TV Review: A.A.R.O.

Come for the Paranormal Mystery of the Week, stay for the animist theodicy

To the Western viewer, likely acquainted with The X Files, Fringe, Supernatural and Evil, a show like A.A.R.O. may at first feel like another iteration of the "whodunit, but make it spooky" genre. And the limited series that's been released on Netflix goes for that vibe in its initial episodes: this is a world where people can vanish into thin air, leaving just their empty clothes and bucketfuls of blood; where breaking the shrine of a fox spirit causes a wave of mass faintings; where pieces of an airplane that's been missing for years suddenly fall to the ground out of nowhere; where a shadowy terrorist faction can't succeed at planting bombs across Tokyo because a clairvoyant keeps frustrating their plans.

So far, so standard. But as we gradually get to meet the protagonists, a jaded misanthrope who can cite the classics of Japanese mythology from memory and a wide-eyed newbie with a keen nose for asking the right questions, we discover that the plot lurking under the surface is far more alarming than the occasional unexplained anomaly. It's not just that the monsters and curses from Japanese folklore happen to be real; it's that someone has declared war on the entire spiritual realm and has been extending tentacles at every level of Japanese society. This is a world where someone has been buying mummified mermaids to harvest their flesh; where someone has been running experiments with a spell that causes unending hunger; where someone has created a sound frequency that induces suicide; where someone is scheming to put heaven and hell under new management. What begins as a series of seemingly unconnected cases for a clandestine government agency to investigate turns out to lead to a potentially world-ending conspiracy whose best chance of succeeding is the fact that humans are the worst.

That's a fortunate thing for the viewer's enjoyment, because on the purely police investigation side of the story, A.A.R.O. just isn't very well written. The quiet pleasures of meticulously following the clues and formulating logical deductions are eschewed for impossibly lucky guesses, unprompted confessions, frequent instances of literal deus ex machina, and a tsunami of melodrama that would make Candy Candy blush. Also, the plot plays an increasingly ludicrous game of "guess who's possessing whom" that abuses the bait-and-switch trick with regard to the true identity of the villain four times, including one time it does reveal the actual villain, but still tries to pretend there's a further bigger villain behind. No, this detective/mystery show doesn't stand out because of its detectives or its mysteries. It stands out because of the ideological conflict it dramatizes on the nature of evil and the redeemability of humankind in an era when we've become almost godlike with technology we're too immature for.

It's worth highlighting once more the non-Western nature of this story, because the dynamic between mortals and the supernatural is very unlike what we're used to seeing in Western fantasy. Over here, we're still under the Miltonian spell, conceiving of spiritual power as flowing in a vertical direction, which makes humans either the helpless playthings of omnipotent overlords or the blasphemous rebels who seek to punish heaven for being too harsh on this world. But in the animist mindset, spiritual power flows horizontally, because humans are no less capable than the gods of influencing events in heaven, and if anyone seeks to punish heaven, it's for being too permissive with this world. With enough discipline and study, a determined human may turn into a worthy adversary for the gods.

A.A.R.O. thus twists the formula of the paranormal procedural: this time Earth isn't a means for spiritual factions to play out their eternal battles in; it's an end in itself, where all the spirits are responsible for protecting humans, even as humans grow more and more self-conceited, cruel and treacherous. Instead of fighting demonic incarnations of evil on behalf of humans, the protagonists of A.A.R.O. fight the demonic extremes that human hubris can reach. Instead of treating the gods the way, say, the Greek epics do, as capricious tyrants to fear or to pacify, in A.A.R.O. the gods are long-suffering, overworked benefactors who can only do so much in the face of human self-destructiveness. Whereas a story like God of War treats the quest to dethrone the gods as heroic liberation, A.A.R.O. treats the quest to dethrone the gods as a sad consequence of ignorance.

A case could be made that treating the Shintō gods as the preferrable status quo gives the show a conservative bent, and it would be hard to argue against that interpretation. The story clearly leans toward blaming human hubris for the problems in the world. However, it knows to avoid the extremes of anti-humanism and binary morality. The two protagonists constantly argue for opposite sides about the worth of humans, and a key reason why the good guys (somewhat) win in the end is because a god chose to trust a human. One villain is so strongly convinced that their cause is just that they can fool another character whose superpower is to cast detect evil. Moreover, a spell that reduces a god to human status isn't treated as a profanation every time. A former god reflects on this turn of events with admirable equanimity: yes, dying as a human is horrible, but living as a human can be full of wonders.

Nerd Coefficient: 7/10.

POSTED BY: Arturo Serrano, multiclass Trekkie/Whovian/Moonie/Miraculer, accumulating experience points for still more obsessions.

Review: The Book of Tea Duology by Judy I. Lin

These are books you can safely judge by their covers: gorgeous in their concept, rich with symbols, all the more exquisitely detailed the closer you look

         

In the gods-touched land of Dàxī, the delicate art of Shénnóng can heal and comfort, reveal secrets and connect hearts, weaken and kill. By pouring boiling water over the right mix of herbs, a practitioner of Shénnóng magic can hold the fate of entire kingdoms in a cup of tea.

But someone has tainted the magic: all over Dàxī, some batches of tea leaves have turned out to be lethal. Shénnóng apprentice Zhang Ning accidentally kills her mother and makes her sister gravely ill with a recipe made from the adulterated tea. Without her mother's guidance, she must rely on her incomplete training to figure out an antidote before her sister dies. When a message arrives from the capital city, summoning all Shénnóng apprentices for a competition to appoint a new court mage, Ning thinks that may be her chance to learn from more experienced tea brewers and study the advanced manuals that she can't find in her village. For her sister's sake, she'll try anything.

However, when she arrives at the imperial palace, she finds that the government has its own problems to deal with: princess Li Ying-Zhen has been placed in charge of the empire because her father is suffering from an unexplained sickness, and her tenuous hold on power creates an opening for schemers and opportunists to gain favor by all means. Meanwhile, the emperor's banished brother is rumored to be gathering forces to make a daring move for the throne. As Ning laboriously advances through the competition, she becomes more and more entangled in the dirty games of politics, and falls for the charms of an enigmatic young man who seems to be pursuing his own agenda in the imperial court. Will Ning survive the rounds of cutthroat intrigue and unexpected backstabbing in time to solve the case of the poisoned tea and save her sister?

Judy I. Lin's debut novel A Magic Steeped in Poison is a quick, effortless read, but it packs a surprising amount of high-stakes drama within its short page count. Through Ning's eyes, we're introduced to a political system on the brink of abrupt change, a setting molded by centuries of complex history, and a mystical world fertile in possibilities.

That last element is the strongest hook of the story. The author has created a magic system based on the selection and combination of ingredients taken from real-world Chinese medicine, but endowed with otherworldly powers. The steps of each recipe are narrated in loving detail and constitute the main anchor from which the tone of the prose emerges. Even the most violent scenes are filtered through a dreamlike style that maintains the reader's sense of wonder. Descriptions are meticulous; dialogues are heartfelt; spells are extraordinary. This is powerful magic, but it doesn't produce any flashy explosions. It requires subtlety, patience. All the ingredients of a cup of tea need to interact harmoniously and in the right amounts. Just sharing a cup is an intimate ritual with lingering effects.

The other elements of the story are handled with no less mastery. The imperial court harbors ambitious sages and ministers whose trustworthiness can be best summarized as fluid, and the head-spinning chain of betrayals toward the end of the novel escalates the danger to world-spanning proportions.

The sequel and conclusion, A Venom Dark and Sweet, follows Ning after running away from the palace, and alternates her story with that of Kang, the son of the banished pretender, who is now mere steps from securing the throne. This time, Ning needs to travel to the northern provinces of the empire to find soldiers who are still loyal to princess Zhen and are willing to retake the capital city for her. As she explores landscapes ruled by ancient and unpredictable magic, Kang conducts his own inquiries, spurred by the suspicion that his father's military campaign may be under the influence of someone with more sinister intentions.

In this second book, the author takes Shénnóng magic beyond what seemed to be its limits. Ning's empathic connection to herbs grows deeper and more versatile, and when the true nature of the threat to the world is revealed, divine forces begin to get involved in the plot. (Here you need to take your Western eyeglasses off, because the deus ex machina trope does not apply to other narrative traditions.) Once it is fully presented, the focus of the conflict refers back to a question briefly mentioned in the first book: Is human nature good or evil? In a refreshing move away from the Protestant concept of inborn taint we're familiar with, the conclusion of the story delves into both the strength and the frailty of humanity, and sets these qualities in contrast with the timeless battles between gods. All this time, Ning and other mages like her have been drawing power from the divine realm, but is the reverse possible? Is there something about humanity that would lure a god?

What's certain is that there are abundant ideas in these two books to lure the reader. Every story about magic is, deep down, a story about power. And against the power of tyrants who would sacrifice thousands of lives to expand their dominion, the Book of Tea duology rejects the easy route of fighting fire with fire. Instead, it proposes the humble power of gathering with your chosen family around a table, having drinks poured from the same teapot, and creating a moment of true connection. The weapons are right there in the pantry. Every seat added to the table is one fewer enemy. Togetherness is the measure of victory.

The Math

Baseline Assessment: 8/10.

Bonuses: +1 for an enthralling feat of worldbuilding.

Penalties: −1 because, after dozens of dangerous situations solved with the quiet charm of tea, the big final battle leans closer to flashy explosions.

Nerd Coefficient: 8/10.

POSTED BY: Arturo Serrano, multiclass Trekkie/Whovian/Moonie/Miraculer, accumulating experience points for still more obsessions.

Reference: Lin, Judy I. A Magic Steeped in Poison [Feiwel and Friends, 2021]; Lin, Judy I. A Venom Dark and Sweet [Feiwel and Friends, 2022].

Microreview [book]: The Grace of Kings by Ken Liu

An exciting new silkpunk fantasy...

The Grace of Kings (Book 1 of the Dandelion Dynasty) opens in as exciting a manner as imaginable. The young and reckless Kuni Garu--one of the heroes of the tale--goes to an Imperial Procession held to memorialize Emperor Mapidere's unification of the kingdoms of Dara. While there, Kuni witnesses a bold assassination attempt on Emperor Mapidere. A man, riding a battle kite (yes, a battle kite!), suddenly dives at the Throne Pagoda and launches a ball of fire at the emperor. The quick thinking of the Captain of the Guards saves the emperor, and after a few more failed attempts punctuated by brilliant theatrics, the would-be assassin flies off toward the city of Zudi. This assassination attempt leaves an indelible impression on the young Kuni Garu, who would later play a central role in the re-unification of Dara archipelago.

The true story, however, begins years later, with the death of Emperor Mapidere. In the wake of Mapidere's death, palace treachery causes the empire to split up. In this tumultuous period, two young men quickly assume the leadership of a broader rebellion: Mata Zyndu and Kuni Garu. Both men are polar opposites. Mata Zyndu is a man bred to rule. The proud son of a deposed duke, he holds static notions that rulership is best left to the "legitimate" old nobility. And he emerges as a force to be reckoned with on the battlefield, blessed with martial valor by the gods themselves. Standing side-by-side with Mata Zyndu, however, is the rather unlikely character of Kuni Garu. Born with no noble ties, Kuni Garu is a restless commoner ne'er do well, one who has dreams of greatness to be gained through his charm and wit. The relationship between Mata Zyndu and Kuni Garu holds the key to the future of the entire land of Dara. 

The Grace of Kings is Ken Liu's attempt to retell the rise of the Han Dynasty in China in epic fantasy form. Liu takes as his inspiration not only the history of the Han dynasty (as told through the Shiji, or Records of the Grand Historian), but also such classics as the Romance of the Three Kingdoms. He builds off such major themes from Romance as virtue versus vanity, nobility versus cruelty in unique and interesting ways. But Liu looks far beyond historical China for inspiration. Although Dara is based off Han dynasty China, The Grace of Kings features in equal part influences from Greek and Roman epic poetry and theater traditions. The storytelling often brought to mind Homer's Iliad, and the plays of Aeschylus. The gods in the Dandelion Dynasty serve as members of a Aeschylean Greek Chorus (minus the dancing and singing, of course), and help to highlight the tragic elements in the story and to reinforce the novel's emotional mood. And the gods do not refrain from covertly aiding their champions, whenever possible.   

In many ways, The Grace of Kings delivers in grand form: it is intelligent and engaging from start to finish. Liu writes with a crisp and engrossing prose. He creates a wonderful cast of characters, some of whom are defined by a decidedly mercurial nature. Both Kuni Garu and Mata Zyndu change with the political life of the times, and are impacted not only by their own values and mores, but also by the actions by others. It is this continuing, shifting character development that kept my avid interest throughout the entire volume. 

What Liu does with extraordinary verve is to show the morally debilitating impact of power. The Grace of Kings, after all, is a story about power. Quests for power bring young men like Kuni Garu and Mata Zyndu (and in some cases, women) together in the bonds of friendship. Assumption of power, however, proves divisive, disruptive, and destructive. Once power is gained, erstwhile friends find themselves divided by ideals, by mistrust, and by divergent philosophies of governance. Some of the most interesting sections of the novel deal with reflections on the use of power, as when Kuni Garu reflects on the "tyranny" of Emperor Mapidere.  

Despite the novel's distinct strengths, however, I ended up with mixed feelings. This is why it has taken me so long to upload this review! Granted, it is beautifully written, and Liu has done a wonderful job of marrying the Romance of the Three Kingdoms with the classical  traditions of the Iliad, the Odyssey, and the Aeneid. But the major issue for me was its focus on a much more expansive cast of characters than what felt necessary. Kuni Garu and Mata Zyndu were the only major characters around for the entire tale. Numerous other characters made brief cameos, told their tales, gave their biographies, faced a difficult choice, then faded away from the story only to be replaced by the next cameo role. To give but one example, the Kikomi story provided a wonderful narrative arc on virtue versus vanity, but did it add anything that couldn't have been told in the main story line? I wonder. Granted, including a huge cast of narrative arcs (like Kikomi's) is very much in the tradition of the epic poems and epic tales that Liu used for inspiration. So although this is not a weakness in his writing style, it kept rubbing me the wrong way. The true irony here is that what I love about the concept (the marriage of epic fantasy with historical epics) ended up as a distraction for me. I wanted to like the execution of the story more than I actually did.    

Still, this doesn't take away from Ken Liu's achievements. The Grace of Kings is an intelligent and engaging retelling of the rise of Han dynasty China. And it feels both old and new at the same time. With The Dandelion Dynasty, Liu has crafted a promising new silkpunk fantasy that I would recommend without reservation.

The Math 

Baseline Assessment: 8/10

Bonuses: +1 for the wonderful melding of Greek, Roman, and Chinese literary traditions.

Penalties: -2 for the successive narrative arcs of characters who "arrived," told their stories, and faded away...

Nerd Coefficient: 7/10 "An enjoyable experience, but not without its flaws"

Read about our scoring system here. And remember, we categorically reject grade inflation!

POSTED BY: Jemmy, a SF/F fanatic, a failed wall gazer, and a Nerds of a Feather contributor since 2012.

Microreview [book]: The Killing Moon by N.K. Jemisin

Jemisin, N.K. The Killing Moon [Orbit, 2012]

The Meat

For a while, I feel like I have been meandering through a morass of similarity. Fantasy worlds based in a fairly commonplace Western European medieval setting, conservative in its representation of social mores, and an overall lack of nuance in dealing with gender or sexuality. Sometimes it seems like much more time is spent creating an interesting magic system and fascinating world than making sure the people inhabiting the world feel real to life. But at last, with N.K. Jemisin's The Killing Moon, I find a book that eschews the medieval European setting and treats social norms and mores in a fascinatingly complex manner. And it's damn good to boot, featuring fantastic prose and a compelling story.

The Killing Moon, the first book of Jemisin's Dreamblood Duology, takes place in the city-state of Gujaareh, a city based on ancient (New Kingdom era) Egypt. That much is clear even to the interested layman, with the desert setting, regular flooding cycles akin to those of the Nile River valley, the polytheistic society, and a Prince who serves as an intermediary between gods and men--not unlike the Pharaohs of old. And the relations between the lighter-skinned people of Gujaareh and the darker-skinned people of Kisua from the south in no small way parallels the connections of old between Egypt and the Nubian Kingdom of Kush.

And the world itself is fascinating, with magic serving as the cultural and political building blocks of Gujaareh society. Every member of society is required to contribute to the system by making monthly payments of dreams. These dreams are used by the Hetawa, priests of the dream goddess, as fuel for their healing magic. And since the most powerful dreams are found at the moment of death, an important subset of these priests, the Gatherers (or, as Jemisin calls them, ninja priests), sneak into peoples homes under the cover of darkness to extract dreamblood from those who are deemed corrupt or too elderly to contribute to society, killing them in the process.

But what makes this interesting is that these ninja priests do not see themselves as assassins. Ehiru, the protagonist and the greatest Gatherer in Gujaareh, does not assassinate people for material gain. He is a true believer, intending the best for his victims by sending them to reside in the dreamworld of their dream goddess. He kills those deemed corrupt to save them from an even worse fate. And he kills the elderly to ease their pain and to allow them to experience true bliss in the world of the goddess. The Gatherers enter their dreams and ease them into Ina-Karekh, the Hetawa vision of paradise. But regardless of motives, it is a real joy to watch these priests sneak into homes in the dead of night to send their targets to a better place. This is what motivated the novel in the first place. As Jemisin herself notes, "I just wanted to write about ninja priests."

The Killing Moon centers around three stories. The first story is that of the Gatherer Ehiru--the greatest of the Hetawa priests. Ehiru mishandles an assassination, which launches him on a journey that pits him against everything he has come to accept in the world. The second story is that of Ehiru's young apprentice, Nijiri, a boy full of youthful ambition and energy who is ever eager to prove himself to Ehiru. And the third story revolves around Kisuan diplomat and spy Sunandi, who seeks to uncover a plot that could threaten the very fabric of Gujaareen and Kisuan society.

While on the one hand a political thriller that strikes at the heart, the story at the same time is one of character growth, especially with the two younger characters, Nijiri and Sunandi. Nijiri tries to balance his desire to become a Gatherer with his growing sexual desire for Ehiru, one that can never be fulfilled owing to their priestly vows. And Sunandi is forced to spend time with priests of a religion she hates, only to develop a more complex and nuanced take in the process.

But what I really appreciated was the nuanced social mores. Sunandi is by no means a repressed and oppressed woman. She uses her charms and sexuality for personal and for state gain. She will let no man browbeat her into submission. And although she makes mistakes, she is forced to make real decisions that have consequences not just for herself, but for her people. Nijiri, on the other hand, is forced to deal with his own desires for his master. Although his priestly vows (as well as his respect for Ehiru) inhibit him from acting on those desires, what makes this compelling is the very fact that society accepts these homosexual desires as natural, not deviant.

In the end, this is an engaging and evocative tale, one I cannot recommend strongly enough. I found so little to dislike that the only quibble I can think of is that I wish Jemisin provided a map to highlight the world's broader geography. The Killing Moon was such an engaging read that I am surprised it did not win the Nebula Award in 2012. Highly recommended.

The Math

*No penalties or bonuses awarded today...

Nerd Coefficient: 9/10 "Standout in its category"

Read about our scoring system here. And remember, we categorically reject grade inflation!

POSTED BY: Jemmy, a SF/F fanatic, a failed wall gazer, and a Nerds of a Feather contributor since 2012.

Microreview [book]: The Emperor's Knife by Mazarkis Williams

Mazarkis Williams, The Emperor's Knife [Jo Fletcher, 2011]

The Meat

What a surprisingly confident debut! Well-written, hard-hitting, fast-paced, and quite enjoyable, The Emperor's Knife is a fitting introduction to Mazarkis Williams's new fantasy series, the Tower and Knife Trilogy.

The Emperor's Knife follows three main characters (alongside a host of interesting secondary personalities): Sarmin, a forgotten prince who has been locked in a tower for much of his life after watching his family get executed; the Windreader Mesema, who is brought to the Cerani Imperial Court from her tribal grasslands (ostensibly to marry Sarmin) and soon finds herself sucked into a deadly game of Cerani politics; and Eyul, an assassin who has long been burdened with the task of spilling royal blood. It was Eyul who executed Sarmin's brothers--for it is only the Emperor's Knife, the knife Eyul wields, that is fit to shed royal blood. The three protagonists stories intersect around a plague that has been running its course through the capital, a plague that takes shape as a pattern on its victims' bodies. The plague is so rampant that some suggest it has even spread to Emperor Beyon himself. 

The story really succeeds as a character-driven drama. Williams creates wonderfully complex set of characters to whom the reader can relate. For Mesema, this is a coming-of-age tale of a young tribeswoman subject to the politics of the capital. Her relationship with the at-times-cruel Emperor Beyon was at times a source of anxiety, and at other times quite touching. For Sarmin, the question is whether his long years of captivity made him dangerous and cruel, or kind, compassionate, and committed against slavery and confinement of all types. And Williams highlights the inner conflict and the divide between loyalty and duty in the Emperor's assassin, Eyul.

In some aspects, the world building was absolutely fantastic. The fact that the Williams set The Emperor's Knife in a non-Western-influenced (Middle Eastern, to be a bit more specific) setting was refreshing, to say the least. So were the magic systems in the Cerani world. First, elemental magic. Used by the mages of the realm, this type of magic forcibly fuses an elemental within a human mage's body. Although at first the elemental's consciousness is subsumed into and controlled by the human mage, as the elemental grows in power this switches, and the elemental eventually takes over. I appreciated that twist, showing the danger inherent in magic and why there are so few magicians throughout the world. Second, pattern magic, an older type of magic used by Sarmin and the arch-villain of the story, the Pattern Master. Mysterious and arcane, pattern magic nevertheless captures the imagination--once a pattern forms on a person's body, that person is either driven insane or finds his or her conscious mind subverted, controlled at the whims of the pattern's master. Thus all who show the pattern's tell-tale marks are put to death... until the pattern finds itself a new host in the Emperor Beyon. Lastly, windreading. This type of magic appears somewhat similar to pattern magic, and is used by those in the Windreader tribe.

Other world-building elements are rather poorly fleshed out, however. Take, for instance, the culture and life of Cerani. Williams provides a fantastic glimpse into court life in the Cerani Empire, with all the intrigues and political battles that entails. But one never gets a sense of a world outside of the court. Nor does the reader ever encounter people outside the court--one rarely sees anything akin to a bustling city, with its booming ports and busy marketplaces. In fact, the whole book feels as if only nobles and their guardsmen populate the supposedly vast imperial capital. 

Another small problem had to do with the book's pacing. The book begins to drag in the middle, with Mesema foundering in the capital, and Eyul on his quest through the desert. Moreover, the conclusion is thrust on the reader way too quickly. At times, this book felt more like a beer to be gulped down instead of scotch to be sipped. 

Williams does engage in an interesting subversion of common literary tropes, which some readers may find quite well done. This involves a minor spoiler, so feel free to skip ahead if you want to remain blissfully ignorant.

!Minor Spoiler Ahoy!

In this case, the author is dealing with the trope of the weak and subservient woman. After setting up the trope, the author subtly (and later blatantly) subverts it, revealing how in many senses women were true masters, or the major cogs in the overall political machine of Cerani life. It was particularly well done, but it left me with a sour taste in my mouth. Why set up the masculine world trope only to subvert it? Is this even necessary anymore? I have always believed that the best way to subvert a trope of a weak woman in society is by foregrounding strong women and their exploits. I would have much preferred this to any big reveal that women were in many senses the true (if behind-the-scenes) leaders.

!Minor Spoiler Ended!

Although at times problematic, The Emperor's Knife was overall a very fun read. Mazarkis Williams has produced a surprisingly good debut, and has piqued my interest in seeing how the series develops...

The Math

Baseline Assessment: 7/10

Bonuses: +1 for pattern magic; +1 for well-done characters.

Penalties: -1 for problems with pacing; -1 for the sense that the world was only populated with nobles and guardsmen.

Nerd Coefficient: 7/10 "an enjoyable experience, but not without its flaws"

See why our scoring system is awesome here. 

Microreview [book]: Shattered Pillars by Elizabeth Bear

Bear, Elizabeth. Shattered Pillars [Tor, 2013]

The Meat

Middle chapters in serialized trilogies pose unique problems. After all, there's no real beginning or ending--just a whole lot of middle. For the most part, things go badly and our heroes struggle to piece together the tools with which they'll eventually confront whatever (or whoever) torments them. It is incumbent upon writers, then, to balance tension and hope for resolution. When it works, you get something like The Empire Strikes Back or A Clash of Kings. When it doesn't, you get Attack of the Clones or A Feast for Crows/A Dance with Dragons.

The good news is that Shattered Pillars isn't the latter half of that equation, and in fact it's very good--particularly for a bridging chapter. It's elegantly written, well-paced and rich enough to beg for a second read-through. But it does suffer from some nagging issues that keep it from soaring to Empire or Clash of Kings heights. That said, it's a testament to how good this series is that these things never feel like more than minor annoyances.

!WARNING: Mild Spoilers Ahead!*

Action begins with Re Temur, once-princess and wizard Samakar and their companions in the capital of the Uthman (alt-Islamic) Caliphate. They are eagerly awaiting the Caliph's audience, where they will attempt to make an ally of him against al-Sepehr, his Nameless cult of assassins and allies across the known world, who conspire to resurrect the dread Carrion-King and plunge the world into darkness. Meanwhile, Edene escapes the Rahazeen fortress Ala-Din and finds herself in a land of ghouls, while a strange plague emerges in Samarkar's homeland Rasa.

Most of Shattered Pillars comes form the perspective of its female characters--Samarkar, Edene, the Rasan wizard Tsering-la, Cho-tse warrior woman Hrahima and the Nameless assassin Saadet. Bear's treatment of the female subject stands out as among the best in fantasy--not only are there strong women characters, but different sources of their strength (something Aidan Moher has commented on extensively in his review). Edene's transformation from damsel-in-distress to Queen of the Ghouls exemplifies this. I suspect there's more going on here than meets the eye--after all, al-Sepehr wanted her to escape--but Edene is no puppet. She recognizes al-Sepehr's manipulations for what they are; the long-game conflict between them promises much for the final chapter.

Like Range of Ghosts, though, the true genius of Shattered Pillars lies with the characters and their interactions with a rich, fully-realized world. Bear's portrayal of the physical and social environment is vivid, with a keen attention to detail and to customary practices. One of the strongest elements of Range of Ghosts was, I felt, its treatment of religion. The medieval time period Eternal Sky is based on (and which nearly all epic fantasy is based on) predates secularization, and is one in which individuals made little distinction between the physical and the metaphysical. Gods, saints, demons and monsters were, for the most part, things perceived to be integral to the normal course of things. Fantasy is decidedly ambivalent on this score--sure there's a surfeit of evil gods returned to wreak havoc for the general purposes of evil-doing, but there's a distinct lack of faith in anything else. In medieval societies, on the other hand, religion could be found in nearly all facets of social life. Religion in the world of Eternal Sky is a similarly lived reality, one that literally determines the way the sky looks to you.

Little about this changes in Shattered Pillars, but Bear adds depth to the device. The most interesting example of this comes in a series of vignettes about Hrahima, the Cho-tse (tiger person) warrior who accompanies Temur and Samarkar in their quest to rescue Edene, reclaim the Khaganate and forestall the coming of the Carrion-King. In the faith of the Cho-tse, the divine resides within and can be tapped into as a source of tremendous power. Yet Hrahima has rejected the faith for what are as-of-yet unclear reasons. The question then emerges why anyone would reject faith in a divine power in a context where it is both unimpeachably real and experienced as a wellspring of physical power. The broader implication is to underscore how unlikely it is that individuals in a world like this would actually reject their faith, and to position both systematic critique and even cynicism about religion as luxuries of modernity. This abstracted and expressionistic historical "realism" is a cornerstone of Bear's world-building in Eternal Sky, and one of the reasons it stands out from the bulk of fantasy series.

Bear also generally approaches her subjects with sensitivity and a smart relativism that eschews the moral hierarchies of culture that trickled down from Tolkein. We aren't given a lot of "good" and "bad" practices, only different practices and unique subjectivities. I loved every scene from the perspective of al-Sepehr's agent Saadet, whose body is now also home to the consciousness of her dead twin brother Shahruz, and whom al-Sepehr has sent to be consort to Qersnyk warlord and would-be Khagan Qori Buqa. In order to accomplish her mission, she must make a number of compromises with her religio-cultural norms of femininity and sexuality (many of which are accepted practices among the Qersnyk). Though she knows it is "for the good of the cause," we experience both her revulsion and that of her brother, who increasingly retreats from her. In this I detected an implied critique of gendered mores on sexual behavior, one that would both ask Saadet to employ her sexuality and then shame her for it. Yet this never devolves into an othering of the cultural values of the Rahazeen, the sect of Scholar-God worshippers from which the Nameless cult derives and to which al-Sepehr claims leadership.

I did, however, take issue with other aspects of Bear's portrayal of the Rahazeen. The Nameless, of course, are based on the Shia Assassin cult. The Assassins practiced a subset of Ismailism, itself a subset of Shiism. They were thus outsiders among the Shia, who were outsiders within most Islamic states of the time. In Shattered Pillars, though, the Nameless (i.e. Assassins) are generally conflated with the Rahazeen (i.e. Shia), as if these were one and the same. Perhaps they are, in Bear's world, but this would strike me as a missed opportunity. I have enough faith in Bear as a writer to expect that we'll get more nuance in the next installment, but feel that I would be remiss if I didn't mention the fact that this bothered me.

A bigger problem concerns the plotting. As mentioned above, middle chapters need to strike a balance between hope and despair. And with the kind of trouble Temur and Samarka face, you'd expect that things generally go badly throughout the book. But here's the thing--they don't really. Unlike in Range of Ghosts, I rarely got the sense that Temur and Samarkar were in actual danger. There's always something that intervenes--a newly discovered form of magic or, more often, a magic horse that always seems to show up at the right time and know what to do.** The Nameless assassins pursuing them are, for the most part, hapless Cobra-style cannon fodder. For the record, Bear does a better job of building tension in the Rasan scenes where the wizards Hong-la and Tsering-la grapple with the strange and insidious plague. Hope and despair are indeed balanced nicely in these scenes, something I would have liked to see more of in the main narrative.

Keeping all of this in mind, I think it's fair to say that Shattered Pillars may not be the monumental achievement Range of Ghosts is, but it's still an excellent fantasy book that sets up the final installment neatly. This series should be on the must-read list of any serious fantasy reader.

*Sorry...couldn't figure out how to talk about the book without them!
**Even though I love Bansh, it's overkill.

The Math

Baseline Assessment: 8/10

Bonuses: +1 for the exquisite world-building; +1 for the deep characterization.

Penalties: -1 for Bansh's transformation into deus ex machina horse; -1 for the endless legions of evil Rahazeen/Cobra assassins

Nerd Coefficient: 8/10. "Well worth your time and attention."

See how our scoring system is doing its part to fight grade inflation.