The Blinding Knife by Brent Weeks

Brent Weeks has a blurb on Terry Brooks' UK edition of Dark Legacy of Shannara: Bloodfire Quest. I'm sure that's a surreal moment for Weeks who was aided by a blurb from Brooks on his debut novel, Way of Shadows:

‘I was mesmerized from start to finish. Unforgettable characters, a plot that kept me guessing, non-stop action and the kind of in-depth storytelling that makes me admire a writer’s work’ — Terry Brooks on The Way of Shadows

On the back of that blurb and a brilliant marketing strategy from Orbit, Weeks' first trilogy was a huge hit (I'm sure it had something to do with it being good too). Since then, Weeks has been considered a rising star in the genre, further cemented by The Black Prism debuting at #23 on the New York Times Bestseller list.

Despite Weeks' commercial success, I wasn't quite ready to coronate him one of the heirs apparent to the epic fantasists of the 1980's and 90's. I felt that, while a tremendous creator, he hadn't yet come into his own as a storyteller. After finishing The Blinding Knife, his follow-up to Black Prism and the second installment in the Lightbringer series, I don't hesitate to grant him that status. His newest novel is a tremendous achievement and a logical next step for him as a writer.

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Wards of Faerie by Terry Brooks

I owe Terry Brooks a lot, so much so that I hesitate to write this review. In 1991, I read The Sword of Shannara and opened the door to two decades of imagination. I still rank it as one of my favorite books ever written. I went on to read Elfstones of Shannara and Wishsong of Shannara, both superior novels to the original, as well as the subsequent Heritage of Shannara quartet, a spectacular follow-up series to my memory. Thirteen years later I haven't read any further. Encouraged by Aidan Moher of A Dribble of Ink to give Brooks another go, I picked up Wards of Faerie to see where the wind would take me.

Given that fourteen Shannara books filled the gap between The Talismans of Shannara and Wards of Faerie, I was moderately concerned that I'd be lost among the history of Brooks' creations. I'm happy report that fear unfounded. Brooks newest novel is an ideal place to jump back in with only a few knowledge gaps left unfilled. Unfortunately, I can also report that it is quintessential Brooks with all the good and bad connotations such a description elicits.

Aphenglow Elessedil, a Druid of Paranor, searches through the elven libraries for hints of lost magic. The Druid mission is, after all, to find lost magic for the good of all. She comes across a journal written by an obscure royal child a thousand years ago that tells of the elfstones, now lost to history. While the text reveals little about their whereabouts, Aphenglow believes she has found the first hints to uncovering the legendary elven magic. Beset by assassins and those who would keep the stones hidden, she returns to Paranor to rally the Druids to her discovery.

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King of Thorns - Mark Lawrence

Prince of Thorns, Mark Lawrence's 2011 debut novel, was not well received in all corners, occasionally offending reader sensibilities. Jorg, the protagonist and narrator throughout the series, is a self interested often bloodthirsty teenager who's ruled equally by his emotions and lack thereof. Those hoping for a redemptive tale, or an ultimately apologetic tone from the author, found themselves woefully bereft. Deeply disturbing, and written with a haunting elegance, I called it the best fantasy debut of 2011. To say I was eagerly anticipating its sequel, King of Thorns, would be an understatement akin to George R.R. Martin sells a few books.

Jorg, no longer a wandering prince in search of revenge, has taken a throne. Not his father's or the Empire's, but it's a start. The path he carved has made him visible to those who share his lust for power, and now a six nation army marches toward his gates, led by a man far more suited to rule than he. An honorable man would lay down his sword and join the fledgling Empire in peace, leaving his kingdom whole and his people alive. That doesn't sound like Jorg, does it?

While Prince of Thorns was structured with frequent flashbacks, jumping between the past and present, there was a pace and direction to the novel that was clear, concise, and full of intent. The recollections merely filled in the back story, without directly participating in the primary narrative. King of Thorns is murkier. Instead of showing Jorg's past and how it influenced his future as he did in Prince of Thorns, Lawrence opts to merge two time periods into a single narrative with the present influencing the past and vice versa.

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Sharps - K.J. Parker (with mini-interview)

KJ Parker has a new novel. May the heavens part and the angels rejoice. In novels past Parker has given readers stories about "...economics, alchemy, blacksmithing, armor-proofing, bow-making (and fletching, and archery in general...), siege equipment, volcanoes, charcoal and buttons", to quote Pornokitsch. In Sharps, fencing is the name of the game, with a side order of détente. It's a wholly engrossing addition to the Parker library, providing a tremendous entry point for new readers, while falling just short of Parker's best.

An uneasy truce has been called between Permia and Scheria, two neighboring kingdoms with four decades of bad blood between them. The war has been long and brutal, punctuated by the wholesale flooding of a major city courtesy of a Scherian General subsequently dubbed the Irrigator. With a legitimate chance for peace, it's time for an olive branch, a coming together of two countries over a shared passion -- fencing. In this way, Sharps reflects real world history, namely the end of World War II and the following rise and fall of tensions between the United States and the Soviet Union.

I suspect that the forty year mark for the war between Permia and Scheria was hardly coincidence for Parker, as the same number of years characterizes the length of the Cold War. Likewise, some of the tensest moments occurred every four years at the Summer Olympics. It seems an odd spark, but not all countries saw the Olympics as a place for competition, instead favoring it as a validation of an ideology. Sharps take this notion and exploits it.

Fencing, in Scheria, is an art form, a sporting duel with blunted instruments. Thanks to the Irrigator they won the war and with it a belief in their superiority. When they form a team of fencers to send into Permia for the "peace tour" it's with an absolute belief in victory. So much so that it's viewed as an exhibition of Scherian supremacy, not a genuine competition. Reflecting that, the Scherian team isn't exactly the cream of the crop as it relates to fencing, including a alcoholic fencing champion, a murdering nobleman, the lesser son of the Irrigator, a woman who refuses to marry, and coached by an aging fencer turned businessman who's in so far over his head he can't tell which way is up.

A grosse messer.

The Permians fight with sharpened blades to first blood. Rather than favoring the elegant art form of fencing, they prefer the messer, a short bladed weapon whose only purpose is raw aggression. In short, the narrative that the Scherians hoped to create falls hopelessly short in the face of reality -- true war between equally committed parties assures only mutual destruction.

These kinds of extended metaphors are Parker's money-maker, so to speak. It's the hallmark of a Parker novel, abstracting complex ideas from the most mundane of activities. Unique from previous novels, Sharps uses an activity that resonates with fantasy readers more so that any other, sword fights. For once, describing a Parker novel doesn't involve selling the reader on reading on lathes or mortars and pestles. This makes it Parker's most marketable novel to date, and potentially the novel that propels the author into the upper echelons genredom.

That said, Sharps isn't Parker's best novel, an opinion driven largely by a lack of clarity as to the motivations behind many of the characters actions. Perhaps a commentary on the nature of war and conflict, or the "invisible hand" to steal an economics term, I found it more frustrating than intriguing. I could see many new readers coming to the novel for the sex appeal (swords) and find themselves a tad perplexed by a very twisty web of political machination. I suspect that Parker's exceptional characterizations and perfectly precise prose will overcome those difficulties for most, but even this dedicated fan could have done with a bit more of Parker's typical directness that's been so prevalent in previous works.

I still consider Sharps to be one of the better novels I read this year, just not the best KJ Parker novel I've read this year (Devices and Desires holds the latter distinction). Parker is a magnificent writer and one I insist everyone try to read as soon as possible. Sharps is a good place to start for new fans, but I wouldn't hesitate to start with The Folding Knife or any of the previous trilogies as well. In other words, just start reading. Please.

***

Below is a mini-interview from a series of questions I sent to KJ Parker via Orbit Books. Only a few of my questions were answered, but it's my understanding several other blogs will be running answers to questions as well and Orbit will be collecting them at weeks end. Keep your eyes peeled.

Justin: In an article you wrote for Subterranean, “Cutting Edge Technology: The Life and Sad Times of the Western Sword,” you talk quite a bit about how swords have evolved, and why. In Sharps there are four types of sword used by the fencers – the longsword, smallsword, rapier, and messer. The first three are mentioned in your essay, but not the last. Yet it is the weapon most intertwined with the narrative. Where does the messer fit in the history of the sword?

KJP: The messer doesn’t really have a place in the aristocratic family tree of the Western sword. It was a farm tool. Messer is just the German for ‘knife’. The grosse messer was a large version of the everyday utility knife. A modern analogy would be the Nepalese khukuri, or the bowie knife on the American frontier. Humans being as they are, they tended to turn their cutting tools on each other in moments of stress. As with the khukuri or the bowie, the messer doesn’t naturally lend itself to defensive plays – it was designed to cut things, not to ward off blows or be hidden behind, unlike the purpose-designed weapons of the upper classes, whose design is all about still being alive at the end of the fight. Because a purely intuitive fight with messers would inevitably be short and lead to mutually assured destruction, extremely complex and sophisticated combat techniques evolved to enable messer fighters to survive encounters (if you get no help from the weapon, you have to try harder). A considerable literature on the messer survives from 15th century Germany – there’s a complete manual illustrated by Albrecht Durer, no less. I stole the line “Here they fight with messers; God help them” from Talhofer’s manual; it was that line that gave me the idea for the book. For me, the messer stands for functional savagery, the desire to actually hurt people, as against the more civilized weapons, which represent a desire to win (you can’t be said to have won if you’re dead or in bits) I guess that’s why Addo, who deliberately loses at chess, starts off as a complete no-hoper with the messer, and then evolves a way of subverting it to achieve victory with the minimum of slaughter.

Justin: I've found inherent self-interest to be one of the hallmark traits of characters throughout your different novels. From Vaatzes in the Engineer Trilogy to Basso in The Folding Knife to The Irrigator in Sharps. All of these individuals will do almost anything to someone opposing their ambition/desire. It rings true to me. What attracts you to writing these kinds of characters? Do you believe in altruism?

KJP: I believe in altruism; to acknowledge its existence isn’t necessarily the same thing as approving of it unreservedly. Altruism, like most good intentions, has a nasty habit of being transmuted by the law of unintended consequences into an instrument of havoc and misery. A fair proportion of the Conquistadors and the 19th century Imperialists were sincere altruists, honestly believing that they had a duty to save heathen souls from the everlasting bonfire.

True unalloyed altruism is also quite rare. I’m rather more interested in alloyed motivations, driving conflicted characters operating in the Demilitarised Zone between good and evil.

Justin: Having read quite a bit of your past work, Sharps seems to be the novel that most clearly indicates that your novels are set in the same world. Can you confirm that?

Parker: “Set in the same world” – hm. If so (which is not admitted), there’s no intention to create a coherent historical narrative in the manner of, say, Asimov’s Foundation (which is something I would rather like to do, at some stage). If it is the same world, then each sequence of events is separated from the others by several centuries; the Mezentine rapiers in Sharps are irreplaceable antiques, rather as a Byzantine-made artifact would’ve been in the seventeenth century.

A Series Review: Acacia by David Anthony Durham

"Of course a thing that could be made into a weapon would be made into a weapon. It did not matter if it was a thing of beauty. It did not matter if their mission was holy and benevolent. It only mattered that The Song could be twisted to serve human greed. If that was so, it was only a measure of time until someone grasped for it." 

- The Sacred Band, David Anthony Durham

That quote stood out to me in the final volume of The Acacia Trilogy. I wouldn't say it's the theme of the series distilled down into four lines of prose, but it is pretty representative of one of the many contained there in. On the surface, David Anthony Durham's trilogy, and first foray into genre fiction, looks like run of the mill epic fantasy. His protagonists are four royal children whose father is struck dead in the opening moments of the first novel, The War With the Main, forcing them to scatter, grow to adulthood, and return to restore peace to the Akaran Kingdom and the Known World. It's not quite the farm boy prophesied to save the world, but it's not far off.

I began with this quote not because of its significance to the overall message of Durham's work, rather because it signifies an attempt to speak to something larger than the narrative itself. I suspect that many reviews written about Durham's series will laud it for its progressive nature (edit: after writing this post I read NethSpace's review that does just that) and rightly so.

At the start of the story, the Akaran kingdom has been ruled by a family for generations. Their power is maintained through an arrangement with a powerful entity across the sea. In exchange for a drug called mist, the Akaran's offer up a quota of children for an unknown purpose. Through mist they create a pliable population to work the mines and fields that sustain their reign. Unlike so much fantasy, the series ends not with the status quo (i.e. - the evil defeated), but with legitimate change and progression toward something better, brought about by the will of the characters and their own growth. Suffice to say there's a great deal to chew on with regard to Durham's social commentary.

While this discussion isn't necessarily my central focus, I mention it to highlight the depth achieved by Durham in a less than expansive canvas. The three book series, while historically the standard in genre fiction, has gotten complicated. Epic fantasy has become unwieldy. Robert Jordan, George R.R. Martin, Joe Abercrombie, Raymond E. Feist, Terry Brooks, and all the rest keep writing in the same world. The result is a massive backlog of story that encourages readers to either plow ahead without knowing what's come before or invest gads of time and money catching up. This is fine, they're great authors who write great books. Unfortunately, I've a belief that these types of fantasies have bread an inherent attempt to find the next Wheel of Time or Song of Ice and Fire.

As a result, we have Brandon Sanderon's Stormlight Archive, Peter V. Brett's Demon Cycle, and Daniel Abraham's Dagger and Coin. Not because readers want length; because they crave the sweeping canvas, the endless scope, and the breadth of change. Packing more into three volumes than many authors can pack into ten, Durham's Acacia bucks that trend to return epic fantasy to its structural roots, embracing tropes, while simultaneously moving afield.

One of the places he most manipulates expectations is in his approach to characters. Many modern fantasies, from the Joe Abercrombies and K.J. Parkers of the world, present the individual, heroic or otherwise, as a self-interested actor. To those authors, morality is a judgement after the fact. Actions can be interpreted to be good or evil, heroic or cowardly, but the motivations behind them are always inherently selfish. This is juxtaposed by the traditional fantasy character who sacrifices himself for the greater good, or sacrifices everyone for his own gain.

In Acacia, Durham handles it different still. Morally relativistic, yes, but with an intrinsic belief that most people want to do the right thing. Even Durham's "evilest" characters act in (what they've convinced themselves to be) the best interests of others. To them, the ends always justify the means. Layered there is an argument that power corrupts in so far as it blinds the individual to the consequences of action. It's an interesting conversation at Abercrombie and Parker who write without a recognition of good and evil. To them all motivations are the same, only outcomes differ, interpreted as right or wrong objectively by others. Durham recognizes goodness in all its forms, most especially when evil is done in its commission.

It's all of these reasons that War With the Mein was the novel that brought me back to fantasy. What made me really sit up and take notice was the subtext -- the frank discussion of social class, duty, family, and morality. There are times when Durham's characters become Mary Sues. And moderate levels of deus ex machina rear their head from time to time. For me, these moments are easily pushed aside, ignored in favor of the poignant story, memorable characters, and vast change ushered in with every page.

Published by Anchor, a Doubleday imprint and publisher of mainstream fiction, War With the Mein generated a lot of early buzz, including a John W. Campbell Award nomination for Best New Writer for Durham. Alas, with a two year delay between books and a first installment that lacked obvious newness, some readers moved on. That was a mistake and George R. R. Martin agrees with me, recently blurbing the series' reissue in trade paperback.

The new editions of the trilgoy come with Martin's recommendation, but also 14,000 words lighter. Responding to critics and readers who found the early part of War With the Mein slow, Durham tightened things up, cutting exposition and redundancies without changing the plot or characters. I think it speaks to the truth that each novel in the series improved as Durham did as a writer.

I still worry that not enough readers will find Acacia. I hope this review will help in that regard. It rekindled in me a love of fantasy and for that it will always hold a place in my pantheon. More importantly though, it's a series I'll pass it on to my children for the honesty that David Anthony Durham brings to the Known World. I hope it isn't the last we've heard of him in genre fiction.

The King's Blood - Daniel Abraham

I walked into Barnes and Noble earlier this week. What I saw shocked me. I rarely buy books in a store (bad, I know), but I often go in just to see what's being advertised, what's on the shelf, and more importantly what isn't on the shelf. Those who follow me on Twitter will know by now that I consider Daniel Abraham one of the best writers in the business and among writers of epic fantasy he might be the best, period. With the stage thus set, scouring the shelves of my local B&N, it wounded me to see only one Daniel Abraham title on the shelf. This would be an appropriate time to gasp.

Believe it or not, there were no copies of The Long Price Quartet or The Dragon's Path, the first book in The Dagger and Coin series and the preceding volume to his newest release, The King's Blood (there were eight copies). How's an author supposed to find new readers when they can't find his books? How many shoppers will pick-up Abraham's new book, realize it's a second book, look for book one, can't find it, walk out, and purchase it on Amazon (or not at all)? And we wonder why book stores are going out of business.

It's a tragic circumstance as far as I'm concerned. Not only is Abraham a great writer, but when Dagger and Coin is finished it will be hailed as the most impressive work of epic fantasy to date. Maybe that's a lot to hang on a series two books in, with three (at least) still to come, but King's Blood is that good. It demands hyperbole.

Unique among epic fantasies, there is no clear conflict in Abraham's series. No Dark Lord, or bellicose neighboring savages, or king gone mad, Dagger and Coin is fundamentally a study in character. Abraham creates a sandbox in which his children play, lacking the supervision of their parents and only cruel ingenuity at their disposal to determine who holds the shovel.

It's not really even a particularly vibrant sandbox as far as such things go. His magic system is based solely on the ability to manipulate conviction. Interesting to be sure, but nothing quite as inspirational as Aes Sedai or Allomancers. His world is also fairly two dimensional, constructed around the notion that dragons once ruled the earth, created thirteen slave races, and then disappeared, leaving their creations behind to bicker over what remained. The places and history that populate the canvas are only illuminated when the characters require them to be, thus lacking the true sense of place that George R.R. Martin's Westeros or Brandon Sanderson's Scadrial evoke.

That said, King's Blood, by the very nature of having spent another five-hundred pages with Abraham's characters, allows a far clearer picture of the world to emerge. While it still isn't the novel's strongest aspect, there's enough of a milieu to get lost in once his lush characterizations set their hooks.

To that end, the cast from Dragon's Path is back, including the points of view of Geder, Dawson, Cithrin, Marcus, and the introduction of Clara, Dawson's wife. Through these individuals Abraham's novel thrives. He depicts fully formed, painfully conflicted, layered characters that entrench themselves in the reader's mind and refuse to leave, taking up residence like stray cat you wish you'd never fed, but can't bear to send away.

Cithrin, an orphaned ward to the Medean Bank, an alcoholic, and a financial genius, is the coin:

"Cithrin mulled over how much of the performer's craft relied on excellence in a small range and how much competence over a wide variety of performances. It was, of course, a single instance of a more general problem, and it could be applied to the bank as well. A certain range of contracts -- insurance and loans and partnerships and letters of credit -- required relatively little additional expense. To widen the business into renting out guardsmen or guaranteeing merchandise in bank-owned warehouses required more resources and higher expenses, but it also brought in coin that wouldn't have come in otherwise."

A microcosm in Abraham's novel, Cithrin has no discernible key by which the reader can define her moral barometer. She's neither good or evil, merely a woman trying for self-reliance. One of the hallmarks of the series, it's a facet likewise demonstrated by Dawson whom always seeks to do the right thing, but possesses a point of view rarely shared by the modern man,

"Before this same window, his father had explained that the walls of the holding were like the fabric of the kingdom, that the noble houses were the jade. Without their constancy, even the most glorious structure would eventually fall into ruin."

His stubborn denial of change and progressiveness, juxtaposed with the warmth and love for his family make him one of the most ambivalent characters I've ever read. It's a style Abraham wields with precision. Even Geder, a mass murdering insecure man-child, becomes an object of some sympathy in Abraham's hands as he caves in the face of someone who dared oppose him.

If Cithrin is the coin, Dawson and Geder are the daggers -- blunt instruments good for little else but destruction. Unable to think beyond the moment; the necessity of response to a perceived action. In one of the earliest chapters a minor character begins,

"Wars are easier to start than end, and where they take you is rarely where you intended to go," the ambassador said. "It will be better for all of us to avoid it."

Would that Geder and Dawson could conceive of such foresight. Instead it's left to Clara and Cithrin, who see the board many moves ahead, to pick up the pieces. Knowing Abraham, I suspect it's too easy levy the charge that women are the coin and men the dagger. Perhaps more appropriate is the notion that everyone, man or woman can be either. There is no black and white. A merchant one moment can be an assassin in the next. I can't wait to find out how wrong I am.

As disappointed as I was to see a bookstore lack the requisite staples of Daniel Abraham's work, I am just as pleased to advise my readers with every ounce of conviction I possess to read The Dagger and Coin series. Make it the commercial success it deserves to be.

The Dragon's Path and The King's Blood are available now, while The Poisoned Sword (or is The Tyrant's Law?), the third volume in the series has already been turned in to Orbit. I couldn't be more excited to read it this time next year. I trust it will blow my mind.

Range of Ghosts - Elizabeth Bear

Up until now, I'd never read Elizabeth Bear. If I'm being honest, I couldn't have produced the titles of anything she'd written. That isn't to say I didn't know who she was -- she's a visible figure in the genre community and an active Tweeter -- just that I hadn't been exposed to her actual work. When her new novel showed up on my doorstep, I made it a priority. Joining a wave of 2011/2012 fantasy firmly couched in Middle Eastern and Asian influence, Range of Ghosts is an epic scale love story that tries to appeal fans of both romance and high fantasy and succeeds by any metric.

Egads! Did I say romance? Normally, the mere mention of 'romance' sets off alarm bells in my head, calling to mind smoldering glances and heaving bosoms (not that I don't like heaving... never mind). For those who share my reticence, don't worry. Range is a love story, but not a romance. With that in mind, my first reaction to what I was reading came around the fifty page mark where Bear writes the best sex scene I've read in fantasy. To whet your appetite:

She was softness, lush dimpled softness of arms and flanks wrapped around strength, like a bent bow. She was the fall of cool hair across his throat and his burning face, like water to a man sick with sun. She was the smell of sweat and pungent oils. She was the warmth of the night, and seventeen moons rose over her shoulders while she rode him with the purpose and intensity with which she raced her mare.

Of course, now all the readers of George Martin, Joe Abercrombie, and Brent Weeks are saying, not for me! And they might be right. Range isn't hyper violent, or unduly action packed. The pace is smooth, and even. There is violence and action, but it's carefully inserted (not a euphemism), representing a culmination of tension and then over again in a flash.

Instead, Bear's novel is carried on the back of a thoughtfully constructed and flawlessly articulated world. That isn't to say she's dumping information left and right, rather she instills an inherent sense of wonder that pervades, and in many ways overwhelms, the characters and plot. It's not that her plot or characters are weak, the world is just that good. With a different sky for every kingdom, a system of magic that has costs and limitations, and a cultural depth that codes realism, Range is a thoughtful exploration of culture and the right to rule.

On the Khaganate steppe a hundred moons dot the sky, one for each of the male scions of the Great Khan's line. In the Uthman Caliphate those moons are no where to be seen:

Mukhtar ai-Idoj, al-Sepehr of the Rock, crouched atop the lowest and broadest of them, his back to the familiar east-setting sun of the Uthman Caliphate. Farther east, he knew, the strange pale sun of the Qersnyk tribes was long fallen, their queer hermaphroditic godling undergoing some mystic transformation to rise again as the face of the night.

Range is told from several different points of view, but operates primarily from the perspective of Temur, grandson of the Great Khan, and Once-Princess turned Wizard, Samarkar. Surviving a bloody war between his cousin and brother, who fought to rule the Khaganate, Temur looks to the sky every night and finds another cousin, uncle, or brother dead, their moon extinguished forever. Formerly the heir to the Rasan Empire, Samarkar has been replaced by her half-brother. Widowed and vulnerable, she renounces her position at court to seek a new power with the Wizards of Tsarepheth. In the midst of their changing world a cult begins to manipulate empires, bringing strife and civil war under every sky the world over.

Outlined as such, it's not a complex plot and the characters are somewhat archetypal, but the motives that move both are anything but. It's those motivations, driven in large part by the veracity of Bear's world building, that makes Range such a compelling read. Compelling, but not necessarily the kind that kept me up into the wee hours of the morning. The pace, and style, make it something to get lost in, to hang on to each detail and relish the creative process that birthed it. That's exactly what I did.

Over the last year I've observed a real trend toward non-western fantasy worlds. From Blackdog (Johansen) and The Emperor Knife (Williams), which share some DNA with Range of Ghosts, to the more Middle Eastern Throne of the Crescent Moon (Ahmed) and the Cyrillic Winds of Khalakovo (Bealieu), there seems to be a concerted effort by authors and editors to expose readers to something new. Some of that is coming from the desire to be different, some is coming from authors of different cultural backgrounds entering the field, and some of it is coming from a desire to mine a new market of readers. Regardless of its intent, fantasy is in the midst of a boom of non-western ideas and cultures. I find it refreshing and even moreso intellectually stimulating. It's an exciting time to be reading and Elizabeth Bear's newest novel is a great example of the times.

                                                          

Range of Ghosts is due out March 27 from Tor Books. You can follow Elizabeth Bear on Twitter @matociquala.

The Riyria Revelations - Michael J. Sullivan

Back in 2008 I came across Michael J. Sullivan's self published novel, The Crown Conspiracy, the first installment in The Riyria Revelations.  Relying solely on Amazon reviews back then, I picked it up (and the following 3 novels).  This was fantasy that Gary Gygax might have written -- sword and sorcery, elves and dwarfs, good guys and bad guys.  It was also a huge success, a poster child for the self-publishing movement.  Then Orbit came along, making Sullivan an offer to go the traditional publishing route.  He accepted, delaying Percepliquis, the final volume in the series, for nearly a year as Orbit edited and repackaged the six book series as three omnibus editions (Theft of Swords, Rise of Empire, Heir of Novron.  In January, the final omnibus was finally released to great excitement among fans of the series.

Riyria begins and ends with Royce and Hadrian, Sullivan's take on the Fafhrd and Grey Mouse paradigm. Royce is a small thief of exceptional skill, with a dark past and darker disposition. Hadrian is his best and only friend, a master swordsman with a heart of gold.  The first omnibus begins with the intrepid duo on their way to steal a set of incriminating documents from a nobleman.  Easily accomplished, the pair are soon back in their tavern of choice, interviewing for a new job to infiltrate the King of Melanger's castle.

What starts as a simple snatch and go, winds up with them framed for the death of the King and imprisoned.  Now at the center of national politics, Royce and Hadrian escape the noose with help from Princess Arista, whose only request is that they take her brother, the new king, with them.  To protect his life and clear their name, the pair will have to confront the greatest wizard who ever lived and a power hungry church bent on domination.

If that sounds like build-a-fantasy-plot-version-1a, it's by design.  Sullivan starts the series on familiar ground, couching things in a way that will be instantly recognizable to anyone who's cracked open a fantasy book.  Likewise, for a younger first time reader of the genre, it's a natural entry point.  It's an action adventure with none of the excessive world building or intricate plots that often deter the uninitiated.  Sullivan has long touted that the series was written as one piece simultaneously, with each book building on the preceding one in terms of complexity.  I can largely confirm it with the understanding that the vast majority of that stems from improved plotting and better drawn characters, not a deeper subtext.

Those familiar with my reviews know that I tend to get into some detail about a book's thematics, guessing at the author's intent.  In the case of Sullivan's series, that's more difficult.  His theme is adventure, and his undertones escapism.  Sure, there's some small offerings to racism and classism, and tolerance and human relationships, but by and large there's a willful denial of commentary.  That will leave some readers cold, but taken as a whole Riyria is an enjoyable distraction with moments that reach for something beyond.

Initially, I wrote another 1500 words to review this series, spending time on each book and providing the highs and lows.  Most of that ended up as rambling incoherence.  Trying to encapsulate six books and some 2,000 pages into a single review is no easy task. I started looking around at all the reviews written about the series (they are legion) and realized I agree with almost all of them -- even the terribly negative ones. In fact, reading this review, it might be guessed that I didn't enjoy the series all that much. Nothing could be further from the truth.

Riyria is polarizing and I don't think it has very much to do with its quality, or lack there of.  There are stylistic and artistic speed bumps that will turn people off and on to varying degrees.  Ultimately, I came to the conclusion that Riyria may not be a series than can be objectively described as good or bad.  For those weaned on fantasy of the 1980's, Sullivan's work can be transportamagatative (thanks Mark Lawrence) transportive and it certainly was for me despite any of the perfectly legitimate niggles that can be levied against it.

In the interest of providing a quick guide to who might enjoy the series, I put together the following:

These are the facts:

• the prose is utilitarian
• the world is not that unique
• the plot is straightforward in the early going, eyebrow cocking at times, and rather complex later
• the characters are wooden to start, requiring some patience, but develop beautifully as things move along
• the world building is extensive, and requires some awkward info dumping
• the entire series is a fucking blast to read

The conclusion I reached is that The Riyria Revelations is an if-then series.  If you like ____, then you'll like these books.  If you don't, then you won't.  Let's try it.

Things that will make you not like Riyria:

If you don't like anachronisms and world-building that doesn't take into account urban geography and social engineering, then you may not like Riyria.

If you don't like elves and dwarfs, finding them derivative and out dated, then you may not like Riyria.

If you don't like puppies and potpourri, you may not like Riyria. (I jest.)

If you like your fantasy to make you think for days about existential meaning, you won't like Riyria... at all.

If the use of archaic syntax in an inaccurate and inconsistent manner for a few pages bothers you, then you won't like Riyria.

If you like your magic system to have hard rules and logic, then you won't like Riyria. 

If you like the last book to be the best book, then you may not like Riyria¹.

Things that will make you like Riyria:

If you liked The Dragonlance Chronicles by Margaret Weiss and Tracy Hickman, but find on re-read that they are too young adult, then you'll like Riyria². 

If you like a series that becomes generally more advanced, more adult, and more complex with each volume, then you'll really like Riyria.  

If you like thiefing, and sword fighting, and learning magic, and political intrigue, and villains who are justified in their own sick way, then you'll really like Riyria. 

If you like a good story, and a knock for story telling, then you'll really like Riyria. 

If you like character above all else, you'll like Riyria.  

and finally...

In the words of Southwest Airlines, wanna get away?  Then read Riyria, you'll like it.  I'm also happy to answer any questions anyone might have about the series, and whether it's for them.


^1: I thought this warranted further explanation. Percepliquis, the final book in the series, concludes all the story lines in a neat bow.  It's well done, and answers every question the reader could possibly have about why things happened, how they happened, and who did them.  Unfortunately, for me, the most climactic moment in the series takes place in Wintertide, the penultimate novel.  I was left unworried for any of the characters in the final volume until a big reveal at the very end.  It's not a bad novel, but Wintertide eclipses it in every way -- take that for what it's worth.


^2: What I mean by that is while Riyria is straightforward and light, it is far more detailed and comprehensively written than some of the 80's teenage fantasy. Sullivan fleshes out his characters and takes his time building things to a natural conclusion.

The Desert Spear - Peter V. Brett

Some have said that The Desert Spear has all the same components (good and bad) from The Warded Man, only more.  I think that's an apt description.  In the second installment of the Demon Cycle, Peter V. Brett expands the scope of his story, spending more time on his pseudo Islamic/Samurai culture (Krasnians) and offering the demon's point of view for the first time.  He brings new characters into the fold and expands the reader's understanding of his magic system and world.  Despite some persistent problems that return from the first novel, Desert Spear is a delightful read that calls to mind the great epic fantasies of years gone by.

The novel begins through the point of view of Jardir, the Krasnian leader so vilified in Warded Man.  Structured much like the first novel, Brett jumps through different points in time to tell the story of Jardir's childhood and rise to power without losing track of his holy war of unification against the north.  Later, Arlen, Leesha, Rojer, and a new point of view character, Renna, reconnect to the story as they struggle to confront the encroachment of the Krasnian army.

If that brief summary lacks in plot movement, it's because there isn't a ton.  Desert Spear is a middle book in the tradition of Empire Strikes Back.  In order for the war between Krasnia and the north (and humanity and demon-kind) to happen, Brett needs to get all his chess pieces in the proper place.  It requires him to show Jardir's motivations, setting him up as the foil to Arlen.  Two Deliverers on a different end of the same continuum -- one representing a universal world view and a united front, the other an ideal of self-sufficiency and independence.

Critics might think by looking inside Jardir's head, Brett is trying to justify his deplorable actions or even worse, further bastardize non-western points of view.  I think it's more to provide an understanding of Jardir's motives.  I've heard Brett speak a few times, and he's said that his novels are in many ways an expression of the fear he witnessed on September 11.  A New Yorker in the city that day, he watched as some ran toward the towers, others ran away, and others froze, unable to do either.  If the demons and humanity in Brett's world are that paradigm writ large, then I can't help but wonder if Jardir is an embodiment of both those who attacked America that day and the nation's reaction to that threat.

That's not to say that Brett is in anyway condoning Al-Qaeda or the war on terror -- I suspect he doesn't much care for either -- but I found the early parts of the novel, and every scene with Jardir there after, an exercise in cultural understanding.  As incompatible as the Krasnian way of life is to Arlen and Leesha, their's is equally as foreign to Jardir.  Brett seems to be speaking to those differences and through Jardir he reaches a hand out to bridge the cultural gap that only willful understanding can span.  Could Brett be wondering aloud that, 'if we could see through each other's eyes would this violence seem so necessary?'  In that dialogue, Desert Spear is a far more powerful novel than its predecessor.  A better novel though?  I can't go that far.

Brett's a big deal in the

German land.

What Desert Spear gives in thematic oomph, it gives back nearly as much in terms of pacing and character.  The early sections with Jardir drag as Brett covers some of the same ground witnessed at the end of Warded Man.  Likewise, returning to a childhood story feels like starting over after growing up with Arlen, Leesha, and Rojer in the first book.  Leesha gives me particular pause as her character has yet to feel real to me two books into the series.  I would call her actions unsupported by her character, but I can't because I don't find her remotely believable in the first place.  Arlen, Rojer, and Renna all feel much more authentic, but the first two stagnate throughout the novel as they wait for the plot (Jardir) to catch up to them.

That paragraph is awful critical, which is perhaps unfair.  None of my quibbles impacted my enjoyment of the novel beyond a raised eyebrow or three.  Brett's action sequences and dialogue continue to impress me, and I never lack for a crystal clear picture of his characters and setting.  Additionally, the tighter narrative and thematic focus (i.e. - not foaming at the mouth with unnecessary digressions) continue to elevate it, doing nothing to dispel my assertions that the Demon Cycle may one day be considered on par with The Wheel of Time and other fantasy icons.

I devoured The Desert Spear, compelled to know more about Peter V. Brett's world.  Why do demons plague the night?  Who is the true Deliverer?  Are the wards more than they seem?  I dare anyone to read it and not demand those answers.  To anyone who enjoyed The Warded Man, this second novel will provide more to love.  A third installment, The Daylight War, is due to be released in 2013.  I'll be at the front of the line to see what happens next.

Songs of the Earth - Elspeth Cooper

I've read some crazy good debuts over the last twelve months, including two of the best novels I read last year.  It's not the norm, however, for a debut author to spring forth like Athena, fully grown and ready to kick some ass.  And Elspeth Cooper's (can we agree that Elspeth is a cool name?) Songs of the Earth is more the norm, a well conceived and well written novel that suffers from debut hiccups.

Cooper's protagonist is Gair, a holy-knight-in-training who's been exiled and branded by the Church for witchcraft. Starved and battered, he finds help from a mysterious man who can teach him to control the magical song in his mind.  The man, Alderan, is a member of an ancient order of Guardians, charged with protecting the barrier between the world and something akin to Hell.  What follows is the 'magical school' plot device that's so widely applied across the genre, and for the most part it's well done, although the focus remains more on Gair's romance with an older woman than education.

While Gair's journey is the primary story line, other plots are afoot, including Church politicking as Preceptor Ansel prepares for a coming conflict.  Coming conflict I say?  Can I provide more details?  Well, not really, which caused some consternation.  Maybe Cooper is being too subtle, or maybe I'm dense, but Ansel spends a great deal of time researching, plotting, and executing (maybe?) something.  460 pages later, it's not clear at all what that is.  I might have a guess about the ultimate goal, but the methods he's laying out to accomplish them?  I've got nothing.

For me, Ansel's sequences were far more compelling than Gair's.  Populated by interesting characters with blurred morality,  it's unfortunate they function more like an extended epilogue, as none of it felt relevant to the main arc. Of course, it whet my appetite for the next book, the obvious intent, but interspersing it throughout the novel slows the narrative, leading to a novel with inconsistent pace.

There is one other niggle that bears mentioning.  A moment occurs about halfway through the novel where Gair demonstrates a capability with no groundwork to support it.  It seemingly comes out of nowhere and somewhat impeaches what is in my mind a tremendous first half of a novel.  In fact, had I written this review based solely on the preceding pages, I would be stringing together a series of superlatives.  All of which goes to say, Cooper absolutely has the talent to succeed.

Despite some bumps in the road, I found Songs an enjoyable read.  The characters are well drawn, some exceptionally so (Alden), and Cooper demonstrates a knack for believable dialogue.  Her descriptive prose flows well especially in action sequences where her familiarity with swordplay is apparent.  Also, some of the novel's most impressive moments come in the aforementioned romance.  What could have come off awkward and stilted, always felt sweet and natural.

Given what I know about Cooper, and what she's shown in Songs of the Earth, I have a strong feeling the Wild Hunt series will be more well regarded as a whole, than the first installment on its own.  Numerous fantasy series have started slow before catching fire.  With a little more polish and experience,  I can see Elspeth Cooper doing just that.

The Warded Man - Peter V. Brett

I'm a little late to the Peter Brett party.  I remember when The Warded Man first hit the shelves a few years ago.  I had just finished Brent Weeks's Night Angel Trilogy and I was hunting for something new.  I wasn't a savvy blogger type then or even someone who read reviews on-line -- just a guy who liked to read.  I'm sad to say, I made a conscious decision not to start it.  I wanted to make sure it had legs before I invested my time and money.  It turns out my $7.99 investment is going to cost me five times that by the time Brett's Demon Cycle is done.  In fact, I should probably just send Del Rey the check right now.  I wonder if they take trade-ins (Omen Machine? Anyone?).

Warded Man can come off a bit like paint-by-number-epic-fantasy at first.  The narrative voice is third person limited, using three distinct points of view.  It begins in a small community on the outskirts of a society built on fear of demons, who come to feed when the sun sets.  Arlen is the stereotypical farm boy who dreams of life beyond the agrarian lifestyle chosen for him.  With a natural talent for painting wards, the only barrier between humanity and the insatiable demons, Arlen isn't satisfied with the status quo.  When his mother is attacked one night, he leaves home, determined to find freedom from fear.

The other two points of view are Rojer, an orphaned jongleur (think gleeman or bard), and Leesha, a stunningly beautiful herb gatherer (think wisdom or hedge witch).  For much of the novel the three story lines are independent from one another, brought together only when each has reached a conclusion that the world they inhabit cannot continue.  While Arlen is the novel's center, all three of them are given about equal time.

Some of the other paint-by-number devices include a combat dedicated desert people who wield spears, battles for survival against impossible odds, villains who engender no sympathy, and coming of age plots.  There's even a prophesy.  All that might be read as a criticism of the novel and Brett as an author.  It's not.  Warded Man may be wrapped in familiar paper, but under the hood is a unique smorgasbord of fantasy delights that becomes more apparent with each page (mixed metaphor, much?).

Of course, there are certain tropes that by their very definition designate something as epic fantasy (prophesy, end of the world stakes, good vs. evil, etc.).  There are also certain tropes that come up again, and again, for a very good reason.  The best example being the small town, farm boy starting point.  When building a second world from the ground up, including a magic system, political structures, and establishing character baselines, there's almost no better way to ease a reader in that the aforementioned trope.  Authors who eschew it are often criticized for throwing too much at their readers, Steven Erikson being perhaps the best example.  Are there other ways to go about it?  Sure, but it's overused for a reason and Brett executes it flawlessly.

UK Cover and Title

And execution is mostly what makes Warded Man such a rousing success.  Brett's prose flows naturally and his action scenes seem effortless.  His world and magic system are cleverly crafted, playing off each other in perfect harmony.  Characters are well drawn, making the reader want to strangle them one moment and cheer for them the next.  To condense things down to a sentence, Brett is beginning something that will be a tighter, and more grim, Wheel of Time.

My one complaint about the novel is that it ends up reading something like a long form prologue.  Brett divides everything up into four parts, starting his characters as children, then young adults, then adults, before bringing the novel to its for-now conclusion.  Covering fifteen years of time, with each section covering a year at most, a great deal of time passes that's a mystery to the reader.  Additionally, until those final pages, Brett's three characters are searching for direction, as opposed to driving towards a goal.  Some might find that a bit off-putting; it just made me angry I didn't have a copy of the sequel, Desert Spear, sitting on my nightstand.  And that's about the best endorsement I can give an author.

By the time Brett pens the final volume, the Demon Cycle is going to be one of the best selling series in recent years.  I know I have readers of this blog who will find aspects of Warded Man irredeemable.  It could be the familiar trappings, or a particular set of scenes near the end that may not sit well with some female (mostly) readers.  But, even critics will recognize that Peter Brett has a tremendous talent for story telling.  It's been a long time since I stayed up to 2 AM to finish a novel (on a work night, no less!), and even longer since I had no idea how much time had passed.

For fans of epic fantasy, with Wheel of Time ending, and A Song of Ice and Fire taking a circuitous route to completion, this is the series to get on board.  Of course, everyone knew that already, right?

                       

Desert Spear, the second installment in the Demon Cycle is available now.  Daylight War, the third installment, is scheduled for release in early 2013.  You can follow Peter Brett on Twitter or on his website.

Seven Princes - John Fultz

Around these parts I commit myself to finishing everything I start.  Why, you ask?  Because I think it's important for me to help my reader make decisions about what they should buy and what they should avoid.  If I only read things that I enjoy, how will I ever fulfill the second half of that commitment?  I'm also loathe to spend 800 words eviscerating someone's baby.  Thus, Cheryl was born.  Cheryl is my imaginary personal assistent who helps me "review" novels I really did not like.  Instead of just doggedly attacking a novel's failures, I try to have some fun with it and get some laughs.  Hopefully it's taken the way I intend it.

What follows is the conversation I had with some figures of legend about John Fultz's debut novel, Seven Princes.  It's a novel I really wanted to like, but didn't.  Cheryl urged me hold the post until after Christmas, I agreed.  This is my third installment of posts featuring Cheryl.  If you enjoy this one, I suggest finding the Cheryl tag on the right sidebar for the others.

                             

Best fake personal assistant that

fake money can fake buy.

Justin: *buzz* Cheryl, what's on today's agenda?

Cheryl: It's Christmas, Mr. Landon.

Justin: Right.  So it is.

Cheryl: You're doing it again, aren't you?

Justin: Huh?  What do you mean -- "it"?

Cheryl: You're going to make fun of someone's book.

Justin: I'm a reviewer Cheryl.  My intellectual integrity demands that I represent things as I see them!

Cheryl: It's Christmas, Mr. Landon!  Christmas!  Do you want your little blogger friends to call you the Grinch?  They will.  In fact, I heard Larry from OF Blog of the Fallen call you an abecedarian!

Justin: A what?

Cheryl: I had to look it up.  That guy's a real windbag.

Justin: Oh who cares what he thinks.  I need to get this review for Seven Princes written.

Cheryl: Oh poor John Fultz... I really should send him a fruit basket or something....

Justin: *hanging up on Cheryl* John Fultz's Seven Princes is an attempt to write a modern myth in the spirit of....

*buzz*

Justin: Jesus Chri... er... Yes, Cheryl?

Cheryl: Mr. Landon, Gilgamesh is on the line.

Justin: I'm sorry, did you say Gilgamesh?  Like the ancient hero of Mesopatamia who's been dead for 4,000 years?

Cheryl: How am I supposed to know?  He just said Gilgamesh.  He said you'd know what it's about.

Justin:  Better put him through...

Cheryl: Mr. Gilgamesh, I have Mr. Landon on the line.

Justin: Uh, Merry Christmas?

Gilgamesh and Enkidu kill some baddies

Gilgamesh: *grunt* Me English not so good.  Have Beowulf here, too.

Beowulf: Greetings peasant.

Justin: I'm actually a professional, King of the Geats.  Not som...

Gilgamesh: I not care.  We talk about book.

Justin: Uh, Seven Princes?

Beowulf: My grunting compatriot and I have heard that someone has tried to write a modern novel in the style of the ancient epic.

Justin: You could say that.

Beowulf: I did say that.

Justin: It's an expression.

Gilgamesh: Argh! Enough wordplay. Enkidu smart, but no here.  Gilgamesh smash.

Beowulf: Calm yourself my ancient friend.  We called yon' Professional to ensure our legacies as kings of the ancient epic are intact!

Justin: Right.  Well, as I said, Fultz certainly tried to interpret the ancient epic into a modern story.  All of his characters are infallible.  Super-strong, full of magic, seemingly invulnerable, and entirely unchangeable.  Incredibly convenient things happen time and again in a contrived manner that benefits these heroes...

Gilgamesh: What wrong with that?

Beowulf: Seems like my kind of tale, yon' Professional.

Justin: Hmm, I suppose it would.  Fultz never pays any attention to non-heroes because, well, just about everyone in the novel is a full blown hero.  Additionally, the consequences of their actions on the wider world are ignored.

Beowulf: Stories make legends!  My deeds are known throughout the centuries!  Why should anyone care about the man who cleans my mail?!

Justin: Yes, right.  That's the thing... modern readers are looking for deeper, more intimate, stories.

Gilgamesh: Ah, deeper and intimate... Gilgamesh see.  Like when Enkidu and me turn off the lights...

Justin: Oh good lord, no... bad Gilgamesh, bad!

Beowulf: I must agree with yon' Professional, friend Gilgamesh.  For the nonce, please refrain from further mentions of lights.

Justin: What I meant is that telling a story about supermen running around bashing things without any conception for cause and effect or character building just isn't something that I want to read these days.  The only reason your epics hold a place in the pantheon is because of what they tell us about the past.  Fultz's epic of a made up world with uninteresting made up characters doesn't tell us anything about the past, and because it's a shallow story about killing monsters it doesn't really tell us anything about anything.

Gilgamesh: Beowulf, did puny 'modern reader' call Gilgamesh story bad?

Beowulf: .... yon' Professional begins to resemble Grendel, methinks.

Justin: Uh.. ahem.. c'mon guys... what I meant was Fultz's novel is no threat to the stories of old.  While his sentences are well formed and he describes all the action superbly, he lacks the same gravitas of your epics which occupy a vital place in cultural history.  Furthermore, because the novel lacks any modern sensibilities when it comes to character or plot it falls flat.  Maybe this would be a big hit in the 80's, when fantasy was still nascent, but today?  I say resoundingly.... meh.

Gilgamesh: That better. *crashing noises*

This movie sucked. Don't

tell Beowulf!

Justin: Uh, did you just drop a rock?  You know we're on the phone right?  You can't actually hit me with a rock.

Gilgamesh: Heh, Beowulf... this guy no understand metaphysics, do he?

Justin: *grumble* Everyone's a critic.

Beowulf: Good bye, yon' Professional.  We'll be in touch if there are more threats to our legacy.

Gilgamesh: *grunt* Now, where Enkidu and tent?

Interview with Winds of Khalakovo author Bradley Beaulieu

Last week I reviewed Bradley Beaulieu's debut novel The Winds of Khalakovo.  I said a lot of nice things, and some not so nice things, but most importantly, I said it's a welcome, and needed, addition to the genre. Given my somewhat analytic take on the novel, I really wanted to ask the author some questions. He kindly agreed and provided me better answers than I could have ever hoped.

Here's the blurb for Winds of Khalakovo:

                                       

Among inhospitable and unforgiving seas stands Khalakovo, a mountainous archipelago of seven islands, its prominent eyrie stretching a thousand feet into the sky. Serviced by windships bearing goods and dignitaries, Khalakovo's eyrie stands at the crossroads of world trade. But all is not well in Khalakovo. Conflict has erupted between the ruling Landed, the indigenous Aramahn, and the fanatical Maharraht, and a wasting disease has grown rampant over the past decade. Now, Khalakovo is to play host to the Nine Dukes, a meeting which will weigh heavily upon Khalakovo's future.

When an elemental spirit attacks an incoming windship, murdering the Grand Duke and his retinue, Prince Nikandr, heir to the scepter of Khalakovo, is tasked with finding the child prodigy believed to be behind the summoning. However, Nikandr discovers that the boy is an autistic savant who may hold the key to lifting the blight that has been sweeping the islands. Can the Dukes, thirsty for revenge, be held at bay? Can Khalakovo be saved? The elusive answer drifts upon the Winds of Khalakovo...

                                        

Justin: Winds uses a lot of elements that might be Russian, or Tartar, or Crimean, or what have you.  In my review I point out some themes that were prevalent in the golden age of Russian lit (Crime and Punishment, War and Peace, etc.).  Intentional?

Beaulieu: This is somewhat tough to answer. I'll start by saying that I'm not well read in Russian literature. And frankly this might be somewhat of a plus for me. Why? Because I shudder at the notion of being derivative. In other words: if I had read them, I wonder if I would have shied away from those very themes. One of my greatest interests in reading is to find something that still produces that sensawunda feeling that I had as a teen when reading fantasy and sci-fi for the first time. And that's also one thing I'm hoping to bring to the table in my own writing.

When I was reading your review, however, I was pleased that Winds had in fact strummed those notes for you—and so perhaps others. I didn't have that grounding in Russian literature to rely on, but I think such things filter down through our culture. They may be altered from the original experience, but I think that we absorb a lot through popular culture without necessarily having immersed yourself in the primary culture.

Personal favorite of mine

too!

(As a small aside, while I say I don't want to be derivative, I realize it's an impossible ideal. We all have influences, people we're trying to emulate, and the ones that have had the most effect on my own writing have been C.S. Friedman, Guy Gavriel Kay, Glen Cook, and George R.R. Martin.)

Justin: So you haven't read much Russian lit.  Did I see what I wanted to see in the text?  Or were you laying these themes down without consciously acknowledging them as part of Russian tradition?

Beaulieu: As I alluded to above, I think there are a lot of things that come down through our popular culture that I picked up along the way, so while I didn't consciously draw from any of those sources, they found their way inside me just the same. I read rather slowly, and I'm certainly no historian, so I'm at a disadvantage when it comes to drawing directly from primary sources for inspiration.

This is why I will probably never write an alternate history novel—be it fantastic or otherwise—because that's simply not my strength. Nor, frankly, is that were my interests are in reading or writing. I'm drawn to completely new, fabricated worlds.

Now, I say that and I recognize the irony. I'm not creating a completely new world. I'm creating a world that draws heavily from Earth-based cultures. I get that. But in the end, I'm using those cultures as leaping-off points for the tale I'm trying to tell. I don't want to be bound by our history. I want to create a world where I can explore what it would be like to have different landscapes and different cultural crucibles and see what comes of it. So in many ways I'm comfortable with this approach. (That's not to say that I don't wish I was wider read. I do. But the day is only so long...)

And also, I wasn't completely bereft of research before I dove in. I trolled various sources for customs of the time periods and regions I was borrowing from. I looked into the garb of the time, the drink, the food, the arms and armor. I also drew from personal experience like taking a few sails on a three-masted schooner and going to see a traditional Russian dance troupe that was touring the US. I spent a lot of time looking into artwork, particularly Russian iconography.

So while I didn't read the Russian tradition, I think I absorbed a lot of it from a variety of other sources. I think it seeped into me before I dove in, and I tried to reinforce it as I wrote, revisiting some of those sources now and again to rekindle those inner flames that made me want to borrow from Russian culture in the first place.

Justin: What's your interest in Eastern (steppe?) cultures?

Inspiring fantasy authors

since 1984!

Beaulieu: I think my initial interest in Russia and the steppes can be traced back to high school and college days. When I was in high school in the 80s, it wasn't exactly the height of the Red Scare, but there were still echoes running through middle America (see Red Dawn and the like), especially as things like Reagan's Star Wars initiative hit our social consciousness. But I never felt any of that stuff. I didn't have anything against the Russians. They'd never done anything to me, and so, while the threat of war felt at least somewhat real, I never felt any animosity toward the people.

This was reinforced for me when I worked with a Russian immigrant one year—at a weapons contractor, no less. We inspected circuit boards for all sorts of things—cruise missiles among them—but both of us had a programming background. We struck up a friendship. During our dinner breaks, I helped him with his English, and we talked a bit about life in Russia as compared to the US, and he echoed the things that I'd been feeling: that the people of Russia didn't think of Americans as enemies.

Justin: Did you see a gap in the kinds of cultures that genre fiction pull from so you endeavored to fill it?

Beaulieu: When I think back to the genesis of Winds and what I wanted to explore and how, I already knew that it was a cold and inhospitable place. From there I sort of stumbled onto Russian culture as one of my touchstones for the story, but I can't say that Russian culture, specifically, was something I recognized as a gap that needed filling. I'd long grown tired of the traditional fantasies. Even despite this malaise, I had already written two novels that would be shelved right along with the rest of what I would call middle of the road fantasies. I was just starting out, and, well, part of me just wasn't daring enough, and part of it was that my writing muscles just weren't strong enough to do anything else. But by the time I was ready to write Winds, I knew I wanted to try something new. Something more bold. On the other hand, I wasn't looking to create a new genre, either. I just wanted to bring something fresh to a genre that can at times feel stale.

Justin: Did you have any heartburn about the use of Russian words?

Beaulieu: Some, yes. On those words that don't have much of a direct translation—like cherkesska for the long coats the military wear, or the names of weaponry, or kozyol (goat) for a swear word—I didn't really think twice about it. They bring a certain amount (and the right amount, in my opinion) of foreignness to the read. I debated some time over things like privyet for "hello" and dasvidaniya for "good-bye." They were coming close to direct translations that might be better left translated, but in the end, I kept a smattering of these to color the text.

I also thought long and hard over the use of da and nyet in the text. Some people are put off by this. Others don't seem to be bothered by it. I think if I'd ended up with only one culture and one language, I probably wouldn't have used those words, but I started out of the gate with two primary languages (Yrstanlanan and Mahndi) and I've added two more since, and I wanted some way to orient the reader through dialogue (similar to aye and nay in Scottish). I wanted them to have a cue that the characters were speaking one language or the other. And now that I've expanded to four languages total, I've continued to use that. Whether or not that works for the reader, I can't say, but that was my intent: to provide simple cues that also added some flavor to the read.

Justin: Your name seems pretty French. I'm not an etymologist though. Why isn't everyone saying bonjour and eating crepes?

Been meaning to scope this

one out.

Beaulieu: Oui, mon nom est très français (though my ancestors took a detour through Quebec). You know, I may just do that some day. After all, how much French-based fantasy do you see? As a small aside, one of my favorite fantasy movies was the 2001 French film, Brotherhood of the Wolf (Le Pacte des loups). The movie didn't quite live up to the expectations set in the beginning of the film, but I really loved the mixture of 18th century France and the Iroquois companion and the mystery of the beast with the addition of Hong Kong-style martial arts. It was a heady mixture, and it's something I might some day explore for a novel.

Justin: In my review, I wondered how many other presses outside of Night Shade would take a chance of this kind book (and I applaud them for it).  Am I full of it?

Beaulieu: Well, the book was only on submission to DAW and Night Shade, so I can't say for sure, but it sure does seem to me that Night Shade is finding stories that you wouldn't think would be placed with the bigger publishers. More and more, the Big 6 are looking like the big studios in Hollywood. They look for what's worked in the past, and then they try to gobble up anything that looks like it in hopes of making money on riding that wave. Whereas outfits like Night Shade and Pyr and Angry Robot are more like what Miramax used to be, a studio that took chances on small films they believed in but that didn't fit the typical Hollywood blockbuster. I applaud all three presses and smaller ones like them for what they're doing. I think it's a necessary thing in fiction today, because the days of getting multiple series to establish yourself as a writer are over at the bigger publishing houses. They've become very cutthroat, and it's places like Night Shade that are now leading the way in new voices.

Justin: You're a contributor over at Night Bazaar.  There seems to be a real comradery among this year's crop of Night Shade debut authors.  How have you found that whole experience?

Beaulieu: Wow, it's been great. I didn't really know what to expect. We all entered it as a way to promote, but as these things go, you develop friendships along the way. That—and not the marketing—is the thing I'm going to value the most from the experience. I've met almost everyone in person, and we've become a tight knit group, and I certainly hope that continues in the future.

We're ceding control of the Bazaar over to Night Shade at the end of the year, and though we'll still be involved, it will no longer be our baby. But instead, we'll have our memories of this crazy year of debuts, plus the regular contributions from Martha Wells and so many other guest posters. It's been wonderful to share the experience of "coming out" as an author, not only from the perspective of celebrating, but learning, supporting, and sometimes commiserating.

Justin: Ok, last question, and it's a toughie.  My review (and some others I've read) makes mention of the novel's struggles with obscurity and/or clarity.  As a writer, what do you take from that?  Are these problems you knew (feared) were present or is it by design?

Droopier mustache would sell 

the Russian thing better.

Beaulieu: I mind these questions as "an author" because, now that the story has been released to the world, part of me wants to stay removed from the mechanics and the details of its creation. As "a writer," however, I'm more than willing to share, because it may in fact help someone else who's also dedicating themselves to the craft.

One of my biggest weaknesses as a writer has always been (and I've no idea why this is) that I don't give quite enough explanation, exposition, backstory, what have you. I tend to err on the side of telling to little than telling too much. Part of this, I suppose, is that those are the stories I like to read. I like meatier tales that force me to do a bit of work. But another part—right or wrong—is that when I'm explaining things, I feel like the reader is yawning, waiting for me to get back to the real story. Now I know even while saying that that part of the enjoyment of fiction is to understand what came before, to understand how things work, to understand why characters are like they are. And so I certainly do try to balance this. I try to recognize this weakness of mine and explain more than I'm comfortable doing so that the balance will be "just right" for the reader.

I'm loath to judge my own fiction now that it's out in the world, so I won't comment on whether I've found the right balance or not—that's not my place to say anymore—but as you say, there are things to learn from astute readers, particularly reviewers that read a lot, have a good background in the field, and give good thought to the strengths and weaknesses of a story. I have and will continue to read reviews and weigh them against the story and my writing to see if any adjustments are necessary.

To answer the question about clearing things up in future novels, I had hoped to make Winds a rather complete story, but there are always things left unsaid, things only hinted at that might be revealed later. One of the things that I thought was most interesting about it was Nasim's past and the history of Ghayavand, the island upon which much of the trilogy hinges. The second book, The Straits of Galahesh, delves deeply into Nasim's past and uncovers some of the mystery of his nature and why he is like he is. And this in turn shows a certain trajectory for where the world at large is headed.

Justin: Thanks for doing this. And sorry if some of these questions are a pain in the ass.

Beaulieu: Very happy to answer them. These were challenging, even daunting, but I'm glad you asked them. Thanks so much for having me, and again, thanks for allowing me to share with your readers.