Ralph Harris

Review by

Take a moment and consider the last time you studied medieval European history, specifically the advent of Hussite “heresy” in the wake of John Wycliffe’s translation of the Bible into the common tongue. Focus specifically on the years between 1400 and 1440, during which the first through third anti-Hussite crusades took place. If these inquiries bring specific, vivid events to mind, then The Tower of Fools by Andrzej Sapkowski will be a fitting read for an enterprising European history enthusiast such as yourself.

Set in the powder keg of 15th-century Europe, The Tower of Fools brings readers into a richly referential world of Christian history as it casually dissects the events leading to the Protestant Reformation. Often Sapkowski's references come audaciously close breaking the fourth wall (a character quite literally references nailing theses to a wall while coincidentally owning a cat named Luther). These references are spearheaded by our protagonist, Reinmar of Bielawa, who is an infamous seducer of married women and also a doctor, a student and a mage.

While the book is strongly grounded in the real events and politics of Catholic history in Europe, Sapkowski delights in depicting a range of magical abilities and creatures in his version of medieval Europe. His characters encounter the supernatural in a fairly believable way: with heavy skepticism, then fear, then denial and then, finally, acceptance. Magic, witchcraft and magical creatures enter and exit the story with such abruptness that neither readers nor characters have time to digest the last before the second appears before them. The supernatural elements, however, are not the primary crux of the story. The Tower of Fools deploys irony with the grace of a stampeding elephant, and, as such, our story centers on the king of fools, Reinmar. Reinmar embarks on a journey in which every wise character, force of nature, twist of fate and clear sign from God attempts to dissuade him from pursuing who Reinmar believes is his one true love, Adele. Adele is, naturally, a married woman, and Reinmar meets a motley crew of miscreants during his harrowing quest for her love.

The Tower of Fools clearly sets up for a series but provides ample entertainment as a standalone story. Sapkowski’s primary draw is his ability to weave rich historical context with a complex atmosphere of magic and superstition. The central characters are merely points of view that provide the reader a detailed perspective of the world; Reinmar and company are simple characters who grow little by the end of the story. However, this simplicity services the story Sapkowski tells, providing an easy starting point for readers to navigate the complex politics and superstition of the time period. While this is certainly not a slow read, Sapkowski does dole out plot points at a methodical pace. The first 300 pages or so pass before our central triad of characters meet up, and even longer passes before the larger subplots begin to come together.

Even with a fairly extensive understanding of Catholic history, I needed to keep Google handy while reading, and at one point I looked up a map of Silesia at the narration’s not-so-subtle prompting. Sapkowski often incorporates three other languages, and occasionally up to five, in addition to English: Polish, Latin and Italian primarily, with occasional French and German. He incorporates theology from early church figures like Augustine alongside the “modern” church leaders of the early- to mid-1400s, such as Wycliffe and Jan Hus and the Roman Curia. I would strongly suggest readers take the time to look up the words and references they do not understand. If all of these languages and references scare you—good. They should. The Tower of Fools is not an easy read, but it's quite rewarding for readers ready to take the plunge.

Take a moment and consider the last time you studied medieval European history, specifically the advent of Hussite “heresy” in the wake of John Wycliffe’s translation of the Bible into the common tongue. Focus specifically on the years between 1400 and 1440, during which the first through third anti-Hussite crusades took place. If these inquiries […]
Review by

Readers will be riveted by powerful world building and deep characterization for the entirety of Rebecca Roanhorse’s Black Sun. Right from the start, the story is on the clock. The Convergence, an alignment of Sun, Moon and Earth, approaches, and Serapio, a boy from a far-off land, brings magic and doom with him to his mother’s homeland of Tova.

As the characters make their way toward Tova for the Convergence, the narrative perspective shifts constantly between Serapio, the Sun Priestess Naranpa and a sea witch of sorts named Xiala. While there are a few twists and turns to the plot, Roanhorse paints her story in broad, easy-to-follow strokes, the action serving almost as backdrop upon which to paint her world and to enrich her characters.

As perspectives change, so do the rhythm and meter of the text, matching the mannerisms and personality of each character. When Xiala is guiding the narrative, her brash, blunt nature creates shorter, more direct sentences. People characterized by Xiala are often summarized by their physical characteristics first, their emotional resonance second. This shift in narrative tone and theme is most notable when Serapio is in the hot seat. Blind, brooding and by far the most powerful character, Serapio offers a perspective that often clashes with others’ views of him and his surroundings. This attention to detail in character voice creates an engaging story that keeps the reader in the moment through shifting narrative lenses.

The world of Black Sun is well built and clearly inspired by the Pre-Columbian Americas. Roanhorse has constructed a world of multiple regions and religions, intertwined by their roots, culture and money (cocoa, in the Mayan fashion) but split by their beliefs. Each character has a different perspective on the story’s events; a relational diagram displaying where the characters agree, disagree and agree-but-do-not-quite-know-it would have to be three-dimensional and incorporate multiple referencing lines, mirroring their real-life relationships. Roanhorse’s humanization of Black Sun’s characters creates genuine connection for the reader, even with the Sun Priestess, despite any lack of sun-star divination skills the reader might have.

Also, this book has extremely cool magic. Crows eat people, the sun goes dark, and the ocean sings with its children—wild forces of creation running rampant on small to massive scales. (There’s something incredible about reading “THE SUN WENT DARK.” It paints a remarkable picture.) Truly, the fact that this review has only now gotten to this aspect of Roanhorse’s fantasy world demonstrates Black Sun’s multifaceted appeal.

Black Sun has one drawback: It is clearly the start of a series, and ends like it. Readers looking for an open-and-shut story will not find it here. As referenced before, the story is a set piece for the characters to interact with the setting and each other, but there is plenty of fascinating interplay and world building to keep readers engaged and entertained from start to finish.

Readers will be riveted by powerful world building and deep characterization for the entirety of Rebecca Roanhorse’s Black Sun
Review by

An interplanetary bureaucracy faces a moral dilemma in Erin K. Wagner’s An Unnatural Life, a novella that prioritizes thoughtful questions over dramatic plot points. An Unnatural Life focuses on answering exactly one question: Who, or what, is guilty of murder? Aiya, a lawyer living on Europa, one of Jupiter’s moons, takes the case of an android named 812-3, who has been convicted of killing a human worker. Were 812-3 human, the case would certainly have been labeled a mistrial and would be liable for appeal. Aiya takes on the role of representing him, applying for appeal on his behalf even though androids do not have equal rights under the law on Europa.

Wagner lets the story unfold in a passive, third-person voice, creating an atmosphere more reminiscent of nonfiction and biography than science fiction. Events play out as if a neutral party were merely reading the thoughts of Aiya, or calmly dictating her actions. As a result, no moral question or dilemma is resolved or answered by the narrative; the reader is left to ponder these questions themselves.

This documentarian voice allows Wagner to paint with the brush of a journalist, depicting events clearly and factually. Feelings of disgust, fear or suspense in the reader are neutralized in favor of thoughtful inquiry measured with reasonable skepticism. Similar to most nonfiction explorations of modern events, An Unnatural Life eschews a normal, tidy ending for one that is more realistic. While Aiya’s emotional and social journey is certainly not uneventful, Wagner’s nihilistic take on the state of humanity does not leave room for much to change by the end of the story.

Perhaps due to its placement beyond the asteroid belt, or its entirely icy nature, Europa serves as an excellent backdrop for Wagner’s stoic and cold novella. While Mars or Venus may appeal to the uninitiated, Europa has always had a distinctly alien, otherworldly feel. The choice of setting also facilitates a likely setup for a sequel: a series of short, first-person radio logs that document an explorer’s journey into the unknown areas of Europa. This subplot gives the novella an interesting cadence as it bounces the reader between suspenseful exploration and courtroom politicking, sometimes within the space of two paragraphs.

An Unnatural Life will appeal to the philosopher within its audience, those who want to cozy up and consider a lightly challenging moral and ethical dilemma.

An interplanetary bureaucracy faces a moral dilemma in Erin K. Wagner’s An Unnatural Life, a novella that prioritizes thoughtful questions over dramatic plot points. An Unnatural Life focuses on answering exactly one question: Who, or what, is guilty of murder? Aiya, a lawyer living on Europa, one of Jupiter’s moons, takes the case of an android named […]
Review by

Exploring mental illness via ’80s cyberpunk-action vignettes is no easy task, but Ferrett Steinmetz’s Automatic Reload accomplishes it with panache. Set in the near future, Automatic Reload takes readers to a world where automation has just begun its ascent to supremacy. Our narrator, Mat, is an ex-military drone operator turned cybernetic mercenary, or bodyhacker. He receives a mysterious, possibly super profitable contract, rife with unknown danger and enemies. He meets our other protagonist, Sylvia, soon after beginning the mission, and the two become fast friends, lovers and fugitives from nearly everyone they know.

The exposition runs through a couple of weeks, but the primary story happens over a mere 24 hours. In this short time, our protagonists move from ambush to obstacle to blockade run, shooting, punching and panicking through each scene. Mental illness is a central theme of the book, as both of our primary protagonists have experience with similar conditions: Mat has PTSD, and Silvia has a panic disorder. The depiction feels natural and well thought out, and it helps separate our main characters from your typical immortal, unbothered action heroes. Rather than violently obliterating everything in their way, Mat and Sylvia meticulously sort through every plan to ensure no civilians or innocent bystanders are hurt. They both have mental illnesses, and they’re both quite capable warriors, and one does not invalidate the other. I appreciated that Automatic Reload does not try to “cure” Mat or Sylvia. Instead, the narrative leans into their coping methods and allows the characters to work through their pain and trauma.

Since most of the plot happens over the course of one day, Steinmetz’s lack of chapter breaks creates a chaotic, stressful pace for readers. You’ll want to read this book in 100-page segments, pausing only when you reach one of Steinmetz’s act breaks. I enjoyed the structure of the book and Steinmetz’s frenetic writing style, but this is certainly not a book for light reading in 10- to 15-minute chunks, and readers looking for a calm read on a cool afternoon will not find a solution to their needs.

Automatic Reload is perfect for anyone looking for a lighter take on cyberpunk stories. The tech of Steinmetz’s future world walks the border of psuedoscience just enough to entertain without preventing immersion in what seems like a very realistic future. There are no surprising betrayals or stunning revelations, simply good people trying to do good things. Explosive and page-turning prose, ridiculous scenarios and an empowering perspective on mental illness make Automatic Reload a fun and engaging read.

Exploring mental illness via ’80s cyberpunk-action vignettes is no easy task, but Ferrett Steinmetz’s Automatic Reload accomplishes it with panache. Set in the near future, Automatic Reload takes readers to a world where automation has just begun its ascent to supremacy. Our narrator, Mat, is an ex-military drone operator turned cybernetic mercenary, or bodyhacker. He […]
Review by

Cuban science fiction author Yoss has written a simple, elegant narrative in Red Dust, a novel centered on a robot deputy of little renown. Within Yoss’ succinct 150 pages, the reader follows an eccentric robot obsessed with noir fiction named Raymond after Raymond Chandler. Yoss goes beyond a reliance on overused storytelling methods to craft an entire story from overwrought science fiction tropes slamming into detective noir cliches. The premise—an alien confederation wrapped in power politics holds down the advancement of the human race, and one robot police officer must track down an alien criminal with the help of a convicted thief—should make for a predictable story at best. However, Yoss’ choice of narrator and ability to converse with the reader make Red Dust a breezy, fun read perfect for summer afternoons.

With its copious amounts of cliche, a reader could easily lose interest or find themselves unattached to characters in Red Dust. Raymond, however, keeps the reader engaged, sarcastically pointing out obvious literary references as they happen. The first-person narrative shatters the fourth wall with constant, direct allusions to the story’s noir influences. The resultant quirky lightheartedness creates the feeling of watching a cheesy movie with a good friend, joking about each plot hole and contradiction. As a result, the plot holes don’t matter, and the contradictions are fun instead of frustrating.

Our spunky robot gets assigned the incredibly difficult task of tracking down a supernatural killer called a Gaussical, a being capable of manipulating probability to make any number of insane things happen. This ability translates into the space equivalent of magic, and to catch a wizard, Raymond needs a wizard. Enter El Afortunado, an imprisoned thief and smuggler who happens to be the only known human Gaussical, and is out for revenge. While not particularly complicated, the plot takes the reader on a lovely jaunt through a troubled Sol system, chasing bad guys, ejecting power crystals and eventually, finding a happy ending.

If you are looking for either hard science fiction or gritty noir mystery, Red Dust is not for you. If you want to peruse those worlds through a rosy tint and listen to the narration of a sardonic positronic companion, then this book will happily fill a short few hours of your time.

Cuban science fiction author Yoss has written a simple, elegant narrative in Red Dust, a novel centered on a robot deputy of little renown. Within Yoss’ succinct 150 pages, the reader follows an eccentric robot obsessed with noir fiction named Raymond after Raymond Chandler. Yoss goes beyond a reliance on overused storytelling methods to craft […]
Review by

As a child, when I played with my friends, we acted out heroic victories and rampaged through our enemies with peerless joy. In the minds of my friends and I, we were all equally amazing, invincible heroes. No villain could match us; we were the good guys! How could we lose? The glee of a jaunt through an imaginary world thrilled my 12-year-old self like nothing else could. In Sword of Fire, Katharine Kerr recreates the feeling of that rose-tinted romp, full of triumph and camaraderie.

Sword of Fire centers around a sociopolitical struggle against the unjust courts of the Kingdom of Deverry. While that certainly could be a backdrop for a bleak, dark struggle, Kerr’s novel is instead a lovely quest with an ever-optimistic, wholeheartedly enthusiastic crew of brilliant women and chivalrous men. Alyssa, our primary heroine, embarks on a trip to recover a book that can help usurp the old traditions of the courts with even older, supposedly more fair traditions. Kerr spends just enough time describing the world to let the reader know the important points. First, Deverry is a blend of medieval Norman, Celtic and Anglo-Saxon mythology and history. Second, there’s enough anachronistic attachment to writing, laws and education to make the plot an intriguing mix of political protest, violence and legal procedure. And finally, the world is much bigger than any of the main characters realize, and they are all perfectly happy to be proven wrong.

With a lightly magical, extremely familiar setting and lovable cast of characters, Kerr sets out to take the reader through the Kingdom of Deverry’s evolution to a (hopefully) more just world. She doles out plot points via chatty gossip between noble families and secret messages sent by way of servants. At no point, however, does Sword of Fire contain any real tension. Kerr tells a delightful, relentlessly joyful story; all anxiety is resolved within six pages of its introduction.

Alyssa is bold and well-spoken, robustly constructed as an independent, self-driven character with her own agendas and plans. Each character in Sword of Fire similarly serves as a gentle rebuke to genre tropes, crafted by Kerr as hilarious rebellions against those classic, somewhat simplistic themes of chivalry, damsels and maniacal villains. Rather than rolling plot pressure up to a grand battle of epic proportions, Alyssa and company instead try to establish a legal precedent in a court of law and hope to avoid war entirely. At each point where Kerr could fall into a trope, she subverts expectations.

Meandering through the pages of Kerr’s Sword of Fire was escapism of the finest quality. For readers looking for a dark drama of epic proportions, these 380 pages will hold nothing for you. Here, you will only find charming banter, happy endings and optimism in prose form.

Sword of Fire is centered around a socio-political struggle against the unjust courts of the Kingdom of Deverry. While that certainly could be a backdrop for a bleak, dark struggle, Kerr’s novel is instead a lovely quest with an ever-optimistic, wholeheartedly enthusiastic crew of brilliant women and chivalrous men.

Review by

In S. C. Emmett’s entry to a new fantasy epic, The Throne of the Five Winds, a lady-in-waiting to the princess of a vanquished land plays a dangerous game of political intrigue.

When the Empire of Zhaon conquers Khir, Princess Mahara is betrothed to the crown prince of Zhaon. Yala, a lady-in-waiting must leave her home alongside Mahara and journey to the center of the rival country, where all six of the aging ruler’s sons are ruthlessly plotting to claim the throne. Emmett’s book requires incredible attention to every word on the page as both Yala and the reader are thrust into a foreign political battle of assassins, careful messages and strategically offered cups of tea. Conversations between characters stretch across pages; each interaction is spiked with schmoozing, scheming and scowling. Emmett even lingers over his characters’ accents—rather than forgetting them or breezing over them, Emmett describes their differences in syllabic detail. In The Throne of the Five Winds, characters’ reactions and facial tells are artfully crafted, conveying each aspect of social interaction with incredible detail and precision.

The political plot moves slowly, but peeling each layer of conversational detail will keep readers consistently interested. The sheer number of players on the board (two queens, six princes, a Khir princess, our main character Yala, a warlord-king, his primary attendant and a seemingly infinite number of political secondaries) results in a near-endless web of relationships. Each primary character has two or three relevant titles and politically important traits that influence the style of their interactions. (This meant I had a ridiculous amount of sticky notes exploding from my book, like a colorful papier-mâché hedgehog). The grand prize of becoming Emperor is a relatively simple goal, which at least made sorting through motivations a bit easier.

There is a serious learning curve through the first 100 pages (you really should see how many sticky notes I used), but the Zhaon empire and the kingdom of Khir are well worth exploring, despite the time investment required. The world is constructed well: Color is added to the world for context, never dumped on readers like an unfriendly reminder of history class from high school. Inserting colloquial names for plants, creatures and roles is a favorite trope of mine, and Emmett employs it liberally, if a mite too much (for example, a “dragonwing” is just a big dragonfly). The world feels real and expansive, complete with implied trade relations, a rich diversity of culture and five languages.

The Throne of the Five Winds will appeal to patient readers; the quick-witted banter of modern superhero movies is nowhere to be found within its pages. Instead of fencing with quick verbal stabs and sardonic ripostes, Yala and crew are brutally sharp social gunfighters, holding their draws, each of their statements spoken with lethal concision. Those without such patience are almost always vulnerable and open to attack from more skilled fighters. Moving through Emmett’s socio-political fantasy drama is quite an undertaking, but definitely one worth attempting.

In S. C. Emmett’s entry to a new fantasy epic, The Throne of the Five Winds, a lady-in-waiting to the princess of a vanquished land plays a dangerous game of political intrigue. When the Empire of Zhaon conquers Khir, Princess Mahara is betrothed to the crown prince of Zhaon. Yala, a lady-in-waiting must leave her home alongside Mahara and […]
Review by

Upon a Burning Throne is an epic fantasy about honor, rules, politics and deeply mysterious maya (magic). This first installment in a new series by Ashok K. Banker begins with the birth of two baby boys, heirs to Hastinga, ruler of the Burnt Empire. Political strife is present from the start, as the two baby boys are put through a trial by fire (literally), while a third child, a girl from another kingdom, challenges and passes the same trial. From there, the story goes more places than can be easily summarized—Banker’s world is colorful, full of lush forests, endless deserts and wide-spanning mountain ranges. Each page is filled with vivid depictions of people, places and vistas, easily living up to the novel’s inspiration, the Mahabharata.

The story is told by multiple, steadily shifting narrators, who change every 20 pages or so. Each perspective change builds and defuses tension. Quick, breakneck perspective shifts arrive along with momentous, climactic events. And slower shifts, with multiple subchapters, can still denote a quick passage of time with years slipping by in between changes in narration. While this structure can take some adjustment, especially for readers used to the orderly, chronological storytelling of modern fiction, Banker uses it to surprise and push the reader out of their comfort zone. I grew used to and enjoyed the rhythm of book’s pacing by the end, and anticipating and preparing myself for the next narrator was an enjoyable game.

Banker takes their time to begin weaving this very long tale, clearly setting the stage for the next book, and with so many unresolved loose ends, I’ll probably have to grab a notebook to keep track of them all. Without a doubt, committing to Upon a Burning Throne is a task in itself as the book clocks in at 660 pages, and no doubt the next installment will be just as grand in scale.

It’s rare to come upon a volume of fiction that manages to set a grand ambition and meet it. While Upon a Burning Throne does not quite deliver the resolution within its pages, it does an incredible job of setting the stage for a dense series that is sure to be well worth the massive time investment.

Upon a Burning Throne is an epic fantasy filled with vivid depictions of people, places and vistas, easily living up to its inspiration, the Mahabharata.

Review by

Soulkeeper by David Dalglish is a nearly perfect representation of a game of Dungeons & Dragons come to life. A fighter, wizard, cleric and a rogue encounter dragons, magic and much more within the pages of Dalglish’s delightful romp. Tension and action set in right from the beginning of Devin the Soulkeeper’s journey, and the overall sense of unease permeates the book throughout.

Soulkeepers are a group of extremely cool coroner/pastors responsible for the literal ascension of souls into heaven. Oh—they also burn the bodies on a pyre when the process is complete, if they were not cool enough already. Every classic fantasy trope can be found in Soulkeeper’s world, called the Cradle, each with its own twist. Faeries are wrought from stone, clerics wear porcelain doll masks and members of the religious order are called Keepers. A new, dangerous wrinkle is added when ancient forces and dangerous magic begins to awaken, placing the entire world in danger and forcing Devin to add “monster slayer” to his list of duties.

Soulkeeper is an excellent companion to rainy March days, despite the fact that Dalglish does not shy away from vividly described gore and violence. In the span of twenty pages, Dalglish allows his characters to enjoy days of uninterrupted, wholesome fun and incredible bouts of depression and anxiety. One might think that such quick swings would cause emotional whiplash, but Dalglish handles the pacing well, creating genuine characters with realistic emotional depth. Each protagonist is goodhearted and caring in a way that is increasingly rare in the era of “Game of Thrones” and “The Walking Dead,” and I often found myself chuckling or snickering at Dalglish’s lowbrow humor.

Dalglish wears his influences on his sleeve throughout the story, pulling from Lord of the Rings and R.A. Salvatore to craft a complex, highly developed systems that serve as the backbone of his world. As a veteran player of tabletop role-playing games, I can easily imagine that Dalglish either built a system of rules that his world runs on or that he took inspiration from rule intensive games like Magic: The Gathering or Pathfinder. Either way, the result is that the magic of Soulkeeper is grounded and consistent.

I found myself chewing through the story, eager to see the next turn in each subplot. I often wish I could forget all my memories of playing Dungeons & Dragons, just so I could experience the first time playing again. Soulkeeper brought me back to the nostalgia I had during that first game of Dungeons & Dragons: a sense of wonder, exploration and camaraderie difficult to find anywhere else.

Soulkeeper by David Dalglish is a delightful romp, a nearly perfect representation of a game of Dungeons & Dragons come to life.

Review by

Charlie Jane Anders hurls her latest book, The City in the Middle of the Night, against the boundary of imagination with her strange, beautiful alien world. Anders re-maps modern English onto new science fiction concepts and creatures, and begins the novel with a fictional translator’s note alerting the read that the text of The City in the Middle of the Night will use well known creatures and terms in lieu of the alien, helping to ease the jump into a world wildly different from our own. In theory, this seems wild and confusing but in practice, Anders’ stylistic chocie helps the reader understand the strange lives led on the planet January. Crocodiles are definitely not crocodiles, I would not suggest trying to ride their cats, and most food is likely nothing like its terrestrial counterpart.

One side of January permanently faces the local star and one side faces entirely away. A thin band of land between “day” and “night” provides a barely hospitable patch for the human colonists. In this narrow band of life, humans struggle to regulate their sleep and wakefulness. When inadvertent revolutionary Sophie is banished into the bleak wilderness outside her city, her life is saved by the mysterious aliens who roam January’s surface and what she learns from them may change the planet’s society forever.

Time is a key theme of Anders’ novel—the human settlements visited by the two main characters, Sophie and Mouth, are defined by how they structure life around the endless dusk. Anders masterfully constructs both settings, using her protagonists’ reaction to the flow of time in each city to paint a different kind of claustrophobia. I never thought I would describe a book as painting a story entirely in different shades of anxiety, but Anders nails the feelings of claustrophobia, fear of acceptance, inferiority and loss of identity all in the span of 360 pages.

No character in the story is “likeable,” but all of them are incredibly relatable. The awkward relationship between Sophie and her best friend/love interest, Mouth’s aggressively territorial protection and ownership of her birth culture, and several other character specific conflicts are handled with tact and painful accuracy. My interest in continuing the story hinged completely on the intricate setpieces and the air of mystery surrounding the alien life on January—on both points, Anders overdelivers.

The City in the Middle of the Night does not end cleanly, and perhaps it’s fitting that a story so well grounded in realistic and relatable protagonists ends with such an unsatisfying tilt. In this novel, Anders has lovingly crafted a unique world, and finishes with a wild twist that left me endlessly interested in the next book of the series.

Charlie Jane Anders hurls her latest book, The City in the Middle of the Night, against the boundaries of imagination with her strange, beautiful alien world.

Review by

A three minute jaunt into your local bookstore will reveal a plethora of books detailing the lives of young, magically gifted girls, but no author marches her gifted protagonist through trials (and oppressive Russian winters) like Katherine Arden. From the beginning of her Winternight trilogy, Vasilisa Petrovna has been constantly bombarded with tragedy, and Arden’s conclusion, The Winter of the Witch, is no different. Quite literally burned, battered and cursed with broken ribs, Vasilisa has been thrust into the public spotlight. And contrary to the previous entries in the trilogy, she cannot escape the dangerous attention of men and chyerti this time around.

Finding a place to live in the world of Orthodox Russia has been difficult for Vasilisa, and her final quest for power and responsibility is marked with copious opposition. Even after emerging victorious over each foe she has encountered, Vasilisa must endure Bruce Willis in Die Hard-levels of abuse to reach her goals, with little to no reprieve. Seemingly in pace with her injuries, Vasilisa also exponentially expands in power, adding several spheres of power to her magical portfolio. Many of these tricks and explosive flashes come with particularly satisfying payoffs.

The Russian language can confuse Anglophone readers (looking at you, Doctor Zhivago), so Arden has added in several detailed notes about Russian names and a glossary of terms to help the unfamiliar. With a fluid incorporation of Russian diminutives and references, Arden wonderfully blends Russian culture into her novel. Conversations are brought to life in a realistic and relatable fashion, even when half the participants are devilish fey creatures.

Arden also embraces another commonly Russian trait in her writing: stoicism. Arden’s entire cadre of fictional actors constantly shrug off the weight of the horrors they bear, pushing themselves to a new edge. There is no commentary on the value of ignoring grief, no celebration of their grit. Just an acknowledgement of humanity’s inevitable tendency to ignore the wounds we incur, physical or otherwise. But when a character does, eventually, break down, they find themselves comforted, allowed to mourn. This respect for grief is rare, and well written in The Winter of the Witch. Seeing characters agonize over their past scars brings a true depth to even the most vile among them. While understanding a tragic backstory can help a reader sympathize, seeing a person or character truly suffer invokes empathy (even within my cold, dead heart).

To readers of the previous books, there is no spoiler in revealing that the end is not perfectly happy. Arden does go out of her way to wrap nearly every loose end the series has set up, and therein lies my only criticism. Arden writes the mystical and mysterious forces of her fey world well, and keeps the reader engaged with its mysteries. But in answering almost every possible question I could have had, Arden removes that mysticism from the setting. Some readers may find they like a tidy ending, but for a book fraught with sacrifice and cost at every turn, I would have liked to see an ending just as messy.

However, The Winter of the Witch was a fantastic way to end my literary year (as this reviewer read it in the last weeks of 2018), and I would highly recommend it. Arden explores the line between paganism and Christianity in a way that lends respect and power to each, which is especially amplified in her impressive final installment of the trilogy. Vasilisa is a heroine worth rooting for and her final story is just as impressive.

 

ALSO IN BOOKPAGE: Read our Q&A with Katherine Arden about The Winter of the Witch.

A three minute jaunt into your local bookstore will reveal a plethora of books detailing the lives of young, magically gifted girls, but no author marches her gifted protagonist through trials (and oppressive Russian winters) like Katherine Arden. From the beginning of her Winternight trilogy, Vasilisa Petrovna has been constantly bombarded with tragedy, and Arden’s conclusion, The Winter of the Witch, is no different. Quite literally burned, battered and cursed with broken ribs, Vasilisa has been thrust into the public spotlight. And contrary to the previous entries in the trilogy, she cannot escape the dangerous attention of men and chyerti this time around.

Review by

Vanilla ice cream gets a bad reputation. Most would consider it secondary—a side dish to better, richer flavors. But on the contrary, vanilla ice cream does one thing better than anything else: simplify an experience down to its best attributes. Vanilla ice cream is sweet, smooth and, most importantly, tastes exactly as expected, every time.

Richard Baker’s Restless Lightning is a wonderful, delectable bucket of vanilla ice cream, set in an idealistic vision of a future age of space exploration. Baker is not afraid to flood the reader with alien and military lingo, flexing twenty-five years of experience designing tabletop role playing games for industry titan Wizards of the Coast. The dearth of unexplained vocabulary avoids obstructing the flow of the story, instead creating a pseudo-realistic atmosphere a la “Star Trek.”

As the book opens, our hero, Lieutenant Commander Sikander North, finds himself assigned to a backwater station, set up as a diplomatic agent to a race of fishlike beings called Tzoru. The Tzoru are a civilization that has traveled the stars since before humans built pyramids. Tradition and peace have made them a bastion of stability, but the Tzoru way of life is changing faster than they can adapt. Unrest follows, tossing North and his intelligent romantic interest, Dr. Lara Dunstan, into the center of the action.

Combat breaks up the rising political strife, and Baker depicts space combat into a more naval, less Star Wars-style dogfight, experience. Ships line up in formation, forty thousand kilometers away from each other, firing broadside mounted “K-Cannons” at extremely calculated angles. Baker has a knack for writing each encounter in an interesting, dynamic way, without succumbing to bombastic explosive indulgence or boring mechanical descriptions.

Restless Lightning is not going to shake the foundation of science fiction. Instead, amidst a slew of gritty genre offerings like “Game of Thrones” or “Altered Carbon,” this book takes a rose-colored detour to a universe where every character has the best intentions. The most evil character, on a scale from one (least evil) to ten (most evil), ranks at a solid “high school bully” level of malicious intent. Even the main character’s relatively bumbling attitude is endearing; while clearly not suited to be an intelligence officer, North’s struggle to prove his worth is certainly worth cheering for.

In fact, the only weak aspects of this novel are some poorly timed flashback sequences, where Sikander North faces demons of his past. These sequences try to bring depth to North as a protagonist, but unfortunately end up hurting the story’s otherwise smooth plot. These sections are thankfully few and far between.

Four hundred pages later, Baker’s space romp concludes with a space battle, foot chase and an explosion, as it should. Wrapped up in a pretty pink bow, Restless Lightning is a fun fireside read, perfect to break up the stresses of everyday life.

Richard Baker’s Restless Lightning is a wonderful, delectable bucket of vanilla ice cream, set in an idealistic vision of a future age of space exploration.

Interview by

With The Winter of the Witch, bestselling author Katherine Arden has crafted an utterly fantastic, truly satisfying end to her Winternight trilogy. Fans who have fallen in love with the fantasy series’ stalwart, magically gifted heroine Vasilisa Petrovna will be thrilled to return to Arden’s fairy-tale vision of medieval Russia, where the wonder of the setting is undercut by danger at every turn. We talked to Arden about completing her first trilogy, the roots of her love for Russian folktales and culture, and why she can’t stick to an outline.

You are about to complete your first published trilogy. How do you feel?
I’m feeling a lot of relief and excitement. I started the Winternight trilogy in 2011, and I knew how I wanted the first book to begin, and I knew how I wanted the last book to end, but I wasn’t totally sure what was going to happen in the middle. I didn’t know anything about writing trilogies, and I am not the best at outlining, so I had to get it right mostly by trial and error. There were times, honestly, when I was sure I wouldn’t get it right, and I had to just power through that feeling.

As a writer, the fact that all three books make sense, follow an overarching plot arc for the trilogy, have individual arcs for each book and resolve the three major intertwining conflicts of the story, is just amazing to me and I am proud of myself for pulling it off. No one wants to disappoint their readers, and, especially for the final book, I knew I had to stick the landing. The Winter of the Witch does so, I believe, and that is satisfying.

I am also so very excited for readers to be able to read the end of the story. The three novels of the trilogy are set back-to-back, so really they form one giant narrative, and I feel like you have to read all three books to get a sense of the whole design, and I am excited for fans of the series to be able to experience that.

Many of us are very unfamiliar with Russian folklore. Could you go into some detail about how and why you chose to set your books in Russia and heavily root them in its fairy tale history?
I was a Russian major in college and studied abroad in Moscow when I was 19, and again when I was 22. I had always loved books based on fairy tales, and when I decided to try my hand at a novel, writing a book based on a Russian fairy tale seemed sensible. I based the books in historical Russia because I wanted to add a sense of realism that history can give. I wanted my books to be clearly set in Russia, not a Russia-coded fantasy land. That was part of the reason I chose the Middle Ages, a time before the Tsars, before onion domes, and samovars and troikas, and all the clichés that we associate with Russia. I wanted to approach the subject from an unusual angle that might make people reconsider their Russian stereotypes. Also, the Middle Ages in Muscovy are not well documented, and it was easier, in that setting, to create a sense of possibility, that history and myth could coexist.

Other than the ones directly referenced, are there any fairy tales that you think we should read to gain some context?
The ones directly referenced in the text are the fairy tales King Frost (Morozko), The Snow-Maiden and Marya Morevna. There are also indirect references to Vasilisa the Wise, Vasilisa the Beautiful, Ivan and the Firebird, Koschei the Deathless, Finist the Falcon, and Ivanushka and Alyonushka. There might be more that I’m not recalling; all three books are full of fairy-tale easter eggs, for people who are into that sort of thing. I’d recommend reading an anthology of Russian fairy tales—it is absolutely worth it.

Vasya cannot seem to catch a break. She even starts this book with burns and a broken rib! Why do you hurt her so?
I’m not sure people would read 400 pages about Vasya just frolicking happily in the woods with her magic horse, although perhaps I’m wrong.

The magic in Vasya’s Russia is very mystical, like tugging on the strings of the forces of nature, with a few notable exceptions like Kasyan and Vasya’s ice knives. Did you decide on a specific system of magic, or did you intend for the nature of magic in your books to be more loosely interpreted?
I wanted magic to be about how people view reality. The more plastic your view of reality, the more plastic reality becomes. But the downside is if you go too far in that direction, you have no sense of what is real at all and start to go insane. So it’s not a system so much as a trick of viewing the world. And it felt very real to me. I think a lot of what we are able to do in life depends on our starting view of reality.

Any plans to return to Vasya and company in the future? What about a different story also set in Russia?
Not currently. I would love to do a fairy tale collection at some point, either in translation or original, but I don’t think that will happen anytime soon. I am sure I will revisit Russia in future novels, even if they are not about Vasilisa.

What are you reading? Have there been any specific books that helped inspire this trilogy?
Right now I’m reading The Kingdom of Copper, which is out soon, and I am really enjoying the second installment in Daevabad trilogy. I love the fairy tale retellings of Robin McKinley, and those really inspired me. Also Pushkin, Bulgakov, Gogol, Lermontov—the great Russian writers who mix realism, Russian folklore and fantasy. Another writer who inspired me is Dorothy Dunnett, whose historical fiction is both richly textured and incredibly intricately plotted.

Your recent middle-grade novel Small Spaces was a significant departure from your trilogy, but it was still playing with some of the same eerie themes. What did you enjoy about writing a novel for children?
It was a break. It was a chance to use a different voice, to set a book in the present day, to not have to do extensive research, to set myself a technical challenge (being scary but not gory) and to just have fun with writing. Your imagination is like a little kid: force it to do the same thing all the time and it gets stale and resentful. Every author, I think, really benefits from changing it up and I certainly did. It’s also great talking to young readers. Kids experience books in a more immediate way than adults, and it is so fun to see someone taking in your work in that way.

How do you write your books? What does your process look like?
Sit down with a notebook and pen and see what happens. I wish I could be more systematic, but part of my process is letting the process surprise me. I do a lot of research concurrent with writing, and the research informs the writing. I might scribble an outline halfway through, but then I don’t stick to it. Not for lack of trying, it just never seems to work.

If you could tell a reader to remember one thing while reading The Winter of the Witch, what would it be?
That no one is wholly good or wholly evil and we are all human.

 

ALSO IN BOOKPAGE: Read our review of The Winter of the Witch.

Author photo © Deverie Crystal Photography.

With The Winter of the Witch, Katherine Arden has crafted an utterly fantastic, truly satisfying end to her Winternight trilogy. Fans who have fallen in love with stalwart, magically gifted heroine Vasilisa Petrovna will be thrilled to return to Arden’s fairy tale vision of medieval Russia, the wonder of which is undercut by danger at every turn. We talked to Arden about completing her first trilogy, the roots of her love for Russian folktales and culture, and why she can’t stick to an outline.

Sign Up

Stay on top of new releases: Sign up for our newsletter to receive reading recommendations in your favorite genres.

Trending Features