davramlocke's Reviews (777)

From the little research I’ve done, it seems as though Baptism of Fire is fourth in the Witcher series of books, but I don’t know if that’s right or not because there are two canonical books of short stories that precede the novels. Baptism of Fire is the third series installment, set after Blood of Elves and The Time of Contempt, and it makes more sense to call it that because it deals with the events surrounding Ciri, the Child of Destiny and focus of most of the events of Sapkowski’s universe. The true protagonist of these books is Geralt of Rivia, the Witcher himself, and while the viewpoint is usually through his eyes, he is merely a player in events far larger. Ciri is the eye of those whirlwind plot points.

Baptism of Fire opens with Geralt wounded from a fight that occurred at the end of The Time of Contempt. He took on a wizard and lost horribly, which is the first time I’ve seen that happen to Geralt. In the video games, death is common, and there is always one monster or another who gets the upper-hand. In the books, Geralt is combat-flawless, at least up to his meeting with Vilgefortz. We can presume that in his younger days he took a licking or two, information we can read from the scars covering him. Vilgefortz almost kills him, and we find him in Baptism of Fire recuperating in Brokilon, the forest of the dryads where very few people are welcome. Geralt again shows his worldliness in his associations with these odd creatures.

The main thread of the novel has Geralt leaving Brokilon and traveling in search of Ciri (fans of the third game will appreciate this), who disappeared from the world’s view at the end of the previous book. Readers know exactly where she is, and indeed a decent amount of Baptism of Fire has her marauding about with the bandit group who dub themselves The Rats. Her motivations for doing this are never clear, but I believe it is hinted that she’s sick of being so damned important and wants to act out. This is an understandable reaction for a teenager; even one destined by prophecies.

I loved Blood of Elves and The Time of Contempt. They opened up the Witcher universe in ways that The Last Wish, Sapkowski’s first book of short stories about Geralt, could never have done. They begin a saga, a real Game of Thrones style look at a world full of war, violence, political intrigue, and of course sex. It’s dark fantasy at its near-best. Those two books move well, delivering action and lore at a good pace and never feeling weighed down. Baptism of Fire does feel weighed down, and in fact has been the most difficult Sapkowski book to read due to its plodding nature. It reminds me, in a way, of The Fellowship of the Ring, which many have criticized as being a travel novel in its second half. Baptism of Fire does something similar, and has us follow Geralt and his merry band all over the lands of Angren and its surrounds. There are breaks in which we visit the various sorceresses integral to the story, and of course our Ciri moments, but most of the book feels like it’s just moving from point A to an eventual B.

However, it occurred to me as I was thinking about this style of writing how necessary it is; and ultimately, how rewarding. In The Fellowship of the Ring, things happen during the fellowship’s march to Moria that are important, if not all that interesting to read. Tolkien is able to describe the landscape of Middle Earth in a way that no other method of storytelling would allow. He is able to have his characters interact in a way that only people not in immediate danger could interact. Hobbits are taught swordplay, Boromir is tempted by the Ring, etc. Baptism of Fire is similar, in that it allows for meaningful moments between Geralt and his boon companions, and this might be particularly important as Geralt is about as lone-wolf as protagonists come. This long march through war-torn lands and dense forests humanizes Geralt the Witcher in a way that none of the novels have done yet, aside from the parts where he shows love for Yennefer. We see Geralt get drunk in this novel, see him quarrel endlessly with Dandelion, watch as he reveals and then befriends what anyone else might consider one of the most evil creatures in the lore. These things would not have happened had the novel been an action packed set piece from start to finish. Baptism of Fire manages to mix its action and lore and character interaction better than the other books, and is maybe a more memorable experience because of that. I’d be hard pressed to even tell you what happened in Blood of Elves or The Time of Contempt, outside of the big set piece events. The same might be said for Baptism of Fire, but I know I’ll not forget those smaller moments that made Geralt less of an invincible monster slayer and more of a human.

Original review at - https://goldnotglittering.wordpress.com/2015/12/27/book-review-baptism-of-fire-by-andrej-sapkowski/

Blackwing feels like the love-child of The Black Company and Dark Souls, but potentially grimmer than either (an impressive feat). On paper, this is my dream combination. The Black Company is one of the best anti-hero fantasies ever written, and Dark Souls is likely the best fantasy video game series ever made. This should make Blackwing something impressive, and in ways it is even if it falls short in several key areas.

Let me first start out by explaining how it pays homage to those two beloved properties. In Ed McDonald's world, a group of sorcerers called The Nameless rule the world of man. They are opposed by the Deep Kings, a similar group of powerful beings, potentially undead, that wage war on the city of Valengrad where most of the action of Blackwing takes place. This is incredibly similar to the Taken of The Black Company and their opposition in the rebellion leaders who oppose them. In each case, these sorcerers have power beyond the scope of anyone else living. They are viewed (hopefully) from afar, and their orders are obeyed without question. Blackwing's protagonist, Ryhalt Galharrow, is under thrall by one of the Nameless, a wizard named Crowfoot, and is part of a select group of mercenaries dedicated to the powerful sage. I always like this kind of power structure. I've liked it since The Lord of the Rings introduced me to The Witch King of Angmar and the Nazgul and since I fell in love with Lanfear in Robert Jordan's The Wheel of Time. There is something irresistible to the fantasy fan about cadres of god-like wizards and witches, and despite having seen this again and again, I never tire of it. Blackwing only touches the tip of the hierarchical iceberg in its introduction to these personages of power, and I am eager to see what else awaits readers in the rest of the series.

Now, to the Dark Souls of it all. Most people think of difficulty when Dark Souls is mentioned. It's a brutal game, willing to chuck you off any cliff and poison you on the way down. At least, it is at first. Once you become a veteran, that difficulty is second nature, and when you're thrown from the cliff, as you invariably still are, you're laughing the entire way down as the poison eats at your innards. What Dark Souls is truly about, for me, is the world in which its set. In every game, players are set down blindly into a completely new and unknown world full of scary things and grand, ancient architecture. The lore in Dark Souls is second to none, in video game terms, and it manages to set this stage without any long text boxes or overt descriptions - it's all ambient. Blackwing, with its forays into an area known as the Misery in particular, is every bit as grim and large and scary as a good Dark Souls setting. Even in the city of Valengrad, where much of the action takes places, things are grimy and a little sour. The evils of the Deep Kings have seeped into the populace in invisible and insidious ways. This is a grimdark novel to define the word.

I'd like to talk about the Misery some, now that I've mentioned its similarity to a Dark Souls zone. The Misery is the result of a spell by Galharrow's master, Crowfoot, and it's essentially a massive zone of horror that Crowfoot cast in order to stop the Deep Kings advance into the realm of man. It is a twisting, ever-changing nightmare that only the most hardened veterans are willing to wade into. It is Mordor and The Blight and every other hellscape you've ever read about in a fantasy land. But it has an advantage over those other creations in that almost anything can happen in the Misery. McDonald has done himself a great favor by creating a place where his dark imagination can run wild. If he wanted to invent a miniature giraffe with steel skin and fire breath, he could simply claim it as a creation of the Misery and because of the way he has crafted this area, the reader would believe it wholesale. When he has his characters within the confines of this place, the sky is the limit (literally as the Misery blots out the sky to a certain point as well).

I've talked exhaustively about setting because I think that is the strongest point of Blackwing, and even if I disliked all the characters and the plot (which I don't), I would find the land of McDonald's imagination interesting. So let's talk about plot.

The story of Blackwing is solid. Ryhalt Galharrow is a widowed mercenary who works sporadically for Crowfoot, his orders coming from the very tattoo that marks his arm and also essentially brands him as Crowfoot's property. He is gruff and macho to a fault, and also incredibly competent. When a bounty mission to the Misery goes awry, he comes face to face with a woman from his past who will change his life completely. Blackwing is a grim, noir, flintlock-fantasy full of combat, sieges, and horror, and it does these fairly well. I was disappointed in a few of the siege portions of the novel, but I think its plot moves along nicely and does not leave anything unanswered.

McDonald's characters are equally solid. Ryhalt Galharrow can be frustrating at times, and I feel that McDonald was going for a little too much of a Dirty Harry-style badass - to the point where I started to dislike the rugged mercenary a bit. However, the man has heart, and that always goes a long way with me. His gruffness is also explained by a tortured past the likes of which would cause any man or women to become as grim as his deeds. Ezabeth, the woman from Galharrow's past, is the better character in my opinion, but that might be largely a matter of personal taste. She is a sorceress, practicing the light-weaving that makes up McDonald's fairly vague magic system. She is noble, both in title and character, and her intelligence carries the novel forward. Rounding out the cast are a few more mercenaries in Nenn and Tnota, who provide flavor to the novel and companionship to Galharrow, and a cast of villains and pseudo-villains vile enough to make skin crawl. A shout out to the Brides, who are some of the creepiest monsters I've seen in a novel and I never want to see them again (though I'm guessing I haven't seen the last).

In all, I liked Blackwing and am intrigued to see where it goes with Ravencry. McDonald has built a huge conflict in the Nameless versus Deep Kings feud, and setting Ryhalt Galharrow in the middle of that leaves room for a vast array of storytelling. My hope for Ravencry would be to see the world expanded as most of Blackwing is set in Valengrad. I completely need more of the Misery and hope that we haven't seen the last of it, but I am also interested in seeing what the rest of McDonald's world looks like. Be warned - Blackwing is not for the faint of heart, and expect to be equal parts grossed out and shocked as you progress through this dark work, but the journey is worth it.

If someone had told me that I would be reading the fantasy equivalent of The Great Gatsby when cracking open Bloody Rose, the newest in Nicholas Eames’ Band series, I would have arched an eyebrow and then nodded excitedly because that’s an incredibly cool idea. What might have surprised me was how much more I would enjoy Bloody Rose than I ever did The Great Gatsby, because while Eames may not quite have the melancholy romance of an F. Scott Fitzgerald, he has shown himself to be the world’s foremost authority in dropping Final Fantasy ref-bombs, and if that weren’t enough to impress, he also writes the kind of fantasy that is both immensely satisfying and deeply human.

The Nick Carraway to Rose’s Jay Gatsby is a young bard named Tam Hashford. Tam is the daughter of two world-famous mercenaries, and like Rose, contends on the daily with the need to fill the shadows of her fighting father and minstrel mother. Our story is told, with an ironic twist given the grisly fate of Saga’s bards in Eames’ first novel, through Tam’s eyes as she quickly becomes songstress to Fable, the world’s most famous band. Fable is comprised of Bloody Rose herself, the plot device of Kings of the Wyld whom we only ever met towards the end, her druin lover Freecloud, Cura, named the Inkwitch for the magical tattoos that cover her entire body, and Brune, a big bear of a man who can turn into, you guessed it, a large bear. Fable is to the current generation of Grandual what Saga, Rose’s father’s band, was to the former. Everyone knows the name Bloody Rose. Young girls dye their hair red in imitation. Crowds swoon when they arrive. There is no one fiercer than Fable, no one more daring, and despite a simple life of tavern waitressing, Tam is quickly embraced as one of the gang.

Fable’s task, as we soon learn, is to journey far to the north *SPOILER BEGINS* to battle a creature that even dragons fear, *SPOILER ENDS* despite the overwhelming fact that every other mercenary in the land is tying their laces and whetting their blades to fight a new monstrous horde heading south. This new army threatens to sweep across Grandual much like Lastleaf’s did in Kings had it not been stopped by the collective might of mercenary union. Rose doesn’t care because she wants to kill the fearsome creature up north and and then retire. Along the way, as any band worth its salt would do, Fable makes a tour of the arena circuit, continuing Eames’ notion that mercenary bands are simply more violent versions of rock groups. With those drives in place, we have Bloody Rose, and Eames, if you can believe it, takes us on an even wilder ride – one that manages to surpass even its predecessor (a fact that Rose would love to hear).

What is it that makes Bloody Rose better than Kings of the Wyld? Kings of the Wyld was a fairly traditional, and therefore safe, story about a group of aged mercenaries “getting the band back together” for one last rousing adventure. It was the perfect setup because it managed to avoid some of the more obvious tropes in fantasy – young “fated” people must save the world – while embracing others – monsters must be killed because they’re monsters. It was refreshing in its blend of new idea with old. But Bloody Rose transcends it because Bloody Rose is a solid, well-written fantasy novel that surprises often, takes risks (this is key), and leaves everything, and I mean everything, out on the battlefield. Kings of the Wyld was fun, but Bloody Rose is gods-damned epic.

Eames has improved in different ways too. I criticized his use of popular culture references in my review of Kings of the Wyld, and as I mentioned in my opener, things have not changed in that department, but his usage has become more subtle and therefore less jarring. A lute named “Red Thirteen” is noticeable only to someone who consistently has Final Fantasy 7 near the tip of their tongue, and it sounds legitimate enough as an instrument name to justify its use. That’s one example of many fine instances of author self-gratification, and I applaud Eames’ desire to continue in this way, and, more so, to improve at it. Some of the philosophy in Bloody Rose is more thoughtful as well. Eames asks questions of his heroes, constantly probing their motivations in ways that simply do not occur to most fantasy protagonists. There are undertones of racism and politics in this book, woven into the storyline with a deft hand, but there is never the sense that anyone is preaching. Bloody Rose asks its readers to think about these things and draw their own conclusions. There was certainly a hint of this in Kings, but it is improved in its sequel.

Eames character-work has leveled up as well. The members of Fable are complicated, each with a chip on their shoulders that usually involves their parents, and the slow unfolding of these personalities throughout the book makes them more relatable and interesting. *SPOILER BEGINS* Rose suffers from a crippling self-doubt because of how famous her father was and is, one that sees her risking her life in new and dangerous ways despite her new situation *SPOILER ENDS*. Cura has a past that would make any self-cutter weep, and again, one related to those who raised her. Brune’s angst takes a more visceral conflict, but manages to mirror his bandmates and perhaps even become cathartic for them. Even Tam, who grew up in a relatively loving home, has to deal with the death of her mother and the legacy left behind by such a large personality. The characters in Kings had fairly simple motivations – they needed to save and protect. Rose and her bandmates are anything but simple.

This is not a novel without flaws. Despite having complicated motivations, the characters in Bloody Rose can be frustrating – particularly Rose herself, whose own past calls into question some of her adult-level decision making. This is somewhat tempered by the real-world knowledge that rock stars are traditionally unreliable. Eames’ plot holes are also forgivable, namely those where villains decide not to kill the heroes when they have the chance, James Bond-style, and large events that might leave the fate of the Band in question were they not located squarely in the middle of the book. My biggest gripe with Bloody Rose, and with Eames worldbuilding in general, is that his magic system seems to have no rhyme or reason and to exist solely as a plot device. This is the George R.R. Martin school of thought, where magic should never be explained and authors are allowed to raise whomever they wish from the dead. As this book features a large amount of necromancy, some of this makes sense, but mostly the magic in Bloody Rose is there for cool set pieces. I don’t expect every author to go the Brandon Sanderson mile and explain every piece of pseudo-science behind their sorcery, but when magic exists only to be mysterious and powerful, it becomes frustrating, with a reader never knowing when the uber-wizard might sweep in and undo everything with the wave of a hand. As a reader, I like knowing where the limits begin and end.

Magical gripes aside, Bloody Rose surprises again as one of the best books of the year. I think that it’s better than Kings of the Wyld, which I loved and this should in no way reflect badly on that gem of 2017. Nicholas Eames has improved as an author, and he now has something more than just a good Dungeons and Dragons adventure under his belt (though Bloody Rose is certainly that). He has crafted a world and injected it with some serious lore, and I can’t wait to see where he takes us next.

I’ve been introduced to more styles of fantasy writing in the past year than I knew even existed, which is inevitable as the genre evolves. One sub-genre that I did not expect was mountain-fantasy. I was first introduced to mountain-fantasy with Janny Wurts’ To Ride Hell’s Chasm, a harrowing account of a desperate escape through a terrain of natural wonders and hellscapes. Hell’s Chasm, despite its last third being some of the best fast-paced writing I’ve ever encountered, left me drained and frustrated that I didn’t love it as much as I wanted. The Whitefire Crossing, by Courtney Schafer, turns Hell’s Chasm on its head, but unlike its potential inspiration, does not suffer from a first-half drag. Schafer solves the riddle by introducing her mountain into the former portion of the novel, which improves on Wurts’ pacing if not on her prose.

The Whitefire Crossing stars Dev, an outrider and smuggler from the desert city of Ninavel. Dev is tasked early on with smuggling not goods, but a living blood mage across the border into neighboring Alathia, a nation that keeps magic under iron-fisted control. Kiran is the goods, a young mage fleeing an even more powerful despot who also happens to be his adoptive father. In an odd authorial decision, Schafer attempts to split her points of view between Dev and Kiran, but does so with differing styles. Dev narrates in the first-person, and is the first character we meet, but Kiran is told in third-person limited point-of-view. Even having finished the novel, I struggle to grasp what purpose splitting the viewpoints serves. I know writers today are experimenting in an attempt to veer from old forms, and I recently read a book with three different first-person viewpoints all intertwining, but we have established tendencies for a reason. I didn’t find Schafer’s use of multiple points of view jarring or damaging in any way, I just didn’t see the point outside of novelty.

The only way to Alathia is over the Whitefires, a mountain range of epic scale and one Dev knows well. Dev’s history in the famed city of Ninavel is one of thievery and magic. Children in Ninavel, thanks to a massive confluence of power resting beneath the city, are often gifted with something called the Taint. This Taint allows them to perform magical feats that would normally take years of training by a gifted mage. The Taint also leaves right around the time puberty hits, and when this happens to Dev, the only solace he can find is that on the mountain. Climbing, for Dev, is nearly as exhilarating as wielding arcane forces, and he is good enough at it that it becomes his career. Because his use of the Taint almost universally revolved around stealing, smuggling also comes second nature.

Dev disguises Kiran as an apprentice outrider, and they attach themselves to a caravan heading through the established channels of the Whitefires. Dev is ignorant of Kiran’s true profession and equally blind to what chases them out of Ninavel. What follows is a harrowing dash through mountains both beautiful and deadly, with moments of tension to equal anything in fantasy.

As Dev and Kiran navigate the playground that Schafer has created, she is able to dole out the lore and world-building at a lovely pace. We learn about magic, which plays a pivotal role in everything to do with this world, slowly and in a way that is absorbable. Charms, in particular, play such an important role in people’s lives that they are treated much like we would a cell phone or electricity – we may not understand how they work but we can’t live without them. Schafer wields a deft paintbrush in these explanations, and while one might accuse her of too much telling at times, I found myself craving the conversations where her characters would talk about the world and its systems. Schafer also does something that I love and rarely see in magical fiction – she details the aftermath of large-scale magical warfare. In Ninavel and beyond, magic has consequence, especially blood magic, and Schafer is not shy in the details of who suffers and why. Often authors are so concerned with writing an amazing battle scene or wizard duel that they forget to follow the fireballs trajectory when it misses its target. It lands somewhere, and in The Whitefire Crossing we are privy to that landing.

But The Whitefire Crossing, like much fantasy written, has its share of cliches. Simon Levantine, a villain introduced halfway through the book, might as well come from a vaudevillian stage show, cackling as a train bears down on his latest victim. His use of the classic villain’s method of “holding innocents hostage to force protagonists to do his bidding” is incredibly tired, and I hope we either see a subversion of this in fiction or an outright banishment. The Whitefire Crossing also gives us the “ancient civilization who left behind powerful artifacts” trope, and while it isn’t overdone as it is in some fantasy novels, I released an inner groan when it popped up. My only other complaints with The Whitefire Crossing were the use of modern-day curse words and an overly elaborate and barely believable scheme by one of the characters; a ploy too fine in detail and scope to be feasible.

In all, Schafer has begun something worthwhile in The Whitefire Crossing. She shows an intimate and detailed knowledge of human interaction and climbing jargon, has created a vibrant world full of people with varied and complicated personalities, and she knows how to write fast-paced scene-work. After finishing the first in her Shattered Sigil series, I am compelled to continue on to see where Dev and Kiran wind up. The end of The Whitefire Crossing leaves their fates much in doubt, and it’s clear that this volume is just one part of something much grander. Will she succeed when she’s thrown from the wild and untamable mountain range?

I do not think I have ever read a book with a more appropriate title, nor one so multi-layered, as Seth Dickinson’s The Traitor Baru Cormorant. Before even cracking the cover, a reader knows that this person, this Baru, will betray someone. They do not know the extent of the betrayal, nor who or why it will come about, but it colors this character immediately, and it is upon learning that she is the protagonist that something occurs to a reader - this person is not to be trusted. The unreliable narrator is a common trope in fiction, but not often is it made so transparent right from the start.

But Baru is about as transparent as a brick wall, and after nearly 400 pages, I was left as puzzled by her as I was from the beginning.

The story of The The Traitor Baru Cormorant is one familiar to any of us prescient about U.S. history. A large empire invades the rest of the world, bringing with it disease and economy, and gentrifies it. Dickinson places a particular emphasis on the economy portion of this takeover, stressing the Falcresti Empire’s ability to replace foreign currency with its own, and thus control all trade, as its means to success. Money is every bit as insidious as the plagues that the Masquerade (a nickname for the Empire, so given because their soldiers wear expressionless masks into battle) sows among less civilized populations and likely kills nearly as many. Baru Cormorant is a young girl from Taranoke when the story begins, and she watches the Masquerade invade and take over her beloved homeland without so much as a battle. Determined early on to somehow topple this regime, she demonstrates an out-of-the-ordinary genius and is noticed by one of the most powerful men of Falcrest who just happens to be posing as a merchant in her local market. She is fast tracked through the education system of the Masquerade, and upon graduation is shipped off to quell rumors of rebellion in northern Aurdwynn.

Baru is a difficult character to love or hate. As the novel progresses, we watch her plot and maneuver in ways that even the blackhearted might find a little squeamish. She does so, ultimately, for the love of her homeland. To Baru, any means justify the recovery of Taranoke, and this is where we see the true nature of the book’s title. Baru is 'The Traitor' to everyone but herself, and it is a nerve- and mind-wracking game that she plays in juggling all the many masks that she is forced to don and shed as she plots her way into the heart of the Empire. In the end, I could respect Baru Cormorant for being one of the most cunning and manipulative characters I have ever read, but I could never like her. As book two of this series would suggest, Baru is a monster in all but appearance.

I take notes while I am reading, and as I was reading through The Traitor Baru Cormorant, I kept writing down questions, as though I were asking Seth Dickinson why this was happening, or where was this character while all of this was playing out. By the last page of this book, my questions had been answered, every one, and I am unsure whether or not I am impressed by Dickinson’s ability to sow confusion or angered by it. Part of the reason for this confusion

lies in the somewhat un-satisfying conclusion to Baru’s betrayal of the Aurdwynni rebellion. There is no doubt that this floored me and that I did not see it coming (despite the book’s title). However, after a battle scene that reads like “The Song of Roland,” with all of its tempo and lyricism, Baru’s escape seems like a deflated balloon. She rides away, with a half-hearted chase by Duke Oathsfire, and then washes up on a personal island with a malady that removes half the world from her sight.

Because of the method of narration here, we are never able to see what Baru is actually thinking, and further, because of Dickinson’s unwillingness to ever show any transparency with this story, it is not feasible that such an ending could have the emotional impact that it deserves. The portion with Tain Hu on the island did have that, and it is raw and painful, but aside from that we do not feel a true sense of betrayal from Baru. Perhaps in the end, when the series is wrapped up and we see whether or not Baru Cormorant has toppled an Empire, when we see what lies behind the mask and whether it was worth all of this pain and strife, perhaps then an emotional anvil will descend and leave us all flattened. Seth Dickinson’s first novel is more than good enough to hold out for that.

Despite some misgivings about the book, there is no doubt that The Traitor Baru Cormorant is something special. It is unique in fantasy literature, and in literature as a whole. I have never read a book with such geopolitical maneuvering, the kind that puts such hornet’s nests like A Game of Thrones to shame, nor one that uses currency and economic control so much to its benefit. Dickinson’s prose splits between the workmanlike and the poetic while never firmly establishing itself in either, but it works.. His use of sexual politics is also fascinating and deeply human. In short, The Traitor Baru Cormorant is an eye-opening experience, fresh and bold, and sets a course for Baru Cormorant that is both thrilling and terrifying.

There are things to love about Tomi Adeyemi’s debut novel, Children Of Blood And Bone, a book that was hyped enough to reach even those of us who do not often venture into the YA category of fantasy books. The very fact that a work so Afro-centric has received such attention is cause for much praise and stands alongside the Black Panther movie as proof that straight, white protagonists are not the standard for success. But make no mistake about Children Of Blood And Bone - it is a flawed book. That doesn’t mean that this isn’t a worthwhile book, but it’s not the next Harry Potter even if it’s marketing team is desperately trying to convince everyone that it is. Rather, it is another in a long line of good YA fantasy novels that fails to ever rise above its peers.

The story of Children Of Blood And Bone takes place in a mythical African nation called Orïsha, where in the not-so-distant past King Saran, a tyrant if ever there was one, put to the sword all maji of the realm and cut those with maji blood off from the source of all sorcery - in this case the gods of the land themselves. Our main character is Zélie Adebola, a white-haired, fiery young girl who once would have been a powerful maji, but who, in this harsh new world, must train herself physically with stave while brewing rebellion in her heart. Zélie is angry, justifiably so, and most of this rage is focused on an empire that stole, and murdered, her mother simply for the crime of wielding magic. It is not until we meet Amari, King Saran’s daughter and less-favored child, that we see Adeyemi’s unique method of storytelling as she weaves in a second first-person viewpoint into the narrative. If that weren’t enough, she does it again with Amari’s brother Inan, giving us three first-person points of view. I have never seen this done before, and it was completely jarring.

I respect innovation, but I think there is a reason that writers do not attempt multi-first-person narratives. When we use the word ‘I’, it is very specific to one person, and we have an entire lexicon of novels throughout history that have trained us to read books this way. I found myself confused about whose eyes I was seeing the story through at several times throughout the novel, despite the chapter headings spelling out quite clearly who was in charge of a section. Adeyemi has such short chapters that it can be easy to lose track of who is doing the thinking. Her characters are, thankfully, unique enough from one another that eventually a rhythm is established. We know if our thinker is righteous and angry that is likely Zélie, or that if it is unsure and afraid that it is Amari. We always know when it’s Inan because he never stops dreaming about Zélie. I firmly believe that had this book been in the third-person point of view, that I would have enjoyed it about twice as much, despite its other flaws. I know that young adult novels tend to use the first-person, but it is clear that Adeyemi did not want to limit herself to a single viewpoint and thought she’d found a solution. Regrettably, I don’t think it was the right one.

Zélie and Amari quite literally run into one another, and it is Amari’s theft of a precious scroll from her father, the Tyrant King himself, that leads the pair of them, along with the ever-sacrificed Tzain, Zelie’s brother, on a journey across the nation in an attempt to restore magic to the land. Zélie’s brief contact with the scroll awakens her latent magical abilities, and it is this catalyst that helps them realize what is possible - the maji can return.

Despite its flaws, there is much to praise about Children Of Blood And Bone. I love Adeyemi’s magic system. She divides magic up into schools, which is by no means revolutionary, but I felt excited at the prospect of discovering each different type of power. Zélie herself is an untapped Reaper, a maji who controls the spirits of the dead and can send them against her enemies. Adeyemi’s religion is another fascinating subject and her depiction of hell as a place for people who suffer horrible deaths is both terrifying and intriguing. One of the reasons for Reapers is to find these suffering souls and bring them redemption (which often means they will be pointlessly used up in one of Zélie’s many practice sessions, begging us to ask whether or not she is redeeming anything). Other schools include the standard fire and water hurlers, one that tames animals that I would have liked to see more of, and even one that has the ability to shape metal on a whim. Each magical ability corresponds to a specific god, which is a tidy way of setting everything up.

Adeyemi’s characters are also flawed but powerful humans, full of angst and doubt and attempting to find their place in the narrative. They grow, particularly in the case of Amari, and it is a pleasure to journey with them across this Orïshan landscape, discovering ancient temples and meeting a motley crew of savory and unsavory types both. Adeyemi shows us a land like our own, but removed and somehow larger in scale. Her panthieres are like panthers, but huge. This brings me to another large critique I had with Adeyemi’s methods. In a way, this book could be categorized as an alternate history fantasy. Portugal and Spain and the United Kingdom all exist, but with garbled up names that do nothing to disguise their origin. I wanted more originality than this in a novel that is already pulling from many different sources for its overall scheme.

There is an appeal to Children Of Blood And Bone that is undeniable, from the work of art that is the cover design to a roster of characters that touch all points of humanity. There is heart to this work, and a spirit of resistance that will reach down into the rebel in all of us. But I believe that much of what is here is formulaic to the point that it feels false. Reading of Adeyemi’s seven-figure movie deal does not dispel my disappointment that this is perhaps a case of over-marketing for a series that unfortunately will not become what African fantasy lovers deserve. Children Of Blood And Bone is good, but it is not great. That said, Tomi Adeyemi is young, in her early 20s, and if this is her debut novel, there is every reason to believe that what she produces in the years to come will be phenomenal.