Category: Book Reviews

Book Review: “The Queens of Innis Lear” (by Tessa Gratton)

KC Winters

I’ve been meaning to read this book for quite a while now. I first saw in the new release section at B&N and though that it sounded like a compelling read.

Boy, I was not wrong.

The Queens of Innis Lear is a high fantasy reimagining of Shakespeare’s tragedy King Lear. Lear is, in this tale, the king of the isle of Innis Lear, utterly devoted to the worship of the stars, so much so that he has forbidden the old forms of magic that once gave the island life. When he command his three daughters–Gaela, Regan, and Elia–to tell him how much they love him, he is enraged when his youngest doesn’t flatter him and he banishes her from his kingdom. In doing so, he sets in motion a chain of events that will tear both the island and his family apart.

The book crackles with a rather strange poetic mystery, and I found myself drawn in with every page. Gratton has a true gift with her prose, one unlike almost anything else I’ve read recently. It’s at times beautiful and yet also unsettling, a fitting means of conveying the profound unease that drives the novel’s plot. Just as Innis Lear struggles under the tyrannical rule of Lear and his fanatical devotion to the stars, so the very prose of the novel struggles under the titanic forces of personal loyalty and betrayal as each of the major characters tries to break free of the ties of destiny and obligation that constantly circumscribe their actions.

The novel is a very dark retelling, which is appropriate, considering that the original play is a tragedy. All of the major characters are significantly flawed, some more than others. In fact, I frequently found myself disliking most, if not all, of the major characters at some point, and while some might find this a bit of a turnoff, I actually found it refreshing. The world that Gratton has created is a harsh and unforgiving one, and this is especially true of Innis Lear. One of the key conflicts of the novel is between the cold destiny of the stars and the more earth-driven magic that is native to the isle, and each of the characters struggles (often with fatal results) with some aspect of this dichotomy.

The women of the novel are, it should be said, incredibly powerful, though each manifests it somewhat differently. Gaela, the eldest, attempts to forge herself into a weapon with which she can rule the isle as its king, while her sister Regan (to whom she is bound by ties deeper than they share with anyone else) is more attuned to the powers of the island. And Elia, once her father’s favourite, must try to strike a balance between the competing forces of her life. What I found particularly compelling about the novel was the fact that all three of them are distinctly non-white, since their mother was from a part of this fictional world that is non-European.

There is no question, however, that the most compelling character is Ban. Like his Shakespearean predecessor, Ban is tortured because of his status as a bastard. Whereas his father has always lavished his love and attention on Ban’s younger brother Rory, Ban has always wanted to be something greater. As clever and crafty as he is, and as talented as he is at harnessing the power of magic, he is always condemned to play a secondary role in the life of those around him. Even his mother, Brona the witch, seems to have other priorities. Like the greatest tragic characters of Shakespeare, Ban is fundamentally broken, and his tragedy is that he realizes this and can do little or nothing to change it. As a result, he sees himself as something of an agent of creative destruction, and while we may rightly regard many of his actions as despicable and sometimes cruel, he does have something of a point.

The world-building throughout the novel decent. One gets the sense that this is a fully fleshed-out world, but much of it remains off-stage. For much of the novel, the action takes place both on the isle of Innis Lear and the country of Aremoria (analogues of the original play’s England and France). Though there are mentions of other countries such as the Third Kingdom (the birthplace of Lear’s wife Dalat and Kayo the Oak Earl), there isn’t much said about them.

In that sense, The Queens of Innis Lear is driven much more by its characters. It’s a searing look at the consequences of fanaticism and unbending adherence to principles over people. Each of the characters, from the highest to the lowest, finds himself or herself caught up in forces that they can barely name or control, each weighed down by the pasts of family and of nation. And, while the novel has a substantially happier ending than the play upon which it is based, we are still left feeling a sense of melancholia at how much has been lost, and we are left to wonder whether Elia will ever fully recover from the destruction that has torn apart everything that she held dear.

The brilliance of The Queens of Innis Lear lies in its ability to seamlessly weave together the Shakespearean and fantastic elements into a coherent whole. One can see the glimmers of the original play in many aspects of it, even as one can marvel at the way that Gratton has bent it into a new shape. This says a great deal not only about the strengths of the novel on its own, but also about Gratton as a storyteller. To be able to take such a famous story and remake it into something terrifying and visceral and beautiful is the mark of a very gifted writer indeed.

It’s already been announced that Gratton has written another fantasy reimagining of Shakespeare, titled Lady Hotspur. Given how much I enjoyed this novel, I can’t wait to what Gratton has in store for us!

Fantasy Classics: “Kushiel’s Scion” (by Jacqueline Carey)

tjwest3

Having finished the original Kushiel series, I found myself longing to immerse myself again in that fascinating and sensual world. I’d tried once before to read the next three volumes in the series, which focus on Imriel, but for some reason just couldn’t get into them as much. This time around, however, I’ve found myself irresistibly drawn to Imriel’s story.

Imriel de la Courcel is a haunted youth. His mother is the most reviled traitor that Terre D’Ange has ever known, and though he tries to be good, the expectations of his fellow nobles (and their scheming) makes it tremendously difficult, if not impossible. When he travels to the ancient and weary city of Tiberium, he finds himself drawn into the clutches of the delicious and erotic noblewoman Claudia Fulvia, who is herself part of the Guild of the Nameless, a sinister group of manipulators. Ultimately, he has to confront his destiny and his responsibilities as a Prince of the Blood.

Part of the pleasure of the novel stems from the way in which Carey manages to make Imriel a fully-fledged character in his own right. This is not, in other words, a re-tread of Phedre’s story, but an entirely different narrative with different stakes and consequences for what happens. Imriel is haunted by his memories from his time as a prisoner of the Mahrkagir in Daršanga, as well as by the legacy of treason left behind by his mother. A great deal of the novel, then, revolves around his desire to be good, to overcome the darkest parts of his past and try to forge his own destiny.

But he is also haunted by something much deeper than that. Though he would rather it were not so, he is a member of the Shahrizai, and as such he has the power and legacy of Kushiel running through his veins. One of the most compelling (and disturbing) parts of the novel occurs when he grabs Phédre by the wrist and, upon seeing the flash of desire go through her eyes, knows that he must get away or risk destroying the genuine love and affection he has for her. As she always does, Carey ably demonstrates the complex, and sometimes contradictory, impulses that govern our actions and our feelings.

While he hopes to find some measure of peace and understanding Tiberium, the opposite turns out to be true as he is drawn first into the orbit of the noblewoman Claudia Fulvia and then into a war involving a minor city-state and, most startling of all, a ghost who inhabits his friend Lucius. The sequences in the city-state of Lucca are at once gritty and terrifying, a testament to Carey’s unique ability to draw us into a scene, whether it’s in the bedroom or on the battlefield.

As was the case with the first three volumes of this series, Carey has a phenomenal ability to capture the beauty and the terror of sexual desire. Imriel is driven by forces that he can barely understand, and the blood of Kushiel beats in his veins. Try as he might to escape this legacy, he finds that sometimes it is better to accept the flaws in one’s nature and to learn to use one’s scars as an opportunity for growth. Kushiel’s Scion demonstrates the extent to which we are shaped by our past experiences and traumas, even as we must also not let them completely confine and define us.

And, of course, hanging over all of this is the shadow of Melisande, Imriel’s beautiful, deadly mother. By this point, we know that she has come to be revered in some parts of Caerdicca Unitas as nothing less than a goddess, and Melisande, with her insightful eye for the main chance, has done little or nothing to discourage this belief and has instead used it to her advantage. It remains to be seen whether Imriel will have the chance to confront her and demand the justice that has long been denied.

By the end of the novel, there are still many things left unresolved, and it remains to be seen how Imriel will continue dealing with the legacy of his mother’s betrayals and his own obligations as a member of the royal family. I can’t wait to see what awaits him in the next volume of the series.

Fantasy Classics: “Kushiel’s Avatar” (by Jacqueline Carey)

KC Winters

The third novel in Jacqueline Carey’s trilogy about the adventures of the courtesan Phédre picks up ten years after the events of Kushiel’s Chosen. In that time, she has struggled to find the key to releasing her beloved childhood companion Hyacinthe from his forced apprenticeship to the Master of the Straits. In the novel, Phédre must go on two separate but related quests: to save Imriel (son of her enemy and lover Melisande) and to find the Name of God that will enable her to free Hyacinthe. In both instances, she will find herself plunged into ancient and dark places, and she will have to give up a great deal in the process.

As with the earlier two entries, Carey conjures up her world with meticulous detail. We are introduced here to the land of Daršanga, whose ruler, the Mahrkagir, practices a perverted form of Zoroastrianism and in doing so hopes to bring about the corruption of the world by the evil Angra Mainyu. We also journey deep into the heart of Carey’s fictional Africa, to the kingdom of Saba, whose residents have remained cut off from the outside world and who have in their custody the keeping of the Ark of the Covenant.

While the earlier books in the series certainly went to some dark places, in this novel Carey takes this to new levels. The sinister realm of Daršanga, ruled over by the mad Mahrkagir, is one of the most compellingly written sequences in any recent fantasy. Carey immerses us in the despair and madness that Phédre endures as she struggles to survive in this world, ad she helps us to see the extent to which the fate of the entire world hinges on her ability to see to it that the ravenous, destructive force of Angra Mainyu isn’t unleashed on the rest of the world. Though she eventually succeeds, one gets the feeling that the damage that has been done will scar all of the characters for the rest of their lives.

Kushiel’s Avatar shows us the extent to which actions have consequences that often go beyond the immediate future. Melisande’s treachery has earned her the harsh mercy of Kushiel, and though it is unfortunate that the innocent Imriel must bear the brunt of his justice, it is also somewhat fitting. What better way to demonstrate the extent of Kushiel’s cruel mercies than by sending an innocent into the very heart of darkness itself? Indeed, had Melisande not done what she had in her own ruthless pursuit of power, it is entirely possible that the ultimate forces of the void would have swept all before them.

All of this feeds into the novel’s epic ambitions. Indeed, Kushiel’s Avatar comes closest to fitting within the narrative conventions of the epic. Here, the consequences of the story are not just about the politics and fates of a nation–though that is still part of the background–but of the very gods themselves. As their chosen avatar, it is up to Phédre to avert a catastrophe.

Kushiel’s Avatar is also about the terrible choices that one must frequently make on the journey to salvation. From the deeply personal–such as Phédre and Hyactinthe deciding that they cannot, in the end, become a couple–to the Phédre decision to embrace the darkness at the heart of Daršanga, these are the times that try the souls of our heroes. None of these choices are easy, and though the novel does have a happy ending, it also makes it clear that no one–not Phédre, not Joscelin, not Imriel, not Hyacinthe–will emerge unscathed from the things that they have endured. There are some wounds that never fully heal, and all one can do is embrace the small joys that life still brings.

I very much enjoyed Kushiel’s Avatar, and the novel once again demonstrates the extent to which Carey definitely deserves her accolades as one of the finest writers of fantasy working today. Her ability to do new things with the epic fantasy genre, particularly her lush prose and explicit sexuality, really does set her apart from almost anyone else working with the form. I can’t wait to see what the next books hold, as we switch from Phédre’s journeys to those of Imriel, the boy born of traitors and saved from the ultimate darkness.

Book Review: “The Lost Queen” (by Signe Pike)

KC Winters

It’s not easy writing a book that offers a new, fresh, and exciting take on the Arthurian legend. After all, it’s one of the most famous legends in the history of English literature. Somehow, though, Signe Pike has managed to do so, and The Lost Queen is an absolute triumph of storytelling.

Languoreth is the daughter of a powerful Scottish king, and her foremost ambition is to be a Wisdom Keeper, one of a select group of men (and a very few women) tasked with maintaining their ancient religion. That fate, however, has been decreed for her brother Lailoken, while she is destined to marry a powerful prince and help bring stability to her world. Though she does ultimately wed a man for the good of her kingdom, her heart will always belong to the dark and brooding Maelgwn, a warrior whose fate lies to the south.

Throughout the book, Languoreth comes across as a fierce and proud woman determined to seize what bits of happiness she can, despite the limits placed upon her because of both her sex and her status. As the daughter of a king and the brother of a man destined to be a Wise One himself, she knows that she has a duty to perform to her people, yet she is also not afraid to follow her own heart when it suits her. The novel allows us to see inside her mind as she struggles to maintain a balance between her own personal desires and the people she has sworn to protect.

I’ve heard some say that The Lost Queen is the new Mists of Avalon, without all of the ugly baggage of Marion Zimmer Bradley, and I think there’s something to that comparison. The Lost Queen depicts a world on the brink of great social, cultural, and political change, as zealous Christians like Mungo will not rest until they have brought the entire edifice of the ancient way crumbling to the ground. Laguoreth, as a passionate believer in the old religion, attempts to keep the Christian forces at bay, even while she also has to accept that politics sometimes makes personal satisfaction in matters of faith impossible. The Lost Queen is full of evocative scenes in which Languoreth immerses herself in the sensual spirituality of her ancestors.

It’s also a world in which the force of arms is often the only thing standing between the remnants of the British tribes and the hordes of Saxons that seem poised to sweep across the island and make it their own. In Pike’s telling, the Pendragon (which here is a title rather than a surname per se), is headquartered near Hadrian’s Wall, where he leads a group of warriors that are descendants of the Sarmatians brought to Britain by the Romans. It’s an interesting theory, and there’s no doubt that Pike paints this world in bright and vivid colors. She’s one of those exceptional historical fiction authors who can, through her exquisite prose, conjure up the experience of living in a particular historical period.

That being said, I’m not entirely sure that I buy the idea that the real Arthurian legends took place in Scotland, though Pyke does make a compelling case for that notion in her author’s note. It’s a fascinating way of looking at the legends of King Arthur, and if nothing else it makes us look anew at these legends and the men and women who inhabit them.

As fascinating as the politics, are, however, the book is essentially about relationships. Languroeth’s fiery passions draw you in and don’t let you go, from the first page to the last. You yearn with her as she encounters Maelgwn, and you weep with her as she realizes that she must choose duty over her own desire. While you may not always agree with what she does–she’s not a flawless heroine, by any means–Pike at least allows you to understand her desires and motivations.

Having now finished The Lost Queen, I’m finding that I’m very excited indeed for the next volume, which is due out in 2020. I daresay that we are in for a treat, and that Pike is fated to become one of the most respected authors of women’s historical fiction writing today.

Fantasy Classics: “Kushiel’s Chosen” (by Jacqueline Carey)

tjwest3

It’s a very rare thing for an author to follow up a delicious first novel with a sequel that is just as satisfying.

Well, Jacqueline Carey has done it, giving us Kushiel’s Chosen.

The novel picks up right after the end of the previous one, where Phédre attempts to discover the whereabouts of the traitor Melisande Shahrizai, the woman who very nearly brought about the end of the kingdom of Terre D’Ange. In the process, she encounters not only the viper’s nest of Serenissima, but also falls in with a pirate, a priestess, and a terrible confrontation with her own guilt. In the end, Phédre must come close to sacrificing everything she holds dear to save the country she loves.

Melisande continues to be one of the most compelling, exquisite, and yet utterly repelling creations in all of fantasy literature. Her cunning and her utter ruthlessness draw the reader as much as they do Phédre, and while it is very easy to hate her, you can’t help but admire her absolute willingness and ability to do whatever she has to do gain power for herself. However, it would be inaccurate to say that Melisande is amoral; rather, it is that she lives by her own rules. As she says to Phedre, Elua and his Companions care little for politics.

Though the fraught and deadly connection between Phédre and Melisande is one of the novel’s (and the series’) most compelling aspects, that between Joscelin and Phèdre is arguably the more complex and meaningful. They have the grave misfortune of being diametrically opposed in terms of their temperaments: Phèdre, an anguisette who experiences pain as pleasure, he a renounced Cassiline who cannot help but love her but can’t bear the thought of hurting her. Carey keeps the two of them balanced on an exquisite edge of conflict, even while reassuring us that they do, in fact, love one another.

I’ve always had a particular penchant for fantasy that works at the crossroads of historical fantasy and traditional fantasy. It’s a surprisingly rare type, and rarer still to find someone who does it with skill. Carey manages to create a world that lives and breathes with the same vibrancy as our own. These are nations that have their own complex histories and mythologies, their own ways of being in the world. More than just a colorful backdrop, they also determine how the various characters interact, both with one another and with their environments. Nothing is ever as simple as it seems.

Serenissima is definitely the standout in this novel, for Carey manages to find creative ways around the dilemma posed by this world’s lack of Christianity as a hegemonic faith. Instead, the people of this world’s Venice worship Asherat and Baal Jupiter. What’s so startling about it is how right it feels for the world that she’s created and how seamlessly she twines together a culture that is very much that of Renaissance Venice with a faith that probably seems strange to us. And, as it turns out, that faith has an important role to play in the affairs of kingdoms.

If Kushiel’s Dart was about the power to triumph after tremendous adversity, Kushiel’s Chosen is about the power of the gods to influence our lives, and about the sacrifices that we must sometimes make in order to see to it that the greater good is served. Phèdre may have her flaws–most notably in her inability to do away with Melisande–but she is an honorable woman, one who loves her country and her queen dearly and deeply. However, she also recognizes that her actions (and inactions) have brought about the deaths of many and, however, well-intentioned she might be, she still must contend with the moral burden this places on her soul.

Overall, Kushiel’s Chosen is a finely crafted and exquisite follow-up to Kushiel’s Dart. With its intricate (one might even go so far as to say baroque) plot, erotic and sensuous prose, and vividly detailed world-building, it somehow manages to be a coherent work of erotic epic fantasy. Somehow, Carey manages to make us feel the depths of despair and the joy of triumph, and at the end, you emerge as satisfied as one of Phèdre’s patrons.

Who could ask for more?

Fantasy Classics: Kushiel’s Dart (by Jacqueline Carey)

KC Winters

Continuing on with my reviews of classics of fantasy literature, I’m turning my attention to the Kushiel series of books by Jacqueline Carey. The books, which were published throughout the 2000s and 2010s, have a (well-earned) reputation for managing to really do something new and exciting within the genre of epic fantasy. Combining elements of historical fiction, epic fantasy, and erotica, the series of books explores various issues related to politics, power, and desire.

Young woman Phédre is marked by a red mote in her eye known as Kushiel’s Dart, a sign that she is blessed (or cursed) to feel pain as pleasure. Sold into a form of indentured servitude by her impoverished parents, she eventually enters the sevice of the noble Delaunay, she quickly becomes adept in the art of politics and the bedchamber. Betrayed by the clever and cruel noblewoman Melisande, Phedre finds herself among the barbarian Skaldi and must use all of her resources–emotional, sexual, intellectual–to save her homeland and everything she holds dear from the relentless tide of invasion.

The world that Carey has created is as rich and textured as our own, and this often gives the novel the feeling of a historical novel as much as it is a fantasy one. This world has a history similar to ours, with a powerful empire that once ruled much of this world’s Europe, though here it is called Tiberium rather than Rome. Phèdre and her friends and loved ones live in a France-esque country called Terre ‘Dange, a land populated by the descendants of the demigod Elua and his companion angels. As our heroine journeys to various spots on the map, Carey immerses us in these worlds; even the barbarian Skaldi, who want to conquer the land of Terre d’Ange are painted in thoroughly human colours.

The plot is also very textured, sometimes to such an extent that it can be difficult to tell exactly what’s going on. To some degree, of course, this is a reflection of the Machiavellian intentions of the various characters, particularly Delaunay and Melisande; while the former wants to preserve the rule of the current royal house, the latter wants to seize the throne for herself. Each plays a

For all of its texture and length (this is epic fantasy, after all), the plot still moves at a lightning pace, moving us through the various pieces of the puzzle at top speed while also periodically slowing down to focus on the human aspect of the story. This allows Carey to explore the heights of triumph and the absolute depths of despair, and there are no characters in the book that are either completely evil or completely good. Even Melisande, the books ruthless villainess, is not entirely evil, and it is the magnificent complexity of her character (and Phèdre’s fraught relationship with her) that stands as one of the novel’s most important threads and, I would argue, its thematic and emotional center.

In terms of style, Jacqueline Carey has a tremendous command of language. There are only a handful of writers I can think of who manage to capture the sensuous and the erotic in a way that doesn’t come across as trite and cliche. The closest comparison I can think of is Anne Rice, who was also able to combine the historical and the fantastical through rich prose and imaginative world-building. And, like Rice, this book manages to straddle the line between hardcore and narrative fiction, and this gives the book a sensuous frisson that is unlike almost anything else that I’ve read. Thus, while there are very (sometimes very graphic) descriptions of sex, they are key to the plot rather than titillating in and of themselves.

Kushiel’s Dart is one of those very few novels that I’ve actually read more than once. It’s truly intoxicating in all of the best ways, immersing us in a world that lives and breathes, filled with all of the complexity and ambiguity of everyday life. Indeed, it stands as one of the primary inspirations for our own series, and while we cannot hope to achieve the heights of Carey’s own magnificent books, we hope we can at least come close.

Stay tuned for our review of the sequel, Kushiel’s Chosen!

Book Review: “A Brightness Long Ago” (by Guy Gavriel Kay)

KC Winters

I’ve been a big fan of Guy Gavriel Kay’s for a long time now. He has such a command of language, and his books always manage to pierce the heart with their beauty and their engagement with the deeper, philosophical questions.

A Brightness Long Ago, set in the same world as several of his other books (The Lions of Al-Rassan, The Last Light of the Sun, Sailing for Sarantium and Lord of Emperors, Children of Earth and Sky), is a true gem, a pleasure to read from beginning to end. It is, in many ways, a prequel to 2016’s Children of Earth and Sky, and some of the characters make repeat appearances.

It is set in Batiara, a country splintered into dozens of squabbling city-states, most of which employ large groups of mercenaries to conduct proxy wars with one another. Into this nest of vipers fall several characters, two of the mercenary captains (who hate one another), the son of a tailor, the niece of one of those captains, a pagan healer, the High Patriarch, and the son of one of Batiara’s wealthiest families. Each of them ultimately finds themselves tested by this world in which they live, and while not all of them survive, those that do find their lives irrevocably changed.

One of Kay’s greatest strengths, I think, is his ability to convincingly conjure up a world that feels truly real. You almost believe that this is the Renaissance Italy of our world, even as you also recognize that this a world one step (or maybe a few more) away from our own. With each new novel set in this world, we get a stronger sense of the layers and textures that Kay is working with as he tells these fantastical tales. This cosmos is one with its own consistency, and it’s always sort of thrilling to see allusions and call-backs to earlier books, such as the mosaics from “The Sarantine Mosaic,” some of which continue to exist even several centuries in the future.

Thus, Kay remains concerned with the intertwining of memory and history, in how the choices that individual people make have consequences far beyond what they originally intended. Each of the characters in the book, even if they appear for only a short time, find that their actions reverberate across the nation they call home, both in the present and in the future. Likewise, each character grapples with how they make sense of a life lived, and this is especially true of Guidanio, the tailor’s son who eventually becomes one of the ruling Council of Twelve of his home city of Seressa. The only character whose part of the story is told in first person, and it his grappling with the events of that time in his life that provide the shape of the story and give it its emotional heft.

I would go so far as to argue that Kay’s books–more so, perhaps, than almost any other fantasy writer working today–are a philosophical rumination on what it is that makes us human and how we make sense of the chaotic and dangerous world in which we find ourselves. Certainly, Renaissance Italy/Batiara is a world away from our current moment, but there are surprising similarities. Like Guidanio, we all have to make choices about how we live in a fundamentally unjust world, and what we do (or don’t do) to make that situation better.

No review of A Brightness Long Ago would be complete without mentioning the fall of Sarantium. Anyone who knows me knows of my enduring fascination with and love of all things Byzantine, and I’ve always felt a particular ache at the thought of Constantinople falling to the Turks. Though Sarantium is a fictional version of it, its fall to the Asharites sends shockwaves through the world this fictional world.

There are many other things that I could talk about: the brief (yet touching) same-sex romance, a bi/pansexual character, the exquisite prose. These are all things that really set this book above so many others, and I cannot recommend it enough.

The worst part about finishing a Kay novel, however, is that you realize that it’s going to be at least two (possibly three) years before you get another one. Whether his next outing is set in what I would suggest is his best world or in some other, I have no doubt that, whatever it is, it will dazzle and enchant us as only Kay can do.

Fantasy Classics: “The Wicked Day” (by Mary Stewart)

KC Winters

And so we come at last to The Wicked Day, Mary Stewart’s masterful retelling of the story of Mordred, the ill-fated bastard son of King Arthur by his half-sister Morgause. It’s a novel full of all of the lyrical (almost poetic) prose that we’ve come to expect from Mary Stewart, coupled with a truly tragic tale of two men bound together by the relentless weaving of fate.

The novel opens with Mordred, having been raised by two fisherfolk in the Orkney Islands, encountering (by chance, it seems) Prince Gawain, which sets in motion a chain of events that sees him drawn closer and closer to power. First it is to Morgause and, after he finally meets his father and learns his parentage, it is to Arthur and the court at Camelot. Unfortunately for them both, however, the wheels of destiny are set in motion, leading them both to the desperate day when they shall be one another’s bane.

It’s worth pointing out at the outset that Mordred is not, as Merlin was, a hero. The novel doesn’t shy away from pointing out his less than savory qualities, and he is a rather difficult character. Some of this stems from Stewart’s choice to tell the story in third person (rather than the first of the Merlin books), but it also comes from the fact that Mordred, with his troubled past and upbringing, is necessarily a damaged soul.

Many of Mordred’s essential problems arise, of course, from his mother (one can tell that this was a book written in the 1980s). As was the case with the Merlin books, Morgause emerges in The Wicked Day as the chief villain, a woman determined to wreak havoc on all of Arthur’s kingdom, no matter the cost. Despite the novel’s attempt to paint her as a witch and a cunning schemer who gets her comeuppance (when her own son kills her in the middle of an amorous liaison), I actually found her to be one of the novel’s more interesting characters. Say what you will about her, but Mordred’s story would be a much duller affair without her in it (thankfully, the novel also gives her several interludes where we get her own perspective on what’s happening).

Throughout The Wicked Day, Mordred maintains a sort of clinical detachment from the world around him and the dramatic events that unfold. His troubled relationship with Morgause ultimately stains everything he attempts to do, and though he loves his father Arthur, he gradually grows to resent him and, as is inevitable when a young prince starts to stretch his wings, he attracts followers. Stewart does a fine job showing us the ways in which Mordred, often despite his own wishes, becomes the architect of not just his father’s demise, but the ultimate downfall of the golden age of Camelot and all that it represents.

For, of course, neither Arthur nor Mordred are able to subvert the fate that has been woven in the stars for both of them. Stewart is actually quite brilliant in how she brings this to pass. Rather than taking the easy route of painting Mordred as a villain maddened by his brush with power, she instead situates the entire tragedy against the politics of the period: the resurgent Eastern Roman Empire (led by Justinian), the political fragmentation on the continent, the avarice of the Saxon invaders and, not least, the dissatisfaction of Arthur’s own subjects. When, in the end, both Mordred and Arthur are fatally wounded, we are led to see it as not just the tragedy of a son and father turned against one another by the brutal illogic of chance, but also as the end of the last gasp of Rome in the British Isles, a moment of light before the shadow of the Saxons descends on everyone.

The Wicked Day is one of those books that leaves you with a profound feeling of melancholy, a mourning for a world that might have been (but maybe never really was). That seems entirely appropriate, as there has always been a little bit of that about the Arthurian legend in general. In Mary Stewart’s capable hands, we at least get to embrace a little bit of the beauty of the sun before the dusk falls.

Fantasy Classics: “The Hollow Hills” (by Mary Stewart)

KC Winters

As promised, I’m back to talk about the second volume of Mary Stewart’s classic series of novels about Merlin, The Hollow Hills.

This book picks up right where the last one left off, with Merlin having conspired with Uther to Merlin goes on many journeys in the course of the book, even going as far east as Constantinople before returning to Britain. Ultimately, he both discovers the ancient sword Caliburn and plays a key role in ensuring that Arthur ascends to the throne that is rightfully his.

Once again, Stewart demonstrates her tremendous command of language. Though her prose does tend to be on the formal side, it nevertheless has an elegance and sensuousness about it that conjures up the world of Late Roman Britain in all of its dying splendour and brutality. As always, I was particularly struck by the powerful way in which she describes Merlin’s experiences with the divine, not just the magic itself, but the way that his body responds to these encounters.

I noted before that Merlin is a bit of a prig, and Stewart doesn’t go out of her way to mitigate that through most of The Hollow Hills. Until, that is, he finally comes face-to-face with the boy who will be king. One can detect just the slightest shift in the way that Merlin dictates his story once he meets Arthur, and it’s clear at once that here, for the first time since the story begins, he might actually feel something approaching warmth for this young man who will become his most important charge. And it is just as clear that Arthur returns that love in kind, and the tight relationship between the two characters is one of the novel’s most endearing charms.

What I also enjoy about Stewart’s Merlin books is the extent to which they so deftly weave together the fantastical and the historical. There is no question that magic plays a significant role in the book. It’s not just Merlin’s ability to see the future (and events in the present for which he is not present), but also his ability to command some elements of nature (especially fire) to bring about the miraculous. Given the novel’s historical setting, it should come as no surprise that magic is still very much a part of this world, though there are hints that, with the rise of Christianity, it will gradually fade away.

At the same time, we get a very real sense of history in this book. By this I mean not just the setting–the years immediately following the withdrawal of Rome from Britain–but also the ways in which the past continues to influence the present and impacts the future. Merlin, as the one person who can see the way they relate to one another, has to shoulder an unusual burden. As a result of this knowledge, Merlin must do all that he can to see to it that the inevitable forces of history, made manifest in the repeated invasions by the Saxons, are beaten back.

As much as I really do love this book, I’m not blind to the fact that, like Mary Renault (with whom, I’ve noted elsewhere, Stewart has many similarities), Stewart’s book do have a faint whiff of misogyny about them. It gets less true as the series goes on, but there’s no question that women play either a marginal role in the story or are outright villains. Even this early, we get a sense that Morgause (here the bastard daughter of Uther by one of his many lovers) has aspirations that Merlin deems unseemly in a woman and that this will play a role in her ultimate villainy. Despite the novel’s attempts to paint her as a villain, however, IMHO she comes across as one of the novel’s most compelling and dynamic characters, a worthy foe of Merlin (though he doesn’t seem to think so).

That little quibble outside, I found The Hollow Hills to be a mesmerizing exploration of the ways in which one man can be both the agent of historical change and also its object. As such, it is very much worthy of its accolades as one of the finest additions to the Arthurian legend to come out of the 20th Century.

Fantasy Classics: “The Crystal Cave” (by Mary Stewart)

KC Winters

There’s always been something about the Arthurian legends that call to me. I can’t precisely say why, except that they have a quality about them that is at both timeless and yet bounded within that uncanny realm between the historical and the fantastic.

For a long time, I was content to read the straightforwardly fantasy interpretations of the myth, and T.H. White’s The Once and Future King remains one of my favourites.

Then, around 1999 or so I was introduced (by, of course, an honors English teacher) to Mary Stewart’s trilogy. All of a sudden I discovered a whole new way of thinking about the legends surrounding King Arthur. Now, he was not merely a mythical king, but someone who might actually have existed in Dark Age Britain, in that crucial period of time between the exit of the Romans and the Saxon conquest. I was instantly hooked, and I’ve re-read Stewart’s Merlin books several times in the subsequent decades, gaining new sorts of pleasure each time.

The first volume, The Crystal Cave, narrated in first-person by Merlin himself, follows him from his youth as the bastard son of the daughter of a Welsh king who ultimately discovers that he is, in fact, also the son of the general (and exiled king) Ambrosius. Gifted with the Sight, he aids his father as he sets about reclaiming the kingship from the deceitful Vortigern and, ultimately, helps his uncle Uther onto the throne and facilitates the conception of the baby who will one day grow up to be King Arthur.

Stewart has a phenomenal grasp of the evocative power of language. As I’ve been re-reading the book, I’m struck by the similarities between her style and that of one of my other all-time favourite authors: Mary Renault. Both have an uncanny ability to construct sentences that are, for lack of a better word, beautiful. She somehow manages to be both economical and lush in her descriptions of landscapes and settings, of the trappings of royalty and the brutality of warfare.

At the same time, because she uses first person perspective to get us inside Merlin’s mind, she also has to convey the complicated spiritual and intellectual movings of a brilliant mind. This she also accomplishes with grace. The sequences in which Merlin encounters the power of the God are some of the most exquisitely and intricately wrought in the entire book, and they come very close to transporting us to exactly the same sort of magical space that Merlin himself inhabits.

Thus, what I particularly enjoyed about the story was its ability to create a Merlin who is both thoroughly human and also uncanny. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that he is a particularly sympathetic character; he’s far too mystical and preternaturally gifted for that. Nevertheless, his words have a hypnotic beauty that draw us into the story and keep us there. This is the world that is always on the brink of collapsing into barbarism, and it is Merlin’s mission to see to it that there is at least a brief period of beauty before the ultimate fall.

Stewart manages to breathe fresh life into some of the most enduring of legends in the history of English literature. That is no small accomplishment, especially given how many interpretations there have been of Merlin. Her main character is a mystic, it is true, and he has more than a touch of magic, but he is far more human than he typically appears in the myths.

What’s more, Stewart somehow still manages to keep to the familiar beats while infusing them with her own flare. There are also all of the requisite characters of the myth: Niniane (here Merlin’s mother rather than the woman who seals him away), Uther (here Merlin’s uncle and brother of is father Ambrosius), the villainous king Vortigern (here a misguided king who is brought down by his own misguided efforts) and, near the end, Duke Gorlois and his wife Ygraine (both of whom become pawns in the delicate game Merlin must play in order to bring about the vision bequeathed to him by the gods).

Fate, it this world, is inexorable, for better and for worse.

Stay tuned for my review of the second volume, The Hollow Hills!