Tag: fantasy

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!

Fantasy Classics: “The Last Enchantment” (by Mary Stewart)

KC Winters

The book picks up where The Hollow Hills left off, with Arthur newly ascended to the throne. He is immediately confronted with the continuing menace of the Saxons, his need to procure a wife and an heir, and, of course, the permanent threat of Morgause, his villainous half-sister, who ultimately poses the greatest challenge to his life and his kingdom. She also bears Merlin a grudge both because his powers are so much greater than hers, but also because he outmaneuvered her and banished her from court after he discovered her seduction of her half-brother and the child that she would one day bear. Ultimately, Merlin falls victim to her drugs and magic and, though he survives, it ultimately sows the seeds for both his eventual replacement by his student Nimuë and Arthur’s later fall at the hands of his son Mordred.

This book is by far the most elegiac and melancholy of the three Merlin books. By the time that Arthur takes the sword from the stone, Merlin knows that his days of greatness are numbered. Thus, as the novel progresses, he retreats ever further from the day-to-day functioning of Arthur’s court; as the king’s might grows, so Merlin’s ultimately diminishes. Nevertheless, he still manages to play a prominent part in the affairs of the kingdom, most notably by rescuing the king’s second wife Guinevere (his first was named Guenever) from the depredations of the villainous King Melwas. And, of course, hovering over all is the inescapable knowledge that not only will Merlin ultimately be buried alive, but also that Arthur will victim to his own son.

As with the other volumes in the series, Stewart’s prose is as enchanting as the magic of her narrator. It’s not just that she brings is into this world with her lush descriptions of landscapes, manners, and clothes (though she does that with a grace that is truly extraordinary), but also that she has such a keen eye for those parts of the myth that are necessary for any Arthurian tale to work. Thus, we have the abduction of Guinevere, the doomed love between her and Bedwyr (this novel’s Lancelot), and even Arthur’s sister Morgan and her traitorous attempt to steal the sword Caliburn. Stewart knows just how to tread the fine line between being true to the heart of the Arthruian story and adding enough of her own personal touch to make it a unique story.

What really struck me, however, is Merlin’s acceptance of his fate. While part of him no doubt wishes that he could once more enjoy the intimacy with Nimuë that they once shared, as he says, you cannot enjoy the same draught twice. It’s a startling confession, all the more so because it is so phenomenally true. We tend to resist the idea that anything is truly gone; we always yearn for the possibility that a lost love might be regained. Merlin’s tale gives us a way of thinking beyond that, of embracing the inevitability of loss and the peace that can come from accepting it.

Merlin’s story, however, reminds us that such endings needn’t necessarily be sad. Indeed, there can be something quite liberating about accepting the finitude of various aspects of our lives. The novel ends, not with his death, but instead with that final moment when, after a lifetime, he finally hears the music of the spheres and, content at last, he returns to his warm hearth and the peace that it promises. The novel invites us to see this, not as an unhappy conclusion to a life spent in royal favour, but instead as the rich reward for one who has done so much to bring about this brief golden age in Britain before the descent of the Saxon darkness.

There are few novels that leave you feeling utterly satisfied with their resolutions. I’m happy to say that Mary Stewart’s The Last Enchantment is one such novel.

Now that I’ve finished the three books focused on Merlin, it’s time to move on to The Wicked Day, which tells the tragic story of Mordred, Arthur’s bastard son who is doomed to bring about the destruction of all his father has built.

John Gwynne’s The Faithful and the Fallen and the Pleasures of Genre

KC Winters

I recently had the pleasure of reading John Gwynne’s epic fantasy quartet (or tetralogy) The Faithful and the Fallen. I’d been intending to read it for a while, and when I did, I was blown away by how effectively Gwynne managed to marshal all of the requisite epic fantasy elements into a story that kept me up past my bedtime for several nights running.

The series’ central protagonist is Corban, a young man who (of course), finds out that he is the one destined to become the savior of his world. He is joined by the requisite band of epic heroes, including a renegade angel, his sister, a wolven (basically a giant, wolf-like creature), as well as sundry others. He is opposed by all the traditional types of villains, including another renegade angel, a brutal pirate captain, and a god of destruction bent on bringing the entire world under his dominion.

Narratively, The Faithful and the Fallen hits all the right notes: the epic quest narrative (there are actually several), the titanic clash between good and evil, deeds of villainy and heroism, soaring triumphs and dark moments of despair. There are the various fantasy archetypes already mentioned. And it’s solidly told, with each character coming to inhabit their own space; even the villains get a few chapters of their own. As a result, we are drawn inexorably into this world, caught up in the sweep of the great and terrible events that are unfolding right before our eyes.

What really struck me as I read the series was how much it was able to accomplish within the confines of the genre of epic fantasy. Indeed, in many ways the series is a textbook epic, hitting all of the right notes in all the right places. There were a few key places where The Faithful and the Fallen colors outside of the expected lines, but for the most part there weren’t too many surprises in terms of either plot or character. There was a bit of a plot twist toward the end of the series, but nothing on the scale that we have seen in other epic series of late. All in all, The Faithful and the Fallen is exactly what it sets out to be: a thoroughly entertaining fantasy epic.

That is not in any way an insult. Quite the opposite. Sometimes it seems to me that we valourize works of fantasy that somehow transcend the perceived “limits” or “shortcomings” of fantasy as a whole. Those who praise A Song of Ice and Fire, for example, frequently do so in terms that emphasize its iconoclastic tendencies, its willingness to focus on the blood and gore and drudgery of the medieval fantasy setting and on the foibles and shortsightedness of humanity. This line of praise (and criticism) has extended to its television adaptation, and it has, I would argue, reshaped the expectations that many people have about what constitutes successful (or at least “interesting”) epic fantasy.

What series like Gwynne’s show us, however, is that it is okay if you want to write, or read, works of fantasy that don’t really break the rules. It’s okay if you want a story about a young person who sets out to save the world from a dark and pressing evil and has to journey through all of the parts of his world to do so. It’s okay if you want to have a fair amount of certainty that most of your main characters won’t die (though a few major ones do in The Faithful and the Fallen). It really is okay if you want to read an old-fashioned epic fantasy that is a celebration of the essential nobility of the human spirit rather than an exposure of the darker, more cynical parts of the human condition. It’s okay to take pleasure in the conventions of genre.

Indeed, that’s precisely the point of a designation like genre in the first place. Working within its confines lets us know what we’re in for. And, in a case like The Faithful and the Fallen, or for that matter any number of other epics (Terry Brooks’ Shannara series comes to mind), part of the pleasure is in feeling those familiar beats. To my mind, it’s about time we stopped feeling ashamed of the pleasures of genre and instead embraced them as a key part of why we read fantasy.

Who’s with me?