Andy Marino rides the balance between good horrific fun and grisly speculation in The Swarm, a tale of a cicada emergence of biblical proportions.
Andy Marino rides the balance between good horrific fun and grisly speculation in The Swarm, a tale of a cicada emergence of biblical proportions.
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It has been two months since Mahit Dzmare and Three Seagrass foiled an attempted military coup on Teixcalaan—though they may have started a war to do it. Dzmare is back on her native Lsel Station, among her people but unsure if she still belongs there. Seagrass has a desk job; a prestigious one, to be sure, but a bore all the same, so when she lucks into a not-quite-legal chance for an adventure, and one that will bring her and Dzmare together again, she leaps at the chance. As diplomatic envoys to an uncommunicative alien armada, they must contend with a host of horrors, from a fleet of screaming, ship-eating aliens and deadly fleet politics to an infestation of cats and a lack of non-clichéd poetic imagery. And if they survive their privations, both military and literary, it is not at all clear whether either of them can truly go home again.

In her award-winning debut novel, A Memory Called Empire, Arkady Martine tackled the problem of communicating between cultures in a shared lingua franca, detailed an empire at war with itself and told of an intrigue involving Lsel Station’s memory-preserving imago-machines and one man’s quest for immortality. In A Desolation Called Peace, all of those themes have evolved in complexity, diving deeper into an intrigue about the very nature of life and death. The central cast is as appealing as ever, and the cats, described as “very friendly, if—sharp, on the ends” and “puddles of space without stars” are a delightful addition. 

Martine’s debut showcased her consummate skill and perfect blend of narrative, humor and world-building; her second effort highlights her thematic ambition, and her abilities as a writer are more than equal to the task. Desolation is the kind of book that crouches in your mind, waiting for a quiet moment. It is hard to read slowly, but demands to be savored, lest you miss some of the cleverest and most elegant foreshadowing in modern science fiction. Redolent with echoes of Frank Herbert’s Whipping Star, Iain M. Banks’s Excession and screen epics such as Arrival and Ronald D. Moore’s “Battlestar Galactica,” it nevertheless carries its own distinctive melody.

Arkady Martine’s first book was a deserving Hugo winner. Her second might eclipse it.

It has been two months since Mahit Dzmare and Three Seagrass foiled an attempted military coup on Teixcalaan—and they may have started a war to do it.

Though the planet of Iskat is cold and gray, with ferocious predatory avian species adorning the frozen environment, Everina Maxwell’s debut novel, Winter’s Orbit, is anything but frigid. This queer science fiction romance astounds not only through its believable, multilayered character development, but also in the eons of intergalactic political and cultural history that Maxwell weaves into a 400-page novel.

Kiem Tegnar is a playboy prince of Iskat in his mid-20s who would rather party until daybreak, drink at carnivals and cause a scene than deal with anything remotely resembling political responsibility. But his life is thrown into disarray when his grandmother, the Emperor, informs him that he will fulfill his lifelong duty as a minor noble by getting married the following day. Not only will this shock to the Emperor’s least favorite grandchild disrupt his hedonistic lifestyle, but his arranged marriage will be to Jainan nav Adessari, widower of Kiem's cousin Taam, whom Jainan still mourns but Kiem barely remembers. Their marriage will preserve the political alignment between Iskat and one of its seven vassal planets, Jainan's homeworld of Thea.

Suddenly thrust into a diplomatic role, Prince Kiem must navigate new etiquette to save face and maintain the relationship between Iskat and Thea. With the vassal contracts to be renewed soon, both Kiem and Jainan find themselves in awkward and uncomfortable situations as the relentless press hassles them for gossip about their impromptu marriage and a faceless Auditor comes to observe the veracity of their union—and thus, the veracity of the link between the planets. But while Kiem and Jainan share a common political goal, their strikingly different personalities pose challenges as they become a unit.


ALSO IN BOOKPAGE: Everina Maxwell on the freedom of a "queernorm" speculative world.


Beneath Kiem’s slightly callous, celebrity exterior lies a loyal, likable potential leader with a strong sense of morality. Maxwell uses Kiem’s wry sense of humor to convey his insecurities and anxiety about his new position and his relationship with Jainan. There’s no question that he is attracted to his cousin’s handsome, highly educated widower, but because of both formal customs and Kiem's own internal compass, he feels guilt, shame and confusion as a newlywed married to a man he'd only just met. As he picks up on the Iskan government’s condescending treatment of Jainan’s fellow Theans and uncovers evidence that his cousin’s death might not have been accidental, Kiem is filled with a strong, genuine desire to help the mysterious man he has been forced to marry—and who has been forced to marry him.

Winter’s Orbit fits into the romance genre just as much as it does science fiction, and its central relationship develops and flourishes in a world devoid of homophobia. On Iskat and its vassal planets, characters wear certain tokens to indicate binary or nonbinary gender identities, and relationships, even royal ones, range from monogamous, polyamorous, queer (or not) and religious (or not). As Kiem adapts to his new relationship, he must also learn more about Thean customs and traditions if he is to truly understand and empathize with his new spouseand become both a good husband and nobleman.

Maxwell expertly weaves relatable issues—cultural tensions, strained family dynamics, relationship struggles and government and media corruption—into a stunning outer space setting where readers will be just as invested in Kiem and Jainan as they are in unraveling the dangerous mysteries afoot in Iskat. With its dark, dry humor and its unforgettable depictions of bereavement, heartbreak and new love, Winter’s Orbit is hopefully the start of much more to come from Everina Maxwell.

Though the planet of Iskat is cold and gray, with ferocious predatory avian species adorning the frozen environment, Everina Maxwell’s debut novel, Winter’s Orbit, is anything but frigid.

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We Could be Heroes by Mike Chen is a refreshing, light take on the superhero origin story. Two misfits, Jamie and Zoe, become unlikely friends when they meet in a support group for amnesiacs and realize that they’ve both had the same strange experience. Both woke up one day with no memories of their former life, but with extraordinary new powers.

The story is set in the fictional city of San Delgado, which could easily be any major city in the United States. This fictional location helps Chen bring a grounded, everyday quality to what could have been a larger-than-life tale. Small, funny details like awful neighbors and Jamie and Zoe’s support group allow readers to slip seamlessly into the shoes of his otherwise remarkable protagonists.

Despite their powers, Zoe and Jamie are normal, friendly humans who want little more than to be happy, and their heartfelt interactions and charming dialogue are the backbone of We Could Be Heroes. Zoe is driven to learn more about her past and who she was, while Jamie merely wants to retire to an island with his cat, Normal. Together, they save lives, learn about themselves and try to defeat the bad guys. Jamie and Zoe genuinely care about each other, and while their mutual trust certainly takes a while to build, their genuine respect and love for each other will slap a smile on even the gloomiest of readers.

Speaking of love, there is zero romance in this book (just like this reviewer’s cold, cynical heart appreciates), and it’s for the best. The lack of romance between main characters or with side characters allows Chen to focus wholly on his two protagonists. If any other subplots or characters stole the spotlight, this story would have felt rushed or poorly paced. Instead, We Could be Heroes is a well written, elegantly structured tale of joy and friendship.

We Could be Heroes by Mike Chen is a refreshing, light take on the superhero origin story.

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Genevieve Gornichec’s debut novel, The Witch’s Heart, is both staggering in its beauty and delicate in its execution as it takes the Norse characters and stories we are so familiar with and shoves them to the background. Gone are the death-defying feats of Odin and nearly invisible is the quick-tempered Thor. In their stead, Gornichec highlights the overlooked witch Angrboda, Loki’s mate and the mother of monsters.

The Witch’s Heart opens with literal heartbreak and flames. Angrboda has been burned three times and her heart has been stabbed and removed for refusing to help Odin peer into the future. Yet still she lives, largely stripped of her powers and reduced to foraging for roots and snaring rabbits in a forest at the edge of the world. When a god—the frost giant trickster Loki—returns her gouged-out heart, Angrboda is distrustful. But as Loki continues to insinuate himself into Angrboda’s life, distrust turns first to affection and then to deep love. The witch and the god have three fate-possessed children together: the wolf Fenrir, the Midgard serpent Jörmungandr, and the half-dead girl and future queen of the dead Hel. Together with the help of the huntress Skadi, Angrboda attempts to shield her growing family from Odin’s searching eye, but the threat that her unusual family poses to the gods in Asgard can’t be ignored for long, and every step they take pushes them collectively towards a climactic conflict: Ragnarök.


ALSO IN BOOKPAGE: Genevieve Gornichec on writing The Witch’s Heart when she should have been writing a term paper.


Gornichec’s work is not a book of swashbuckling Viking adventure. Rather, it is a character study of a woman whose story has otherwise been relegated to but a few sentences of mythology. Ragnarök, the twilight of the gods, looms in Angrboda’s visions, but for the most part this is a story of small moments with large consequences. Gornichec lingers over scenes of domesticity—over Skadi helping Angrboda build her furniture, over the feelings of resentment that accompany your child liking their other parent more than they like you, over the simple wonder and occasional annoyance of sharing a bed with someone you love. The Witch’s Heart invites us to swim in these details, lulling us with descriptions of a family dynamic that we know can’t possibly last.

And this is where the beauty of Gornichec’s work lives. She never denies the tragedy that is inevitable in any story of Norse mythology. Angrboda, like all the others, is bound by fate and her rebellions must be within its confines. For some readers, the small scale of Gornichec’s novel and the focus on the inevitability of Ragnarök might be frustrating. After all, this story is not what we have been told to expect of tales of Vikings and witches. But to those readers, Gornichec offers this: instead of fighting the end, focus on the details and savor the life—and the change—that can be built in the cracks that fate has neglected.

Genevieve Gornichec’s debut novel, The Witch’s Heart, is both staggering in its beauty and delicate in its execution.

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Starting a book series is among the trickiest things for a writer to do. After all, stories that unfold over multiple volumes often need quite a bit of exposition, so first books run the risk of spending too much time laying the groundwork and losing the reader halfway through. Then there’s the problem of the ending: Is it better to end with a cliffhanger halfway through a high-stakes scene or in the proverbial calm before the storm? Amid all this, writers must craft a compelling narrative out of a partial story. Writing is hard enough without these added difficulties.

The Frozen Crown, Greta Kelly’s debut and the first installation of her Warrior Witch duology, builds an evocative setting, a tantalizing magical system and a compelling and complex set of protagonists so well that it feels like a full story with some missing pages. Were it a standalone novel, I would have thrown it across my apartment for its unanswered questions. But as the first of a set, such a visceral response is a testament to its success. Kelly’s world is hard to resist (and well worth the investment), and the sequel demands to be read, both to finish a gripping story of politics, revenge and illicit magic and for my own peace of mind.

Princess Askia Poristkaya e-Nimri of Seravesh, to use her full title, is on the run. Her country has been overrun by the expansionist Emperor Radovan of Roven and his fire witch, Branko, as they carve their way down from the north. So Askia has turned southward, hoping to leverage her familial ties to the court of Roven’s rival empire, Vishir, to secure an army with which she can reclaim her home and birthright.

But Askia’s task is complicated by a dangerous secret: She is a death witch, one who can see, hear and commune with ghosts, and both Roven and Vishir contain many who would hunt, hurt or kill her if they knew. Furthermore, her standing in the Vishiri court is tenuous, and Radovan’s plots follow wherever she goes.

Kelly’s setting evokes the geography of the Caucasus: Roven’s climate, naming conventions and culture are inspired by the Slavic kingdoms of modern-day Russia, while Vishir is something of a conglomerate of several civilizations from Persia and the Middle East. However, this is no historical fantasy in the vein of Guy Gavriel Kay. Instead, these inspirations are clearly intended to provide a broad structure rather than information regarding the plot itself. Its details are more of a piece with K.S. Villoso’s Chronicles of the Bitch Queen, from the queen seeking allies in a foreign and often hostile land to a society that exists in an uneasy and strained truce with magic.

The story is told in a direct, sometimes terse first-person narration, which fits Askia’s blunt personality. There are moments when this writing style feels unpolished, and though it serves the characters well, it may end up clashing with the ambition of Kelly’s thematic vision. The Frozen Crown tackles so many problems, from sexism and the pitfalls of ambition to the nature of good and evil themselves, that it runs an unusual risk. While it feels and reads like a fantasy epic, it could easily veer into the darker territory occupied by the likes of Joe Abercrombie and Alex Marshall, simply because there may be too many conflicts for these characters to resolve in only two books. However, The Frozen Crown is dynamic and promising enough for both it and its forthcoming sequel to be worth the read, regardless of how the story ends.

The Frozen Crown, Greta Kelly’s debut and the first installation of her Warrior Witch duology, builds an evocative setting, a tantalizing magical system and a compelling and complex set of protagonists.

C.M. Waggoner’s second novel (following her outstanding 2019 debut, Unnatural Magic) is a dazzling, romantic fantasy quest that requires all of the cogs in readers’ brains to turn at once. Beyond her exceedingly clever, tongue-in-cheek chapter titles that harken back to classic adventure tales and her pointed observations of human—and other creatures’—true nature, Waggoner gifts readers with the delinquent, sailor-mouthed, headstrong, queer protagonist that they never knew they always needed, not to mention a riveting plot that continuously satisfies.

The Ruthless Lady’s Guide to Wizardry follows several extraordinary female characters. Protagonist Dellaria “Delly” Wells is a streetwise fire witch—supposedly one of the best in the city Leiscourt—with whom readers will experience an immediate sense of camaraderie. Waggoner’s solidly built world of Daesland contains many class divides due to socioeconomic and magickal reasons, and Delly finds herself navigating them all with difficulty, being a citizen of the lower classes. She practices the snubbed arts of “gutterwitchery,” having dropped out of the local university to use her magic on the streets, despite possessing the skills and knowledge to excel in an academic setting. Delly has grown accustomed to her townie life, in which she takes care of her addiction-riddled Mam, spends her free time in the pub, owes various people money and often gallivants around town with a one-night stand or various friends with benefits.

When Delly jumps at an unexpected opportunity to join a noblewoman’s entourage as a bodyguard, she encounters a ragtag team of high-class lady sorcerers, necromancers and fighters, including an intriguing part-troll and an elderly “body scientist” (tsk, upper-class ladies don’t say necromancy) and even a shape-shifter. This raunchy, bawdy magic-school dropout attempts to fit in and protect Miss Wexin on her way to her marriage, all while finding her own romantic prospect in aforementioned part-troll. Murderous attempts by disturbing creatures on Miss Wexin’s life rock the group’s dynamics and make trusting others difficult. But these strange and dangerous encounters are only the first half or so of this breakneck-paced plot. Not only is Miss Wexin’s life in danger, there is also the larger societal problem of drip, an addictive drug with deadly side effects that is affecting the poorer classes. This league of ruthless women must pool together their skills for the greater good, and it may be up to Delly to crack the case due to her once-ridiculed background.

As characters begin what is quite possibly the strangest bonding experience of their entire lives, Waggoner gives each a distinct voice and personality—readers will develop more than a few memorable favorites. Waggoner excels at detailed world building, from the opulent nobles’ homes and foods to the sensory feel of both the gutterlife and manors, to the stench of the local pub and even the squeak of a mattress during Delly’s cavorting with assorted fellows. But its playful title does not do such a marvelous book, or its themes, justice. Delly’s world is a land where householded (adopted) children, questionably reanimated animals, neglectful mothers, drug addiction, mysterious potions and queer romances are quite the norm. This is a book of unlikely friendships and morbid humor that is unafraid to explore relevant and oft-avoided topics.

C.M. Waggoner’s second novel is a dazzling, romantic fantasy quest that requires all of the cogs in readers’ brains to turn at once.

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Fight the winter doldrums with four fresh takes on the supernatural.

Danvers, Massachusetts, site of the 1692 witch trials, is the setting of Quan Barry’s enchanting novel We Ride Upon Sticks (Vintage, $16.95, 9780525565437). The year is 1989, and the teenage girls on the Danvers Falcons field hockey team are desperate to get to the state finals, so they sign a pact of sorts with the devil. The pact seems to work, as the team hits a winning streak, and all manner of witchy teenage mischief ensues. As many ’80s references as a “Stranger Things” fan could desire and a group of unforgettable female characters make this a delightful read, and Barry’s exploration of gender roles and female friendship will spur spirited discussion in your reading group.

In TJ Klune’s fantastical tale The House in the Cerulean Sea, Linus Baker, caseworker from the cold, impersonal Department in Charge of Magical Youth (DICOMY), must decide if a group of enchanted youngsters poses a threat to the future of the world. When he befriends the odd bunch (which includes a gnome, a strange blob and the actual Antichrist) and falls for Arthur Parnassus, their kindhearted and devoted caretaker, Linus’ loyalty to DICOMY wavers. Klune contributes to the tradition of using speculative fiction to obliquely discuss the experiences of marginalized groups in this funny, inventive and gently told novel.

Stephen Graham Jones’ chilling The Only Good Indians tells the story of Lewis and his three friends, Native American men who left the Blackfoot reservation in search of a different life and who share a bond from a traumatic event in their childhood. When Lewis is visited by an ominous elklike figure, mysterious deaths start to occur, and the men realize that their past has—literally—come back to haunt them. Jones’ atmospheric novel is compelling both as a horror novel and in its treatment of guilt, social identity and the complexities (and dangers) of assimilation. The canny, surprising ways he combines Native history and traditions with horror tropes will give your book club plenty to talk about.

J.D. Barker and Dacre Stoker offer a spine-tingling supplement to Bram Stoker’s iconic Dracula with Dracul. Bram is the main character and narrator of Barker and Stoker’s Ireland-set tale (and yes, Dacre Stoker is the real-life great-grandnephew of the Victorian author). As a boy, Bram has strange encounters with his nursemaid, Ellen Crone, who seems connected to a series of local deaths. When Bram and his sister, Matilda, learn years later that Ellen is a member of the bloodsucking undead, they find themselves in the center of a terrifying mystery. Reading groups will enjoy making connections between Stoker’s original story and this creepy companion novel as they examine the conventions and devices of both supernatural narratives.

Fight the winter doldrums with four fresh takes on the supernatural.

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Stina Leicht's Persephone Station brings together a crew of lovable misfits to wage war against a hostile corporate entity. Leicht takes influence from cyberpunk novels and Star Trek, pulling together an action-packed plot focused on normal people (well, as normal as you can be in this world) doing their best to defend the innocent and protect the weak.

Persephone Station gathers narrative speed with all the grace of a snowball rolling downhill in an old cartoon, sliding and bounding from the moment our heroes find themselves in over their heads, which happens almost immediately. Rosie, a nonbinary crime lord with a heart of gold, employs Angel and her retired, revivified (think basically cyberpunk zombie soldiers, and yes, they are as cool as that sounds) merc crew to protect the titular planet’s pacifist alien race. Leicht’s universe has a “Prime Directive”-style edict—specifically, humans can’t colonize worlds where sentient species are already present. But since Persephone Station’s native population, the Emissaries, do not wish to be discovered, Rosie and Angel must work together to protect them as best they can, eventually teaming up with the mysterious Kennedy Liu to safeguard the Emissaries from being exploited by the Serrao-Orlov Corporation.

Leicht has crafted a fully imagined world that functions like a living, breathing member of the story. Various aspects of the world beyond Persephone bleed into the story, but never in a way that feels cheap or unearned. Angel’s cybernetic augments feel at home next to pulse lasers, spaceships and an internet that spans a galaxy. Leicht only flirts with the darker tones of a typical cyberpunk setting, focusing much more emphatically on the camaraderie between characters and their ever-present pursuit of truth and hope. There are no dark twists in the 500 or so pages of Persephone Station; instead, Leicht spends her time investing the reader in her characters’ plight.


ALSO IN BOOKPAGE: Stina Leicht on her fascinating alien race and writing her first science fiction novel.


 

Rosie, Angel and Kennedy’s interactions are rife with earnestness and charm. Each character loves and cares for their friends and their dialogue feels natural and genuine. Their wins are reader wins, and their losses resonate harshly with the reader. The highly likeable characters help balance Persephone Station’s erratic pacing. Since the plot takes place over the course of a week or so, even several hours of skipped time can be jarring. There were several moments where I needed to flip back a few pages simply to make sure I had not missed a key story beat.

Despite these moments, Leicht draws her story to a beautiful and bittersweet ending. After crafting such heartfelt attachment to its characters, Persephone Station gifts the reader with a positive, entertaining story of grit and determination in which the will to do good prevails despite great cost.

Persephone Station by Stina Leicht brings together a crew of loveable misfits to wage war against an extremely hostile corporate entity.

Kacen Callender’s highly anticipated second book in their Islands of Blood and Storm duology is an incredible ride. King of the Rising summons us once again to the Caribbean-inspired isles of Hans Lollik, which are as flawlessly picturesque as they are fatal. Elskerinde Sigourney Rose’s actions in the first book, Queen of the Conquered, have rendered the islands and their people a chaotic, revolutionary mess.

King of the Rising presents readers with a fresh voice via the perspective of Løren Jannik, who was once one of Sigourney’s enslaved personal guards. We learn that, like Sigourney, Løren is also gifted with the supernatural psychic abilities called kraft. His connection to his former mistress is further complicated by the mysterious ways their powers interact, as well as the constant fluctuation of his moral compass as the rebel tyrant Malthe and his followers demand the head of imprisoned Sigourney alongside that of their colonizers, the Fjerns. But while Sigourney is of royal lineage and wields her kraft as a mind-control weapon, Løren prides himself on being an empath and using his kraft for good—or for relative good, at least.

Callender skillfully portrays raw human emotion and psychology as devious, power-hungry leaders pit islanders against one another and Løren must decide if he should be the one to lead the islanders to true liberty, not just temporary freedom as a result of a disorganized rebellion. The urgency and stakes increase when the islanders learn of a traitor in their midst, and Callender’s penchant for crafting unconventional, fantastical mysteries shines as Løren, Sigourney and the other rebel leaders must choose where their loyalties lie. We also glean enticing and horrifying clues, as well as insight into deep personal and intergenerational trauma, through Callender’s implementation of flashbacks.

When he saves Sigourney from execution for reasons that escape even his own understanding, Løren finds himself the unlikely leader of an island revolution, much to the chagrin of the Fjern and some rival islanders, who fear the power of his unique kraft. As the surviving Fjern return to claim Hans Lollik Helle for themselves, Løren and Sigourney must work together, journeying to the other islands and beyond to try to rally the forces they'll need to make their final stand. King of the Rising puts readers firmly into the minds of Callender’s unforgettable characters as it answers a spine-tingling set of questions: At the end of the war, who will survive and who will rule?

Kacen Callender’s highly anticipated second book in their Islands of Blood and Storm duology is an incredible ride.

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Few heroines have come as far as Runin Fang. She's literally crossed the entire continent of Nikan, destroyed an island, channeled the divine power of the Phoenix, killed the enemy in nearly every way imaginable, been betrayed by someone she loves, gone into hiding and come back out again. It's been a wild ride full of anger, triumph, humor and sheer willpower. In The Burning God, the third and final entry in the Poppy War trilogy, R.F. Kuang finds new ways to bring life, horror and excitement to this saga about a nation torn apart by war.

Left to die by the Dragon Warlord, Rin and Kitay find themselves back in the South, at the head of the Southern Coalition. This liberation force, created to rid the territory of Mugenese soldiers and to challenge the Dragon Republic, is poised to take back Rin's homeland. But with their Hesperian allies at their backs, the Dragon Warlord and his son Nezha are nearly unassailable. When an old enemy is revealed and a path to victory becomes clear, Rin must decide whether to trust her allies and unite behind a common foe or do the unthinkable: Build an army of shamans and take back the continent.

Though The Burning God treads new ground in many ways, Kuang constantly references people, places and things from the previous books. Of course, this is really helpful for readers who haven't been back to Nikan in some time, but it also creates a sense of history. All of the things Rin has done and all the people who have built her feel ever-present in her mind as she makes decisions both small and large. It also feels nostalgic, wistful even. You can tell that Kuang is deeply in love with her story, and it shows: The Burning God is the best-written book of the trilogy.

It's also the most thrilling, both because the twists, the turns, the intrigue and the magic are dialed up to 11 and because of Kuang's masterful sense of momentum. We've been waiting for Rin to lead troops in battle and conquer her many enemies, and Kuang's narrative delivers. I've heard it said that writers should write about what they enjoy. It's clear that Kuang delights in political and military strategy, in moving and cataloguing the many players on the board. As in the previous two entries in the trilogy, these passages have a sharpness that few other books can match.

Then there's Rin herself. Those of us who have read every book in the trilogy will reflect on the bloodshed and the carnage that leads Rin to this point. There's a moment where she wakes up after having slept well for the first time in a long time and looks in the mirror, contemplating who she is and who she wants to be. It's a poignant and strangely peaceful moment for a person whose story has been defined by war. It's also touching and sad when paired with an ending that will leave you dazed.

This place and this protagonist are singular in fantasy literature, and I hope we'll get to return to Nikan someday. Better yet, I hope we get to return to the future Nikan that this book promises. I'm sure the Phoenix will be waiting, ready to set the world on fire.

Few heroines have come as far as Runin Fang. She's literally crossed the entire continent of Nikan, destroyed an island, channeled the divine power of the Phoenix, killed the enemy in nearly every way imaginable, been betrayed by someone she loves, gone into hiding and…

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Captain Kit Brightling is Aligned to the sea, and she is more than just the queen’s messenger. A captain in the Crown Command, she serves Queen Charlotte of the Isles’ interests directly. And after a successful sting on a smuggling operation produces a coded message from Gerard, the exiled emperor of Gallia, the queen has a new mission for Kit. She is to rescue a captured spy for the queen, and she’s to do it with the unlikeliest of accomplices: Colonel Rian Grant, the viscount of Queenscliffe.

The two instantly dislike and distrust one another. As a foundling tasked with making her own way in the world, Kit is mistrustful of the nobility, and as a former soldier whose friend’s life is in danger, Grant is suspicious of Kit’s magical abilities. But if Kit and her new compatriot are to be successful in their mission, they must trust one another. Because there are worse things afoot than a simple kidnapping. The exiled emperor’s plans could alter the very face of magic and endanger the Isles in the process.

The Bright and Breaking Sea acts as an effective shot across the bow to introduce Chloe Neill’s latest series. Set in the aftermath of a fictionalized version of the first Napoleonic war, it’s full of comfortable tropes that Neill twists into something more complex. Her “brooding noble” is less brooding and more preoccupied with the traditional soldier’s mistrust of the navy and with his own estate issues. Espionage and pirates come aplenty, but there is no threat of mutiny aboard Kit’s crew. Neill doesn’t shy away from the occasional joke about class conflict, but she dispenses with the more heavy-handed and overdone tropes surrounding female characters in historical settings. While Kit does face some prejudice as a woman, the resistance she faces is as much because of her age and her status as a magic user as it is because of her gender. This change allows Kit to be more than just a “strong female main character” who has rebuffed traditional gender roles. She is instead a woman with a strong sense of duty to both country and family, a deep love of the sea and an endless amount of distrust for the nobility. In Kit, Neill creates a character who is lovable, easy to root for and believably competent.

The Bright and Breaking Sea is a rollicking book full of seafaring intrigue and fun from beginning to end. More Charlie Holmberg’s Paper Magician than Patrick O’Brian’s Master and Commander, it’s a light, thoughtful and occasionally thought-provoking book that focuses on relationships and internal struggles more than naval battles. For readers who love dialogue-heavy, character-driven fiction, this is a perfect fall read. Just be prepared to be heartbroken when the story (temporarily) ends.

Captain Kit Brightling is Aligned to the sea, and she is more than just the queen’s messenger. A captain in the Crown Command, she serves Queen Charlotte of the Isles’ interests directly. And after a successful sting on a smuggling operation produces a coded message…
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Short stories in science fiction are frequently answers to questions. What if, an author wonders, an incomprehensibly powerful alien being were inspired by an ice sculpture? Or what if there were nations in cyberspace, separate and distinct from their real-world counterparts? What if a world on the brink of annihilation could be saved by a poet? Or a teacher?

Each of these questions is explored in a story in Cixin Liu’s new collection, To Hold Up the Sky. These stories span three decades of his writing career, from 1985 to 2014, and although many have been published before, all are new to his English-speaking audience. As with any writer over such a long period, Liu’s style evolves from the earliest stories to the more recent ones, and yet they are all immediately recognizable as his work.

In some ways, Liu's point of view is rare among science fiction novelists of his international stature. Unlike most of his peers in the Western science fiction scene, whose worlds frequently comment on fundamental human failings or the dystopian struggles of an inconsistently ethical society, Liu’s work is suffused with an understated optimism. To Hold Up the Sky is no different. In fact, he hints at this in the foreword, where he mentions that in his writing, he is always attempting to depict “the relationship between the Great and the Small.” To him, the “Small” is all of humankind, and at this project's core, there's a presumption that humans are always more united than we are divided, that our communal nature is our defining characteristic as a species and that free will, along with the frailties and flaws that it allows, is essential to that collaborative instinct. (And yes, that does sound like a contradiction, but this is addressed and dispensed within one of the stories in To Hold Up the Sky.)

This realistic but positive outlook is shared by a few other science fiction writers—Isaac Asimov, Carl Sagan, Becky Chambers and Iain M. Banks come to mind—but rarely is it as essential to a speculated universe as in Liu’s prose. As a result, few writers achieve quite the same flavor of optimistic apocalypse or infuse existential dread with such a tangible thread of hope. Throughout To Hold Up the Sky, Liu brings his collections of ice sculptors and poets and computer scientists and military engineers teeteringly close to oblivion. He does so knowing that the crisis is finite, and that humanity in its feeble entirety will either survive, learn and grow, or simply . . . stop. And he insists that there is beauty either way.

I am not certain if I agree with this sentiment. It is both too cynical and too idealistic for me. (See? Yet another contradiction!) But either way, Liu is far too good a writer for me to put this book aside.

Short stories in science fiction are frequently answers to questions. What if, an author wonders, an incomprehensibly powerful alien being were inspired by an ice sculpture? Or what if there were nations in cyberspace, separate and distinct from their real-world counterparts? What if a world…

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

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

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

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

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

Take a moment and consider the last time you studied medieval European history, specifically the advent of Hussite “heresy” in the wake of John Wycliffe’s translation of the Bible into the common tongue. Focus specifically on the years between 1400 and 1440, during which the…

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