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. 

As might be guessed from this short introduction, magic plays a considerable part in The Serpent and the Rose, and virtually all characters that appear in any notable capacity are magicians of one kind or another. This is not surprising if one is familiar with previous books by the author; though it is billed as a first novel, Kathleen Bryan is in fact a pseudonym for Judith Tarr, who often writes books where magic and magical beings play important roles within settings that always are well grounded in history. In this case, the story takes place in a time and place heavily inspired by medieval France. There’s a church that in some ways parallels the Christian Church, though in other ways it is notably different, and the geography of Lys and its neighbours is similar to that of the real world. As always, Tarr’s knowledge of history shows itself in the small touches that makes a created world convincing without burdening it with too much detail. Equally typical of Tarr is the clean, elegant prose, and she has a particular knack for writing about magic in a way that makes it seem perfectly natural and believable.

The main characters, Averil and Gereint, are well-drawn and believeable, though in contrast this first book leaves little room for development of the villains of the story. The story alternates between Averil’s and Gereint’s perspective, and in addition to the larger plot of the battle against the Serpent’s followers, their gradual growth into their new roles—they are both quite young at the start of the story, and Gereint in particular changes quite a bit—also plays an important part. The romantic elements are, to my mind, relatively understated, building up slowly and quite subtly throughout the book. One might suspect, however, that future books (this is the first of three) will see this part of the story come to the forefront.

Overall, I quite enjoyed this book, and I imagine that fans of Tarr’s previous novels would as well. There are some thematic similarities—I am thinking primarily about the chaos vs order conflict, and the suggestion that there’s more to this dynamic than a clear-cut opposition—to other of her novels, such as the Avaryan series (Avaryan Rising and Avaryan Resplendent) or the White Magic series (written under yet another pseudonym, that of Caitlin Brennan, and beginning with The Mountain’s Call), and the writing is as elegant as ever. If you haven’t read any of Tarr’s books before, this might not be a bad start, though if you prefer your fantasy with a little more of an edge you would probably prefer the Avaryan series or the Hound and the Falcon trilogy. Its also worth noting that although this book is the first in a trilogy, and it definitely sets the stage (not to mention whets the appetite) for act 2, it does not end on a cliff-hanger but rather consists of a self-contained story arc with a clear ending of its own.

One might now wonder what inspired this introductory paragraph. To some extent, its a caveat regarding my impressions of Ysabel and the way they come through in this review. It might be deduced from this that I did not find Ysabel to be my favourite among Kay’s novels. Having said that, however, I do consider it a very good book, and some readers may in fact find it preferable to some of Kay’s other novels. It all comes down to which aspects of his writing one prefers. For my own part, I am one of those Kay fans who dearly loves the Fionavar Tapestry. In fact, if asked to rank Kay’s books, I would put them first, even though they do have their flaws. But this comes down to my favourite aspect of Kay’s writing being the intense emotions, and nowhere are they stronger or rawer than in the Tapestry. In later novels, some of that intensity is traded away for increased polish.

Up until now, this was most readily apparent in The Last Light of a Sun, and Ysabel follows in those footsteps in that regard. But where I found that Last Light of the Sun seemed to be that way very much on purpose, allowing for a more distant observation of the story and the characters, Ysabel seemed to me to have come out this way partly because of the modern setting and partly because some elements did not quite have the impact that I was expecting them to have. However, as I already noted, expectations can be dangerous baggage and after discussing this with Elio, I would probably agree with him that there are clear similarities between the approach to the story in Last Light of the Sun and in Ysabel. However, the idea that each person’s story is the most important to them even if it is not important to the ‘big picture’ seemed to be laid out more clearly in LLoTS, not the least through the little vignettes. There are, however, several pretty clear indicators of this theme in Ysabel too.

The story in Ysabel is that of Ned Marriner, the son of a famous photographer. Over the summer, he is accompanying his father to Aix-en-Provence, where the father will be taking pictures for a book. Almost as soon as he arrives, he and Kate—a girl he encounters in a cathedral—stumble into an old story that is once again playing out in the ancient town. Her interest in history and the unusual gifts that Ned begins to manifest draws them into what is happening, and as May day—Beltaine—comes around they become deeply entangled with an age-old love triangle that has been at the centre of much bloodshed over the last 2500 years.

Ned is an unusually young protagonist for Kay, and in many ways Ysabel reads like a Young Adult novel. This, to me, is not in any way a flaw, because some of the best fantasy I know is Young Adult. Still, it may not appeal to some for this reason. It should be noted, however, that Kay handles Ned (and Kate, a girl he meets) quite well. Like in any good YA novel, characters of all ages act and interact naturally, without being plagued by any of the age stereotypes that affect less accomplished novels (often those written explicitly to try to appeal to a younger audience, instead of simply being written true to the story).

The prose, as always, flows beautifully, and is perfectly tailored to the setting and the characters. For the most part, it is less ‘grand’ than in other works by Kay, though the sections that are shown from the perspective of the key players in the ancient love triangle stand out from the sections seen through Ned’s perspective. Kay also plays around a bit with the use of tenses when he shifts between the different point of views, letting the three tell their stories in the present sense, which makes them feel very much as if they live only in the moment. Time and perspective are themes dealt with on other levels of the story as well, as we learn that the love triangle has played out time and time again over the last 2500 years. An important component of the story is also Aix-en-Provence itself. The landscape is deeply infused with what has happened there over the years, and through Ned’s gift this is visibly and viscerally manifested as he finds himself overwhelmed by the events of the past.

The quibble that I did have with the book was that I did not feel the intensity of this love triangle as strongly as I would have expected considering its importance. Initially, this felt like a flaw in the story to me, as I could not see why it did not resonate as strongly with me as Kay’s previous treatments of similar love triangles have, when in fact it is really a matter of taste and expectations. I love getting emotional kicks in the gut from reading, and as I was hoping for one of those here, the absence of it struck me as a flaw. However, it fits the story that these were intentionally left out. It ties into the idea of different perspectives and viewpoints, and it shows that although the participants of the love triangle thought it was of the greatest importance, they were still only three people out of the thousands affected by the events in the history of Aix-en-Provence. In fact, one of the characters does make a comment along these lines, noting that they are not unique.

Finally, a spoiler that I cannot resist. There is a surprising connection between this book and Kay’s first work, the Fionavar Tapestry. I had heard of this before reading the book, and I think that was probably just as well, as the surprise might otherwise have made me drop the book and squeal loudly. As it was, I took immense pleasure in this connection and I absolutely loved the subtle little references made here and there to events in the Tapestry.

If you have not read the Tapestry, you will likely come away from Ysabel with a few questions about some of the events, but it would not interfere with your reading experience at all. If have read the Tapestry and did not like it (I know there are some strange people out there who don’t), I think you are unlikely to be bothered by this connection.

Overall, I would strongly recommend picking up Ysabel, whether you are an old fan of Kay’s works or someone who has never tried him. It kept me up to 3 am on the day that I started reading it, as there was no way I could have gone to sleep without finishing it.

However, in the end that is not how they were published, and with that in mind, this review attempts to focus on Mélusine. In it we are introduced to the two characters who alternate as the first-person narrators of the story; Felix Harrowgate and Mildmay the Fox. Felix is a wizard of the Mirador, the school of magic (note, we’re not talking school in the Harry Potter-sense here; in the setting wizards are simply trained within different traditions of magic) that is most prominent in the city of Mélusine. Mildmay is a cat-burglar whose home is the Lower City, seedy underside of Mélusine. As narrators, they have very distinct and dissimilar voices, and as characters they don’t appear to have much at all in common. At least not to start with. However, as the story progresses, this changes somewhat.

Their personalities and the nature of their chapters do, however, remain quite different from each other. Felix acts every inch the nobleman; elegant, witty and devastatingly charming. Mildmay, on the other hand, is a gutter rat and he thinks and speaks like one. Readers may very well find themselves preferring one over the other. Personally, I enjoyed Felix’s chapters the most, as he’s a quite thoroughly messed up individual beneath the too-polished surface. He’s not a particularly nice person, though, and he spends a large portion of the first book driven mad after his former master uses Felix’s powers to attack the Mirador, which makes some of his chapters quite difficult to read.  Mildmay is a less extreme character and on the whole rather more likable as a person than Felix, but his chapters contain a lot of internal ramblings that had a slight stream of consciousness-flavour to me. Occasionally I found them difficult to keep my concentration on, but Elio preferred Mildmay’s chapters to those of Felix.

In addition to Felix and Mildmay, one could argue that the city of Mélusine is a fairly important character too. Its a fantastical city where the decadence of the nobility’s quarters are contrasted against the seediness of the Lower City. For the setting, Monette appears to have drawn on an interesting mix of sources. The feel of the world (at least of Mélusine) is more 19th century than medieval, but there are a lot of strange cults and religions around, showing influences of not the least Greek myth and religion. Magic plays a prominent (but not over-powering) role in the story, with wizards divided up into various schools who all seem fairly narrow minded about what they condone or what they consider vulgar or even heretic.

What about the plot, though? Well, there certainly is some, though I’d consider Mélusine a primarily character-driven as opposed to plot-driven book.  The catalyst for most of what happens in the book is Malkar’s use of Felix to attack the Mirador, an event which eventually leads both Felix and Mildmay out of Mélusine and onto a rather strange path. But while I thoroughly enjoyed learning about the setting and the magic, it was finding out more about Felix and Mildmay that really kept me turning those pages.