The sequel to K. Arsenault Rivera’s acclaimed fantasy debut, The Phoenix Empress is a superlative example of what fantasy is capable of.

The restrained, visually evocative world building of The Tiger’s Daughter is continued here. Many of the animals witnessed in this series are unique combinations of the animals we see in our own landscapes, enriching Rivera’s fictional world and keeping the reader grounded. But perhaps the most impressive aspect of the book is Rivera’s prose, and her willingness to question the reliability of one of her narrators. Shefali has been seeing ghosts since the first book, and not only does this give the reader the opportunity to enjoy Rivera’s grisly renderings of the afterlife, but it also complicates the marriage at the heart of the series.

Readers left Shizuka and Shefali essentially walking in opposite directions at the end of the previous book—Shizuka as newly-crowned empress, and her warrior lover Shefali facing physical and psychological trials typically only seen in science fiction and horror. Much of The Phoenix Empress explores the struggles of their growing relationship under the specter of PTSD and the stressors of their unique positions. Shizuka and Shefali’s transformed marriage is a fascinating through line, and Rivera is to be commended for building a relationship that needs work, instead of one that was perfected as soon as vows were exchanged. Separated for several years, Shizuka and Shefali must relearn their partnership and deal with the outside expectations of a very public marriage.

The Phoenix Empress is a tremendous achievement, and highly recommended.

There’s really no way to approach Vita Nostra but elliptically, so strap in. By way of orientation, imagine that Hogwarts has opened a satellite campus inside Harry Haller’s Magic Theater from Steppenwolf by Hermann Hesse, and assigned Kafka, Dostoevsky and Rod Serling to oversee the curriculum. This circumstance is likely to incite one of three reactions from readers: befuddlement, terror or magnetic attraction. When you crack the spine of the latest novel from acclaimed Ukrainian authors Marina and Sergey Dyachenko, you’ll get a full measure of all three, and just as with the famed five stages of grief, you may experience any or all of them out of order, and more than once.

Vita Nostra starts out simply enough, with teenager Sasha Samokhina colliding with a strange man who exudes an unexplainable influence over her. Drawing her under his spell, the girl’s unbidden mentor persuades her to enroll in the Institute of Special Technologies, much to her confusion and her mother’s consternation. Once there, the lesson plan is—to put it mildly—fairly opaque, and academic failure is met with unpleasant consequences for the students’ families.

The novel belongs to an expanding Ukrainian genre known as fantastyka, encompassing science fiction, fantasy, horror and folkloric traditions. Much of this genre has not yet been translated into English. This particular exemplar could claim both Piers Anthony’s Macroscope (1969) and Jonathan Lethem’s As She Climbed Across the Table (1997) as antecedents from the sci-fi realm, but also Jose Luis Borges’ Ficciones (1944) and Alain Robbe-Grillet’s Instantanés (1962) from the lit-fic sphere. Kudos are due to translator Julia Meitov Hersey, whose task cannot have been a simple one, given Vita Nostra’s complexity and sophistication.

I realize that this is a bit of a tease, but if you are at all intrigued by the phrase, “Time is a grammatical concept,” you will find yourself swept into this book’s estimable vortex from page one.

This article was originally published in the November 2018 issue of BookPage. Download the entire issue for the Kindle or Nook.

Disillusioned by their service to the Crown in a brutal war marked by siege, starvation and unimaginable violence, a rootless assemblage of former soldiers elect to follow their battlefield priest and confessor, Tomas Piety, home from the killing fields. But Piety’s return to Ellinburg won’t offer a hero’s welcome. As the city’s former crime boss, his businesses and underworld networks have been usurped and claimed by outsiders in his absence. His homecoming, with dangerous associates at his back, sets the scene for a entirely new and equally deadly conflict.

As he crafts plans to seize back control of his criminal enterprises, Tomas must also assemble his former brothers-in-arms into a new kind of fighting force, transforming soldiers into Pious Men who will help him reclaim his illicit rule of Ellinburg. And while the soldiers bid goodbye and good riddance to the machinations of the Crown when they left the battlefield, the Crown isn’t finished with Tomas and his men. Between pitched battles in the streets and bloody raids to reclaim Pious Men territory, the Crown inserts its own deadly agent to complicate Tomas’ political maneuvers from the shadows.

Trust among his battle-shocked crew of veterans runs thin and Tomas balances on a knife’s edge as he tests their loyalties and his authority is threatened by a rivalry between his explosively violent brother and Tomas’ equally deadly second, Sergeant Bloody Anne. Like a weapon that could turn in his hand, the Pious men are all killers, one of them with emerging magical powers that are dangerous to friend and foe alike. Violent and visceral, the expletive-laden action weaves through bawdy houses, back rooms and bars as the stakes and the body counts escalate. Peter McLean’s rendering of battle fatigue as well as the traumas of physical and emotional abuse fosters an emotional investment for readers that elevates this title above other “run and gun” adventures.

Set in a Tudor-esque alternate world, Priest of Bones paints its literary landscape in broad, masculine strokes. But as the real power players emerge, McLean’s female characters conquer the foreground as Tomas’ strongest assets—and his deadliest counterparts. With its charismatic merging of backstreet magic, gangland conflict and political power struggles in a city teetering on the edge of destruction, Priest of Bones launches a breathtaking opening salvo as in the War for the Rose Throne series.

Jovan and Kalina, noble siblings of art-loving Sjona, are heirs to a difficult responsibility: detecting poisons and preventing them from reaching the city’s Chancellor. When their father is felled along with the reigning monarch by a poison none of them can identify or detect, they are thrust into duty protecting their friend Tain—the newest ruler of Sjona. And then, with their military fighting a campaign far from home, they find an army of fanatics at their city’s gates, hell-bent on destroying Sjona and its people. Somehow, Jovan and Kalina must decide whom to trust in a city they barely recognize, while fighting a war neither of them fully understands.

City of Lies is only the beginning of the Poison War trilogy, but it functions as a standalone story as well. Sam Hawke’s tale of intrigue and betrayal comes to a seemingly pat ending, but knowing that the story is far from over casts a welcome patina of uncertainty over the state of affairs. This complexity is aided by Hawke’s skilful use of a first-person limited perspective to construct multifaceted and imperfect characters, although they sometimes fall into established fantasy archetypes. Sjona is a fascinating environment as well. Hawke’s politically fraught society is built on subterfuge in a fashion reminiscent of Robin Hobb’s Buckkeep Castle, and her magic system is an interesting take on the type of magic used by writers like Guy Gavriel Kay and Daniel Abraham.

Much of City of Lies’ appeal lies in Hawke’s writing style, and the depth and narrative potential of its world and characters. But the most interesting aspect is its approach to conflict. Unlike most typical fantasy works, Hawke presents both sides of a religious war as sympathetic. This is a plot that seems to be full of antagonists, but is actually populated with basically decent people who cannot communicate with each other, either because they do not understand each other’s concerns or because their complaints are too deeply held to be negotiable. Even the real masterminds are merely selfish rather than evil. As a result, City of Lies is a story that resonates beyond its pages without overtly moralizing, which is a rare achievement in any genre.

All told, Sam Hawke’s debut is an engaging, tense and deeply relevant story within an intriguing world that lends itself well to further exploration.