While the shared universe connects this novel to several of Kay’s earlier works, it is with the two most recent books—Children of Earth and Sky and A Brightness Long Ago—that it is most closely entwined, especially the latter. It opens only some five years after the end of the main action of A Brightness Long Ago, but just as that novel did, this one moves back and forth in time, offering glimpses of what lays ahead at the end of the road for some of the characters. There are also several references to both The Lions of Al-Rassan and the Sarantine Mosaic, touching on the idea of one’s legacy in the world, something which has been a recurring theme in Kay’s work, in particular post the Sarantine Mosaic.

But the most prominent theme of All the Seas of the World is the telling of stories. Who tells the tale? To whom is the tale told? Which stories end up being told and who is placed at the center of the stories or at its margins? In revisiting this setting a few years down the road from A Brightness Long Ago, Kay picks up a few peripheral threads and moves characters from the margins to the center of the story. At the same time, other peripheral players are introduced, and we are given a few glimpses of their lives. Regularly, the narrator of the story (who is not, as in Brightness, identified as one of the characters) muses almost obsessively on whose stories are told, recognizing that while some lives will appear trivial within the grander tapestry, they will matter just as much in a different kind of story.

“You can indeed die at the margins of a story, but you are as dead as if it were your own tale ending and never told.”

Is this Kay expressing that he’s moved beyond telling the stories of larger-than-life characters such as Ammar and Rodrigo? Granted, Folco and Theobaldo are certainly very vivid presences within Brightness, but not quite on the same level, nor are they the main characters. Part of me does long for the more epic kind of story still, but perhaps they can only be told so many times, at least by the same person? Or is it that Kay has chosen to remain within the same setting (and, in the case of the last three novels, within a relatively short span of time in that setting) specifically to explore more “minor” threads as well?

Speaking of the revisiting of the same setting, I think it may pose a small problem for (some) readers of All the Seas of the World in regards to the many interconnections and references to previous novels. These do, at times, threaten to take the focus from the characters of this story, both because they bring to mind other characters and because, if you’re anything like me, you may end up interrupting your reading to chase down a reference.

That said, the craft with which this tapestry is woven is exquisite on all levels, both when it comes to the current story and the threads picked up from previous novels. When Kay chooses to show a few short glimpses of what happens to a minor character, those glimpses are enough for you to care about their fate.

That’s a long, somewhat rambling preamble which doesn’t necessarily have a specific connection to the book I am about to review, the début novel from Sabaa Tahir called An Ember in the Ashes. HarperCollins was kind enough to send us an advance copy (the book comes out on April 28th in the US and on June 4th in the UK) and after reading the blurb I was quite happy to drop whatever else I was doing and dive straight in. At this point I’ll say one of those things that I know can give authors both a sense of satisfaction (who doesn’t want to write a page-turner?) and a twinge of pain (years of writing, consumed in mere hours): I couldn’t put it down and I ended up finishing it the same day that I picked it up.

Before I get into the nitty-gritty of the review, a short presentation of the book might be in order. An Ember in the Ashes is an epic fantasy set in a world that blends various real-world periods and places. The Martial Empire echoes some aspects of the Roman Empire (most evident in naming patterns and terminology), though we don’t get enough of a look at the politics of the Empire to see how deep the similarities go. The Tribals have Arabic-inspired names and their tales are full of creatures such as jinn. There’s a fair number of books mentioned, possibly more than what one would expect in a pre-printing press society, which might suggest that some aspects of the setting are more advanced than what other elements would imply.

The story is told from two first-person narrators, Laia and Elias. Laia is a Scholar, a scion of what was the Scholar Empire until it was conquered by the Martials. They are now persecuted and oppressed by their new masters. Elias is a Martial, in training to become one of the Empire’s elite soldiers, called Masks for the silver masks they don and which eventually meld completely with their skin. Their paths intersect when Laia loses what remains of her family to the Martials, seeks out the Resistance and finds herself on a perilous assignment in order to gain their help in rescuing her brother. Meanwhile, Elias plans to desert as soon as he has graduated, though matters are greatly complicated as the imminent end of the current line of emperors is announced by the immortal Augurs and the Trials that will select a new Emperor begin.

It can’t be denied that there’s a somewhat simplistic approach to the naming of the various cultures—Scholars, Martials and Tribals signal what the are about rather directly—though this is clearly on purpose. I could see it as perhaps being intended as a way of treating them as epic fantasy archetypes, allowing the imagination of the reader to flesh them out. Certainly, the world-building is relatively shallow, sketching and hinting rather than giving in-depth information; there’s potential for an epic scope to the story, but the construction of the world has little in common with more elaborate settings such as Middle-Earth or Westeros. However, I do think that the on-the-nose names are more of a weakness than a strength. The words that are capitalized to make them stand out as specific terminology stand out just a little bit too much, rather than seamlessly blending into the story. The signposts that proclaim that “this is a secondary world” are a bit too obvious and could have been treated as more matter-of-fact by the narrators themselves. This would probably be my main quibble with the novel as a whole; you are not so easily enmeshed in the secondary world because some of the elements that define it draw your attention in a too obvious way.

The strength of the novel lies instead in the characters and the dilemmas they face, as well as in the tight, fast-paced plotting. Beginning with the characters, Laia is a nice change of pace when it comes to female heroines. She is not the strong female character you keep hearing people clamour for, which usually means they want a kick-ass woman who is physically and/or mentally strong and capable. Instead, Laia is an interesting female character, which is far better. She thinks of herself as a coward in comparison to some of her family members and she doesn’t have any special talents. What she does have is an unyielding drive to do whatever she can to save her brother who has been imprisoned by the Martials.

Elias is more of a typical character, a superb fighter but reluctant member of the “evil” Empire, but he’s written in an interesting and engaging way and his dilemma is emotionally powerful. While Laia’s personal struggle might draw a bit more interest than Elias’s, the cast of characters that surround Elias are more fleshed out than those who surround Laia, which gives each set of chapters a good balance of interesting elements. The romance element worked well for me, at least so far along in the story, though it does feature the by now rather common love triangle—or rather, it is more of a love square, but the effect is more or less the same. That said, the romance is not the primary point of the story; the attraction various characters feel for each other drives certain actions but does not act as the main motivator for most of them.

The story shifts back and forth between Laia and Elias with every chapter, which makes for some nice moments of heightened tension at points where it becomes clear that their stories will intersect. It also keeps the pace of the overall story up and you’re never left waiting too long for either character to make an appearance. The twists in the plot aren’t the most unpredictable and the revelations about the past that start cropping up later on in the story will likely feel familiar to anyone who is well-read within the genre. But this is something that I personally enjoy and I think that it is largely on purpose, much like the on-the-nose names of the cultures. This is a book by someone who is familiar with (and, I dare say, enjoys) the tropes of the genre.

It took a bit of poking around, since it wasn’t evident from the ARC I received or from the book’s website, but it appears it is marketed as YA crossover, along the lines of recent series/books by Collins (The Hunger Games), Bardugo (The Grisha), Abercrombie (Half a King and Half the World) and Haig (The Fire Sermon). If you enjoyed any of these, you’re quite likely to enjoy An Ember in the Ashes. I find it hard to compare it fairly with finished stories like The Hunger Games (which started well but where the last book was a problem) and The Grisha (which again started well but where the last book took the expected out), but it holds up well when compared to Abercrombie and Haig. My only concern about the story is that apparently it has only been bought as a stand-alone so far and while I found a comment from Sabaa Tahir saying she has the lives of her characters plotted out, with no specific plans for future books there’s always a concern that they may not happen. The book does have a good end point, but there are clearly things left unresolved and to me it really reads and feels like the start of a series, which I definitely hope that it will end up being.

Still, even though the trilogy has a special place in my heart, I am very fond of almost all of Kay’s later novels as well. The only one that does not loom as large in my mind is Last Light of the Sun; though its setting is very evocative and meaningful for me, something in the novel keeps me at a slight distance. The writing is fitted to the setting of the novel, a diminished world, no longer so ornate and beautiful as what has been lost. Ultimately, it did not engage me emotionally to the same degree as most of the other novels.

River of Stars, Kay’s latest novel and the second to be using a setting closely based on Ancient China (the first being Under Heaven), has—unfortunately, because I want to fall desperately in love with each of his novels—left me with a somewhat similar reaction. Before delving deeper into this, I do want to stress that a large part of my reaction has to do with my personal preferences rather than any fault in the writing; a beautifully written book might engage my mind but still not engage my heart to the degree that I would like and then my enjoyment will be somewhat lessened. Still, I think that there are some small issues with the book that could be construed as more objectively difficult.

As I try to provide a short summary of the book to begin with, I hit upon one of these issues. I found that for a surprisingly long stretch it was very hard to grasp where the story was going. Characters were being introduced, connections established, but unless you are familiar with the history that inspired the novel—this is an aspect I will return to later—you are left wondering where everything is heading. I do not mean to say that a story needs to make its intentions perfectly clear from the start, or that it needs to be action-packed, but I felt that the period of uncertainity went on for a little too long. It took relying on my trust in Kay as an author to proceed and this did pay off; the latter half of the story, once the various threads begin to converge, engaged me much more. But I am not sure I would suggest River of Stars as an introduction to Kay.

River of Stars takes place some 350 to 400 years after Under Heaven, corresponding to the Song dyntasy in the same way that the previous novel corresponded to the Tang dynasty. In a sense, River of Stars is to Under Heaven what Last Light of the Sun is to the Sarantine Mosaic duology; it takes place in a world where much of the grandeur and beauty of the past has been lost and where many still lament this loss. The events of Under Heaven have also shaped some of the foundations of the story in River of Stars; the army is still not trusted—if one popular military commander could start a rebellion, why not another?—and military prowess is no longer seen as an honorable quality to possess. Kitai’s army, therefore, is poorly led and poorly trained. They have lost much land to the leading steppe-tribe, the Xiaolu, and yet some—but not very many—still dream of reclaiming that land, of restoring some of Kitai’s former glory. That is the backdrop for the story, where the chief protagonists are Ren Daiyan, a young man who is one of those dreamers, and Lin Shan, a woman whose father has educated beyond what is the norm for women. They are of an age and they both go against the norms of society, which among other things starkly illustrates how very little a woman needs to do to be a rebel compared to what a man can do.

In addition to them, quite a large cast of characters are given brief—and not so brief—point of views in the story. Kay has always used this element to some degree, showing the story from different angles or showing how one life can affect—or fail to affect—the great events in the world. I come back to Last Light of the Sun, however, since I believe that is when he particularly made a point of these “vignettes” showing a small part of some person’s life where it intersects with the main story. I think that perhaps the first half of River of Stars might have benefitted from fewer of these digression, given my feelings that it was already somewhat unclear as to the path of the story. That said, there are some of these characters that I would not have wanted to miss the chance to read about; one of the most poignant moments of the story follows upon the heroic sacrifice (this is Kay, after all) of one of these relatively minor characters.

Indeed, there are—as always with Kay—some exquisitly heart-rendering moments. The writing throughout the book certainly cannot be faulted; there doesn’t seem to be a word out of place, though I did find that the sentence structure and the shifts of tense contributed to the first half being somewhat difficult for me as I found myself considering the purpose of those elements rather than simply reading. Or perhaps I should say reading with my mind first rather than my heart, and that changes my relationship to the story. There is also a fragmentary quality to the language, images being built up piece by piece, just like the story is. At a guess—I do not know enough about Chinese writing to say for sure—Kay may have been inspired by Chinese stylistic elements; certainly, writing—especially poetry—is a very important part of the novel. But the style does—again, much like in Last Light of the Sun—contribute to my emotional reaction to the novel being less intense compared to with other Kay novels. Everything is very precise and very exquisite, but it is also quite delicate and understated.  There’s a comparison in the book between the time of Under Heaven and the time of River of Stars; the former is likened to the peony flower, bold and bright, and the latter to the much more subtle and delicate plum flower. I do feel that is reflected in the form of the story and it probably has something to do with the characters not quite grabbing me as strongly as I am used to with Kay. In most of Kay’s other novels, there is at least one character that captures my imagination from the start; I found that these characters, more subtle and understated, took longer to warm to and never quite loomed as large in my mind as, for example, the principal cast of the Fionavar Tapestry or the Lions of Al-Rassan. But it may be that this is in part due to one of the key themes of the novel, which is how legends are formed; the characters in the novel will one day become legendary, but they are not presented to us as legendary already.

Another element that affected my engagement with the story comes back to the inspirations for the story. Chinese history and Chinese culture are, by and large, quite foreign to me. I find it intriguing and interesting, but it does not resonate with me the way the elements that Kay used in the Fionavar Tapestry do. He does manage to create a resonance of a different kind where the story ties back to Under Heaven and even references the characters from that novel, but it isn’t quite enough. Under Heaven, on the other hand, largely worked better for me even though it, too, lacked a lot of resonance to histories and stories that I was already familiar with; the boldness of the story and the characters was one reason for this, the other was the horses. They were enough, on their own, to create one strong point of resonance to focus my interest on. Obviously, this is something that an author has no control over, but nevertheless I wanted to mention it, to illustrate where I am coming from as a reader.

Ultimately, I think this is a beautifully written novel but perhaps it dwells a little too much on certain stylistic elements. It is a carefully rendered work of art, but it left me just a little cold. That is, I hasten to add, just a little cold compared to some of Kay’s other novels, an important qualifier considering how very much some of them affect me emotionally. But given the very reflective nature of the story, it may very well be that it had to be this way for the form and the content to work together. Certainly, the story lingered with me for a long while after finishing.

In closing, a few spoilerish musings on things that Elio and I have been discussing since he, too, finished the book (and I should add that the quibbles above are by and large my own; he’s a more…adaptable reader):

Lu Mah’s death: How does Kay do it? We know each book will have at least one of these moments, and we’re awed by them each time. The moment of death is sad, but it is the last words and Lu Chen’s reaction to these that really hits you.

The ending: Does Ren Daiyan choose to leave or to drink the poison? I am leaning towards the latter because of the fox spirit’s tattoo; gifts from spirits are always double-edged and since the reason he gave for denying her was his desire to restore the rivers and the mountains to Kitai (as opposed to his love for Li Shan), it seems to be that the tattoo could be seen as binding him to that. Thus, when his perceived destiny becomes impossible to due to politics, would he really have any choice but to die? Especially since his being alive might endanger what remained of Kitai? Of course, there’s the suggestion of Lin Shan going far, far west—which is where he came from—and having a son, but perhaps she went to meet his family? Perhaps she made the choice of having a son even without him, because she longed for a child—much like Alixana in the Sarantine Mosaic? But I don’t think we’re supposed to know for sure; that’s how legends work, after all.

Parallells: So many things evoked thoughts of Kay’s earlier books. The wine glasses and the end, and the ambiguity, seems to have an echo of Lions of Al-Rassan. Lin Shan going away and eventually having a child reminded me of both Lisseut and Alixana. The meeting with the fox spirit could be seen as an echo of Dave and Ceinwen, perhaps also of the Riselka.

If you’ve seen our video discussion, you know our views very broadly. To place some context with what follows, bear in mind that Linda and I consider all four previous novels to be high in quality, and the “controversial” 4th novel in the series (which we note, with interest, rates 4.10 across 20,000+ reviews over at Goodreads; the highest rated book, A Storm of Swords, is at 4.49) is certainly not at some far remove from its predecessors. For my part, A Feast for Crows is tied with A Clash of Kings while I’ve always placed A Game of Thrones and A Storm of Swords ahead of them.

A Game of Thrones is very tightly-written, and almost obsessive about setting and plot, with characters finely but briefly drawn in many cases and prose that only occasionally reaches the flourishes that Martin is capable of. There’s a special magic about the book that introduces a whole new world. But once that introductory novel is done, the style begins to slowly shift towards something that those familiar with his earlier work might recognize: a prose that makes atmosphere and place integral to the story. Part of it may be due to the increasingly-conflicted nature of the central characters being fertile ground for atmosphere: Tyrion Lannister becomes much more prominent, Ned Stark is out of the picture, Jon Snow finds himself in increasingly complex moral situations, characters like Jaime and Cersei Lannister provide their own perspective into the narrative. As the author himself states, a great part of his aim in writing the series is to write an immersive, vicarious experience, and it shows.

A Bump in the Road

The story has evolved in the writing; it was envisioned as a trilogy of novels, with the first book ending somewhere around the Red Wedding. The time scale at which the story moves was something that Martin first expected to be quite brisk, spanning months between chapters, but this proved easier said than done. At some point—probably in the midst of A Clash of Kings—Martin decided to remedy this by planning the infamous “five year gap”, a jump forward five years following the end of A Storm of Swords with the stated purpose of allowing children and dragons both to grow older. It’s something he began writing, and tried to write for about a year, only to find it impracticable.

The solution? Scrap the gap and begin to fill in and compress that period, covering events that were important but which he had planned to simply gloss over in some suitably effective fashion that never materialized despite his efforts. This problem of chronology and how to get back to the material he intended to write is far and away the biggest problem Martin has had to deal with in terms of his plans for the series, as he stated in our interview. It’s a problem that he has struggled with for 11 years, attempting to bring the story forward to where it would have been had the five year gap taken place. The many difficulties and complexities have been discussed in great detail and we won’t rehash them here, but after five years of laboring at it was decided to publish A Feast for Crows with a geographic split rather than a chronological one. On the positive side, those sections of the story were complete to Martin’s satisfaction, but on the negative a number of crucial characters would have to wait until the next book.

Martin hoped (hoped) that the last pieces would fall in place and the fifth book would follow on a year after. Obviously, that did not happen. Besides the various problems simply related to filling in that period of time, a new one (or perhaps an old one) proved so intractable that it would be six years before Martin could solve the problem. Our interview above outlines what the issue, called “the Meereenese Knot” by Martin, was. Contrary to popular belief, it was not necessarily getting a number of characters to arrive in Dany’s location. It was, instead, determining the exact convergence between arrivals and events, so that the story could proceed without further false starts. A great deal of rewriting ensued as Martin—who had never written any of the books of the series to an outline—tried different approaches that led to blind alleys. Scrapping those and starting over may well have led to his having produced twice as many pages of material as was ultimately published (as his editor has estimated) in what is now the second largest entry in the series since A Storm of Swords.

But the knot, such as it was, is solved. Martin finally found an optimal configuration, beginning with an arrival at Meereen on the eve of a grand event and letting the story pick up steam from there.

The Triumvirate

One of the aspects of the novel that left most fans salivating is that three of the most popular characters—Daenerys Targaryen, Jon Snow, and Tyrion Lannister—would return after a long hiatus, and something like half of the novel is devoted to them; the very first three chapters after the prologue features each character in succession. We find them each facing a sea-change in their circumstances and attempting to come to terms with those circumstances. Daenerys and Jon Snow are both left in positions of responsibility they never expected. Each attempts to do their duty as they see it, but Martin presents both with nearly impossible tasks. There’s a parallel here in how each responds and acts, in the different lessons they learn.

Some may argue in this novel that Daenerys seems paralyzed by responsibility compared to Jon Snow, but there’s a monumental task before her that’s more immediate and far more complicated than anything Snow needs to deal with, as readers will see as they proceed. It’s useful, too, to remember that Snow was raised a lord’s son, while Daenerys was half a beggar, raised to be wedded and bedded, not to lead in any capacity—the gulf she has to bridge is greater. The challenges they face cut to the root of some of the story’s central themes, and appear to be leading to the kind of resolutions that touch on some of the long-prophesied occurrences that constitute the “song of ice and fire”, and there’s a great deal in their chapters that will leave fans speculating and pondering in the years before the next novel.

Tyrion has quite a different story, however, and it’s one that is born out of one of Martin’s favorite quotes, Faulkner’s remark that the only story worth telling is that of the heart in conflict with itself. Some readers may have taken his final chapter in A Storm of Swords as a “great” moment, but in truth, the psychological impact of it was as damaging as anything Tyrion would have faced if he had gone in some other direction. The Tyrion of A Dance with Dragons is a broken man, in search of something or someone to believe in. His trauma is heartfelt, and the slow climb out of that trauma towards a functional existence is depicted in a fashion that’s as surprising as it is effective. This isn’t to say that the Tyrion who comes out of the end of that journey (both mental and literal) is the same man of the previous novels—change and growth is a constant in Martin’s world—but there’s a continuity of characterization that can’t be denied.

If there’s any flaw in the story as presented for these characters, it must be the chronology, once again. Daenerys is intimately a part of the “Meereenese Knot”, and Martin must complicate and flesh out her travails in a way that leads her story to culminate precisely a certain point and not a moment earlier. Tyrion, too, has a deliberate pace to make sure his story ends at the right moment. But wherever plot action is lacking, characterization and evocative renderings of the setting in which these characters move provide a window into another place, into another time, and into another life. For some this may be asking too much, but not for others. It may be useful, on re-reading, to think of the fact that Martin had originally intended Cersei and Daenerys to feature explicit parallels as women in positions of power and how they respond to it. Cersei’s opening chapter features her being woken up to news of her father’s death, much as Daenerys’s first chapter has her woken early to hear similar tidings (this parallel is even stronger when one looks at Daenerys’s second chapter). It adds an interesting layer to the text that may be missed.

Many Eyes

Speaking of Cersei, of course, the fact that the story goes past the end point of A Feast for Crows means that we get her as a point of view, as well as Jaime, Areo Hotah, Victarion, Arya, and Asha from the previous novel. Extending their story just a bit further and keeping it in time with where A Dance with Dragons ends provides a look at how their stories continue. For the most part, all of these returning characters have relatively few chapters, and the bulk of the story is told from a combination of new characters and others returning from A Storm of Swords. For the sake of spoilers, we won’t discuss the brand new point of views beyond saying that two of them play an integral role in the resolution of the “Meereenese Knot” plot problem, and they both feature some of Martin’s strongest writing in the volume as they build towards central events of A Dance with Dragons.

With a total of 16 POV characters, the novel certainly is expansive in its sweep, taking us from the Wall and through the North, from Pentos to Meereen and back to Braavos, and giving us glimpses of the riverlands, King’s Landing, and Dorne. It may be said that the most effective area of action proves to be the North. At the end of A Feast for Crows, the white raven signaled that winter had finally come, and the consequences of this are told with bone-chilling and grim determination by Martin, piling on the hardships with blizzards and chronic food shortage and the ceaseless cold that creeps into the flesh and kills men only to see them rise again by night. The threat of the Others and, more directly, their wights is a constant feature in these chapters… especially in one of the returning POVs from A Storm of Swords, Bran.

Bran’s chapters are few, but there’s an incredible moodiness to them that has put some fans in mind of one of Martin’s most atmospheric earlier works, “In The House of the Worm”, with its dark imagery. It’s difficult to explain how some of the details in these chapters were determined long ago, when Martin first decided to start world-building to provide background for the first few chapters he had written. There’s details in these sections that have been lying in wait for 15 or 16 years, according to Martin, and perhaps give a sense that while he may be a gardener, the general shape of the garden and all its finest features have long been planned. The task Martin set for himself was monumental—more than he ever knew, with his short stories and his standalone novels and teleplays as his guides—but when the pieces finally come together, there’s an intense exhilaration that comes with it. With Bran, and with many other characters besides.

Twists and Turns

You’d think that after all of these years fans would stop trying to predict the story. Martin’s almost always a step ahead, and I recall the sheer amazement fans felt when novels like A Clash of Kings turned the apple cart over. The same happens here, especially after page 600 or so when the narrative has caught up with A Feast for Crows and moves beyond it. There are moments that were practically transcendent reading experiences, as Martin deftly turned terror into joy (or the other way around, as the case might be). The shape of the full narrative seems to be coming clear… but at the same time, there’s so many balls in the air and Martin has shown such aplomb in going in unexpected directions that there’s a very good chance that half the predictions made by fans at the forum will miss the mark. But that’s the pleasure in reading such a story: not only in the occasional pleasure of having an idea confirmed (and I admit, one or two notions I had proved right) but in having them frustrated in clever, powerful ways.

This isn’t to say that all turns are necessarily welcome by all readers, especially when they involve cliffhangers, of which there happen to be… well, a few. There’s a point Martin and his editor Anne Groell have noted: a pair of sequences intended for the novel were apparently, removed in the final weeks of work (one of GRRM’s own volition, the other at Groell’s urging). This may be why GRRM has said that the cliffhangers in this novel have proved somewhat more numerous than he would have preferred, suggesting that these sequences might have pushed the cliffhangers a bit further along. For some, the cliffhangers would be a genuine problem, especially with the prospect of a multi-year wait for resolutions. Mileage may, of course, vary.

Stages in the Journey

If the story is somewhat slanted to the cliffhanger, however, we believe there’s more to it than simply having run out of time or space on the writer’s part. There seems to be a belief that Martin has structured the series in some very odd and displeasing way. But it seems fairly clear to us that on the whole Martin—with his TV writing experience—has very roughly applied the three act structure to the whole of the series. It is true that the earlier novels had… well, not “self-contained” stories, but certain things ended on pleasing narrative breaks: the King in the North and Daenerys with the dragons, the Battle of the Blackwater and the Jaime Lannister cliffhanger, the death of Tywin Lannister and Jon Snow becoming Lord Commander. Some of these felt like “action” climaxes, and in some cases some of these were nearer to a cliffhanger, but they brought about some sense of culmination. A Feast for Crows, as it happens, has some distinct stop points: Brienne’s cliffhanger (to mirror Jaime’s two books earlier), for one, and of course the downfall of Cersei Lannister.

We’d argue that the nature of these events has given us a hint of the specific form of the act structure that Martin has broadly applied to the work. If in the original trilogy the first novel was the first act, and that grew to be the first three novels in the series, then the second act must be A Feast for Crows... and A Dance with Dragons, which for over half its length really is the “other side of the coin”. The climaxes, the break points, in Martin’s second act are not rousing moments, but instead they are turning downward, leaving characters at their low point. In the broader narrative, looking at the POVs as a whole, we have very likely hit the overall nadir in the story for our protagonists. Matters were left bleak and melancholy in A Feast for Crows, and if anything, they are even bleaker as A Dance with Dragons progresses. From adversity comes dramatic tension, and we suspect that the following two novels will be ripe with drama; for some characters, there practically is nowhere to go but up.

I know of readers who quit A Game of Thrones because of Eddard’s death, and others who threw the book across the room and gave up with The Red Wedding. Will there be some swearing off the series because of Martin’s implacable insistence that things must get worse before they can get better? We’re sure of it. There’s always an urge to find hope somewhere, anywhere, and Martin is (as David Benioff said) “a savage god” who can be pitiless with his characters. And, by extension, with his readers. He calls the characters the children of his mind, but that does not mean they’re immune to suffering, to failure, even to death.

A Summation

The down-beat endings of A Feast for Crows and A Dance with Dragons seem to mark the closure of the second act of “A Song of Ice and Fire”, and from here the narrative will begin its climb towards whatever the final resolution Martin envisions. With so many plot strands now converging, it’s clear that some of these will continue through to the end, and the final novels will probably feature more than the usual amount of bloodshed. And victories? They’ll happen, doubtless. But they might be Pyhrric, and at best there’ll be something bittersweet. Martin has promised that the end of the series will be a mix of the bitter and the sweet; Linda has a speculation about what the final chapter of the series will be, and in Martin’s hands, I could forsee there being many tears by the time that last page is reached.  But now the third act looms, and Martin’s hope is that his plan for two final novels—The Winds of Winter and A Dream of Spring—will bring that to a close in a memorable way, one that brings thematic and story and character threads to a culmination worthy of what’s come before.

There are no easy answers in these novels, but that’s fitting when there’s a dearth of easy problems. Characters struggle and suffer with self-doubt, uncertain news drifts down rivers winding across an ancient and half-ruinous landscape, events spiral out of control, disaster looms at every turn. It’s a bleak novel in many ways, with even the “crowning moments of awesome” proving to carry a poisoned pill. But it’s the novel Martin wanted to make, the novel that underscores that at the heart of the story is the human heart, the struggles of men and women (and children) to exist and to thrive within whatever space is alloted to them. The story moves, and it reminds us that living can be cruel and hard… but ultimately, it’s worth doing, something not all the characters may have understood, which they may not understand even as they come out of the crucible that Martin’s put them through.

There’s a quote from this novel that perhaps best sums up the value of reading a book, and a series like this:

This novel adds a baker’s dozen and then some to that score, and it’s worth the journey through the evocative world and story Martin has created, with his characters—complex and confusing creatures, one and all—as our guides.

And if the down-beat climaxes and the dark turns leaves one depressed…

Remember.

Picking up almost right on the heels of Kushiel’s Justice, which saw Imriel returning from his quest to slay his Alban wife Dorelei’s killer, Imriel and Sidonie are now determined to no longer defy Blessed Eleu’s edict of “Love as thou wilt”. Choosing sense over love has caused them grief and caused the deaths of not just Dorelei and with her Imriel’s unborn son. But Sidonie’s mother, Queen Ysandre, is not about to give them her blessing. Too many still remember the pain caused by the treacherous actions of Imriel’s infamous mother, Melisande Shahrizai, and unless Imriel can find her and bring her to justice the queen will not allow him to become Sidonie’s consort. At least not if Sidonie is to remain the heir.

At the start of the book, one is lead to believe that a quest for Melisande will be at the core of the book. But Carey wisely avoids hinging everything on a single plot thread, especially one that has been central to previous books. Instead, the core of the plot takes a very shocking turn of events with the arrival of a Carthagenian embassy. Carthage dreams of restoring its empire and has its eye on Aragonia, long-time ally of Terre d’Ange. Why they would wish to offer Queen Ysandre a tribute is unclear, though their arrival is preceded by a coded message from a member of the Unseen Guild that suggests that information about Melisande will be given to them if the tribute is accepted. The tribute, however, turns out to be something entirely unexpected, and it throws Imriel’s world upside down. He is indeed forced to go on another quest, but one very different from the one he had expected to undertake.

Structurally, I found the book to be well-constructed, especially in regards to the pacing, though some readers may find elements of it predictable as it does share certain characteristics with the previous books in the series. Personally, I quite like this, and I my impression has always been that there are purposeful structural parallels between each book, especially between the corresponding books of each trilogy. All of the books tend to feature a distinct opening phase, followed by a well-paced race towards the conclusion of the dominant action-oriented storyline, which in turn is followed by the need to resolve a final, often less action-oriented but sometimes more emotionally difficult problem, before a few final, reflective chapters concludes the book.

In terms of parallells between the concluding books of the two series, there are definitely both structural and thematic echoes of Kushiel’s Avatar in Kushiel’s Mercy. In the former, the search for the Name of God to free Hyacinthe initially appears to be the focus of the story, but in the end it turns out to be something that leads into another storyline. However, it is also the conclusion of that storyline that allows the Name of God to eventually be found. Similarly, in the latter, the objective appears to be to bring Melisande to justice, but the search for her ends up leading to another, quite unexpected storyline, which nevertheless has a distinct connection to the quest for Melisande. The books also share some of the sense of doom that Carey manages to build up as one realizes the magnitude of what has happened and there are also some parallels between Phèdre’s and Sidonie’s fates in the two books, though it should be noted that in no way is Kushiel’s Mercy as dark as Kushiel’s Avatar was.

All in all, Kushiel’s Mercy is a very good conclusion to the second Kushiel trilogy, and overall I thoroughly enjoyed Imriel’s story. As a protagonist, he did not personally grip me quite as much as Phèdre, but I really liked the stories that Carey was able to tell with him as the point of view. It is rather bitter-sweet to be saying goodbye to all the characters introduced over the two series (although Carey will return to the setting with a new trilogy, it will take place some generations later), and I quite liked that the final chapter of the book feels very much as a fond farewell to old friends. Perhaps too sentimental and a little too perfect for some, but it suited me just fine. Those characters have earned themselves a bit of peace and quiet.

Feast of Souls is the first novel in The Magister Trilogy, set in a world where the price of magic is a high one indeed. To use magic, one must tap into the soulfire, the athra, which each person possesses in a limited amount. Once your soulfire is used up, you die. Every little use of magic eats into your lifespan, taking away anything from just a few seconds to several days. At least, that is, if you are a witch. The Magisters, however, have found a way of not only living a normal lifespan while practising magic but of making themselves virtually immortal. In the Second Age of Kings, they are the black-clad power behind almost every throne in the world.

But while there are both male and female witches, there are no female Magisters. That is, until Kamala, once a prostitute, determines that she will learn how to use her inborn ability to work magic without using up her soulfire. As a child, she saw a witch die in order to heal her brother from a plague, and she’s determined that she will not end up the same way. Her desire to live outweighs the complications of her sex, allowing her to join the rank of the Magisters, but she does so at a time of growing darkness. An ancient enemy, the souleaters, may be returning. If so, the Second Age of Kings may go the way of the First Age and the world may once again be plunged into a Dark Age.

In the Coldfire trilogy Friedman created one of the more fascinating antagonist I’ve ever encountered in Gerald Tarrant, whose questionable choices could nevertheless be understood as attempts at dealing with a very difficult situation. In this new book, Friedman is once again playing with shades of grey rather than with absolute black and white, and several of the characters that are pivotal in the first book and look like they will be pivotal in the rest of the series are of distinctly dubious moral character. Still, one can understand their choices, at least on some level, even if one cannot fully sympathize with them.

Overall, it looks as if several themes that were explored in the Coldfire books may also be explored in this new trilogy. One can draw many parallels between Tarrant and the Magisters, and one that can be mentioned without revealing too much is the way Friedman portrays a virtually immortal being. Another similarity that is suggested by the end of the first book is that we will probably see uneasy alliances in order to face an even greater threat, highlighting the fact that “good” and “evil” are far from as clear-cut as we might wish.

There are perhaps no characters in the book that are as immediately captivating as Gerald Tarrant, but there are several interesting and well-realized characters. The setting is also well-realized, with many of the questions that might arise (such as why the Magisters do not rule the world themselves) answered in the course of the story. The explanation for why there have been no female Magisters prior to Kamala may annoy some as it can be seen as stereotyping women, though personally I did not have an issue with it. It appears to be a setting where the gender roles are quite strongly differentiated and deeply ingrained, and that would have an effect on how most women think and feel.

Plotwise, the book is solidly put together and the pacing is good. The main “twists” are revealed fairly early on (though I’ve still tried to steer clear of spoiling them), but there are certainly some unexpected turns of events later on (as well as some expected ones that you may find yourself hoping won’t come to pass). If you liked the Coldfire trilogy, chances are good that you will like Feast of Souls. If you’ve never tried Friedman, grab a copy of Feast of Souls, and if you like it you can read the Coldfire books while you wait for the next one in the new series.

Before I started on the book, I considered for a while if books that set out to comment on other books should be approached in a particular way. Is it best to be aware of the stated purpose of the book? Is it best to have read the books being commented on? In most cases, it seems like either of these circumstances would make a difference to how one perceives the book. I know, for example, that Jacquline Carey’s The Sundering duology was poorly received by some people who did not know that it was a purposeful rewrite of the basic ideas in Tolkien and simply took it for a badly disguised rip-off.

In this case, I have to say that it didn’t matter much what I knew when I started the book, because the pleasure of the reading experience took over entirely. The writing flows very well and the pacing of the book is just right, so it did not take me long to be entirely caught up in Njall’s/Isolfr’s life together with the wolves and the wolfbrothers. From time to time, I did make a mental note of things that in some way paralleled or reworked elements from Pern, but those mental notes became fewer and fewer the further I read. And on the whole, that is how I prefer it. I don’t mind books that make me think (Guy Gavriel Kay wouldn’t be my favourite author if that was the case), but I read for pleasure first and foremost, so I prefer it if the thoughts provoked aren’t prodded to rise beyond simmering at the back of my head.

Note: After reading a brief response to this review by Elizabeth Bear, as well as some comments about the book on her website, I have reworked this latter half of the review somewhat.

Since finishing the book, I’ve discussed it extensively with Elio as well as on the board. Both Elio and I are in agreement that its a great story and a very good take on the animal companion concept in fantasy. However, we had (from reading some comments by the author) been left with the impression that their intent was to some degree to shock readers, and we did not feel that the story was all that provocative or subversive. Now, I agree that we probably misinterpreted their comments to some degree, though it remains true for us that we see the book mainly as doing the animal companion story very well compared to certain other attempts, and so we see the improvement and not the deconstruction as its strongest point. Our discussions on the matter did lead to an agreement on the fact that by, for example, having a male protagonist in a role where most readers would expect a female can make you consider the scenario more carefully than if the cliché was presented with the standard ingredients. So, in that sense, playing with reader expectations can be an effective tool for provoking thought and deconstructing the story to the smaller components by making the reader take notice of these.

Of course, this is probably most effective when readers are shocked to find that their expectations are not met or when something for them quite discomforting happens. In this case, neither I nor Elio were shocked. We found it interesting, not the least since it introduced complexities not found in all animal companion stories (but we would both argue that there are some other very good such stories out there, so we don’t feel it is a genre that is particularly poorly represented), but initially we were left thinking that our reactions were far from what the writers seemed to have expected. Yes, parts of the story could be called uncomfortable in that they did not flinch from dealing with the harsh realities of the man-wolf bond, but they were not uncomfortable in the sense that we thought ‘this is so wrong’. The reality they portrayed was harsh, but it was the reality of the setting, and we accepted it.

None of this, however, is a problem with the story. If we had been unaware of any of the discussions surrounding the book, we would simply have said ‘wow’ and then this review would have focused entirely on how compelling the story is, with its interesting setting (you don’t get a lot of good fantasy in a Norse setting, so that’s another big plus for it), strong characters and realistic ideas for how an animal companion bond could work out given these circumstances.

A notable difference from the previous two books is the addition of a third narrator: Mehitabel. Her chapters are very enjoyable but I also think that she was a very necessary addition because she’s doing a lot of the acting (both on and off stage, as it happens) while Felix (in particular) and Mildmay are reacting and being preoccupied with their personal inner demons. Mehitabel’s difficulties are primarily external, though we do learn more about her character as well. The most development, however, I think comes from surprising directions as we get to see new sides of Stephen and Shannon which makes them both a lot more sympathetic.

The plot is built up slowly over the course of the book, with threads of events that originally appeared disconnected coming together. Possibly, they come together a little too neatly, though I think it may set the stage quite well for the final book by tying up those loose ends and providing a somewhat cleaner slate before preparing to tackle something else. I do, however, think that the strength of the book is in the characterization rather than the plot, and I also found that one of the main storylines for Mehitabel didn’t quite grab me as much as it perhaps should have. In fact, although I enjoyed her chapters a lot, I think that enjoyment mostly stemmed from her interactions with others rather than from me taking a great interest in what was happening to her personally (whereas, on the other hand, I remain very concerned about especially Felix but also Mildmay).

On the whole, though, I very much enjoyed The Mirador. It is a worthy follow-up to the previous two novels and it really has me looking forward to the final one.

Against his expectations as well as his wishes, Imriel finds himself in love with Sidonie, his own kin as well as the heir to the throne of Terre d’Ange. Worse, his love is reciprocated, Sidonie’s dislike for him having turned into desire. But even if Queen Ysandre has never blamed Imriel for being the son of traitors, she would never dream of allowing him to wed her daughter. Too many people in Terre d’Ange mistrust his motives and fear that he is truly his mother’s son, with great ambitions and a ruthless nature.

But the Queen and the nobles of Terre d’Ange is not all that stands between Imriel and Sidonie. He has already agreed to wed a pictish heiress, Dorelei, to ensure to the worried nobles of Terre d’Ange that there will be a continued d’Angelline presence in Alba to offset the pictish blood on the d’Angelline throne. What he does not initially realize is that not only will he go against the wishes of Blessed Elua by forsaking his love for Sidonie, he will also be putting himself on a course that may have dire consequences for Alba.

In some ways Kushiel’s Justice mirrors the middle book in the first Kushiel trilogy, Kushiel’s Chosen (and, in fact, there are some direct plot-related connections too). It is a book where the love that entered into Imriel’s life in the first book is faced with numerous difficult challenges, just as Phèdre’s and Joscelin’s delicate relationship was strenously tested. The intrigues of the first book, which tied back to Imriel’s mother Melisande, take a backseat in this novel in favour of a more straight-forward storyline. This book is not so much about figuring out who did what and why, but rather about Imriel continuing to learn who he is and how his life fits together with that of other people. It is also about making difficult choices and facing the consequences of said choices.

As with Carey’s previous books, travelling to new, more-or-less exotic locations is a large part of the book’s structure, but as always she handles these travels deftly. They are not merely there to get a character from point A to point B physically but also to take them on an emotional journey. The only point where the travels feel somewhat slow is towards the end, but in large part this has to do with the fact that the reader knows what will happen at the end of that specific journey and feels a certain urge to get to that point.

It was perhaps easier (though, it may also vary from reader to reader) to be emotionally swept up in Phèdre’s story, but Imriel still works quite well as a narrator and his relationship with Sidonie engages and feels very well written (not the least when it comes to the sexual tension and their hurried, illicit encounters). Overall, this book is just as enjoyable as the previous Kushiel books, and it sets the stage for a finale that promises to reconnect with the intrigues of the first book as well as continue to deal with the more personal complications in Imriel’s life.