can nestle in the heart of a single person. The Daughters’ War is one such book, and I think it will come to be regarded as a true classic of fantasy literature.

It’s really the ending, though, that made me weep. After having endured unspeakable horror, Galva returns at last to her family home, where she reunites with the old mare who’s been waiting for her all this time. I don’t know. Maybe it’s just the idea of this sweet horse being one of the last of her kind left alive, or maybe it’s just the sense of relief and release of knowing just how much she’s survived and managed to make it home at last. Something about this whole ending sequence, though, had me sobbing. It’s the perfect way to end this story, and it crystallizes why I found this to be one of my very favorite reads of recent memory.

So, if you haven’t yet, do read The Daughters’ War, if for no other reason than to read about giant war birds, wizards who give up their health to win a war, and badass women. It’s a story not for the faint of heart, but all the more worth reading because of that. Read it soon, and you can thank me later!

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Warning: Full spoilers for the book follow.

I’ve been hooked on G.R. Macallister’s Five Queendoms series since the first volume came out a few years ago. I mean, how could you not fall in love with a series that bills itself as Game of Thrones but in a matriarchy? Indeed, the various books in the series have been intricately and ornately plotted, with multiple storylines and characters that we’ve grown to love, and sometimes to hate, during the course of the action. I’ve devoured each and every book in this series, more than a little in awe at how effectively Macallister has created this world and populated it with individuals who, once encountered, are never forgotten.

Now, at last, we get the concluding volume to the saga with Sestia, as the Five Queendoms grapple with the continuing fallout of the Drought of Girls and the challenges it posed to the entire way of life and their cultures. Characters from all walks of life, from the lowest to the highest, have to try to rebuild the Five Queendoms. While all of this is going on, there are other sinister forces at work, particularly in the Underlands, where none other than Sessadon, who brought the Drought about in the first place, continues to scheme, unable to accept that she is no longer alive and no longer wields the power she once did.

One of the things I’ve always appreciated about this series is the extent to which Macallister is quite willing and able to give us some protagonists that are good and true and noble and others that are morally reprehensible and sometimes just downright evil. Given the extent to which fantasy, as a genre, has often struggled to give its female characters the complexity they deserve, often pigeon-holing them into certain roles, this is really quite a radical creative choice. In the course of this book we meet deceitful priestesses who wall their lovers up inside tombs, scheming senators who are ultimately foiled and undone by their own ambition, and mothers who will give up literally anything to ensure that their daughters have the lives they think they deserve. There are stories that make you want to stand up and cheer for the heroines, and there are also stories that make you see red with anger.

Take, for example, the sorceress Sessadon. Though her efforts in the previous two novels were foiled and she was banished to the Underlands, she’s not quite finished yet, and she soon sets out on a path to do nothing less than unleash the shades of the dead on the living. In less capable hands than Macallister’s Sessadon would be a simple character but, instead, she’s someone we may not entirely like but whose story we nevertheless find compelling. If nothing else, you can’t help but admire her sheer tenacity. This is a woman, after all, who won’t let her ambitions be dampened or hampered by anything, not even death itself. The thing about Sessadon is that she never pretends to be other than what she is, and so it’s rather fitting that she is ultimately robbed of her memory, and her existence, by someone she has sought to manipulate for her own ends.

There are numerous other characters who are likewise morally gray and sometimes downright evil. This can make for a sometimes disquieting reading experience, as you spend time in the heads of people who really care for little more than their own power. Then again, this is precisely what Macallister set out to achieve. She is, after all, writing the feminist equivalent to Game of Thrones and, as that series shows time and again, human beings are capable of quite horrible things in the pursuit of power. At the same time, one can also see a glimmer of hope, holding to the belief that not everyone in this world is terrible, that some folks really do want to make the world better by being just and kind to those who are weaker or more vulnerable than they are.

It’s thus important to note that, unlike in Martin’s world, one emerges from Sestia with a renewed belief in the beauty of the world and the souls who inhabit it. There are characters like Amankha who, after taking over the leadership of the Scorpicae, does everything in her power to mend the wounds of the past, while also sacrificing almost everything for her daughter. There’s a queen who takes a nonbinary magic-wielder under her wing, allowing them to finally be the person they always wanted to be, free from harm or fear. And there’s a mother and a daughter who, having spent most of their lives apart, finally come together and forge a better future.

This is, in other words, a beautiful tapestry that is woven together by Macallister’s beautiful prose, her eye for worldbuilding detail, and characters that are as richly complex and fascinating and contradictory as you’d find in any other work of great epic fantasy fiction. Indeed, as other reviewers have noted, one of the most extraordinary things about this series is the extent to which it manages to bring so many generic strands into its story. There’s everything from drama to fantasy, tragedy to romance, and somehow, through Macallister’s storytelling gifts, they manage to cohere into a powerful whole rather than tearing the story apart at the seams. This is a world in which you can truly lose yourself, and these are characters who you cannot help but become invested in, whether they’re good, evil, or something in-between.

All in all, I must say that I found this to be a very captivating and ultimately very rewarding read. It satisfactorily brings the series to a close, giving most of our characters the sort of send-off they deserve. I’m obviously sad this saga has reached its end, but I hold out hope that Macallister might have more stories set in this universe. It’s still a rarity to see so many women occupying center stage in a work of epic fantasy, and it seems to me that there are still many (many!) more stories that could be told in this world.

Let’s hope we see more of them in the future!

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Warning: Full spoilers for the book follow.

Given my own turn toward Appalachia in my fiction, it’s probably unsurprising that I’d be hungry to start reading more of it, particularly in fantasy and horror. After all, as anyone who has ever been to or lived in the region knows, there’s a deep and sometimes frightening power in those hills and hollers, a deep-rooted menace that tends to be hostile to outsiders or to those who would destroy the region for their own gain. You can rip all the coal out of the mountains that you want, but those mountains will eventually strike back.

My latest foray into Appalachian fiction is Linda H. Codega’s Motheater, which is a book I just happened to stumble upon (amazing how often that happens to me, isn’t it?) The novel wastes no time in plunging us directly into its world, as main character Bennie, a Black woman, stumbles upon a body in a local stream. As it turns out, this mysterious figure is a witch from the 19th century, trapped in the roots of the mountain by her own father. Now that she’s free, however, she has to do everything in her power to keep the vengeful mountain from devouring the town to which she was once dedicated. Bennie finds herself drawn into this existential battle, even as she starts to lose her heart to the strange witch from the mountain. Codega deftly weaves past and present together as Motheater and Bennie race to put the former’s memory back together so she can have the power and the fortitude to defeat the powers of the earth itself.

As this summary makes clear, this is a book all about dark magics, old roots, and the horrors of both the past and the present of Appalachia. These are characters that you can understand, even if you don’t always find their actions particularly likable or particularly defensible. This is especially true of Motheater–or Esther, as she’s known in the past–who is a creature of great power but also great pride. While we obviously don’t begrudge her hostility toward the forces of industry poised to despoil almost every mile of Appalachian land, we can also see how her pride and her prickly nature make it difficult even for her allies to stay loyal to her or help her for any length of time.

This is particularly true in the parts of the book in which we learn about her past, how she was the daughter of a snake-handling preacher, how she set herself against the industrial forces invading her territory and, most sinisterly of all, how she bound her dear friend Jasper to a tree. In other words, we learn that Motheater can be quite ruthless when it suits her, driven by her own moral code to do what she thinks is right, no matter who might get injured in the process. She’s also the type of person who cannot admit defeat, even when it’s staring her right in the face.

Then again, what is a Neighbor, a witch, supposed to do when faced with a village that views her with mingled awe and fear? What can one do when faced with forces so vast they seem unstoppable except by the most desperate measures imaginable? Motheater is the type of story that reminds you not just of the region’s troubled and exploited past but also points toward the struggles of the future. Anyone who has ever spent time in the mountains of Appalachia–particularly in my home state of West Virginia–can see quite clearly the damage that industry has wrought, the scars left behind by generations of exploitation at the hands of those who see the region as their own personal playground.

I love works of dark fantasy that manage to keep the horror and the fantastical elements in a delicate balance, and in this regard Motheater does not disappoint. I particularly loved the way Codega portrays the magic used by Motheater, a power that is drawn from the land and often requires a blood sacrifice in order to work. I’m not sure just how much of this is based in actual folklore, but such is Codega’s commitment that I’m willing to roll with it.

And, of course, there’s also the whole sapphic romance part of it. Bennie is either bi or pan and, given just how powerful Motheater is, it’s not that surprising that she finds herself drawn into the other woman’s orbit. It’s also refreshing to see a Black woman in Appalachia and, while Bennie herself is from a different region of Virginia, there are enough references to folk of color in her adopted town to make it clear that there’s a pretty substantial population of them there. Given the extent to which BIPOC have been consistently marginalized in Appalachian narratives, it feels quietly revolutionary to have one as one of the two main characters, and the fact that she’s queer in the bargain makes it even more special.

In the end, Motheater suggests that there is no salvation for Appalachia without a great deal of sacrifice, and it also poses an even more pressing question, one that constantly lurks in the background of Bennie and Motheater’s attempts to save the town of Kiron from the looming destruction from the mountain itself. Are such places worth saving, when they have mortgaged their souls and their homes and their bodies to the avaricious maw and blatant evil of industry? For that matter, what do you do when the very spirit of the land itself seems to rise up against you? I love novels that make you think, and Motheater certainly did that!

Suffice it to say, then, that I really loved Motheater. It’s the kind of book that really grabs hold of you, immerses you in its world, and leaves you feeling both satisfied and wanting more. What’s more, it really has a firm grasp of the history and struggles of Appalachia and how those things continue to impact how things unfold in the present. If you’ve ever been to the region, you’ll know the past is never very far away. In some ways, it’s not even past.

Motheater made me fall in love with my home region all over again, and I highly recommend it to anyone who loves Appalachia as much as I do.

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Warning: Full spoilers for the book follow.

I know that I’m more than a little behind the times on this one, but I just finished reading R.F. Kuang’s Babel, and I have to say that I really, really loved this book. It’s probably just a tad too long–that tends to be a running theme with a lot of Kuang’s recent work; see also: Katabasis–but such is Kuang’s power as a writer and such is the depth of her world-building and character development, that you can’t help but lose yourself in this fantasy world.

The main character is Robin, the son of an English scholar and a Chinese mother, who’s brought to England by his father, who ultimately enrolls him at Oxford, where he becomes a part of the prestigious group of translators and linguists who are key to Britain’s use of silver magic and, by extension, to its ongoing colonial project(s). He forges a little quartet with three other students–Letty, Victoire, and Ramy–and the two become inseparable. As time goes on, however, Robin finds himself growing increasingly disenchanted with the work of Babel, thanks in no small part to the arrival of his elder half-brother Griffin, who leads him into the revolutionary Hermes Society. In the end, Robin becomes a key part of the revolution to bring about the end of the British Empire, though it involves tremendous sacrifice.

Babel makes for a compelling read, but it’s not exactly the most subtle when it comes to its political messaging. In fact, it’s fair to say that it positively beats the reader over the head with its central thesis. This is, quite simply, that colonialism/imperialism are bad and that, just as importantly, there is no language the colonial oppressor understands other than violence. Robin, as both the main character and the reader’s entrypoint into this world, makes for a compelling and sympathetic hero, someone whose own investments are complicated. He is at once the beneficiary of imperial largesse and yet, at the same time, the victim of its exploitation. His journey to self-discovery and his development of a revolutionary consciousness is gripping to experience, and you find yourself cheering for the downfall of the British Empire, even as you can’t help but be conscious of the fact that it’s not going to go down without a fight.

What Babel lacks in subtlety it more than makes up for in both worldbuilding and character development. Because so much of the book is told from Robin’s point of view, we really get to know him, and so we understand just why it is that someone who has been given all he could ever want would begin to be disenchanted with an imperial power and its toxic politics. And, while the other three characters are only intermittently given their POV chapters, Kuang is quite adept at allowing us to understand them, too, even the reprehensible Letty, whose actions are both selfish and destructive.

Beyond the book’s obviously radical politics, I also appreciated the extent to which it really understands the nature of academic life and how easy it is to become enamored of a system of knowledge labor that is, itself, inherently exploitative and destructive. If you’ve never been immersed in the world of academia–particularly the humanities part of it–then you may not realize just how punishing, and how rewarding, such a world can be. Kuang perfectly captures what it’s like to be so committed to the world of the mind, so captivated by the pursuit of knowledge, that you lose sight of almost everything else, including and especially your own mental and physical (and perhaps even spiritual) well-being.

Likewise, I loved the way Kuang found a way of turning linguistics into an engine for magic. The magic system of this world is one that has been thoroughly thought-out, and there’s a potent plausibility to it that you almost find yourself forgetting you’re reading a work of fantasy and not historical fiction. It turns out that historical exploitation and colonialism–particularly when it comes to natural resources–makes for great grist for the fantasy writer’s imagination (I’ve also found this to be true).

The conclusion of Babel was suitably devastating and yet, strangely enough, rather optimistic, as well. Though Robin ultimately sacrifices his life in order to bring about a true end to Babel–and, by extension, Britain’s hegemony–the very last chapter is told from Victoire’s point of view. She might not have a clear vision of what the future holds for her, and she might not even know whether there are any other members of the Hermes Society out there, but she is still determined to live her life on her own terms. Robin’s sacrifice, heartbreaking though it is, has laid the foundations for other former colonial subjects to build their lives. The book’s subtitle, The Necessity of Violence, is very apt.

Now, I do have to say that I’m a bit mixed when it comes to the inclusion of footnotes. On the one hand, when they are used effectively they can really help in world-building, giving us a sense of the scope and scale of a secondary creation. On the other hand, they can also be a bit show-offy and distracting, serving more to show the author’s learning than anything else. There were a lot of times while reading Babel that I felt like they were doing the latter.

All in all, though, I have to say that this was one of my favorite reads of the year. It’s the kind of fantasy that you can really sink your teeth into, one that makes you think about big questions, that forces you to grapple with the things that you thought you knew. Indeed, while the book is about colonialism, I also found myself thinking about our present moment and the ever-increasing presence of AI in all of our lives. Like the British Empire, Big Tech and its AI are trying to reach their tentacles into every corner of our existence, destroying everything in their path as they move wealth ever-upward. Babel shows us, though, that we don’t have to accept what we’re given, that we have, in our hands, the power to make a better future.

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Warning: Full spoilers for the book follow.

Well, I have now finished The Rose Field, the third and final volume in Philip Pullman’s series The Book of Dust. Like its predecessor, His Dark Materials, The Book of Dust is filled to bursting with big ideas, rich emotions and, of course, the elegant, eloquent prose for which Pullman is justly famous. The Rose Field is the type of book you want to lose yourself in for hours and hours and, at just under 700 pages, that’s quite easy to do. This is one of those books I both did and didn’t want to finish,because something tells me this might be the last time we get to visit this world. But, as we all know, even the best things must come to an end, and so it is with The Book of Dust.

To be sure, there were several plot threads and story arcs that didn’t seem to have much payoff, but I honestly didn’t mind this. Even when we didn’t get to revisit characters, their points of view and their adventures and arcs, if incomplete, nevertheless added something meaningful and beautiful to the tapestry Pullman created with this book. These stories remind us that it truly takes a village to fight back against oppression, that none of us–not even a formidable character like Lyra–are ever alone, that there are always those working behind the scenes to make things better.

But for all of that, when it comes to it this is Lyra and Malcolm’s story, and their dynamic continues to be one of its major appeals. They’ve been through so much together, they’ve come to appreciate and to understand one another. Lyra is, I think it’s safe to say, right up there with the Pevensie children of The Chronicles of Narnia when it comes to beloved protagonists of children’s fiction. We’ve seen her grow and change and grow more mature and, if her first adventure was about her losing her innocence and re-enacting the Fall of Man of Genesis, a retelling of Paradise Lost, her arc here is somewhat similar to Paradise Regained, in that it is all about reclaiming elements of herself she’d lost as she became ever more cynical and disenchanted with the world.

There is, then, a rich vein of philosophy and morality to The Rose Field and The Book of Dust in general. The heart of the matter is the simple, yet increasingly relevant, observation that money is the universal solvent, capable of dissolving all of the bonds people have established with one another and all of the ways they have had of doing things. Moreover, as the novel repeatedly makes clear, this dissolution walks hand-in-hand with the sort of bureaucratic approach to faith and theology and wonder represented by the Magisterium, which has become ever more ossified in the intervening years.

Opposed to all of this are Lyra, Malcolm, Pan, and all of those who would see the human spirit continue to thrive, who would see that which is beautiful and wonderful maintained. They may not be perfect, and they may in fact be quite foolhardy at times, but they hold in their hearts a peculiar vision of the world, one that is all about beauty and magic and that peculiar thing we call imagination, a belief in the unknowable. These are the things that simmer beneath our consciousness but without which we cannot function as humans, not properly, anyway. These are the things that give our souls form and power and resonance. They are, in effect, the very things that make us human in the first place.

This is precisely what makes the Magisterium and its tentacles so absolutely terrifying. Marcel Delamare, like all of those who are hungry for power and domination, cannily understands that his organization can continue to tighten its grip on those who dare to challenge orthodoxy if it manages to both destroy the gateways to other worlds and also forges alliances with cynical groups who are only after more money and material gain. To this end he’s very willing to get into bed with those who have no real spiritual beliefs at all–most notably the corporation known as Thuringia Potash–even if doing so seems antithetical to the sort of spiritual enlightenment the Magisterium claims to hold in such high regard. Then again, as we’ve seen time and again, the Magisterium and those who’ve bought into its beliefs really just want one thing: total domination, and they’re willing to do whatever it takes to get it. In His Dark Materials that extended to severing children from their souls; in this book it extends to destroying pathways between worlds, heedless of the consequences or the destruction that entails.

Like Tolkien, Pullman has a knack for capturing environmental devastation and the emotions it engenders. When Lyra and Malcolm step into the world where the roses come from, they immediately see to their horror how it’s been taken over by those who privilege profit above all else. Given the extent to which we’ve seen the power of the rose oil, and given how much dæmons mean to Lyra and those in her world, it’s heartbreaking to see a world brought to such a state by the inexhaustible greed of which humans are capable.

In the end, though, The Rose Field leaves us with joy mixed with sorrow, but it’s often so with the best and most memorable tales. This book may be far from perfect–in fact, it might be a bit of a sprawling mess at times–but there’s an undeniable power to it, too. Perhaps, underneath all of the unfinished storylines something else is going on, something we might call re-enchantment. The book encourages us to embrace and enjoy the world in all of its connections, its contradictions, and its wonders. Just as Lyra is finally reunited with her beloved Pan, so we can be reunited with the parts of our souls we’ve lost to capitalism, to modernity, to the alienation of our world.

Therein lies the book’s magic and, even if Pullman never writes another book, we should all be grateful to him for this extraordinary gift.

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Warning: Spoilers for the series follow.

It took several years, but Stranger Things has finally returned to our screens. There’s much I continue to love about this series, but I will say the first four episodes of the final season are a bit of a let-down, as it too often feels like the show is spinning its wheels in an attempt to find a plot. Or, to put it somewhat differently, it’s starting to feel like there’s just not enough story to warrant a full season. To be sure, eight episodes isn’t all that many, but they can start to feel that way when the characters seem to just be doing the same thing for episode after episode.

The first three episodes mostly focus on our beloved heroes as they try to find Vecna, who seems to have gone into hiding after the Rifts incident a year earlier. Meanwhile, a sinister group associated with the military, led by Linda Hamilton’s Dr. Kay, have kept Hawkins isolated from the outside world and also built their own outpost in the Upside Down. While Vecna continues kidnapping various other children in Hawkins–including Mike’s younger sister–the various other characters deal with their interpersonal conflicts and struggles. It all comes to a climax when Vecna finally puts in appearance and, while at first it appears he might have the victory, his cruel dismissal of Will ends up activating the latter’s powers. The final shot is of Will, who has finally come into his own.

As this summary makes clear, the first three episodes are basically just three hours of setup, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that much of the action could have been compressed to one or two episodes without really missing all that much. Don’t get me wrong: it’s a lot of fun to see the gang back together (sort of), and I will always be here for Winona Rider. However, there were many times during these first few episodes where I found myself wondering just when Stranger Things was actually going to get into it. Even a series as well-written and as well-acted as this one can only spin its wheels for so long before even the most faithful viewer and fan starts to lose patience with it all.

Indeed, I was starting to get the feeling that I was watching a pastische of all the ‘80s sci-fi and horror movie tropes elder millennials and Gen Xers grew up with. A pastische isn’t necessarily bad, of course but…I don’t know, I’ve just come to expect more of a series like Stranger Things. Up until now the Duffer Brothers have worn their nostalgia on their sleeves while also making sure they were creating something new and compelling, but at several points this season both my partner and myself found ourselves wondering if perhaps the series was just running out of steam and was thus relying purely on nostalgia. I also found some of the interpersonal drama rather tedious, particularly the ongoing feud between Dustin and Steve.

This isn’t to say that I didn’t enjoy many things about these first four episodes. I love seeing Will and Robin bonding over their shared queerness, and I continue to give this show a lot of credit for capturing both queer angst and queer joy equally well. Both Noah Schnapp and Maya Hawke continue to show why they are two of this series’ most valuable players, and seeing them on-screen together laughing and smiling was a true delight.

I’d also be remiss if I didn’t mention Linda Hamilton, who is perfectly-cast as the human villain of this season: Dr. Kay. As of now we haven’t gotten to see nearly enough of her but, well, when you have someone like Hamilton on your roster every moment is going to be compelling. She really comes into her own in the finale, however, when she proves just how ruthless she can be, even going so far as to torture Hopper to try to get information out of him. Like so many of the villains of this show, however, she lets her own hubris get in the way, and she fails to take into account Eleven’s determination. I don’t want to give too much away, but let’s just say she finds out that just because Eleven can’t use her powers doesn’t mean she can’t still wield a nasty pair of scissors.

However, while it might meander a bit in the first three episodes, the conclusion of the first half of the season made the whole thing worth it. The various plot arcs finally begin to converge, and we also finally get to see Sadie Sink’s Max do something besides lay about in a coma. She might still be trapped in a world of Vecna’s making, but that doesn’t mean she’s going to just take it all lying down. I love this character so much, and I’m glad we’re seeing her have some agency again.

Indeed, the last episode sees some remarkable moments of bravery from everyone, and I felt particularly moved by Mike’s efforts to save the children from the attacking Demogorgons, even though doing so means putting his own life at risk. We’ve known for quite some time that Mike is a good man, and this definitively proves it.

For me, though, the best part about the finale was seeing Will finally come into his own, as both a queer person and as a superhero. As other critics have noted, there’s something particularly powerful about the fact that Will’s acceptance of himself–in particular his sexuality–allows him to finally tap into the power that’s been inside him all along. So much of his character arc throughout the seasons has been focused on his status as a victim, as someone who suffers because of his sensitivity. Indeed, Vecna seems to believe that he’s fundamentally weak and broken but, instead, he’s now a mighty sorcerer in his own right. I wept at seeing this queer superhero brought to life right before my eyes, and I can’t wait to see what more the show has in store for us. He’s the powerful being all of us ‘80s and ‘90s gay boys wished we could be, and the show is better for it.

All in all, I quite enjoyed the first half of the season, with the finale being a true standout. I like that Kali/Eight has finally been brought back into the fold, and I continue to appreciate the way the series continues to braid together sci-fi and horror. If the Duffer Brothers can maintain the momentum of the finale in the last four episodes, then I’m pretty sure Stranger Things will maintain its reputation as one of the best shows of the 21st century.

Fingers crossed!

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Warning: Full spoilers for the book follow.

I first fell in love with Philip Pullman’s writing 20 years ago, when I started reading The Golden Compass and thought, “Wow, this is some fantastic fantasy writing. I can’t wait to see where this all goes!” Even though The Subtle Knife and The Amber Spyglass went in some very strange directions, I continue to love these books and to return to them time and again (they’re some of the very few books that I’ve read more than once). While The Book of Dust isn’t quite as groundbreaking as His Dark Materials, it nevertheless makes for captivating reading, and there’s no doubt Pullman is still a master craftsman. Even though I haven’t yet finished The Rose Field, I thought I’d share some of my thoughts as I prepare to charge into the last 100 pages or so that I have left. After all, sometimes you have to take a deep breath and reflect before you finish something that means this much to you.

For those who haven’t read it, the book picks up after The Secret Commonwealth. Malcolm, Lyra, and Pan continue to try to make their way eastward, in the hopes of reaching the door between the worlds that may shed new light on the nature of the imagination. Though separated at the beginning, they slowly begin to draw closer together, all while encountering witches, gryphons, and mysterious strangers. Meanwhile the indefatigable Magisterium, led by Marcel Delamare, also wants to reach the door, in the hopes of doing away with Dust once and for all. Completing the picture are a number of side characters, all of whom offer their own points of view and perspectives on this new stage of the conflict.

One of the things that is most striking about this chapter of Lyra’s story is just how much is lost during the course of the book. The alethiometer, which has always been a key part of Lyra’s story and in some ways her very identity, is stolen and then destroyed. We find out that Serrafina Pekala, who also played a major role in Lyra’s earlier story, was ultimately killed (a death that hits pretty hard if, like me, you’ve read His Dark Materials so many times). There’s also the fact that the close relationship between Lyra and Pan, even if it’s mended by the end, will never be quite the same as before.

As is so often the case with Pullman, some of his most compelling characters are his villains. Take, for example, Marcel Delamare who, like so many other authority figures in the Magisterium, will not rest until he’s destroyed Lyra and the threat she continues to pose to the organization’s authoritarian impulses. Even more fascinatingly, it’s ultimately revealed he is none other than the brother of Marisa Coulter from His Dark Materials, which adds a whole new layer of complexity and motivation to his actions.

For his part, Olivier Bonneville is also the same little shit that he’s been since the beginning. He’s not evil or bad in quite the same way as Delamare, but for this reason he’s actually more dangerous in his own way. After all, no one is quite as threatening as someone with an inflated sense of his own importance and brilliance (and they don’t come with a much more inflated sense of both than Bonneville). He may not be a particularly pleasant character to spend time with but, in Pullman’s hands, he is nevertheless compelling.

While many other characters stride across the stage of the narrative, the heart and soul of The Rose Field, as has been the case from the beginning, is the quarter of Malcolm, Pan, Asta, and Lyra. These four characters steal our hearts any time they appear on the page, particularly since we know just how much they’ve been through during the course of the first two novels. It’s really been quite extraordinary to watch Lyra’s development as a character through not one but two series, and one can almost feel her aching longing to reconnect with Pan, even as she has to contend with her burgeoning feelings for Malcolm. I just love these characters so much, and I love the world that they inhabit. It’s been an unalloyed pleasure to journey with them again, and it’s going to break my heart to say goodbye.

The Rose Field, like the other books in the series, also grapples with some very big ideas. What is the nature of the human imagination? What are our obligations as individuals and as a species to protect it and nurture it, to protect that which makes us human? For that matter, what do we as a society–or perhaps it would be better to say a collection of societies–owe to one another in order to keep that imagination alive? Like all great fantasy, The Rose Field uses magic and wonder to force us to look more critically at our own world and, since Lyra’s world is so very much like ours, and yet not, the social and philosophical commentary is all the more acute.

Now, it also has to be said that this novel is quite sprawling and at times a little chaotically organized. We flit from point of view to point of view, sometimes without a lot of rhyme or reason (or at least not one that is clearly discernible). As a friend of mine put it, the novel’s a complete mess; I loved it and gave it five stars. If that isn’t a glowing recommendation, then I don’t know what is.

Indeed, Pullman’s powers as a writer of fantasy remain unmatched, and he is also one of the finest prose stylists working in speculative fiction today. He has such a keen command of language that you feel as if you’re truly immersed in Lyra’s world, as if you’re encountering things right alongside her. More to the point: his books break our hearts and put them back together, encouraging and guiding us to see the world and the cosmos in all of their complicated glory.

I can’t wait to finish and to share my further thoughts with all of you!

Hello, dear reader! Do you like what you read here at Omnivorous? Do you like reading fun but insightful takes on all things pop culture? Do you like supporting indie writers? If so, then please consider becoming a subscriber and get the newsletter delivered straight to your inbox. There are a number of paid options, but you can also sign up for free! Every little bit helps. Thanks for reading and now, on with the show!

Warning: Full spoilers for the book follow.

The release of a new novel in The Witcher series is always a cause for celebration, particularly for those of us who just can’t get enough of Geralt’s various adventures. And, I have to say, Sapkowski really is a master, and I’ve yet to read one of his books that wasn’t a captivating and page-turning read from first page to the last.

Crossroads of Ravens is no exception.

In this book, we learn more about his earliest days as a witcher, when he was fresh from Kaer Morhen and wandering the roads seeking employment killing monsters. It’s during one such journey that he crosses paths with a much older witcher, Preston Holt, who has a murky history but who nevertheless takes Geralt under his wing. As the novel goes on Geralt ends up playing a key role in a number of people’s lives, usually for the better. It’s a bit of a trial by fire and, though he does end up enduring some pretty significant heartbreak, he is nevertheless forged into the deeply ethical man he will show himself to be in subsequent years.

One of the things that becomes very clear throughout this book is just how reviled witchers are by many in their world, and how there’s no shortage of folks that are more than happy to try to destroy them if presented with an opportunity to do so. There’s a potent message here about the short-sightedness of regular people, about the extent to which irrational fears and hateful prejudices can curdle the minds of those who should know better, leading them to commit horrible acts of violence against people they barely understand. Small wonder that someone like Preston Holt would take it into his own hands to punish those who were responsible for a massacre that took place at Kaer Morhen.

And, say what you will about Holt, but he’s also as noble as they come. Sure, he manipulates Geralt several times–one can never get away from the darker edges of the story in a Sapkowski novel–but he also is willing to pay the ultimate price, just as long as justice is eventually served. He’s one of the finest characters that we’ve yet made in this series, and I dare to hold out hope he might get his own backstory.

Indeed, the question of how far one should go in the pursuit of justice–as well as what constitutes the line between justice and pure, blind vengeance–is a throughline that gives the novel its strength. Don’t get me wrong; it’s also a compulsive page turner, one of those books you simply can’t put down once you start reading it. As has been the case from the beginning, though, what sets The Witcher apart as a series is Sapkowski’s ability to create something that draws us along while also giving us much to think about and mull over. The world through which Geralt moves is one that’s at times uncomfortably similar to our own, filled as it is with powerful folks who do terrible things and seem to get away with it, brutes who exploit the weaknesses of others, and the threat of violence against those who are understood to be different or who aid those who are. It sometimes makes for bleak reading, but that’s what we’ve all come to expect from this world.

At the same time, there are glimmers of beauty and kindness and hope, too. There are the priestesses that help the witchers–including Geralt–by caring for them and brewing their elixirs. There’s the star-crossed young couple who Geralt ends up helping one they decide to elope. There’s the sorceress who keeps Geralt from succumbing to his wounds. Even though the world through which Geralt moves can be brutal, there are always reasons to cling to hope, and one gets the sense that it’s precisely these good people who have the greatest impact on Geralt as he moves into his future as a witcher.

Even so, one can’t help but feel a little sad that Geralt is exposed to the ugliness of the world so early in his life and career. Given the extent to which those in power are willing and able to destroy anyone they don’t like–including and especially witchers–is it any wonder that he becomes more than a little cynical and distant as he gets older? How could you not be so, when so many have decided that you’re too dangerous to life, that you’re an aberration against nature that needs to be destroyed with extreme prejudice?

At the same time, Crossroads of Ravens makes it just as clear that Geralt also has a firm moral compass, one that will guide him in the years ahead as he walks the lonely road of his kind. I don’t know about anyone else, but I found the ending to be quite powerful. When presented with the opportunity to get revenge on the final member of a nefarious trio who have caused damage and very nearly killed him, Geralt instead chooses to protect a group of children from a monster which would almost certainly devour them. The fact the novel ends this way leaves us is no doubt–as if we had any–just what kind of a person Geralt is. He will always do the right thing, even if doing so means that he won’t get the vengeance that he most certainly deserves.

When I sat down to start reading this book I honestly had no idea that I wasn’t going to be able to put it down. As tends to happen in these situations, though, I ended up just putting aside everything else I was reading so I could finish it. It’s not every fantasy author who could take a well-established series like this one and somehow manage to create something that feels fresh and new, but Sapkowski pulls it off with aplomb. As long as he wants to continue writing books set in this universe, he can count on me to read them.

Let’s just hope there’s more where this came from!

Hello, dear reader! Do you like what you read here at Omnivorous? Do you like reading fun but insightful takes on all things pop culture? Do you like supporting indie writers? If so, then please consider becoming a subscriber and get the newsletter delivered straight to your inbox. There are a number of paid options, but you can also sign up for free! Every little bit helps. Thanks for reading and now, on with the show!

Warning: Spoilers for the series follow.

Well, we’ve now come to the conclusion of the fourth season of The Witcher. As I’ve noted several times during this season, the show is far better than the naysayers are willing to admit, and I think a lot of that has to do with the fact that the show has returned to at least the broad outlines of the books’ arc. What’s more, I would argue that this is the season with the highest emotional stakes, and it’s no exaggeration to say that it is, quite simply, an emotionally devastating season of fantasy TV.

The final two episodes bring many of the stories to a satisfying conclusion. After Geralt and his little gang enter a sinister swamp and afoul of a rusalka, they end up parting ways, with some sticking with the Witcher and Jaskier, while others depart to start their lives anew. Meanwhile, Ciri’s time with the Rats comes to a tragic conclusion when they are slaughtered by the ruthless Leo Bonhart, who then captures Ciri. In Nilfgaard, meanwhile, Emhyr continues with his plans to marry the false Ciri, even as the truth of what he’s doing threatens to spill out into the general public, and Yennefer guides her fellow sorceresses to rebuild their former sorority, even as she also sets out to find and destroy Vilgefortz once and for all.

One of the things I’ve always loved about The Witcher, both the books and the series, is its willingness to show how monsters are, in their strange way, people, too. In the seventh episode, for example, we meet a rusalka and her daughter, two wanderers who perished in a swamp and have haunted it ever since. They are definitely disturbing to look at–I give this show a lot of credit for the skill of its creature design–but their tragic tale is a reminder that not every creature that does harm is evil or even truly malicious; sometimes they’re just lost souls doing the best they can in a fallen and broken world.

It’s really rather sad to see our little fellowship–so recently formed–begin to break up, several members deciding they no longer want to be courting death but instead want to pursue their own lives. At the same time, we’re not given too much time to dwell on this, as Geralt and company end up helping a group of guerilla northerners lead an attack against some Niflgaardians, helping them achieve a victory. It’s a very well-executed fight scene, with some gnarly death moments, and it’s also genuinely kind of nice to see Cahir and Geralt finally put their differences aside (the moment in which the latter saves the former from a monster is particularly well-done). The fact that it all leads to Geralt being sworn in service to Queen Meve is exactly the kind of stinger that we’ve come to associate with The Witcher.

The real highlight of the seventh episode, however, is the long-overdue reunion between Yennefer and Geralt, who finally get to spend some time together, though it proves to be all too brief. While it’s lovely to see these two brought together again, I have to admit that there isn’t the same sense of palpable chemistry that was always there between Cavill and Chalotra, but hopefully there’ll be a bit more in the fifth season. In any case, the more important development with Yennefer is her ongoing determination to destroy Vilgefortz, and one can’t help but admire her determination to pursue him to the death, even if doing so could well result in her own doom. (As an aside, I also enjoyed her confrontation with the false Ciri, who continues to be a fascinating and enigmatic character in her own right).

But on to the real Ciri…

I’ve really enjoyed seeing Ciri’s darker turn this season, and it doesn’t get much darker than leaving a man to die with a piece of his bone sticking out of his leg. Don’t get me wrong: the man was pretty terrible, but even so, this marks a moment of no return for her. What’s more, it’s clear that, even though she has fallen quite far, and even though she seemed for a while to have left her old self behind, Ciri simply can’t be anything other than Cirilla of Cintra. This, as it turns out, may yet be her undoing.

This season has certainly packed several emotional punches. After all, we’ve seen the departure of our beloved Vesemir, who gave his life defending the sorceresses of Montecalvo, a truly fitting end for someone who has always been an honorable man (and I think I preferred Peter Mullen’s interpretation of the character). Nothing, though, was quite as emotionally wrecking as watching the Rats get slaughtered by Bonhart. I knew this scene was coming, of course, because I’ve read the books, but I truly don’t think that anything could have prepared me for just how viscerally upsetting this scene was. We might not have been led to like all of the Rats, but seeing even our least favorite of them be disemboweled was without doubt the most traumatizing thing The Witcher has ever shown.

As if all of that weren’t enough, poor Ciri puts up a good fight but is ultimately forced to watch as Mistle dies right in front of her. It’s all just a lot to grapple with, for while this show has always had its grim moments, nothing can compare to this. It’s really the final scene, though, which lands like a punch to the gut. Our dear Ciri, who has already endured so much and who has lost everything and everyone that ever mattered to her, now has to endure the further ignominy of watching Mistle and the others be decapitated, their heads pickled so Bonhart can deliver them to Emhyr. It’s not often that The Witcher gives us such a grim and grisly spectacle, but it is quite effective here. It makes it very clear that things are only going to get worse for all three of our heroes before the end, and that there is going to be a lot of pain before they get their happy ending…if they ever do.

All in all, I found this to be a very satisfying season of fantasy TV. While The Witcher will never be what I’d call truly great TV storytelling, it does remind me more than a little of the fantasy series of the ‘90s, particularly Xena and Hercules. What’s more, as the inclusion of the character of Nimue makes clear, the fifth and final season is going to involve some time travel and at least some of the plot twists of the novels.

I can’t wait, even as I’m also dreading the heartbreak.

Hello, dear reader! Do you like what you read here at Omnivorous? Do you like reading fun but insightful takes on all things pop culture? Do you like supporting indie writers? If so, then please consider becoming a subscriber and get the newsletter delivered straight to your inbox. There are a number of paid options, but you can also sign up for free! Every little bit helps. Thanks for reading and now, on with the show!

Warning: Spoilers for the series follow.

Now that the fourth season of The Witcher is well and truly underway, I’m slowing down a bit to really savor these episodes and spend time dissecting what makes this season far better than it probably has any right to be. I know it’s very popular to hate this show right now–both because of the way that previous seasons have departed from the books and because of Cavill’s departure from the show–but I continue to find it entertaining and yes, at times even quite moving. It may never quite attain the true majesty of the novels, but it sometimes comes close, particularly in the sixth episode.

Before we get there, though, let’s talk about the fifth one which is, essentially, a series of flashbacks that reveal a great deal about our little band that has set out to rescue Ciri from the grip of Emhyr, who has made it clear he intends to marry his own daughter in order to get her power for himself. Among other things, we learn that Jaskier once took another bard under his wing, only for the little shit to steal a book of his poetry and claim it for his own, with devastating consequences. We also see the backstory of Zoltan, who isn’t the traitor to his people that others have thought him to be. Even Milva gets her time in the spotlight and, to the surprise of no one, it turns out that she’s had quite a lot of trauma in her life. It’s all quite powerful, actually, and I enjoyed getting to see these characters reveal something about themselves.

One of the things that I’ve always loved about Jaskier–in particular Batey’s portrayal of him–is how there’s a rich well of feeling and a truly sensitive soul beneath all of his rascally behavior and quippy dialogue. His flashback is nothing less than a delight, since it’s basically a musical tucked into the usually much more grounded atmosphere of The Witcher. I literally laughed aloud when we got a glimpse of taciturn Geralt just standing like a stump while Jaskier leans into the spectacle and frivolity of it all. It’s clear, though, that he still feels a great deal of pain over Valdo Marx’s betrayal and theft, especially since I strongly suspect there was something romantic between the two of them.

I also appreciated that we got some important insight into Cahir who, up until now, has always just sort of hovered in the background. Now, at last, we learn more about his relationship with Emperor Emhyr, which in turn leads Geralt to realize the ugly and terrible truth about his intentions with Ciri. It’s pretty horrifying when one thinks about a man marrying his own daughter, and it shows just how depraved Emhyr really is.

It has to be said, though, that the real highlight of these reminiscences is Emiel Regis’ recollection of his history as a vampire. This is one of those moments at which Fishburne excels, and he delivers the narration with the power and resonance one would expect from a Shakespearean tragedy. You can actually feel his anguish as he revisits these memories from his past, demonstrating the extent to which there is far more to this vampire than meets the eye. It’s all conveyed in a beautifully heartbreaking animated style.

But, as I said at the beginning, it’s really the sixth episode where this season hits its stride.

We’ve known for quite a while that matters between Yennefer and Vilgefortz were going to come to a head sooner or later, and when they do the results are nothing short of devastating and exhilarating. I love getting to see Yennefer in action, and this episode gives her quite a lot to do as she leads her fellow sorceresses against those who would destroy them. This is a woman who has given up so much, and she’s not going to let anyone, let alone a sorcerer who thinks he’s so much better than he really is, get the better of her. Seeing Yennefer kick ass and take names, even in the face of terrible sacrifice, is one of the highlights of this season and the show as a whole.

As he has for some time now, Mahesh Jadu really leans into the sneering evil of Vilgefortz. This is a man who, as we see time and again, will sacrifice anyone and everything–whether man, woman, or child–so long as it means that he’ll get the power and prestige that he clearly feels that he deserves. He’s the kind of villain that you truly love to hate and, while he may lack much depth, Jadu’s screen presence makes up for a lot of that, and the fact that he’s responsible for the death of so many sorceresses makes us hate him all the more.

While we’re on the subject of sacrifices during the Montecalvo battle…I do hope that we get to a point in fantasy TV where the bodies of Black women aren’t repeatedly brutalized, as happens to both Margarita and Fringilla (the former dies during the battle and the latter is tortured by Vilgefortz). We’ve seen this happen again and again, in shows like The Wheel of Time and The Witcher, and I’m getting very weary of these sorts of shows giving more visibility to women of color even while they make sure that they almost always bear the brunt of the violence. If you’re not going to let a Black woman be the lead, the very least you can do is to survive without being either tortured or killed outright.

For all of that, the battle is well-executed and thrilling, and it all leads up to a truly satisfying conclusion, as Yennefer–having regained the ability to use portals–travels to Emhyr’s palace, and our last shot is of her demanding to know what’s happened to her daughter. Though the series did a disservice to Yennefer in earlier seasons by suggesting she would betray Ciri in order to get her own power back, it more than made up for that this season.

For her part, Ciri is quickly finding that there’s a darkness inside of her that is a danger to both herself and to others. Freya Allan is really killing it this season, giving us new layers of this complicated character. She’s clearly going to have to learn to master her violent and sinister impulses if she’s going to be a part of the Rats, particularly since, looming over them all, is the disheveled but sinister shadow of Leo Bonhart.

All in all, I’d say these were two terrific episodes of fantasy TV, and they nicely set up the titanic conflicts to come.