The word for Lisa Shearin's new fantasy series is "delightful."

Raine Benares' characterization presents a magical world through the eyes of a down-to-earth, capable woman. The passing way in which she remarks, "Oh, by the way ... I've got an amulet that links me to a stone known as the 'Soul Thief' and want it gone" is a typical example of the tongue-in-cheek tone of Shearin's writing--a tone that suits this story.

The way the action progresses, it is hard to imagine that so much can happen in so short a time (a couple of days). I am used to epic fantasy stories that take months, years, generations to complete. Neither approach is necessarily bad; they are just different, and each has its advantages. Shearin handles her pacing well. She packs quite a bit of action into the book, but somehow manages to squeeze enough exposition in there so as to inform us about numerous aspects of her magical world without completely drowning us in an infodump. As someone who also enjoys continent (or world) spanning adventures (*cough* Mr. Raymond E. Feist anyone? *cough*)

Fantasy is as susceptible as any genre to its clichés, and magical stones of power are one of those. However, Lisa Shearin cleverly doesn't tackle this particular stone head-on. Instead, she uses it to give us plenty of time with her main character, who is a delightful, spunky heroine. In that respect, I would think that women can fully appreciate Raine and enjoy her, more so than many books dominated by heavily masculine heroes. That said, I'm male and enjoyed it thoroughly.

The only criticism I could offer is that parts of it seemed rushed or forced. The ending comes very fast after what seems like a very long time, and there are certain scenes where I remember going, "Hmm ... is this really necessary? Couldn't this have been cut?" There are a couple of times where there is a large build-up to danger and tension, only for it to dissipate (such as just after the climax of the book, during the last flight from The Ruins). It doesn't ruin the book, but it makes me feel fidgety while I'm reading it.

That's the great thing about books though. If you get fidgety, you can just put it down, go do something, and come back later.

My Reviews of the Raine Benares series:
Armed & Magical →

I started Armed & Magical immediately after finishing Magic Lost, Trouble Found, and it was a good decision. Armed & Magical picks up right where the first book ends. Raine is still burdened with the Saghred, which continually flexes its psychic muscle. Sarad Nukpana lurks on the edge of her awareness. There's elves and goblins after her, not to mention any number of mages who might want her power for their own.

I love how Raine explains the Saghred, calling it her "psychic roommate." Lisa Shearin's easygoing, matter-of-fact characterization of Raine makes the book extremely fun. If you enjoyed Magic Lost, Trouble Found, then you will enjoy this book. If you didn't, then I don't see why you'd be reading the second one just to see if it "gets better." The plot certainly thickens, but it follows the same general formula that the first book did, incorporating some new twists to keep it interesting.

If you haven't read Magic Lost, Trouble Found first, don't even think about skipping it and reading this one. You probably won't get lost. Shearin does a good job adding exposition that catches readers up to Raine's life, some of which is targeted at people who may not have read the first book (or read the first book long enough ago to forget it). Actually, this is something with which I have an issue: reading the books back to back, I noticed that some of those snippets were reused verbatim from the first book. While I suppose that it's hard to improve on nice, tight prose, what's the harm in trying?

I liked the ending to this book much better than the first one. The climax was paced better, wasn't too drawn out, and the ending wrapped up enough loose ends while still leaving me hungry for book 3.

I guess the highest praise I could give this book would be: I read it as quickly as possible because I couldn't wait to find out what happened next, so quickly that sometimes I had to go back to double check something.

My Reviews of the Raine Benares series:
← Magic Lost, Trouble Found | The Trouble with Demons →

It's always a pleasure to sit down and begin a book you know you'll enjoy. It takes a lot of the pressure off, as a reader. You don't have to worry that if you take the book out with you somewhere you'll end up wanting to dump it after five pages and find yourself with nothing to read. Although I read The Trouble with Demons on my day off in a chair outside my house, the point stands: I've looked forward to this book for some time now.

My reviews of Magic Lost, Trouble Found and Armed and Magical are, upon a second reading, far too vague and cursory to do justice to Lisa Shearin's inventive fantasy series (and oddly incoherent at times, which rather disconcerts me—what was I on?). I will try to rectify this shortcoming with this review, so bear with me.

In The Trouble with Demons, we see the Raine Benares series reach maturity. Its first two books were good, but there's a certain confidence in The Trouble with Demons that sets it apart from its two predecessors. From the start, Shearin reminds us that it has only been two weeks since Raine Benares, an elven seeker (of lost things) from a disreputable family (pirates, no less), became psychically bonded to the Saghred, a semi-sentient stone of near-limitless power. At the rate of a week per book, this series is advancing time only slightly faster than 24—not that I'm complaining. The short time frame means that the label "action-packed thrill ride" works fine for The Trouble with Demons; other labels need not apply.

It's been more than a year since I read Armed & Magical (and as much as I would like to have re-read that first, I don't have the time right now). Shearin does a good job at recapping the events of past books without slowing down the actual adventure to a crawl. New readers can jump into the series with this book, but I would advise against it, because that would mean denying oneself the pleasure of the two books prior to this one! Also, this book has almost zero fat content. For a magically-dense world, it is remarkably terse on magical matters. There are a few exposition-heavy conversations, but for the most part The Trouble with Demons is a full of streamlined action with the occasional pause for breath and a paragraph of explanation. I get a sense of how the magic works, but Shearin spares us a three-page lecture on the need for balance and willpower; for that alone she deserves a medal. I especially enjoyed the opening, which reacquainted me with Raine and her cousin Phaelan as demons unleash havoc on the Isle of Mid. Good times.

Some of the best things about this book are also the things I disliked the most. Raine is, as usually, sassy and strong; she's a model kickass heroine and probably the best reason to read this series. Still, I could have done with her constant observations of how attractive Tam and Mychael are; certainly she could have refrained from describing the latter man as "yummy." I have nothing against sticking Raine in a love triangle though, and at this point, I'm kind of hoping she will get laid just so she stops mentioning her lack of a love life so frequently. In action if not in observation, however, Raine is second to none. She's capable, always ready to lead a charge and safeguard her friends, but she isn't the stoic sort of hero who rushes off on her own to do battle because she doesn't want to endanger anyone else. She does her best to ensure her friends' safety, but she can't help it if everyone she knows is eager for action and payback.

Speaking of which, did I mention this book has pirates? And past books have had something that approximates ninjas. Studies have shown that including pirates in a book automatically makes it awesome, and The Trouble with Demons is no exception to that rule, embodied by Raine's cousin Phaelan. He's sort of a less scrupulous male version of Raine, and it shows. Phaelan even gets his own crowning moment of awesome against an antagonist who needs to be conveniently disabled for a little while.

Some of the characters weren't as impressive. I didn't grow very fond of the new chair of demonology (the old chair got eaten, of course), Sora Niabi. I'm just starting to tire of the fact that all the protagonists are so darn awesome—and everyone on the side of good seems to think Raine is the greatest thing since sliced bread. I like Raine too, but that doesn't mean I believe all the protagonists should like her—rivalry can be fun! As much as I enjoyed the story, the characters in The Trouble with Demons are pretty shallow and tend toward those extremes: good, awesome, and friends of Raine; and evil, incompetent (or arrogant), and foes of Raine.

One of the challenges of writing a series is upping the ante with each book, of course. And Shearin set the bar high for herself when she bonded Raine to a soul-eating stone. . . . She manages to pull it off in this book, and from the hints left at the end, the fourth book will have even higher stakes. In this one it's demons and a Hellgate, and in the next book, Raine's world is moving closer toward an all-out goblin-elf war, with the Saghred (and thus her) in the middle of it. Only two weeks have passed, but Raine has attracted the attention of very powerful people, some of whom we've met in previous books and others whom we know only by name and reputation. Shearin's world-building is top-notch, and she's obviously laying the ground for the upcoming trials Raine will face as those who seek to acquire the Saghred become even more desperate.

Meanwhile, Raine herself wants to unload the Saghred as soon as possible. She can't, and even if she could, there still remains the question of what to do with it (assuming they don't find a way to just destroy it). Shearin, to her credit, provides no easy answers and places her protagonist in a truly dangerous predicament: now Raine's bonded not only to the Saghred but to her two potential lovers, Tam and Mychael, and if the Saghred consumes her, they'll be next. Raine's problems aren't just personal or political but a painful melange of both, and it shows. This, of course, just motivates her to go out and beat up as many bad guys as possible. . . .

That's really the strength of The Trouble with Demons: it's fun. There were a couple of moments where I laughed out loud (not all that common when I'm reading) and a few where I pumped my hand in the air as I cheered on the characters (I almost never do that). It's action-packed, yes, but it's also got charming characters, witty dialogue, and genuine high-stakes tension. This is a book a finely-tuned instrument of entertainment, and it doesn't miss the high note. I can't call it perfect, but it's a definite pleasure to read.

My Reviews of the Raine Benares series:
← Armed & Magical | Bewitched & Betrayed →

Foremost in my mind while reading Sense and Sensibility was how much both society and the English language have changed in the nearly 200 years since this book's publication. Conduct that we would now find unremarkable, perhaps even laudable, earns Jane Austen's characters harsh opprobrium. All of the book's conflict stems from the tangled web of relationships influenced by the mores of early nineteenth century England. Readers who stubbornly persist in interpreting this book on twenty-first century terms will be frustrated at best and bored at worst.

Still, as a story, Sense and Sensibility leaves much to be desired. Austen's wonderful grasp of irony is not enough to rescue this book from its chief deficiency: despite its title, this book lacks a sensible plot. The indecision of the main characters and the dazzling number of twists and reversals stretched my credulity, even from a nineteenth century perspective.

As with Austen's [b:Pride and Prejudice|1885|Pride and Prejudice|Jane Austen|http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/51tsj1sZS1L._SL75_.jpg|3060926], this book concerns sisters eligible for marriage. Whereas Pride and Prejudice is primarily a love story between Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy, Sense and Sensibility is a comparison of the personalties of Elinor and Marianne Dashwood—the former possessing rational "sense" and the latter emotional "sensibility." This eponymous dualism underpins the entire novel, but it also undercuts, for Austen's attempts to vindicate Elinor's sense seem thwarted by a desire to give both sisters a happy ending.

She achieves this ending via the most scenic route available, it seems, going through several permutations of pairings before arriving at a final pleasing configuration. I quite enjoyed the resolution to Marianne and Willoughby's relationship, for it belied Willoughby's initial representation as nothing more than a one-dimensional cad. I assume Austen marries her off to Colonel Brandon in attempt to show that she has gained some "sense" from her experience with Willoughby and is ready to accept a man who, while not perfect, will make a satisfactory husband. In this respect the story makes sense; what I found unconvincing was Elinor's eventual happiness with Edward.

Maybe I'm just biased against happy endings. Austen goes out of her way to make Edward unavailable to Elinor. And then, just as Elinor is on the verge of finally coming to terms with Edward's imminent marriage to another woman, suddenly he shows up at her doorstep, asking for her hand! It's a result only acceptable in fairy tales, certainly not in a work that is, up until that point at least, firmly grounded in the realism of the nineteenth century. Additionally, Edward's stated defence—that he had lost all affection for his fiancée long ago, but felt obligated to go through with the marriage anyway—sounds remarkably similar to Willoughby's justification for his behaviour around Marianne. Yet where Elinor upbraids the latter, she disregards the wrongdoing of the former, and metaphorically jumps into his arms, throwing sense to the wind.

Nineteenth century English literature did not adhere to the "show, don't tell" maxim so prevalent today; however, Austen takes "tell, don't show" to an extreme, perhaps as a result of her initiation into writing via the epistolary novel. The first chapter is more of a prologue, so laden with exposition as it is; the rest of the book is not much better. The characters spend most of their time visiting each other's homes (or complaining about having to visit each other's homes, or not being invited to visit each other's homes). There's a sense of blandness to the narrative, an aftertaste that it never manages to fully eclipse before the book's end.

Sense and Sensibility is just what it appears to be: Austen's first novel and certainly not her best work. Aside from the wit with which Austen renders observations about her characters, Austen's writing is often too stilted to bear fully the weight of her lofty themes. That Austen aims high is not in doubt, as this speech by Elinor shows:

It was told to me, it was in a manner forced on me by the very person herself whose prior engagement ruined all my prospects, and told me, as I thought, with triumph. This person's suspicions, therefore, I have had to oppose by endeavouring to appear indifferent where I have been most deeply interested; and it has not been only once; I have had her hopes and exultations to listen to again and again. I have known myself to be divided from Edward forever, without hearing one circumstance that could make me less desire the connection. Nothing has proved him unworthy; nor has anything declared him indifferent to me. I have had to content against the unkindness of his sister and the insolence of his mother, and have suffered the punishment of an attachment without enjoying its advantages. And all this has been going on at the time when, as you to o well know, it has not been my only unhappiness. If you can think me capable of ever feeling, surely you may suppose that I have suffered now.

Thus, Sense and Sensibility is born of the noblest of intentions; as is all too often the case, it's the execution and not the idea that is at fault. In the end, this is a book more memorable because of it's author's merits, not its own. Trust your inclination: if you suspect you won't get much out of this, then you're probably right. On the other hand, someone truly interested in the book's subject matter will have a good time, provided he or she is willing to overlook the rough edges.

Books with adjectives like "fast-paced adventure-filled thrill-ride" are usually overhyped. Usually. In this case, The Walls of the Universe deserves such tags. It is fast-paced, adventure-filled, and thrilling. I finished it in a day--and it's a fair sized book--because I had trouble putting it down.

All of the main characters, with the possible exception of the villains, are complex. Melko sets up the story so we at first believe it will be John Rayburn versus ... John Rayburn. Another John--called John Prime for the sake of sanity--comes to "our" John's universe and tricks John into taking Prime's universe-hopping device on a test-drive. This is a trap, since the device is broken and can only move forward across universes; John can't go back, and Prime gets to assume John's life there. With this scenario firmly in place, The Walls of the Universe casts Prime as the remote antagonist and John as the stranded hero, struggling to get back his universe and his life.

Instead, the plot turns out to be much deeper, and Prime himself is more than a one-sided antagonist. In the end, Prime aligns himself with John against the more dangerous villains, although he continues to act in a morally questionable manner. John contemplates several acts we would also consider morally questionable has he debates what he'll do now that he's stranded from his own universe.

Some of the minor characters, such as Bill and Janet Rayburn, and Ted Carson and his father, are fairly stock. Good guys, bad guys, move along, nothing to see here. However, this aids Melko's set-up, since we eventually learn that there exist in the multiverse "singletons"--people who naturally have no duplicates in other universes. By portraying some characters as identical or similar in every universe in which John encounters them, Melko emphasizes the "duplication" aspect, which becomes a key part of the story when John confronts the villains.

In a somewhat original twist, Melko's established a cross-dimensional trade on ideas; Prime (and then, reluctantly, John) introduces a popular invention from his universe that's lacking in whatever universe he currently resides, such as the Rubik's cube, SCUBA gear, pinball, etc. This isn't a simple castaway's tale--there are other universe-hoppers, most of them exiles who will stop at nothing to get home. John encounters one such group, drawing attention to himself with the invention of pinball, when he settles down in another universe and attempts to understand the device he has. We're given the impression that portable devices are extremely rare--to the point that some travellers don't even believe they exist or are feasible. Once the villains learn that John has one, and that he isn't an exile or singleton has they believe, just a farm-kid, all hell breaks loose.

The plot never stops advancing, and the dialogue is pretty fun: "You ... mulched him?" being my favourite example. Maybe it's just because I'm a science fiction junkie and am fascinated by the concept of multiple universes, but Melko manages to draw me into the book and keep me there. I love watching how John interacts with multiple copies of people--exemplified by his increasingly irate conversations with Dr. Wilson the physicist--and observing the contrast between John and John Prime. Melko uses the concept of universe-hopping to its full potential, making for a ripe story.

The only part of the book that disappointed me was the dearth of details related to the builders of these devices and the reason so many people get exiled. We get hints throughout the story, of course, including something about people called "Primes" (presumably not related to John Prime) and "paths," but no clear explanation. This has the benefit of keeping the story moving without slowing us down, of course, and I appreciate Melko's pacing abilities. However, it's somewhat exasperating to be kept in the dark! It looks like this is just the first book in a series, fortunately, so we should be learning more.

This book was like reading white paint. Yeah, I didn't think that was possible either, until I read The King's Grace. Although this book spans two decades and covers the rise of Tudor England, I felt throughout like nothing happens, and twenty years became one bad week for me.

I started this book with high hopes—don't ask me why, except perhaps that I love British historical fiction and for some reason this book intrigued me. Yet for nearly six hundred pages, the book failed to catch my interest. I probably should have abandoned it, except I paid for it, and I really wanted to see how Smith interpreted the events depicted herein. So instead of moving on to other books I know I'll enjoy, I sacrificed a week slogging through it.

The King's Grace is bland. Now, Smith uses a protagonist who wouldn't be near the major battles or indeed the English court for most of the book: Grace Plantagenet is a bastard daughter of Edward IV and develops from a mousy, unassuming girl into a stalwart, kind woman. Grace was good, sure, but she wasn't very interesting. Her motives were always extremely simplistic, and she never seemed to struggle with any of the moral dilemmas that faced her. For example, her first love is her cousin John of Gloucester, whom Henry Tudor subsequently executes. Grace then marries a childhood friend, Tom Gower, who loves her with the same ardour with which she pines for John. She spends about a hundred pages agonizing over her inability to love her husband, but then she decides the really awesome sex means she can move on from John and focus on loving Tom. For that matter, I think the sex scenes are probably the most interesting part of the book; at least Smith gets creative in her descriptions and avoids using the word "certes" in every paragraph—I applaud her use of archaic syntax to give the book a "period" feel, but for some reason that word grated on my nerves.

Wrestling with my mixed feeling toward this book, I've ultimately decided that the problem is the writing more than the story itself. The story should be interesting: rather than the battles and machinations per se of final chapter to the Wars of the Roses, we get to see the relationships among the sisters of York as Tudor secures a definitive Lancastrian victory, only to have to put down an upstart impostor to the Yorkish crown. Every so often I'd see a glimpse of depth and drama—such as Grace's observations about Elizabeth Woodville's treatment of her daughters vis-à-vis Woodville's treatment of Grace. Then the book would shy away and sink back into turgid mediocrity.

The low point of The King's Grace comes when Grace realizes that Perkin Warbeck is incontrovertibly not her half-brother, Richard of York. How does she reach this conclusion?

Her thoughts returned to the young couple dancing for Henry and how Perkin had defied the king by talking to Katherine behind his pomander, whispering words of love as he inhaled the spicy scent of cloves . . .

"Cloves!" Grace suddenly cried out to a crow cawing overhead. Sweat Jesu, why did I not remember then? Elizabeth told me her son Richard loathed the smell of cloves.

She felt the blood drain from her face as the sad realization sank in. She had recently suspected Perkin was not her brother, but she had always hoped that he was. And now she felt betrayed not only by him but by Aunt Margaret as well. She lifted her eyes to Heaven and whispered: "How foolish I have been all this time!"

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, that's right: Detective Grace bases her decision on the fact that Richard, as a boy, hated the smell of cloves, and "Richard" as a man likes them. And I knew this would happen when Elizabeth divulged this suspiciously detailed piece of information, but I vainly hoped I was wrong. Smith apparently discards the possibilities that Elizabeth was wrong (she was rather confused and incontinent in her final days, after all) or that "Richard's" tastes could have changed as he matured in a foreign land. As a result, I'm forced into one of two conclusions: either Smith is doing this intentionally to depict Grace as far more credulous than I'd like her to be, or Smith is very bad at writing mysteries. Although Grace is politically naive throughout the book, she proves herself quite capable of puzzling out the complicated motivations behind actions of Henry Tudor, Queen Bess, and her Aunt Margaret. It astonishes me that Smith would think a like or dislike of cloves is admissible evidence even by Grace's standards.

This inconsistent characterization pervades The King's Grace. While I often describe characters who lack dimension as "cardboard cutouts," never have I read a book for which that phrase is apt. I speak particularly of Grace's half-sister Bess (who becomes Henry's Queen, for those not keeping score at home). Bess seems completely in Henry's camp, no matter what she says to the contrary—and that's fine, except that I never really get a sense that she struggled with it, even when her relationship with Henry becomes cold and distant. Grace's husband, Tom Gower, vacillates between being angry at Grace—whether it's over her love for John or her desire to support Yorkist plot against Henry—and being amused and aroused by her naive intrigue and her hotness, respectively. Largely for this reason, reading The King's Grace was like being adrift in an ocean of talking heads with English and Welsh accents.

Clearly, Smith had a good notion of what story she wanted to tell but not how to tell it. I have no problems with the fact that Smith chose to embellish the life of a king's bastard who, so far, only has a single line in history (Grace is mentioned as accompanying Elizabeth Woodville's funeral procession, identified by her name and lineage). And somewhere along the way, The King's Grace does manage to touch on the powerlessness of noblewomen in 15th century England, particularly those of royal blood—chattel is a term that comes up once and a while. Grace especially, owing to her status as a bastard, lives the quixotic life of a privileged servant: accorded with rank, but doomed to always go hither and thither at the command of her half-sisters and their mother. It's a nice glimpse at a society alien to those of us lucky enough to grow up in a place where social mobility is far more flexible. Unfortunately, the quality of Smith's writing lends little support for these themes, and the ultimately fall by the wayside.

I doubt I'll be recommending The King's Grace any time soon. Judging from other reviews, this isn't one of those books that it is overwhelmingly bad—and again, I didn't find it bad so much as bland. Your mileage may vary; for my two cents, I'm more interested in reading some [a:Bernard Cornwell|12542|Bernard Cornwell|http://photo.goodreads.com/authors/1240500522p2/12542.jpg] or another [a:Fiona Buckley|33981|Fiona Buckley|http://photo.goodreads.com/authors/1278707118p2/33981.jpg] mystery.

Karl Schroeder demonstrates an impressive capacity for worldbuilding and imaginative hard science fiction. Sun of Suns is truly awesome in the scope of its technological milieu. The civilization of Virga, with artificially-generated gravity, is as alien to us as the idea of "Artificial Nature" is to the isolated Virgans. Set against this majestic backdrop, the protagonist, Hayden Griffin, is on a mission of revenge that quickly becomes complicated.

Quixotically, Schroeder spends very little time actually allowing us to get to know Hayden. As a result, I found it difficult to relate to the main character--not because I lacked empathy, more because I just didn't know much about him. The story begins when Hayden is a young adult, then jumps forward six years after the massacre in which his parents die. Apparently, Hayden spent the interim with pirates, but Schroeder reveals remarkably few details. On one hand, I admire his ability to avoid what some may consider unnecessary exposition--Hayden only brings it up when it's relevant to the plot. On the other hand, this backstory is important in establishing who Hayden is; I felt its absence throughout the entire novel.

Some of the other characters are far better fleshed out than Hayden. Venera Fanning was a fun and ruthless antagonist with an interesting--and explained--background. Likewise, her husband, Admiral Chaisson Fanning, is a dedicated and patriotic man who is willing to sacrifice his life to protect his nation. In time, they come to rely upon Hayden--and to some extent, he relies upon them--even though Admiral Fanning is Hayden's target for vengeance. I appreciate Schroeder's attempt to introduce moral ambiguity; the tenuous environment of Virga lends itself to the idea that people who are enemies may suddenly become dependent upon one another.

The posthuman universe outside the fullerene barrier of Virga's balloon shell was intriguing. I can only surmise that such an important plot point will be developed further in the next books of this series. Likewise, I found Hayden's love interest, Aubri Mahallan, intriguing but lacking much depth. She seemed marked for "tragic love interest" from the moment she appeared, and Schroeder played the trope straight enough that I had to look away. Her motivations seemed more driven by plot than by character, and her death was almost as needless--although perhaps not as melodramatic--as that of the Rook's chartmaster.

Oh yes, death. There's quite a bit of that in Sun of Suns, beginning with the deaths of Hayden's parents. Lots of fighting and adventure too--this would make a good movie if anyone figured out how to actually film it. For those who thirst for swashbuckling adventure, this book has it all: pirates, vehicle chases (bike chases through air, no less), sword fighting, and free fall aerial manoeuvres. Yes, this book is action-packed. And I am not being sarcastic when I say that this is a redeeming feature. Although I'm not one to enjoy an excess of action, Schroeder makes it a cornerstone of his story. It makes up for the lack of description of characters or environment (beyond the scientific explanations woven into the dialogue). The action elevates Sun of Suns from amusing posthuman rumination to entertaining work of hard science fiction.

Schroeder has created a fascinating world around which to weave a series. I hope (probably in vain) that the next book has better, more three-dimensional characters. Alas, that sort of improvement doesn't seem likely, and the mediocrity of Sun of Suns' protagonist consigns the book itself to the unpalatable category of "good, but not great."

My Reviews of the Virga series:
Queen of Candesce →

I read Karl Schroeder's Sun of Suns almost a year ago and liked it but didn't love it. Queen of Candesce, in addition to standing by itself, has made me wonder if I was uncharitable to the first book. I honestly enjoyed Queen of Candesce every step of the way.

There is no question that Schroeder's Virga is a fabulous example of world-building. But it was so obvious in the first book, so overt, that at times it overwhelmed the story. That isn't the case here. Virga still plays an important role, but it's one that is integrated better into the story itself, which is really a political one.

Schroeder shows us that he can do more than describe a different type of world and drop people with steampunkesque technology and politics into that setting. Spyre is an example of how human politics has adjusted to the unique attributes of living on a wheel inside of fullerene sphere. There's an entire faction of conservation engineers devoted only to keeping Spyre intact, never mind politics. There are rebels who want "emergent government," something that Venera thinks won't work by dint of how Virga itself was designed. And hovering behind everything, there's the sinister but poorly-understood threat of "Artificial Nature." (I'm just now realizing what an oxymoron the phrase itself is, never mind what it denotes.)

Venera Fanning, who was more of antagonist in the first book, is a delectable protagonist. She lands in the nation of Spyre, which is more of a collection of micro-nations on two massive wheels near Candesce. With no previous knowledge of Spyre's politics or culture, she manages to inveigle her way into society, pull a con, and begin building her resource base. Her goal is to have the resources to return to Slipstream with a fleet and take revenge for her husband's death. But as Venera builds power in Spyre, she starts to make allies, even friends, and much to her dismay, develops a conscience.

I described Venera in my review of Sun of Suns as "a fun but ruthless antagonist." She's fun but ruthless here as well. She's fun because she gives every gambit everything she has; Venera is not just an action hero but an intelligent action hero who, once she has decided upon a course of action, commits to it whole-heartedly. She's ruthless because, at least at first, she doesn't care about how much of Spyre she has to destabilize (physically or politically) to get back home. Even when she displays loyalty to her new companions, like Garth, she never develops the same loyalty for Spyre or its people. Venera is always the outsider, driven by the goals that define her.

That's the deeper part of the story. We learn early on that Venera cares about only two possessions: the key to Candesce and the mysterious bullet that broke her jaw. Both are important to the plot, but they are more important to Venera as a character. Venera's accident with the bullet has formed the core of her personality, especially now that she believes her husband is dead: one of her reasons for staying alive is to find the origin of that bullet. But if she solves that mystery, who then does she become?

It's this question of identity that is central to Queen of Candesce. Venera has the opportunity to become the "botanist" of a small cherry-growing nation called Liris, but she doesn't. She instead cedes the position to someone more qualified, then returns to Greater Spyre in order to start anew and try to find a way to escape Spyre itself. Later, she assumes the identity of Amandera Thrace-Guilles, last heir of the sequestered nation of Buridan. Like any good con artist, she must become Amandera in order to dupe her marks (the entire council of Spyre, in this case). It's interesting to watch Venera try to juggle her two identities and watch the reactions of people based on who they think Venera is.

Maybe I just have a weakness for stories wrapped around con games, but Venera's deception makes Queen of Candesce just plain fun. Often she miscalculates, makes a mistake, and has to think on her feet, compromise, and come up with a new plan. But once in a while, one of Venera's plans works out, and every time that happened I just squealed in delight. I'm not sure if Sun of Suns deserves more credit than I originally gave it, but reading it was worth it just to get to this book. Here, Schroeder melds the massive scope of Virga with the minute scope of human lives. And now I know that if Venera Fanning is ever around, I want to be on her side.

My Reviews of the Virga series:
← Sun of Suns | Pirate Sun →

Uber-spoiler warning. Seriously, if I throw out major twists like they're candy. You have been warned.

Also, I link to TVTropes a lot in this review. A lot. You have been warned.

I first read this book a number of years ago and liked it. It's remained in the back of my mind all these years, half-remembered. When I learned of the sequel, I resolved to read it again; now that I found the sequel at the library, it's about time I make good. As with most books I've enjoyed in the past, I've romanticized some of my memories about this one—it's almost as good as I remember it being. David Anthony Durham has a talent for fusing the epic scope of battle and politics with the intimacy of personal vendettas and intrigue. He is rigorously competent at epic fantasy.

Acacia manifests a lot of the standard fantasy setting, particularly medival stasis and cookie-cutter nationalities. The characters, at times, are stock and two-dimensional, with the usual medieval fantasy motivations. The plot, loosely-summarized, goes like this: king of a static empire built on slavery is assassinated by agents of an oppressed, exiled people; his children are scattered and mature in secret, only to arise and try to win back the throne. Except it all goes horribly wrong, and that should be a sign that Acacia is more than you average formulaic fantasy novel.

The plot of Acacia may be nothing new, but Durham brings to it a gritty realism that makes it feel fresh. With most books that follow this trope, an unquestionably evil villain unseats the monarch, and the protagonists engage in a righteous quest to restore the true heir to the throne. Not so here; Durham wields the Oven Mitt of Moral Ambiguity in such a manner that it's quite possible to see Hanish Mein as the righteous liberator and the Akarans as an oppressive regime.

Leodan Akaran is an idealist trapped in his own version of hell. His empire sustains itself on the backs of child slaves shipped overseas to trading partners he has never met. In return he receives "the mist," a drug that pacifies a significant percentage of the population, including those who live their entire lives as workers of the empire's mines. And this is not a new development; it's been going on for five hundred years, ever since Leodan's ancestor Edifus conquered "the Known World," banishing an ethnic group known as the Mein to the north. Edifus' son Tinhadin killed his two brothers and used magic to curse the Mein so that their dead would never find peace. Turns out this creates the Tunishnevre, a collective awareness of the Mein's ancestors, which yearns to be released upon the world in all its undead strength. The key to this creepy lock? Akaran blood at the sacrificial altar, obviously. Nice job, Tinhadin.

Those are the good guys. The Mein, ostensibly the bad guys, have a ruthless warrior culture. Rite of succession: the Maseret, a "deadly dance" that is a duel to the death, winner takes leadership of the people. Favourite pastimes: hating on the Akarans, honouring their ancestors (the Tunishnevre), and breeding an army that will sweep across the Known World as soon as Leodan is assassinated. Once in charge, Hanish Mein does not abolish the Quota, as he claimed he would, and pretty much steps into the Akaran shoes. Oh, and he lies to Corinn Akaran even as he falls in love with her, promising to keep her safe while plotting to kill her so he can free the Tunishnevre.

So looks like there really aren't any good guys after all. There's just bad and worse (and it's hard to tell which is which).

Despite this admirable ambiguity, there is no contest. If you cheer for the Mein, then you are out of luck. And how can you help but cheer for the Akarans? They are practically a menu: even if you don't like Aliver (which I don't) there's still Mena, the Badass Princess; Dariel, the Wise Prince; and Corinn, who starts off somewhat spoiled but ends up Queen of the Known World and mother of Hanish's child. Take your pick.

Aliver mounts his resistance. Hanish's brother and second-in-command, Maeander, leads an army to meet Aliver on the field of battle. After some carnage on both sides, Maeander challenges Aliver to single combat. And here's where Acacia shines in its difference: Aliver loses.

When I originally read this book, I did a double-take and reread that passage. I couldn't believe it. This was the duel where the rightful king kills a pretender (or in this case, the pretender's brother)! But no, Aliver exits the story prematurely, and suddenly the ending is up for grabs. In an instant, Durham creates uncertainty about an otherwise routine plot, and in so doing, makes me care about the outcome of the story. Will the remaining Akarans find a way to defeat Hanish? Or will the story end with the release of the Tunishnevre? It's clear that this is the first in a trilogy, so I was prepared for a cliffhanger.

The actual ending to Acacia does not disappoint. Durham drives a thin wedge between Corinn and her two remaining siblings. Corinn takes a page out of Hanish's book and takes back the throne through treachery. Once reunited with her siblings, she greets with affection but keeps herself at a distance. She's no longer the innocent princess she was at the beginning of the book. She's no longer the caged princess at the mercy of the Mein. She's the queen, and unlike Aliver, she brooks no notions of abolishing the Quota or granting provinces their independence. As Acacia comes to a close, we get a glimpse of things to come. But this book is not mere lead-in to the rest of the trilogy. It's a tragic story in its own right, one in which there is no clear winner. The Akarans come full circle, having lost their empire and reclaimed it, with their world no better off—indeed, it is perhaps much worse, having to cope with new tenants like the Numrek and the devastation wreaked by the Santoth. Acacia is the first bloody drop that signals the end to stasis.

If Durham's deftness with politics raises Acacia above its generic fantasy origins, his writing style threatens to plunge it back into those depths. This is where my memory was generous. Much of the story is exposition, with paragraphs upon paragraphs elaborating on cities, on people's pasts, on historical events. Most of this information is relevant, but Durham recounts it in such a dry and matter-of-fact manner. Instead of showing a lot of the action, he just tells us what happened in hindsight. There are notable exceptions to this rule—the fight against the antoks, Aliver's duel with Maeander, Mena's murder of Maeben—but in general, Durham's writing is too descriptive. His sentences are elaborate, flowery; they often try too hard to be melancholy when the events they describe would suffice to evoke such a tone on their own. And Durham can't help but remind us, over and over, of such simple facts like the empire's dependence on the avaricious "league," a naval trading conglomerate. This heavy-handedness does not do justice to an otherwise intricate story.

I love fantasy stories, but it's true that this is a genre easily bent to a formula. The novels that manage to stand out do so by subverting, averting, or excelling at this formula. With Acacia, Durham does all three of these things. This is the type of quality fantasy that I love to recommend to fantasy lovers and fantasy neophytes alike.

My Reviews of the Acacia Trilogy:
The Other Lands →

Right, so, I don't really want to write this review. In fact, re-reading this book was a bad idea, but I chose to do it for reasons that will soon become clear (that, and I wanted to give it a more accurate rating on Goodreads).

I love to tear into bad books—and make no mistake, Angels & Demons is a very bad book, and not in the naughty sense. But the problem with bad, popular books published ten years ago is that most of the witty deconstructions have been done. Bashing Dan Brown is like bashing [b:that vampire series|41865|Twilight (Twilight, #1)|Stephenie Meyer|http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1275613536s/41865.jpg|3212258]: yes, I could do it, and I could do it well. But what would be the point? It's passé.

I could take my time to detail the many factual errors present in this book, but TV Tropes has already taken care of that for me. Also worthy of note is this blog post, which mentions the absurdity of the claim that Vittoria "disproved one of Einstein's fundamental theories" by observing fish.

Say what you will of Angels & Demons; dismiss it as "light entertainment" that should be celebrated because it's a well-paced thriller with a pseudohistorical, pseudoscientific plot and a hot yoga-practising Italian physicist. All those inaccuracies, they're just artistic license, right? It doesn't matter that the facade on St. Peter's Basilica is travertine instead of marble. Who cares about minor details? I'm just being a downer nitpicker!

Were it not for the depressing overabundance of nits to pick, I might agree with my straw man opponent. The sheer number of errors and oversights on Dan Brown's part, however, means he is either too lazy to do research or wilfully neglecting the fact-checking. In either case, it sends the message that he doesn't think his readers are worth the time to produce a book that's more accurate. That's condescending, and I don't like condescending.

Responsible authors, particularly authors of historical fiction, write historical notes that mention where they've deviated from, you know, actual history. Dan Brown claims it's 99 per cent true. Angels & Demons has a nice little "fact" preface that warns us all about antimatter. I don't know if you've spotted the trend yet, but it turns out the "fact" is not much of a fact. So Dan Brown is portraying his (poorly researched) fiction as non-fiction. And that's not what writers do; that's what politicians do.

The whole "science versus religion" debate is a worthy motif for any story. Far better books have done it more justice than Angels & Demons does, mostly because Dan Brown doesn't even try to do the subject any justice. I'm sure there are many people who feel that science is destroying religion much the same way the camerlengo does in this book. Television and the Internet (which may be biased, I guess) inform me that none of them has faked the attempted destruction of a religious site using a new and highly-destructive weapon created by science in order to restore people's faith. I guess they're all waiting on that antimatter.

My point is: subtle and nuanced Dan Brown is not. His villains are caricatures of caricatures. His hero . . . well, I feel only pity for Robert Langdon, to be trapped in such a poorly-researched world. And he's played by Tom Hanks in the movies, so he's not all bad.

But Angels & Demons is bad. Even if we label the bad writing and incoherent plot as subjective elements, the fact remains that Dan Brown is feeding us a shit sandwich like it's made of edible gold—and charging us for the gold too.

It's still better than The Art Thief.

My Reviews of the Robert Langdon series:
The Da Vinci Code →