This review contains non-contextual plot spoilers and general thematic spoilers for all three books in The Seaborn Cycle.

If any proof is needed that A Memory of Light was not the ending, it can be found in the words of the many fantasy series written by Wheel of Time fans. It's fun to spot threads of Robert Jordan’s influence woven into series like The Magic of the Lost by C.L. Clark or The Mystic Trilogy by Jason Denzel. In The Seaborn Cycle series by Dr. Michael Livingston, author of Origins of the Wheel of Time, the threads of inspiration run deep, straight from the owner of Jordan's desk itself.

For someone who likes to pack light, Livingston wears a staggering amount of hats in the worlds of writing, media, and historical scholarship. With Seaborn, the “fantasy author” hat suits him quite well. And though The Wheel of Time echoes within its pages, the series stands strongly on its own as a bold, exciting, and modern adventure.

The Seaborn Cycle is the expansion of Livingston’s best-selling audiobook novella, Black Crow, White Snow, the success of which led Audible to request a trilogy. The series’ eponymous first book, Seaborn, and its third book, Stormborn, provide the before and after for Black Crow, White Snow, which is now folded into the series’ second book, Iceborn. Thus, for readers who plan to tackle the trilogy and want to avoid spoilers, it’s best to skip Black Crow, White Snow—or revisit it after completing the series. 

Until 2025, The Seaborn Cycle was only available in audiobook format. The recently published paperback editions by Head of Zeus are gorgeous: the three books—respectively, the color of deep sea, crisp snow, and blood red—are trimmed with glimmering gold and fantastical art, designed by Simon Michele. They are irresistible to the eye of the pretty-fantasy-book collector, and even more so when signed first editions are available for purchase from the author’s personal collection.

Buying pretty books to support the author of Origins of the Wheel of Time may be a no-brainer for many Wheel of Time fans, but for those on the fence, rest assured you can judge these books by their sparkling covers: they deliver on their promise of treasure inside. 

The series follows the adventures of Bela, a driven and competent Shipmistress turned reluctant “Hero of the Harbor,” after her actions during the first bombing attack by the airship-flying Windborn on the matriarchal Seaborn of the Fair Isles. 

As Bela falls deeper into the perils of a battle much bigger than just Windborn against Seaborn, a core group of main characters emerges, including the timid shipmate Alira, the fierce pirate Shaesara, and the clever Windborn captain Kayden Mar. The main characters are immediately likeable, as are the many memorable side characters like Menes, the dutiful Captain of the Stoneguard, and Aro Lanser, the mistrustful “lumicker”—an expert on a mysterious power source that powers airships while also driving the series’ villains.

To describe a story about sailing and pirates as “swashbuckling” may seem cliche, but it’s an apt descriptor here. A great deal of the joy of reading Seaborn is following the daring acts and narrow escapes of the main characters—everything from commandeering a pirate ship while it’s in the middle of battle, to climbing ropes in the sky to board an airship, to battling terrifying island dwellers who use their own blood for magic, to facing off with fearsome beasts and giant mechanical beings. And that’s only what can be said without major spoilers.

Given Livingston’s expertise in battle reconstruction and military history, it’s no surprise the action scenes stand out. And while the fighting is described with precision, the characters and their emotional beats are never lost, nor are the series’ themes of ignorance vs. knowledge; grief vs. acceptance; sacrifice and resiliency. When it comes to character growth, Livingston pushes his heroes to the brink. They learn to adapt to extraordinary circumstances, many of them fully letting go of their past identities in order to assume—and embrace—new ones.

The opening book, Seaborn, begins with an attention-grabbing prologue and almost non-stop action, despite some bits of choppy exposition as the magic system and Seaborn politics are explained. Iceborn is the series’ strongest work, containing some of the most harrowing and heartbreaking moments for the characters, as well as its most compelling writing. 

Stormborn is the weakest of the three, mostly because the first half is a bit bogged down by recap and setting up the finale, though it’s nice to have room to breathe after all the action in the first two books. Stormborn also contains a surprising twist, almost out of nowhere, that abruptly changes the course of the plot and feels underdeveloped in terms of how it influences a major change for the Seaborn. But the payoff is worth it as the story approaches its final climactic moments, which feature a peak Livingstonian battle sequence and a satisfying ending that does not pull any punches. 

A satisfying ending, and yet… unanswered questions linger. How will the Seaborn feel about the decision they made, and is it really the solution they think it is? What will happen to the Seaborn’s matriarchal society as social norms are challenged in a new era? Will the characters, still reeling and forever changed by all they have been through, be able to find their footing again, and will it be on sea, land, or air? What about the fact that there are at least two other “-borns” that could be future book titles? 

In the acknowledgements section of Stormborn, Livingston teases a possible future for Seaborn: “...the series can go further, if you wish. This book is an ending, but it need not be the ending.” He appeals to his audience to “spread the word” if they want more Seaborn—and so we, at Dragonmount, are doing just that: Read The Seaborn Cycle! Not only is it a fast and exciting read, it is an innovative and immersive series that stays with you, long after the last page is turned.

If you’re still not convinced you should read Seaborn, at the risk of being reductionist and not entirely accurate, we’ll leave you with what many people consider its simplest and strongest selling point: “lesbian pirates.”

For further discussion of  The Seaborn Cycle, follow The Livingstans fan club, join their Discord server, or watch their Q&A’s with Dr. Livingston for Seaborn and Iceborn (Stormborn to come mid-February 2026).

Grace is a licensed mental health counselor who believes in the healing power of found family in fantasy novels and IRL. Also known as Bain & Chiad, Grace has been reading The Wheel of Time since 1998, when she and her high school sweetheart dressed up as Elayne and Rand for Halloween. She fell in love with present-day WoT fandom and was inducted into Far Dareis Mai in 2019. She is the writer of Maidens’ List and a cohost of The Light’s Work.

I’m not sure if “cozy midlife crisis burnout fantasy” is a genre, but across the excellent Legends & Lattes series, Travis Baldree has certainly had enough characters experience it. Fern, the sweary rattkin bookseller from the previous tale, “Bookshops & Bonedust”, has moved across the lands and opened up a shop right next door to the titular Legends & Lattes cafe. She has the help and support of her old friend Viv and the local community. On parchment, it all sounds perfect, but she feels increasingly unfulfilled with the weight of this new life pressing down on her.

One drunken night of very much not dealing with things leads to her “accidentally” waking up in the back of the cart of a thousand-year-old elf warrior, Astryx, far away from her friends and rapidly heading in the opposite direction from them, and conveniently, also from her problems. Astryx is a by-the-book bounty hunter, also in her later years, who is escorting a goblin prisoner Zyll to face justice. Some of you may remember Zyll from the short story “Goblins & Greatcoats”, and know she is truly a force of chaos. Both Fern and Astryx have to come to terms with what they actually want to do with their lives on the journey, with Zyll being an effective catalyst.

Despite being set in the same world as the book that arguably popularised the whole cosy fantasy genre, this is measurably less cozy than the other two in the series, with a lot more action along the way. The first two books were essentially about running a rather familiar small business in a sword and sorcery world, and this is more of your typical epic road trip adventure. It’s also notably not really a romance either, and not queer, even though we get to see some of Viv and Tandri at the start of the book. However, keeping both of those things in mind, it is still very enjoyable, with echoes of the wonderful work of Terry Pratchett.

Highly recommended, even if you’re not currently having a midlife crisis.

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The Prestige by Christopher Priest (originally published in 1995)

Reviewed for Dragonmount by Michael

When Tor approached Dragonmount and asked if anyone would be available to read and review The Prestige by Christopher Priest, I jumped at the chance. Well, after my mind went through the inevitable jumps of “wait, like the movie?” and “ok, but that book came out in 1995!” Those are all correct thoughts: the Christopher Nolan film starring Christian Bale and Hugh Jackman is based upon this book, which was released in 1995. But Tor is re-releasing the book as part of the Tor Essentials collection, and if that is not good enough reason to revisit it, the fact that Christopher Priest passed away in 2024 is.

Despite having seen the movie two or three times, I had not read the book before (a reversal of the order I usually prefer to do things). As soon as I had the advance copy in my hands and started reading, I understood why Christopher Nolan had been drawn to this story. The text plays with timing and narrative in the same way that has become a hallmark of Nolan’s films, but with varied elements that are available in the written vs. the visual form. At times, I was stylistically reminded of the way Grey Men are handled in the Wheel of Time—right there on the page, but hidden in plain sight until their presence is revealed and you can revisit that paragraph with knowing eyes.

The Prestige is divided into five parts, told from the first-person perspective of four different characters: the two magicians, Alfred Borden and Rupert Angier; two modern-day (or at least, modern as of 1995) descendents of those men, Andrew Wesley (Borden) and Kate Angiers; and, finally, a brief look at the title character.

Each perspective is written in a different voice and style, to great effect. The modern contemporaries are presented as a standard first person narratives, as those characters work together to try to understand the overlapping family histories and the dramatic obsession that existed between their great-grandfathers. The accounts of the magicians are as written journals, Borden’s as an adult journal of his work and Angier’s as a diary (begun on his ninth birthday) of his life. Neither are entirely reliable narrators, for reasons that will become more clear upon finishing the book.

Beginning as a sort of mystery and becoming a tale of obsession and competition with tragic results, The Prestige ends as a horror. Indeed, the final lines of The Prestige strongly evoke the final lines of another Victorian science-fiction horror: Frankenstein by Mary Shelley. I found the slow build toward both science-fiction and horror to be highly effective. At the beginning, we are with a modern human, with cell phones and CDs, and with a casual interest in understanding more about his family history. As we learn about the lives of the two magicians, we begin to appreciate the terrible toll that their obsessions—with magic, with each other, with revenge—takes on themselves and their families. By the end, the sins of the past have manifested in the present, and the truly sinister nature of The Prestige is revealed.

SPOILERS AHEAD

Because the film adaptation was successful, I suspect that I may not be alone in having come to this book having some idea of the plot and foreknowledge of the surprising twists. While the plot is more or less the same, and those twists are still present, the treatment and the nuances of the book The Prestige are significantly different. 

I do not need to unpack every difference, but there are a few elements of the book that I especially want to make note of, and in many cases these are also instances that diverge from the film. The double life of Borden is handled superbly, as even the character never explicitly admits to the existence of an identical twin. Both contribute to “his” journal as the same person, and only occasionally reference “The Pact” which prevents them from sharing particular details. Only after Angiers discovers their secret, after our time with Borden’s journal has ended, do the final pieces of how his Transported Man illusion is able to work, and why his personal life was conflicted, as if between two personalities.

Likewise, Angier is equally cagey about the specifics of his Transported Man. He alludes only vaguely to the unpleasantness of dealing with “the prestige materials” that are generated by his use of the apparatus designed by Tesla. It is left to the descendents of the magicians to truly uncover and understand the terrible price that Angier paid for his magic trick. 

It is the connection to modern times that produces the most horrifying effect. The movie ends tragically with the deaths of one and a half of the rival magicians, but with a final happy ending scene of “Alfred Borden” being reunited with his daughter and (as per Christopher Nolan’s usual) Michael Caine looking on approvingly. The book ends rather differently, and with a much more menacing emphasis on the title.

Ultimately, I highly recommend reading The Prestige by Christopher Priest. Fans of the film will find plenty new and different to appreciate here, and if you have not seen the movie, I am truly jealous that you may get to experience the twists and turns of this story from the page for the first time.

And, anyone who has ever driven to Denver by way of Iowa and Nebraska will find some relatably amusing lines on page 232 of this new Tor Essentials edition! Thank you, as always, to Tor Publishing for the advance access to this book.
 

A Far Better Thing by H.G. Parry

Reviewed for Dragonmount by Michael

eBook available 

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. It was the summer of brat, it was the winter of despair. It is a gilded age of desperation as the wealthy enrich themselves at the expense of the everyperson. . .

It feels appropriate to revisit A Tale of Two Cities in the Year of our Lady 2025. Charles Dickens’ classic story set during the French Revolution against the towering backdrop of Le Guillotine, examines the lengths that people will go to for both love and revenge.

A Far Better Thing, by H. G. Parry, puts a Fae twist on the story, asking “what if Sydney Carton was Charles Darnay’s fairy changeling?”

Now, if either of those names, or the names of the Defarges; Miss Pross; Messers Cruncher, Stryver, Lorry, or Barsad, are unfamiliar to you—even if you have read A Tale of Two Cities at some point in your life—I'm going to suggest that you do what I did, and begin by reading or rereading the original work. (If you're into audiobooks, it's free to listen to on THAT app…)

I know that I read the Wishbone version, and the Great Illustrated Classics version, and I think that I also read the full text at one point in my youth. However, it has been a while and I remembered only the broadest strokes: Sydney Carton is a brilliant but troubled lawyer, Madame Defarge is a quietly terrifying menace with her knitting, and the story ends with Carton going to the Guillotine in place of the innocent Charles Darnay. Spoiler alert for the 1859 book, A Tale of Two Cities…

Rereading the original was a powerful experience. Dickens is one of the greats for a reason and his prose absolutely flows, barely slowed by the linguistic differences in the style that 150+ years will do. Even though I knew the ending was coming, the last several pages had me in tears as Sydney Carton holds the young girl’s hand and comforts her as they approach their final moments.

The machinations of the Defarges as their, and especially Madame’s, need for vengeance cannot be sated and goes from righteous to monstrous; the quiet strength of Lucie Manette as she bears the love of so many; the bottomless self-loathing and destruction of the brilliant Carton all explore complex dimensions of humanity in timeless fashion.

The introduction to the audiobook by actor Simon Callow claims that Dickens sacrificed some of his famous character building for the sake of telling a larger story of, well, two cities. Hearing that, I questioned it a bit—Madame Defarge? And Sydney Carton? Iconic characters, at the best and worst of times! 

While it is true that the characters in A Tale of Two Cities are complex, they are presented essentially as is. We especially do not get a satisfactory explanation as to why Sydney Carton is so miserable in his life. A Far Better Thing fleshes out these characters, exploring motivations and subtleties that are indeed missing from the original text.

A Far Better Thing is told from Carton’s perspective, and we quickly discover that he was taken from his cradle as an infant and raised in the Faerie realm to be a servant of the Fae. Returned to the mortal realms, his servitude consists primarily of having to help the Faeries abduct other infants. There are some additional details which are better explored in the pages of the book, but this despicable task alone is sufficient to understand why Carton may have a bit of self-loathing.

Reading the premise of A Far Better Thing, which is described as “Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell meets A Tale of Two Cities,” I was curious to see what a fantasy retelling of a classic novel looked like. Would this book replace the events of the original? Was it a close retelling or an “inspired by” situation? The actuality is that the two books can exist as canon simultaneously, for we quickly learn that most mortals—including most of Dickens’ characters—are not aware of the Fae presence. Essentially, A Tale of Two Cities is the “Muggle” telling of the story and A Far Better Thing is the magical side of the story. Our narrator, being intimately connected to both the Faerie and mortal realms, can guide us readers through the intricacies of the overlap. Dickens, for all of the magic behind his pen, did not have these insights and could only relay the mortal version of the story.

Reading the two tales back-to-back generated the effect of a detective explaining howandwhodunnit at the end of a good mystery. All of the events that we saw with one set of eyes are now explored with a second set, revealing details that we missed or could not have known. The depth of pain and love in Sydney Carton’s heart is explored in wrenching detail, and his sacrifice at the end strikes the reader even harder as the full scope of his redemption is revealed.

The events of A Tale of Two Cities appear almost exactly as they do in the original, but because we are in Carton’s POV, and he is not featured on every page of Dickens’ work, we are treated to some original action and characters that allow Parry’s storytelling and prose to shine. The prose pays homage to Dickens’ writing style, and Parry’s expert familiarity (her PhD is in English literature) with the source material is evident. 

If I am to find criticism—and I truly have to plumb the depths to do so—I will say that the final moments, the final sentence even, left me wanting to read the titular line. Although I understand that a retelling should be just that, I finished the book wanting to read that iconic last sentence of A Tale of Two Cities: “It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to, than I have ever known.” I think it would have hit the same, powerful mark but far deeper after spending so much time with the deeds and misrest of Sydney Carton. There is, also, a slight timeline issue which I only raise as a persnickety editorial type, but at one point Carton’s vision is blurring and he describes the world as looking “like an Impressionist painting.” Beautiful imagery, especially in the setting of Paris, but the Impressionist movement did not begin until the 1860s, and the events surrounding the French Revolution took place in the late 1700s.

Overall, A Far Better Thing is a beautiful, fun, and creative read. I enjoyed that it led me to rediscover A Tale of Two Cities (I cannot recommend enough reading the original first), and it more than succeeds in the ambitious undertaking of improving upon a certified classic.
 

CW: violence, cursing, blasphemy, werewolves, effusive praise

Who better to lead us through the darkest timeline than Lord Grimdark himself, Joe Abercrombie? Like a trusted friend who would help you bury a body, Abercrombie doesn’t hesitate to get his hands dirty and do whatever it takes to steer you through a hellish reality. 

With Abercrombie, nothing is sugar-coated or laced with sunshine-and-rainbows optimism. You can rely on him to portray people at their nastiest, the world at its bleakest, and violence in all its dirty, smelly, bodily fluid-filled detail. No one ever wins or is truly happy, but it’s OK once you accept that, and more often than not, it’s kind of funny.

Grimdark is not for the faint of heart, maybe, but as a reader with a heart prone to fainting, I’ve been pleasantly surprised to find that Abercrombie’s writing brings me joy in a way no other author can. His prose is sharp, funny, refreshingly real, and strangely hopeful. No one can make me laugh out loud, snort with cynical agreement, or cry at the smallest act of kindness like Abercrombie can.

But when your favorite author releases something completely new and different, you worry a little. Other than a quick detour to publish the YA Shattered Sea trilogy, The Devils is Abercrombie’s first book in 19 years to deviate from the world of The First Law, which consists of two trilogies, three standalone novels, and two sets of short stories. Turns out, when Abercrombie pivots, he just finds new ways to be awesome.

The Devils is the first of three in a set of interconnected but self-contained novels. Departing from the fictional “Circle of the World” setting of The First Law, The Devils takes place in a reimagined version of historical Europe, with one dominant religion worshipping a female Savior (but divided over which gender the clergy should be), leading Crusades against elves, and forming secret societies to do their dirty work for them.

It’s within this “real world” setting that Abercrombie introduces more fantastical elements than ever before. The First Law books are mostly character-driven political intrigue with some magic. The Devils is a character-driven adventure with a lot of magic. It’s the perfect recipe for a twisted fairytale in which the scary monsters are the heroes saving the princess from a handsome prince—or multiple evil cousin princes, in this case. 

The Devils brings to mind William Goldman’s classic twisted tale, The Princess Bride, in which a giant, a pirate, and a vengeful swordsman fight corrupt noblemen to rescue the princess. And with a young female protagonist completely out of her depth but surrounded by quirky friends, and with a good chunk of the action taking place on a boat, it’s almost like a warped version of Brandon Sanderson's Tress of the Emerald Sea (also inspired, of course, by The Princess Bride).

Perhaps it’s a case of a talented author making it look easy, but The Devils seems like it must have been so much fun to write. Released from the bindings of his own First Law (“It is forbidden…to summon demons, and forbidden to open gates to hell”), Abercrombie is now free to wreak bloody havoc. It’s only with that level of reckless abandon that someone would decide to write a 560-page answer to the question of what would happen if a necromancer, a vampire, a werewolf, an elf, a boastful pirate, a lying thief, and a cursed soldier walked into a bar…and a monk was their designated driver.

And so our heroes are not exactly a found family, but a Congregation of sinners forced together into the “Chapel of the Holy Expediency” by clergy with questionable motives. A traditional found family trope might have heroes bonding over personal stories shared by the campfire. The Devils’ devils bond by harassing each other, lying to each other, throwing up on each other, f***ing each other, and trying to kill each other. It’s really very sweet. No, really.

Together, the devils face some of the most disgusting creatures you could imagine—think failed science experiments—doing the most appalling, horrific things, and yet this somehow manages to be the most heartwarming book Abercrombie has written. The Devils, ironically, has a lot to teach about friendship, loyalty, humility, honor, courage, and sacrifice. It poses the question of who are truly the monsters in the story (short answer: it’s Abercrombie, so everyone is bad).  

And, as is so often the case, we find that those who proclaim themselves to be good are the ones to distrust the most, while those who seem evil on the surface may be hiding a heart of gold—or at least bronze. It’s no wonder then that the “worst” of the bunch, Vigga, the savage and bloodthirsty Swedish Viking werewolf, is easily the most lovable character. 

Even then, it’s not that simple in The Devils. No preconception of any character is safe—no one is exactly who they seem, and there’s always another layer of complexity to uncover. And the twists (there are multiple) are brilliantly executed.

Make no mistake, you should never expect a happy ending from Abercrombie. The world is still under threat of war, the people in power are still corrupt, and not much changes for those deemed to be outcasts. But it’s only in a setting so bleak that readers can actually find courage to face the truths Abercrombie never shies away from: people do bad things, you rarely get what you want, life is painful, and sometimes the most you can hope for is not being dead. 

In a surprisingly philosophical moment, Vigga the werewolf advises us to “clutch with both hands at any flicker of warmth that can be clawed from the uncaring darkness of existence.” Being in the dark is what makes those moments of light—from the smallest gesture of kindness to the greatest sacrifice—all the more meaningful. That’s why The Devils is so unexpectedly sweet, and it’s why we can turn to Lord Grimdark and his monsters to help us find hope and humor in the darkest of times.

Grace is a licensed mental health counselor who believes in the healing power of found family in fantasy novels and IRL. Also known as Bain & Chiad, Grace has been reading The Wheel of Time since 1998, when she and her high school sweetheart dressed up as Elayne and Rand for Halloween. She fell in love with present-day WoT fandom and was inducted into Far Dareis Mai in 2019. She is the writer of Maidens’ List and a cohost of The Light’s Work.

“Bury my bones in the midnight soil. Plant them shallow and water them deep. And in my place will grow a feral rose.”

This book is told from the perspectives of María in 1532, Charlotte in 1827, and Alice in a much more familiar 2019. All three are swept away from their mundane lives by equally enigmatic women, and find themselves with no pulse, an unquenchable thirst, and remarkably less patience with the ways of men. Three feral roses with rather sharp thorns.

We see the most of María through the years, learning how to be a vampire without any form of instruction, and constantly reinventing herself as she travels across the world and the centuries. Some of her victims deserve it. Some. Alice at least has the benefit of already knowing what a vampire is from pop culture, as well as having ready access to the internet, but even she is entirely unprepared for what is happening to her.

As the reader, we become increasingly complicit in the crimes of our vampire trio, urging them on at first, until we realise perhaps too late that things are getting a bit out of hand. Even Alice, who is the closest to still being a good person here, is still ripping out throats with gay abandon. So, varying degrees of villainy all round, but they are always entertaining. Eventually, the stories begin to overlap, and there is a very satisfying payoff for all the backstory.

This is a wonderfully written modern take on the vampire genre, and along with “Hungerstone” by Kat Dunn, we’re definitely having a great year for sapphic exsanguination.

Highly recommended for all blood types!

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If you think you would enjoy a light and humorous fantasy series with a central sapphic romance, and you’ve not yet even checked out the first book “You Can’t Spell Treason Without Tea”, stop reading this review right now and go start there. What sort of person are you? Do you look at the last page of a book before you start reading  to make sure there’s a happy ending? Go away! (There is, by the way.)

Rogue alchemists have kidnapped Reyna, the Queensguard-turned-Queen, right after her wedding to Kianthe, the most powerful mage in the country. Given that particular set of volatile ingredients, they are certainly going to get a big reaction! (Because alchemy. Never mind.) Worse than that pun, due to their combined fame across the lands, the town of Tawney is now getting a touch too popular as a tourist destination, which is causing problems for everyone around them. There’s one obvious solution, and that’s closing their beloved tea shop for good and moving away.

Reyna doesn’t stay kidnapped for very long of course, and as part of the investigation into who exactly was behind it, our pair end up spending a lot of time at the Magicary, home of the Stone of Seeing. With all the focus on the Queendom last time, it’s fun to see Reyna on Kianthe’s home turf here. The tensions between the Mages and the Alchemists are well done with their two wildly different approaches to magic, and the resulting prejudices and misunderstandings.

I am on record as enjoying all the previous books in this series, so when Rebecca Thorne said this was the best one yet, it is fair to say that my expectations were suitably raised. I’m glad to say that it delivers on both a fun new adventure, as well as a satisfying end to the series. It wraps up a wide number of things, including the fate of the last missing dragon egg from book one. There is one outstanding unanswered question at the end however, concerning the whereabouts of a particular person, so I am not entirely convinced this is the last we will ever see of Tawney and these wonderful characters. At least, I hope not.

It’s always a good feeling when you can recommend a whole completed series, and I can now do so without reservation!

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Wylla Sotain is a scavenger, living day by day, and searching for the elusive big score that will allow her to finally repair her ship and drag herself out of poverty in an uncaring galaxy. In this particular future, people wear AI-powered masks to enhance their abilities. Wylla has a battered old MARK I RABBIT, which means her senses are heightened, like the prey animal she is.

It seems like her fortunes are about to change when she finds the MARK I HAWK mask—an expensive prototype that should not exist—lying on the face of a dead woman called Sable Veonya. When she puts the mask on, Sable talks to her and remembers being murdered. Now everybody is looking for them, including VisorForge, the corporation that is responsible for the masks, and the other scavengers who want a piece of the action.

The book is told in second person perspective, with Sable talking to you, the reader, as if you were Wylla. Harrow the Ninth readers will be quite familiar with this format. Wylla is trans and has been fighting the system her whole life. Sable, on the other hand, now has no body at all. They both accept each other quickly, and a relationship develops between the two of them while they try to track down Sable’s killer, and avoid the authorities.

There are so many enjoyable and unique ideas here, and the plot moves very quickly. I do wish this was a full length novel, so the story had a bit more time to breathe, and the romance could develop slightly more naturally over time. As it is though, you can probably read this in one sitting, and get the whole thing downloaded into your brain near-instantaneously. Which, honestly, seems quite fitting.

Recommended!

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Dr. Saffy Walden, MThau, PhD, works at Chetwood Academy as the Director of Magic. Alongside the endless marking, meetings, and general bureaucracy that comes with her administrator position at the school, she still gets to do a fair bit of teaching to the sixth form. Which comes with the usual hormone-fuelled dramas, of course, but also the small matter of trying to keep the students from getting possessed and/or opening portals to hell dimensions. Teenagers do not always make the best decisions, but then, sometimes neither do the adults.

Further complicating things are the Marshalls, led by Laura Kenning. The Marshalls are essentially magical cops, an ancient order who are there to protect humanity from the demons (and, if somewhat unspoken, from the staff and students too). Laura has a deep distrust of Dr Walden, and the feeling is distinctly mutual—if only Laura wasn’t quite so attractive.

The world of The Incandescent is well developed, exploring a lot of the day-to-day operation of the school before things inevitably go sideways in the second half. The story did not go at all in the directions I expected, although one of the villains may as well have been twirling a moustache throughout their introduction. There is a pleasant romance subplot, although it’s not the main focus of the story.

There are several delightful and imaginative touches to this world, which is very similar to our own but with magic woven through it. For example, you have one has to be very careful not to refer to everyday objects as “you” on campus, because this will create an opening for evil forces to take up residence. As a result, the number of people swearing at the photocopier has left it with a demon inside that demands tribute before it will properly function.

While I was reading this, I soon got the feeling that the author has some first-hand experience in academia, and indeed she does; Emily Tesh teaches Latin and Ancient Greek to school kids in Hertfordshire. Applying that real-world experience to a magic school is genius, and grounds this story in a tangible realism that makes the fantastical elements work so well. It’s also enjoyable to have a book with an older, highly competent female protagonist, if not without her flaws.

I highly recommend this book to both academics and magicians alike.
 

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I very much enjoyed the two previous books in this cozy sapphic fantasy series by Rebecca Thorne, “Can’t Spell Treason Without Tea”, and “A Pirate’s Life for Tea”. Reyna is a former guard to the ruthless Queen Tilaine, and Kianthe is the all-powerful Mage of Ages. They have settled down together in the town of Tawney, where they run a small, unassuming tea shop away from the pressures of the world.

Of course, life is never that simple, and over the years they have searched for missing dragon eggs, raised a baby griffin, sailed with pirates, and generally tackled injustice wherever they found it. Perhaps most importantly, they have encouraged all the people around them to become the best versions of themselves. Now they have a whole supportive community, which is very useful when you have a lot to do, and not a lot of time to do it.

In this, the third book of four, they are trying to entrap and overthrow the aforementioned Queen, using their own very real wedding as bait. Not to mention working out who is going to rule in her absence. But did I mention a wedding? That alone seems like a pretty stressful thing to plan and pull off! Trying to do both at the same time results in the sort of shenanigans you might imagine.

Most of the characters from the other books are here, as well as some new ones including Tessalyn the long lost heir to the throne, her expertly-named protector James, and Kianthe’s rather disapproving parents.

This series began as a reaction to the popularity of “Legends & Lattes” by Travis Baldree, but it has continued to grow away from that initial inspiration and certainly has found its own voice. The warm and loving tone was exactly what I needed, as well as the positive vibes and mutual understanding of the two main protagonists. This is my favourite book of the series so far, and I’m told by the author that the fourth and final book is even better, so I have a lot to look forward to. An extended excerpt of that one is included as a bonus chapter at the end.

Go read the whole series! Thanks to Tor for the early review copy.

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If the thought of a sapphic romance with a giant spider woman—in a creepy gothic mansion filled with tarantulas no less—doesn’t make you want to burn down said mansion and move to another country, then sit down on a tuffet, and let me tell you more about this novella by Argentine-Brazilian writer Hache Pueyo, who also translated it to English.

It tells the story of Dália who is one of the servants looking after Miss Anatema, the mistress of The Capricious House. She is not exactly what you would call a great boss, given that Dália gets promoted at the start of the book because Anatema eats her predecessor. Dália is given the job of solving a mysterious theft, and there’s a high chance of getting eaten herself if she fails to do so, or is too bold with her employer.

Anatema is only vaguely anthropomorphic in that her human face is surface level camouflage over so many teeth, and she generally has a greater number of limbs than is strictly necessary. Still, Dália is not as traumatised by all this as many would be, and what starts off as more of a predator and prey situation turns into something more caring.

Things move very quickly in the relatively small number of pages of the book, and I would have preferred more length to really sell Dália falling for Anatema. There’s a distinct power imbalance as well which is not remarked upon either. Regardless, I enjoyed the characters and setting a lot, and the writing is delightful even when people are munching away on fried spider legs, or corralling rogue tarantulas like escaped kittens.

Eight legs out of ten! Thanks to Tor for the early review copy.

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This is one of those books where I feel my lacklustre words are not even worthy of talking about it. It tells the story of two close sisters, Ysabel and Esther, who live in a small human town on the very edge of the faerie world. Esther has fallen in love with Rin, a being who takes on a different form every time we meet them. The sisters like to sing together, and it’s Esther’s songs that have captivated Rin. However, the farmer who lives next door has other opinions on who she should marry.

Rajiv Moté is Dragonmount’s book blogger with a lens on the craft of fiction writing. When he’s not directing software engineers, he writes fiction of his own, which can be found cataloged at his website.

“A thing is a thing, not what is said of that thing.”

This mysterious quotation from the movie Birdman claims that there is a reality that exists apart from the narratives we weave around reality. On its face, that’s obvious. But in an age when narrative shapes perception, and perception manifests reality, it’s a radical rebuttal to what some call a post-truth era, in which those who control the narrative control reality.

We need narratives. Stories are how we make sense of the world. But the more emotionally compelling the story, the less it needs to conform to the nuts-and-bolts of reality. Our beliefs are a filter that shapes our truths. There is both power and danger in that. We must remind ourselves that all stories have a teller. How far we trust a given storyteller is up to us. Stories are a kind of magic—we must be mindful of who's casting the spell.

The Doors of Midnight, just released in August 2024, is the second volume of R.R. Virdi's Tales of the Tremaine, a Silk Road epic fantasy that is all about stories and how they shape and are shaped by reality. The books follow Ari, a traveling storyteller and student of magic, across two timelines in a story-within-the-story (with many more nested stories). In the present, adult Ari is not only a storyteller, but The Storyteller, whose carefully cultivated reputation precedes him and grants him access to the wealthy and powerful. This is useful, because he’s hunting demons masquerading as the wealthy and powerful.

His path keeps crossing with a mysterious beauty called Eloine who wants nothing more in life than to listen to Ari tell her his life's story and unburden himself of his troubles. And he does! With enthusiasm! This is the inner story of Ari's adventurous youth as a student of magic, a collector of folklore, a pursuer of the demons who killed his adoptive family, a prince of thieves, a cloaked vigilante, a spy for a desert warlord, an apprentice to a mystic, an apprentice to a demigoddess—and more. 

Ari had a busy youth, but he keeps himself no less busy as an adult, playing politics, investigating nobles, searching for obscure texts, getting involved with assassination plots, and always—always—telling people his story. Ari absolutely loves telling his own story, spreading rumors about himself, and knowing that people are talking about him.
 

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“And through it all, I added rather wonderfully to my already growing reputation. My white cloak, combined with all of my usual cleverness and skill in spinning stories, aided a great deal in this.”

 

 

 

Ari, past and present, is an incredible narcissist. It's a trait that is integral to the theme: Ari is preoccupied with (re-)inventing himself through stories, but in doing so, may be locking away truths about himself that he must someday face. That day of reckoning never happened in the chunky previous book, The First Binding, nor did it happen in the likewise hefty The Doors of Midnight.

For me, it became tiresome. This could be a coming-of-age story, but Ari never really matures out of his self-absorption. This could be a self-discovery story, but the lessons of Ari's myriad adventures seem short-lived. This could be a quest for vengeance, but Ari never seems to get any closer. Not yet, anyway. Maybe in the next volume. So what kind of story is it?

The Doors of Midnight, like its predecessor, ends up being a collection of adventure tales, loosely strung together. This, too, is no accident. R.R. Virdi is a scholar of folk tales and how they morph and merge as they travel. Characters and events conflate, fragment, or get repurposed. They become canon here, apocrypha there. Ari, The Storyteller, is crafting a legend about himself. 

Tales of the Tremaine is a quilt of episodic patches with an organizing theme and a potential reckoning on the distant horizon. Unfortunately, the question also arises: how much longer will we care? The story references Scheherazade and her narrative tease of stretching out her story for a thousand-and-one nights, but The Doors of Midnight is unfortunately less capable of keeping us breathless for what happens next. Though there are some scenes of beauty and wit, for me, it was often a slog to get through the weighty tomes of this saga.

Part of my problem is that, despite having the lofty title of The Storyteller, Ari isn't a storyteller that trusts his audience to get the point. He will present a lovely image, heavy with implication, and then spend the next paragraph or more explicating it.
 

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“She didn’t wait for me to find the rest of the words. ‘It’s fine. I shouldn’t have said what I said either. I know it bothers you.’ Aram didn’t elaborate, and she didn’t need to. We both knew enough to hear the things unspoken.

 

I suppose that’s one of the signs of true friendship. You begin to learn the shape of one another’s thoughts—their hearts. And in doing so, you learn to speak another thing. A new language. One unknown, and unheard by anyone other than the two speaking it. And sometimes, a great deal can be said within that stillness and silence.”

 

 

 

Ari can't leave anything unspoken. He needs to narrate, pontificate, repeat himself, expound on meaning, and offer his wise insights—but they aren't all that deep. The adult Ari, who is ultimately the narrator of both past and present timelines, still reads like a young person sounding out his own thoughts and treating them with a self-important gravitas that an older reader might find unwarranted and tedious. It is, unfortunately, the prevailing style of the narration.

By contrast, the best parts of the book are when Ari learns that other characters (usually women) have internal lives, his assumptions about them have missed the mark, and their stories are perhaps more interesting than his own. These breaks from narcissism into humility make Ari sympathetic and human—for as long as they last. Ari learning to listen is actually a plot point, though it's unevenly applied. Sadly, these lessons occur in the narrated past, and Ari-the-narrator shows no signs of having grown from them.

The magic in this saga is compelling and gets right to the heart of the thematic intersection of reality and stories. Imagine a multiverse where anything is possible within the logic of a story. Practitioners of the magic in this world envision their version of the story and bind it to reality. They impose their narrative on the world. It's an amazing metaphor, which hasn't yet been used to its full effect, but there are hints that this is coming. 

Stories can be used not only to create a reality, but to hide one, and this story drops hints that the key to Ari defeating his demonic enemies (and discovering his own birthright power) is in discovering the truth hidden behind the stories—or perhaps discovering the true story beyond what others have imposed onto reality. Fans of metafiction like me are champing at the bit to see the promise of this idea realized. This book tells us R.R. Virdi is still making the promise, but we don't see it fulfilled just yet.

There are enough similarities between Virdi's Tales of the Tremaine and Patrick Rothfuss’s The Kingkiller Chronicles that one could wonder if Virdi's saga is a viable replacement for the Rothfuss story that may never be completed. Beside the myriad details that map directly to one another, both are ultimately tales that the narrator is telling about himself that call for a healthy dose of skepticism by the reader. Alas, while the elements of the two series have a lot of overlap, Virdi's approach to storytelling doesn’t scratch the same itch. With Rothfuss, there is enough of a difference between youthful and adult Kvothe that it sparks a mystery around the unreliable narration and the character’s Mary Sue-ness. With Virdi, I feel like I’m granting Ari the benefit of the doubt, and hoping for a payoff. The difference is the strength of the through-line, which in Rothfuss seems to build, but in Virdi, feels deliberately diffuse, like a collection of folk tales. I admire the cultural anthropology of Virdi’s approach, but I’m more drawn into the narrative momentum of Rothfuss’s story.

I’d have enjoyed The Doors of Midnight more if only Ari’s storytelling lived up to his self-appointed title as The Storyteller.

 

It isn’t hard to see the similarities between Brandon Sanderson’s cosmere and the Marvel Cinematic Universe. Sanderson himself has expressed his intention to create a world as expansive and influential as Stan Lee did with Marvel. And by all measures, including the explosive growth of his business, he is on his way to succeeding.

Both IPs have drawn in millions of fans from all corners of the globe. Both feature increasingly intertwined worldbuilding across multiple settings, planets, and timelines. Both release content at an insane rate, with Sanderson “accidentally” writing 4 books during COVID and Marvel releasing so much content in 2025 they need a trailer for it. 

Readers echo this comparison as they talk about their hopes for an “Avengers: Endgame level” conclusion in Wind and Truth, the much anticipated fifth and final book in Part I of Sanderson’s Stormlight Archive.  

But Sanderson has been clear that it isn’t Endgame and warned fans to check their expectations, because they will be left with “big questions” and unfinished storylines. Perhaps MCU fans can consider Wind and Truth something more along the lines of Infinity War than Endgame. Wheel of Time fans might say it isn’t the ending, but an ending.

Worried cosmere fans can be reassured: Sanderson sticks the landing. Wind and Truth provides the perfect blend of explosive action and closure, while setting up the second half of the series. 

The story picks up right where the previous book, Rhythm of War, left off—with the people of Roshar preparing themselves for a contest of champions between Odium and Dalinar Kholin to determine the future of the planet. 

Wind and Truth covers the 10 days prior to the contest, one day at a time, from morning to night—a unique narrative choice that will keep readers in suspense and flying through the book's 1,344 pages. The “Sanderlanche”—a cascading series of action scenes, big reveals, character growth, and catharsis—comes later than expected (about halfway through Day 10), but in a way, the entire book is the Sanderlanche of the series.

Readers are treated to flashbacks that provide insight into the past and fill in the blanks of lore that has been referenced since The Way of Kings. Characters level up and use their powers in new and creative ways. Fight scenes are riveting, dynamic, and surprising throughout. There’s also some great throwbacks to oft-quoted, fan-favorite moments from the previous four books.

Plotlines divide the main characters into five groups, all trying to save the planet in their own way: Dalinar and Navani searching for answers on how to win against Odium; Venli and the singers finding their place on the Shattered Plains; Adolin leading troops into battle; Szeth and Kaladin chasing a Herald in Shinovar; and Shallan, Rlain, and Renarin going after the Ghostbloods. 

All five storylines are riveting, but Adolin’s was the surprise standout that will have him becoming many readers’ favorite character (if he wasn’t already). And you can take Brandon’s word for it, too—during the Wind and Truth Release Party at DSNX, he was asked to share his favorite scene or chapter to write. His answer: a sequence involving “a certain Kholin son who knows his way around a sword.”

Wind and Truth also shines in its themes—the virtues of hope and trust, promises and oaths, and the strength one can wield only after being broken. And, powerfully presented by the requisite flashback scenes (Szeth’s, in this case) and woven effortlessly throughout: the illusion of a fixed right and wrong and the importance of trusting one’s own judgment.

But that trust doesn't come easily, as characters grapple with betrayal by their own minds; so readers can expect Wind and Truth to continue and build upon its depiction of mental health challenges within the main characters. By the end of Book 4, most of the characters have overcome some of their darkest moments. Wind and Truth sees them using what they’ve learned to either fight the demons that remain or help others fight theirs. 

The series finale does have a sprinkling of weaknesses that only stand out because the rest of the story is so strong. For example, the mental health themes sometimes come across as heavy-handed or out of place, like when characters stop abruptly in the middle of a fight scene and try to use therapy to win over their opponent.

The other problems won’t surprise most Sanderson fans who are familiar with his quirks—dorky puns, cheesy humor (there’s a poop talk within the first 35 pages), and characters using modern slang that risks pulling readers out of the story.

But the quirks are minor, and Sanderson’s more subtle humor always lands (all birds on Roshar being called “chicken” will never not be funny). Sanderson does cute pretty well, too—some familiar spren make charming appearances, and there’s a new character that is destined to inspire the newest cosmere plushie.

So what if you’re not a plushie-buying, leatherbound-collecting, Investiture-studying, Easter-egg-hunting, hardcore cosmere fan? Do you need to become one to enjoy Wind and Truth? 

Yes and no. Wind and Truth forges connections within the universe more comprehensively than any other cosmere book has thus far—full of familiar names, missing pieces of lore, and crossover characters and magic systems from other worlds. The result is deeply satisfying and just pure fun for readers who can draw those connections.

Being a more hardcore fan provides the opportunity to experience all the squeals of joy and Leonardo-Dicaprio-pointing-gif moments while witnessing a massive integration of multiple cosmere books—in particular, Mistborn Era 1 and 2 (including Secret History), Warbreaker, Elantris, Arcanum Unbound, and Sanderson’s 2023 Secret Projects. 

It isn’t that prior knowledge of these books is necessary to understand what’s happening; it’s more like a missed opportunity for maximum impact. Like not getting the fireworks when you beat a Super Mario Brothers level, or not collecting all the armor upgrades in the Legend of Zelda before beating Ganon. You still win, and winning is awesome—you just don’t get all the bells and whistles.

Less hardcore fans, or those who have only read The Stormlight Archive, will still love Wind and Truth. It's full of surprises, exciting new uses of the magic system, and BIG moments for the main characters. It is exactly as a series finale should be—tying together loose ends, rounding out character arcs, delivering on the promises of foreshadowing, and bringing the first act of The Stormlight Archive to what Aristotle would approve of as the quintessential “unexpected but inevitable” conclusion.

Buy Wind and Truth direct from the Dragonmount ebook store here!

Accolades (soft spoilers)

Overall MVP: Adolin 

Coolest use of Stormlight: Shallan

Best fight scene: Szeth

Most tearjerking moment(s): Kaladin

Most changed since Book 1: Renarin 

Needed more screen time: Lift, Jasnah

Best side character arc: Yawnagawn

The POV upgrade you didn't know you needed: Sigzil

Best Worldhopper cameo: Thaidakar (wink-wink)

Best villain (ever?): Taravangian

Grace is a licensed mental health counselor who believes in the healing power of found family in fantasy novels and IRL. Also known as Bain & Chiad, Grace has been reading The Wheel of Time since 1998, when she and her high school sweetheart dressed up as Elayne and Rand for Halloween. She fell in love with present-day WoT fandom and was inducted into Far Dareis Mai in 2019. She is the writer of Maidens’ List and a cohost of The Light’s Work.

The City in Glass begins with three vengeful angels razing the city of Azril to the ground in fire and fury. Our protagonist—a demon named Vitrine who has spent generations of human lives creating the city by influencing and inspiring its people—dies along with the citizens of Azril. But demons are not welcome in the afterlife, and Vitrine returns to pick up the pieces of herself and her shattered city.

This dreamlike book follows Vitrine as she starts over, rebuilding her Azril piece by piece and person by person. The narrative jumps back and forth between the original Azril and the new Azril, and we get to see Vitrine realize that, although she can use the infinite time afforded to an immortal to grow a city from the ruins of the old, it will never be the original city. Some things are lost forever.

Grief and resilience are major themes in this book. Of course, the perspective of an immortal demon guiding a city into existence over a millennium may not be relatable to most of us. But the emotion of stark loss is, and Vo’s writing brings this mercilessly home. Vitrine, reeling, takes stock of her ruined works and wonders how the world can keep going on as if nothing has changed:

"The sky is still blue," Vitrine thought, looking up. "I am not sure that the sky should still be allowed to be blue."

The prose is stunning throughout this book: beautiful and raw and honest. Many of us have experienced grief in the form of the loss of a loved one, through death or separation. Although Vitrine’s loss is of a city and its history and people, it is also the loss of the time spent developing and cherishing that city. The realization that all she has left of it are memories, and that there is no future to dream of with those people, is the same crushing realization that brings the raw grief in all of us.

Despite the impression that you may have at this point, this is not a book that will make you sad! I loved reading this book, and Vo’s biblical “and it was so” way of describing this fantasy world of demons and angels. As Vitrine sets about developing a new city, I was reminded of the mechanics of a civilization-building strategy game. She influences the course of history by encouraging this person to study astronomy, and that person to study commerce. She selects those people who show initiative and guides them into positions of power. She teaches her people to dance, and to read, and to have ambitions and goals. With a few exceptions though, Vitrine is not attached to the people. She is immortal and they are brief, and her project and passion is the city itself.

I could not put this book down and I highly recommend it.

While the first book by Rebecca Thorne shared a certain amount of DNA with Travis Baldree’s cozy fantasy Legends & Lattes, this one takes Reyna and Kianthe’s story deeper into uncharted waters.

As we discovered last time, Reyna is a former guard to a murderous queen, and Kianthe is the most powerful mage around, but they have both made a quiet life together in the village of Tawney, running a tea shop. There is the small matter of some missing dragon eggs they need to locate before said dragons decide to turn the whole place to ash, plus the continuing threat of Queen Tilaine, but other than that life is good, if perhaps a little too quiet.

A year on, and the search for the eggs has taken our couple far west to Shepara, the home of the Nacean river. They have come to see the lord of the area, Diarn Arlon, who says he will happily help them in their quest, with one small condition—first they have to deal with an annoying pirate problem for him. That problem mainly takes the form of Serina, a Robin Hood-esque pirate who is stealing grain from Diarn Arlon to feed the poor along the length of the river. She is being pursued by Bobbie, who (in a clear case of nominative determinism) is the constable charged with bringing her to justice. Did I mention the two of them used to be friends, and perhaps, something more? And who is the Dastardly Pirate Dreggs?

The generally light-hearted tone of the first story continues here. Bobbie crochets small animals when stressed, and is clearly under a lot of pressure by the number of these that litter the place. Reyna is helping to raise a chaotic baby griffin, and Kianthe’s puns remain truly under-appreciated. All in all, it’s an enjoyable romp and I was glad to spend more time with the existing characters, and meet the new ones. I look forward to reading the next book soon.

Also, a tip of the hat to any fantasy book that makes such a blatant Mass Effect reference that I laughed out loud.

Both books are highly recommended, thanks to Tor for the review copy.

I liked the first novella in this series, The Fireborne Blade, and hoped to see more adventures with our two heroines. I did not suspect I would get my wish quite so soon!

Saralene is now the High Mage, but the former holder of the title (recently deceased) has other plans for her. With her trusted companion, the brave knight Sir Maddileh, she must travel to the domain of the eponymous princes and find some way to prevent her imminent demise. Along the journey, the two will also face a perhaps greater challenge—their feelings for each other.

Instead of the faux academic papers about dragons we had last time, this book breaks up the narrative with some short folk tales from the perspectives of both the humans and the dragons. The same events are seen quite differently, and the fun juxtaposition of the two feeds neatly into the story.

Despite the high stakes, this book feels slightly lighter in tone to the first one, particularly with the running commentary of their new feline companion. Which is not a complaint by any means! 

If this is all we get with these characters, the book provides a satisfying conclusion to the tale, but I certainly wouldn’t complain if we got more of these bite-sized tales every now and again, much like a fantasy equivalent of the Murderbot novellas by Martha Wells.

Recommended, alongside the first one.

Thanks to Tor Publishing for the early review copy.

I was incredibly excited to read The Daughters’ War by Christopher Buehlman, whose work I first discovered last year when browsing for audiobooks by top rated performances. Buehlman had read his own book, The Blacktongue Thief, and I was intrigued. In theory authors should be the perfect people to narrate their own books—they will get all of the pronunciation correct, and any intended inflections or emphases will be realized—but this is seldom actually the case. Voice acting is a talent and a skill that takes training to develop, just as writing is, and most folks pursue one path or the other (well, most folks pursue neither but we’ll forget about them for now). Buehlman defies this by turning in an excellent and accented performance of The Blacktongue Thief, deftly introducing readers to the characters and lore of his grim fantasy world.

The world of “Blacktongue,” where the duology (and I hope there are more books to come) is set, was not always grim. The Blacktongue Thief takes place several years after the goblin wars, a series of invasions by goblins that required increasingly desperate measures and alliances to be repelled by the kynd (the humanlike [humankynd?] races). The first invasion, known as the Knights’ War, was easily won by knights on horseback who outmatched the shorter goblins. The goblins responded by introducing a plague that devastated the horse population nearly to extinction, and the second invasion, called the Threshers’ War, required the conscription of farmers in order to hold out against the goblins. The humans won but paid a high price in blood and sons, and when the goblins came again, they had to call upon their daughters to march to war.

This “Daughters’ War” is where this second book takes us, from the perspective of Galva dom Braga. Galva, who was a grizzled veteran who worships the god of death in The Blacktongue Thief, is now an untried soldier marching to war as part of an experimental unit of women soldiers matched with war corvids. The corvids are magically bred, oversized, intelligent ravens that are trained to kill goblins. Readers of The Blacktongue Thief will know that the war corvids did indeed turn the tide, driving the goblins to an uneasy truce and leaving nearly the entirety of Manreach with a severe case of PTSD.

The Daughters’ War takes place during the war of that name, but the book is really about one daughter’s war: Galva dom Braga. Her three brothers are also marching to war, each in different capacities, and the story follows the dynamics of the dom Braga family in tandem with the battles against the goblins. The eldest brother and heir is a drunk who has been given a mostly symbolic rank and spends his war drinking and carousing with other ignoble nobles. The next brother has earned his high rank and sits on the senior war council. The youngest brother is a sort of assistant apprentice to the powerful and slightly mad wizard who created the corvids. Then there is Galva, the third eldest, who has trained at the elite sword academy and is paired with two deadly war corvids but has not yet been tested in a real fight. 

Each dom Braga sibling will be tested in this war—against the enemy, against each other, and against themselves—and some will do better than others. Galva also experiences love and friendship, all against the backdrop of a terrible war that can suddenly and painfully introduce loss into any relationship. 

And the war is brutal. Readers of The Blacktongue Thief will recall the legacy that the goblin wars had on the lands and their people; readers of The Daughters’ War will experience that trauma directly. These goblins are not the lesser cousins of orcs that populate many fantasy worlds. These are terrifying monsters whose primary reason for invading is simply that they want to eat people. Being eaten by monsters is not an unusual threat in fantasy (who can forget the infamous trolloc cookpots), but there is something particularly terrifying about the matter-of-factness with which these goblins pursue it (Buehlman has also written several horror novels). People are farmed, dumbed with drugs, herded, butchered, and savored. The goblins are intelligent, but in a nonhuman way. They build siege engines and execute strategies, but they also swarm like zombies, piling over themselves to overwhelm adversaries. There is an inevitability to the goblin invasion that permeates these pages. That is why the farmers, and now the daughters, have been called to fight.

I applaud Buehlman for creating this menacing adversary, and I applaud him further for making this book about the people who are fighting more than about the fight. There are fights aplenty, but the impact is felt more on Galva's character than on the battlelines. The book is, after all, a prequel, so a prepared reader will know more or less how the war itself goes. What is far more interesting is the path that Galva takes from a green soldier to the hardened, no-nonsense soldier that we meet in The Blacktongue Thief. We also see Galva meet the Infanta Mireya, whose usurped throne is a point of some consideration in The Blacktongue Thief, but whose relationship to Galva is the point of consideration in The Daughters’ War.

Perhaps the thing that impressed me most about this book is the change in tone from The Blacktongue Thief. That book is told from the perspective of the titular thief, full of exaggerations and swagger, willing to do most anything to seize an advantage. This book, from the perspective of the upright soldier Galva—for whom lying is a cardinal offense and to whom death is preferable to dishonor—feels entirely different. Even the verbosity is dialed back, from a skilled linguist who clearly enjoys his way with words to the laconic soldier who will not waste breath nor ink on anything that does not need to be said.

The Daughters’ War is a masterpiece in evoking the readers’ full range of emotion. This book made me stay up past my bedtime, made me cry, made me laugh (a little—there is little humor in war), and a certain character made me absolutely furious. I cannot recommend this book enough, and we can all hope that Christopher Buehlman continues to write in this world. The Daughters’ War is released on June 25; thank you to Tor for the advance review copy.

Rajiv Moté is Dragonmount’s book blogger with a lens on the craft of fiction writing. When he’s not directing software engineers, he writes fiction of his own, which can be found at his website.

Is history a fact, or a story—and, if the latter, whose story?

Rakesfall, by Vajra Chandrasekera, is a series of stories that intentionally collapse on their way to completion, question their own truth and intent, expound on the nature of reality and history, and then morph into something completely different. Rakesfall doesn't try to invest you in a particular character or plot; it’s not in the business of setting up expectations and then fulfilling them. It uses stories—or fragments of them—as a means of illustrating a philosophical and political thesis, delivered from the mouths of a rotating cast of characters.

What is fiction anyway? Is it the same thing as a story? Is it that graph of exposition, rising action, climax, falling action, and denouement, where someone or something irrevocably changes? For me, Italo Calvino's If on a winter's night a traveler was the book that first showed me that fiction could be far weirder, taking readers on a journey and showing them the sights in different ways, sometimes addressing the readers directly, sometimes narrating the readers as though hijacking their minds.

The title “Rakesfall” refers to a mythological world war between peoples known as the Yoke and the Rake. The Yoke conquered and colonized, but the Rake survived and persisted in hiding. They form an archetype for conflicts that echo through time, where the conqueror writes history, but the conquered still “haunt” the world the victor describes, a dissonance in the tale—and a ticking bomb.

This is the heady premise of a thread that connects several otherwise disjointed stories across space, time, and characters. It’s Hindu monistic philosophy in a Marxist critical theoretic frame. 

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“The lesson is that false consciousness has always [distanced] our people to their true selves. The one and the others; the white and the black; the north and the south; the lion and the tiger; the colonizer and the indigene; these were all a distraction from the true and essential distinction, that the [oppressed] people must fight all forms of oppressors.”

-- Rakesfall

Who has the power, how is it exercised, and what illusions of division does it generate?

If this sounds elevated and hard to understand, that’s also my experience of reading Rakesfall. The book is full of mysterious meta-stories that don’t reach any evident conclusions, and character-delivered explanations of why it’s wrong to expect evident conclusions. “You mean that histories are true and stories are lies? No, both are true and both are lies, grandmother says. The difference is that stories have endings, and histories understand that nothing ever ends.”

Rakesfall skips among unrelated characters (of fluid genders and species), settings, time periods, and genres, and insists that all these categories aren’t real. The Hindu maya, the illusion we perceive of distinctness and separateness, is an instrument of oppression that it is our eternal mission to dismantle. These aren’t different stories. They’re all one story, whether the illusion is experienced as supernatural or as a glitch in one’s post-human sensor arrays.

It’s informative that six chapters of Rakesfall were published as five independent short stories across five magazines and nearly two decades. It has the feel of an author circling a set of concepts and, in a metatextual flourish, unifying them. Those who have read Chandrasekera’s wonderful debut novel, The Saint of Bright Doors, will recognize many of the same themes, laid out in a more straightforward way. (It’s saying something that Bright Doors reads as straightforward in comparison to Rakesfall.) In fact, the city of Luriat, with its invisible laws and powers, bright doors, and rewritten palimpsest history, are part of the much broader universe (multiverse?) of Rakesfall.

This is a universe where time is “not a flowing river of cause and effect, but a glacial ocean, whole and complete, past and future laid out full, frozen and transparent.” Reincarnation, ghosts, zombies, and digital consciousness outside of time are phenomena that reveal the lie of the life/death duality. The “akashic record” is the true history of all that is, which is either supernaturally written in the firmament, or a universal blockchain, depending on the era. Identities—our senses of self—are porous and bleed not only up and down our ancestry, but across our connections and sense of purpose. Haunting—a recurring theme—is the shadow thrown by the suppressed past on the current version of history. In this setting, the characters in various eras struggle toward various goals, but their story is really about escaping illusory concerns and seeking wholeness and reconciliation with the past—often through shocking violence.

Okay. That’s a lot of high-minded material. But is it a good read? This is a book that engages with the head far more than the heart. The ideas are sophisticated and complex.

The language is poetic, sometimes playful, with wry twists in tone and rhythm: “Until then she will not rest, nor sleep, not leavetake, not take leave, not take or leave, nor give and take, nor so much as blink.”

There’s humor and relatable truth: “Whenever Uncle rants, about history, about politics, about the injustices faced by his, that is to say their, great race, his comb-over rises up and unfurls like a flag.”

There are jokes that are jarring in their context, but it feels intentional: “Grandmother Sits only ever gives explosives on birthdays.”

For readers who read to admire the artist’s artistry and the intellectual game of metafictional self-reference, recursion, and infinite regress, this book is full of delights. For readers who seek the union of philosophical and political arguments that can reference the Hindu epic Ramayana, the Sri Lankan Civil War, and post-human cyberpunk detective stories, this is your book.

But if you’re reading to immerse yourself in characters, their yearnings, and the escalating measures they’ll take to fulfill those yearnings—if you’re looking for a traditionally-defined story—Rakesfall will actively resist you. To be fair, every step of the way, it telegraphs what kind of book it isn’t. It isn’t a tale, it’s an argument about tales, history, and the nature of the universe. It can explain, in text, why it’s making the narrative choices it makes, but it doesn’t try to win you over to it. That’s on you. I was often frustrated as I latched onto a story thread, only to see it yanked away or interrupted by a screed just as I was getting invested. There was a certain pleasure in going back over my highlights and notes, and discovering all the intentional connections. But this was an intellectual pleasure, not the emotional one of reading a great yarn.

Rakesfall is aware, and answers with a shrug. “But maybe it’s exploitative to attempt truth in fiction, maybe it is mere commodification only, maybe fabulism strips histories of whatever dignity realism might have to offer—or maybe it’s the other way around, maybe it’s mimesis that takes away history’s dreams and fantasies, makes it small and lonely and vulnerable in a haunted world.”

It is up to you, reader, to determine if that model of fiction satisfies.

Much gratitude to Tor Books for the advance reading copy. Rakesfall will be available June 18, 2024.

Raquel Petra has everything she could ever want - her wife Marlena, their daughter Atalanta, and a job working alongside Marlena as researchers for the Institute. Specifically, the Global Institute for the Scientific and Humanistic Study of Pocket Worlds, which investigates little bubbles of parallel reality, and the elusive points that connect them to our own. Then, with one tiny mistake, Raquel loses everything in an instant.

Time runs fast in some of these worlds, slow in others. This leads to a wide variety of imaginative uses for time dilation, which is one of my favourite things in the story. Grow crops very quickly in a fast world, then store them in a slow world so they don’t go off. Calculating how old somebody is requires keeping track of all the worlds they’ve been in. 

Because the points where you enter a world can be attached to a movable physical object, which can itself be brought inside another world, you end up with worlds within worlds, and all the complexities that might imply. It’s a great science fiction concept to build the tale around, but all the other aspects here shine just as much.

This is a story anchored in the Dominican Republic. Raquel works as an archeologist, exploring the pocket worlds for evidence of the indigenous Taíno people of the Caribbean, something that becomes more relevant as things progress.

On a broader view, it is very much about colonialism, capitalism, environmental disaster, and war. But, primarily it’s about one person’s sadness, grief, and complete self-destructive refusal to let go of what she lost. Those are the parts that really stuck with me after I had finished reading. Ultimately, it’s also about hope, something I am personally very glad for, and you will be too. This story hurts in all the right ways.

Highly recommended.

Thanks to Tor for the early review copy.

This novella has quite a different setting from Aliette de Bodard’s recent Xuya books, but it’s an equally fascinating place.

Việt Nhi is a lowly member of the Rooster clan, one of the four opposed navigator clans who help guide ships through the Hollows; another space entirely that is used as a shortcut to achieve faster-than-light travel. As with many shortcuts, there is a slight catch. The Hollows are also home to a form of life known as the Tanglers; large unknowable creatures with deadly intangible tendrils that love to feed on the travellers who cross through their realm.

The navigators are not defenceless however—they can project their life energy into a form known as their Shadow; a force that can tear open holes in the universe and protect their ships from harm. Sometimes though, Nhi just uses it to give herself a nice hug when she is feeling stressed out by life.

And Nhi is certainly stressed. Not only has one of these eldritch horrors escaped from the Hollows intent on devouring everything in its path, not only is she being sent to find and catch it, but she will have to work with delegates of the other three clans to do so, accompanied by an aloof imperial envoy intent on keeping everybody in line.

Nhi does not do well with people. They do not always make sense to her, and she finds social interactions particularly wearing. Plus, all the clans barely tolerate each other at the best of times, so this will be quite the challenge of teamwork. To complicate matters even further, she finds herself inexplicably drawn to another member of the team…

With a queer and neurodivergent main protagonist, and a band of lovably broken outcasts, this is a fun tale inspired by xianxia-style martial arts, but rooted in science fiction with an undercurrent of romance. It does a lot of world building despite the short length, and I hope we will get to see these characters again, or at least have more stories set in the same universe.

Definitely worth your time.

Thanks to Tor Publishing for the early review copy.

We join Maddileh on an ill-fated quest to recover the Fireborne Blade. The King himself witnessed her punching Sir Allerbon in the face, but I can assure you that he really did deserve it. So, retrieve the ancient sword, regain her honour. A simple enough proposition. Of course, the slight catch is that this weapon happens to be located deep in the lair of a legendary dragon, known as the White Lady. 

The story slowly takes us towards their final confrontation, through pockets of dangerous magic and the ghosts of those who had fallen attempting the same journey. Her useless and argumentative squire Petros is also present.

Most of the world building comes in the form of academic papers on the nature of dragons, which are interspersed between the chapters of Maddileh’s story. Typically, these are records of previous encounters, which usually end in gruesome fashion for the knights involved. Even in death, dragons are still to be feared.

There are also some flashbacks to her preparations beforehand, notably getting some equipment from a mage, Kennion, and his suspiciously knowledgeable assistant Saralene. Perhaps the only thing worse in this world than a woman who wants to be a knight, is a woman who wants to wield magic.

I really enjoyed this book. The path down to the dragon is filled with twists and turns, both literally and literary. Even though it is brief at 176 pages, it paints a vivid picture of Maddileh’s world, and I quickly came to love the characters. Well, some of the characters, at least. It leaves things in such an interesting place that I hope I can read more of their adventures to find out what happens next.

Recommended.

Thanks to Tor Publishing for the early review copy.

Rebecca Thorne would be the first to admit this book was initially inspired by Travis Baldree’s Legends & Lattes (check out Ola Aleksandra Hills’ review here) . It’s a (mostly) cozy romance in a fantasy setting about two women who open up a shop, grow to be part of the local community, and have pasts that eventually catch up to them. On the surface, that sounds like the same story, but it really isn’t; think of it more as a familiar framework to hang something new on.

Reyna is great at her job as a royal guard, but does not particularly enjoy dispatching the increasingly frequent assassins who threaten the throne. It is not, however, a role you can easily leave with your head still attached, as the Queen frequently demonstrates.

Kianthe is the Arcandor; the most powerful mage in all the land. She’s a magical troubleshooter, called in to deal with big (and frequently fiery) problems. But there’s a lot of stifling politics around the role, and many layers of ineffectual men trying to tell her what to do.

The two have also been secretly dating for years, and have a shared dream of running far away together to open a tea shop that sells books. Or, perhaps, a bookshop that serves tea. An incident at the palace makes their dreams suddenly a lot more real, and they end up incognito as small business owners in a forgotten corner of the world. There is just the small matter of Reyna committing treason against the Queendom, and Kianthe hiding from the Magicary, but I’m sure that won’t come back to bite them later (it will).

It’s worth keeping in mind that this is not quite as cozy or small scale as Legends & Lattes is. There is an underlying dragon-shaped mystery about their new town, which leads them into more adventure, and indeed more mortal peril, than you might anticipate. The two of them don’t always make the best decisions, particularly in terms of self-care and self-preservation. But this is an established relationship, and they are both supportive of each other throughout, which is certainly refreshing.

“Tomes & Tea” is planned as a four book series, and books two and three are already written. So, it will not be too long until we find out what is next for our couple, and I personally can’t wait. In fact, since the first two books were originally self-published before being picked up by Tor, I don’t actually have to wait; those two are currently available in ebook form. The physical books look very nice however, and I suspect I will pick those up for my shelves as they are released.

A fun tale, recognisable in some ways, but still very entertaining. Another sapphic shopkeeping success!

Thanks to Tor for the early review copy.

Many modern fantasy books are showcases of worldbuilding—magic systems, creative (and not so creative) variations on the “orc,” tongue-twisting character and place names, and so on. Foul Days by Genoveva Dimova has the best elements of all of that, but it also has what so many of its contemporaries do not: vivid and engaging prose. Take the very first paragraph.

It was nearly midnight on New Year’s Eve, but the city inside the Wall didn’t celebrate. The people there knew that the birth of a new year was—like any birth—difficult, painful, and dangerous.

You better believe I tore through this 350-page book in a hurry after that. It helped that I read it on vacation, of course, with my only distractions being ordering another drink and the occasional dip in the Pacific. But Foul Days isn’t just a great beach read. It is also a great stay-up-past-your-bedtime read, a great take-on-your-lunch-break read, a great anytime read. The action is fast, the world is vividly bleak, and the suspense kicks in early and doesn’t let up.

The main character, Kosara, is a young witch who has packed a surprisingly long troubled past into her short years. Before long, she is forced to give up her shadow—her magic—in order to escape from the Czar of Monsters. It’s a short-term solution, because a witch can’t live for long without her shadow. In Kosara’s quest to get it back, she gets swept up in the machinations of the criminal underworld and crooked cops—including a handsome cop with almost as many secrets as Kosara—and a host of monsters. There is an element of steampunk to the fantasy—trains, guns, and a hot air balloon make appearances—as well as a touch of romance (I did mention a handsome cop…).

I picked this book up because the blurb advertises The Witcher meets Naomi Novik, and doesn’t that sound like a good time? There is more Naomi Novik here than Geralt; the Witcher comparison stems mostly from the compendium of monsters and specialized monster fighters. Novik’s influence is much more present, with a flawed-but-strong young heroine and a world grown from eastern-European folklore roots. In the case of Foul Days, those influences come from the author’s origins in Bulgaria.

Indeed, the “Foul Days” of the title correspond to the Pagan Slavic winter holiday of Korochun, the time of year when the more malevolent spirits are at their most potent. Those spirits are especially potent in Chenograd, where the story begins. Chenograd and Belograd are two halves of a city divided by a wall—The Wall—which keeps all the monsters and evil spirits on the Chenogradean side. It also (mostly) keeps all the citizens of the cities on their respective sides. As you might imagine, there is some tension between the folks on opposite sides of The Wall.

We learn more about the origins of The Wall and how this city got to be divided as the book progresses. Dimova does an exceptionally good job of introducing the lore at a pace that keeps the reader informed without overwhelming. The POV is third person, but there is more than a hint of the unreliable narration from our heroine, Kosara, who has some secrets that she would rather not share with the reader or anyone else. This mostly works well, creating an atmosphere of uncertainty that very much matches the uncertainty that Kosara feels after crossing to the other side of the wall and discovering the betrayal and deception that more than validate her secrecy.

There are a few instances, though, where I wish Dimova had trusted her own very capable character development and left things in the subtext. For example, after Kosara meets a character who is revealed to have robbed a bank with a toy gun, we read that “Kosara glanced at Nur with newfound respect. This perhaps showed that something was amiss in Kosara’s own moral compass.” Added to the fact that on the very first page of the book we see Kosara using magic to cheat at cards, I don’t think we need to be told so explicitly in which direction her moral compass points.

Overwhelmingly, though, I enjoyed the prose of Foul Days immensely. The world that Dimova creates leaps off the page—sometimes frighteningly so—and, at times, managed to take me from my sunny vacation to the snowy streets of Chernograd and Belograd. I loved discovering and understanding the different monsters, some of which are truly evil and some of which are just your average creatures with their own needs and wants. The book also does an excellent job of illustrating that some of the humans are more monstrous than any creature, and, as the cover of the book says, “the scariest monsters are the human-shaped ones.”

Foul Days by Genoveva Dimova comes out in June, and I highly recommend putting it on your summer reading list. The second book, Monstrous Nights, is set to release in October, and I am already excited to see how Dimova continues this adventure. Thank you to TOR for the advance reader copy that I reviewed, and thank you to Grace for editing this review.

Tsalmoth, a Vlad Taltos novel by Steven Brust, begins with a punchy opening line: “Have you ever noticed that getting married is like trying to collect a debt from a dead guy?”

Well, have you?

I myself have not noticed this, but I also do not have any personal experience doing either thing, so perhaps I am not best qualified to assess the analogy. In any case, I certainly felt compelled to read the next line, and the next, and the next—which is a good thing, because before that, I had been slightly worried to discover that I was starting the sixteenth Vlad Taltos novel, having read none of the previous fifteen! This seems to be a theme with my book reviews—jumping into series and universes at random points and trying to find my footing. I needn’t have worried though, as I was able to understand enough about the world and characters to find it deeply enjoyable as a stand-alone novel. Indeed, after a few pages, I found myself caught up in the story and piecing together enough context to enjoy the ride.

Tsalmoth follows the adventures of Vlad Taltos, a sort of mid-level organized crime boss in a fantasy city, as he attempts to plan a wedding and collect a debt from a dead guy. The story is told first-person from Vlad’s perspective, and I quickly found myself enjoying his voice. Although the first few pages had me feeling in over my head with characters and lore, Vlad quickly addresses this by offering “...maybe I should tell you a bit about myself. Nah, skip it. That’s boring. You’ll figure it out.” This snappy and somewhat cocky tone is tempered by Vlad’s curiosity, good-heartedness, humor, and noted simple tastes.

Each chapter begins with several ‘out of time’ paragraphs of Vlad describing the wedding planning process. As he sorts through the various traditions and cultural expectations of a wedding, I was reminded of a The Sopranos meme of actor Michael Imperioli as the hapless Christopher Moltisanti pinching a cigarette between his fingers and earnestly explaining his understanding of a concept. Go ahead and insert “So get this, Tony…” before any of Vlad’s expositions and you’ll see what I mean.

Brust, as Vlad Taltos, does include some absolutely effective descriptions that can’t help but resonate with the reader. For example, recounting a conversation with his betrothed, Cawti:

We talked about moving stuff around. How can a discussion of moving a table from one side of a room to the other make you so happy? I don’t know. It did.

Those few, simple words about the pure contented feeling of planning with another person that you trust and want to spend time doing nothing with do more to capture the feeling of love than a lot of flowery prose that I have encountered.

Vlad’s adventures begin, as alluded to, with the death of a guy who owes him money. In his efforts to find who is responsible, and who might be able to make good on the debt, Vlad is drawn into a world of intrigue. In classic mob story fashion, the plot thickens—and thickens again, as more players are revealed, and factions emerge. Each time it seems that he is closing in on the money, a new angle develops, until the very end when everything is tied up in surprising and satisfying fashion.

One element that I found to be missing, although I stayed on my toes expecting it for the whole read, is a devastating betrayal. In fact, most of the characters, aside from Vlad, are fairly one dimensional (in the character sense, not necessarily in the planar existence sense). This could be an intentional choice of the author to depict an unreliable and self-interested narrator, so I mention it more as an observation than a criticism. 

There is sorcery and necromancy and demonology in the world of Vlad Taltos, as well as a collection of races and classes that I struggled to keep track of. I attribute my struggles more to the fact that I started in the middle of the series than as a shortcoming on the writing. If anything, I am now motivated to read more of Brust’s books so that I can begin to understand more of this world.

Overall, Tsalmoth is an entertaining mob mystery set in a fantasy world. The quick pacing and snappy dialogue helped smooth over any of my confusion about the world of Vlad Taltos. Even if I didn't know exactly what was happening in the universe, I always knew what was happening in the moment. Steven Brust has firmly been added to the list of authors whose works I will always check for at libraries and booksellers.