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C.A. Fletcher’s heart- and gut-wrenching tale of a post-apocalyptic world is a minimalistic take on dystopic science fiction, set in a lush, ruggedly overgrown landscape rather than an entirely barren wasteland devoid of hope or comfort. The humans (and their beloved dogs) who remain are willingly isolated and to a point, content to be unaware of what is going on in the modern world. But curious teenage Griz desires more than the complacent existence in the After—what is beyond Griz’s family’s island dwelling? What’s on the Mainland? And most mysteriously, what happened to all of the dogs from before the Gelding, in which human fertility ceased, and the subsequent “soft apocalypse”?

In A Boy and His Dog at the End of the World, Fletcher shows readers that even the softest of apocalypses contain an immense and unforeseeable amount of heartache and loss. This is survivalist science fiction at its rawest, a reminder that when the world as humans know it crumbles, so do their way of life, their laws, their traditions and their priorities. When the mysterious and slightly off-putting stranger Brand arrives on Griz’s island in a boat with foreboding red sails, we feel as naïve, hopeful and dewy-eyed as the imaginative teen. Soon, Griz listens to Brand’s tales of distant lands, diverse peoples and the last few loyal canine heroes in existence. But like his aptly-named dog companion, the cunning Saga, Brand is soon revealed to be a weaver of tall tales and an ill-intentioned “trader” who brings cruelty and deceit from the Mainland into Griz’s home. When Brand drugs Griz’s family and commandeers their supplies, and even one of Griz’s beloved dogs, Jess, Griz has no choice but to follow him into uncharted waters and face whatever challenges may arise.

A Boy and His Dog at the End of the World takes a memorable journey of loyalty and love and transforms it into an unraveling mystery of self-discovery and exploration. The threadbare but essential cast includes Griz, determined teen rescuer; Jip, faithful canine companion and brother to Jess; Griz’s well-intentioned but protective father, Abe; Griz’s mentally-absent Mum; and Brand, sly manipulator of words, emotions and entire lives. From the moment that Brand steals Griz’s resources, the safety of the family and Jess, Griz is thrust into the animalistic nature of post-apocalyptic humans and wild canine foes, and their cruelty as described by Fletcher resonates with some very important contemporary concerns. But never fear—Fletcher promises on the back jacket that no dogs will be harmed in the novel.

Fueled by a fierce loyalty to one’s pack and the newfound fire of vengeance, Griz and Jip embark on their rescue mission, trailing Brand through treacherous and eerie lands, experience a return to humanity at its most primitive, something that Griz once joked about (“going a’viking” for resources and scavenged materials). Along the way, they encounter friends and foes alike—the rigid and sailor-mouthed “John Dark,” a battle-weary French woman, a cult of Before traditionalists known as the Conservators (or “Cons”), the mysterious Freemen, and, inevitably, the scoundrel Brand. Like the family's canine friends, Griz must rely on the basest of animal instincts to decide who to trust and when to flee or fight back.

Young Griz is an endearing narrator, whose humanity transcends the gloom and doom of Fletcher’s world. Though Griz changes to reflect the evil, anger, destruction and deception in the world, he notices things that bring joy in their own dilapidated, creepy ways—ruins of museums, cozy abandoned homes, fossils of books and music—and his mature worldview, despite his age, is refreshing and reassuring. Griz’s intrinsic connection to and empathy toward Jess and Jip, especially the way they conversationally speak to the dogs and treat them like family, is particularly lovable. Griz must resist succumbing to his own revenge fantasy, and questions if the right species survived, or if the monsters of the apocalypse really are all extinct. Griz’s mission reminds us that life should be appreciated and treasured in the moment. This is the story of trust and loyalty within a family, and finding your own pack—even if they’re different from the pack you were born into.

C.A. Fletcher’s heart- and gut-wrenching tale of a post-apocalyptic world is a minimalistic take on dystopic science fiction, set in a lush, ruggedly overgrown landscape rather than an entirely barren wasteland devoid of hope or comfort. The humans (and their beloved dogs) who remain are willingly isolated and to a point, content to be unaware of what is going on in the modern world.

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

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

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

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

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

Raised on a resource-starved and dangerous world, Gyre’s survival is a testament to both her durability and her motivation to do everything it takes to escape her home. With the planet’s only wealth locked in minerals below the surface, going underground as a caver comes with extreme risks, but it’s one of the only ways to make enough money to live—or to leave. With only a mysterious note in her wake, Gyre’s mother fled from her husband and child to seek a better life off-planet. Poverty and abandonment have propelled Gyre to risk everything for enough money to seek out her mother, to perhaps understand why she left. Gyre doesn’t have an issue with the surgical modification needed to suit up for extended subsurface exploration, nor regrets over the lies she tells to get hired, get paid and get off-planet.

Assuming she has a whole surface team to monitor and support her first exploration, Gyre trusts her suit’s technology and her own skills to ensure she completes her mission. But as her descent underground reveals missing supplies and altered routes, Gyre discovers that her surface support consists of only one handler, one voice in her helmet named Em. Communicating through the suit, Gyre finds her mounting concerns about the mission are met with misdirection and half-truths. Their terse exchanges begin to launch red flags that Em’s plan for the descent may by very different from the job Gyre signed on for.

The gulf between Gyre and Em seems as vast as the distance from the cave depths to the surface. As their combative communications evolve, they discover some fragile common ground. Each may hold the only key to answers for the other. But with lies and secrets damning both Gyre and Em, the only way for the two explorers to move forward is to keep going down. As Gyre navigates around the corpses of earlier cavers, deadly testimony to the harsh journey, each subtly whispers the dangers of putting faith in the voice they also trusted to guide them back. Gyre’s battle to survive may depend on which voices she trusts; the ones in her head, or the one on her headset.

While the story’s premise has the potential to be a bit claustrophobic, the literary landscape is surprisingly vast. Below ground the narrow passages open into great rooms, waterfalls plunge over subterranean cliffs and rivers run through tunnels left by the passage of enormous hidden creatures. Luminescent flora and fauna add haunting illumination that punctuates the descent, revealing hints of both horror and profound beauty. And the mental and emotional territory explored within the suit, between Em and Gyre, is enormous as well. With twists, turns, rock falls and drop-offs, the dangerous navigation of the cave mirrors the challenges they confront as their connection to each other evolves.

Boldly building a psychological sci-fi thriller with a cast of two, Caitlin Starling’s debut novel explores the horrors hidden within profound physical and psychological stress. As they navigate unknown territory, both caver and handler risk being trapped by emotional obstacles that could bury them both. Testing the limits of endurance and trust, The Luminous Dead sheds a revealing light on the extraordinary dark depths that the human mind and body will plumb in search of answers and illumination.

Raised on a resource-starved and dangerous world, Gyre’s survival is a testament to both her durability and her motivation to do everything it takes to escape her home. With the planet’s only wealth locked in minerals below the surface, going underground as a caver comes with extreme risks, but it’s one of the only ways to make enough money to live—or to leave.

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Mahit Dzmare, ambassador from the small mining station Lsel to the behemoth Teixcalaan Empire, carries the memories of her late predecessor, Yskandr Aghavn, in her mind. Until those memories are forcefully and inexplicably removed, leaving her abandoned on a world whose people speak in poetic allusions; name themselves after flowers, abstract concepts and sometimes vehicles or appliances; are dealing with a looming war of succession; and want her dead more frequently than is, strictly speaking, healthy. Mahit must navigate this lethal maze and maintain her independence while choosing the right allies to keep her home from being devoured by the ever-hungry Teixcalaanli fleet. And all while searching for a way to regain her connection to Yskandr’s knowledge and guidance without of course, telling anyone she’d ever had such access.

A Memory Called Empire is a political thriller inspired by the Byzantine Empire and featuring plot points reminiscent of “Star Trek: Deep Space Nine”’s Trill symbionts and the linguistic games of Frank Herbert’s Whipping Star. It is science fiction, and is certainly operatic in scope, but calling it a space opera seems like cheating somehow, as if there’s something being left out. Arkady Martine’s prose is an incisive, self-aware blend of tense action and delightful humor. Scenes extolling the virtues of alcohol when forced to praise bad poetry and mocking an otherwise irrelevant character that named themselves after a snowmobile are sprinkled liberally amongst the murder attempts and diplomatic machinations. A Memory Called Empire is dense, packed full of ulterior motives and subplots and beautifully realized characters, but its variety makes it eminently readable.

But the most memorable aspect of Martine’s debut may be the society she has crafted. Teixcalaan is utterly fascinating, its libertine self-image and obsession with art and style mixed with an almost superstitious fear of the human mind. Its veneer of gentility, elegance and enlightenment is profoundly fragile, and all the more precious for it. Smiling with one’s mouth is gauche, but it is also deeply personal. Mastery of allusion and subtext are such clear markers of social and political power that only the highest and the lowest in Teixcalaanli society dare speak plainly. The empire is the center of civilization, surrounded by barbarians who live on space stations and burn and recycle their dead, and yet in times of civil war, its inhabitants commit ritual suicide to earn the favor of gods they don’t quite believe in. They fear the depths of the human psyche, yet live in a city and under the protection of a police force that are both controlled by an artificial intelligence.

Imperial Teixcalaan is a brilliantly realized world of contradictions, and A Memory Called Empire is filled with poets, politicians, spies, soldiers and a thousand degrees of moral ambiguity. Oh, and some of the best names in all of science fiction.

 

ALSO IN BOOKPAGERead our Q&A with Arkady Martine about A Memory Called Empire.

Mahit Dzmare, ambassador from the small mining station Lsel to the behemoth Teixcalaan Empire, carries the memories of her late predecessor, Yskandr Aghavn, in her mind. Until those memories are forcefully and inexplicably removed.

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In an isolated society known simply as the Outpost, 17-year-old Poe Blythe has spent the past two years perfecting her design of weaponized armor to coat “the dredge,” a ship that mines gold from the Serpentine River. She’s been dedicated to this violent purpose ever since their last river voyage, when the boy she loved was killed by Raiders, a band of people who live outside the Outpost. 

Occasionally Poe wonders why the Admiral, the Outpost’s authoritative leader, needs so much gold, prioritizing the dredge and its mining tools over all the other problems faced by the Outpost, including food shortages and poverty. But as long as he allows her to keep working on the armor that kills Raiders, she doesn’t care. Then the Admiral unexpectedly tasks Poe with leading a crew on the dredge’s next voyage. Why has she been given this responsibility? And is there a traitor among her new crew, or is her distrustful nature and inability to read people clouding her judgment? In order to save her crew and her beloved ship, Poe will have to question her long-held beliefs, re-evaluate the pain that has shaped her life and consider new ways to look at the world and herself. 

In The Last Voyage of Poe Blythe, Ally Condie (author of the Matched trilogy) presents a heroine as flawed as her dystopian society, though the Outpost and its environs remain roughly sketched while the focus on Poe’s personality and growth evolves and deepens. Condie’s supporting cast mostly functions to throw Poe’s misconceptions into sharp relief, but there are also plenty of twists that constantly realign the characters and their motivations. 

An immersive novel that owes as much to 20th-century sci-fi as it does to recent YA, The Last Voyage of Poe Blythe is a mature yet accessible standalone for dystopia-loving readers. 

An immersive novel that owes as much to 20th-century sci-fi as it does to recent YA, The Last Voyage of Poe Blythe is a mature yet accessible standalone for dystopia-loving readers. 

Joan He’s debut young adult novel, Descendant of the Crane, defies YA fantasy expectations. The story unveils a world with echoes of ancient Chinese dynasties, a plot driven by mystery and intrigue, a healthy dose of fantasy and characters that are reminiscent of heroes and villains found in fairy tales. He’s ability to weave all these cultural touchstones and pieces of inspiration into a coherent and compelling story speaks volumes about her skills and future as an author.

Descendant of the Crane opens as 17-year-old Princess Hesina of  Yan embarks on a mission to find the assassin who recently murdered her father. As difficult as that task alone would be, she must also convince the rest of the realm that he did not die of natural causes but was murdered. As Hesina tries to collect the evidence she needs to make her case, she must overcome even more obstacles: a mother who despises her, a kingdom on the brink of war and revelations that make her question everything.

A highly recommended read for fantasy fans, Descendant of the Crane is thrilling, but not in a nonstop-action kind of way. He builds her fantastical world and characters by methodically weaving and layering details until the reader is completely enthralled by and entangled in the story.

Descendant of the Crane opens as 17-year-old Princess Hesina of  Yan embarks on a mission to find the assassin who recently murdered her father. As difficult as that task alone would be, she must also convince the rest of the realm that he did not die of natural causes but was murdered. As Hesina tries to collect the evidence she needs to make her case, she must overcome even more obstacles: a mother who despises her, a kingdom on the brink of war and revelations that make her question everything.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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“Let me tell you how they break you,” says Dietz, a young soldier with a number of regrets, describing the grim reality behind a dream of military glory. “From the minute you step off the transport at the training base . . . you aren’t doing anything right. You don’t walk right, look right, talk right . . . No one likes you, let alone loves you. In great shape? It’s not enough. Smart? That’s worse.” Within a week, the victim of this treatment is fundamentally changed: “You yearn to kill, because it’s the only thing that gets your DI to love you. When you withhold all praise, people will do anything to get it. They’ll eat each other, if they need to.” For you English majors out there, the thrum of Alfred, Lord Tennyson in the title of Kameron Hurley’s latest is as intentional as you’d expect, but you may be more immediately reminded of his embittered successors Wilfred Owen and Siegfried Sassoon. The characters, no older than the youths of WWI’s trenches, have ample material for a lifetime of shellshock before they’re out of basic training. Within three chapters they’re bonding over a bout of deadly illness caused by the medical treatments that the battlefield of the future demands. “When you’re running, shitting and vomiting,” Dietz notes wryly, “it puts you in touch with the fact that you’re just a bag of guts.”

The Light Brigade has the kind of gimmick memorable enough to stick in the mind after a glance at the jacket flap—at war with a terrorist colony on Mars, Earth has solved the problem of interstellar travel by transforming its soldiers into light, enabling them to “drop” from Earth to a distant planet at light speed. It would be easy to hang an entire novel on the strength of this conceit, with its blazing metaphorical resonances (“Nobody ever thinks they chose the wrong side,” says Dietz, on whom these are not lost. “We all think we’re made of light.”) and its attendant drawbacks, which would do Cronenberg proud (the human components sometimes reconfigure in the wrong order, and a dropper who remains intact still runs the risk of materializing underground or inside a solid structure). Instead, Hurley uses it as the starting point for an old-fashioned tale of time displacement. It becomes quickly apparent that for Dietz, the “drops” are happening in the wrong order, shuffling the young recruit all over the longer timeline of the war from one drop to the next. As complicated as this device may seem, it works because it remains fully in service to a story about war and its human cost. Dietz’s disorientation (how much time has really passed?) feels as much a reaction to the routine horror of combat as the confusion of an accidental time-traveler. The wider cast, though intriguing and full of individual quirks, never come through for the reader in the way Dietz does, with good reason. The isolation inherent to living out events in the wrong sequence forcibly evokes the isolation of active duty.

While Hurley leaves several character elements to be unwound with the story—blink and you’ll miss the fleeting mention of the protagonist’s gender—there is nothing coy about The Light Brigade. At times, the author’s bloody-minded determination to deliver the message (itself a strength; you can hear the frustration of the veteran, or maybe of the teenager) risks turning the story into a lecture, most noticeably in a subplot composed of transcribed conversations with a prisoner of war who monologues like a Bond villain. At its best, however, Hurley’s verb-laden first-person is as immediate and inescapable as a resounding sock in the jaw. At nearly 400 pages, The Light Brigade nonetheless goes down quickly, which is just as well—the nonlinear plot will have you calculating when to fit the reread in.

“Let me tell you how they break you,” says Dietz, a young soldier with a number of regrets, describing the grim reality behind a dream of military glory. “From the minute you step off the transport at the training base . . . you aren’t doing anything right. You don’t walk right, look right, talk right . . . No one likes you, let alone loves you. In great shape? It’s not enough. Smart? That’s worse.”

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In the kingdom of Virtudom, one of many territories featured in Samantha Shannon’s new high fantasy novel The Priory of the Orange Tree, a monarchy is necessary to keep evil at bay. According to the local faith, Sabran the Ninth—the latest in a long line of queens descended from a heroic figure called “The Saint”—is by her mere existence preventing a being called the Nameless One from reemerging. Sabran’s status among her people is goddess-like, but it comes at a price. With the Nameless One’s followers prophesying his return, she cannot waste a moment in finding a husband to conceive an heir. Into the closed-off recesses of her court drifts Ead Duryan, an enigmatic figure with forbidden magic up her sleeves. Ead is no friend of Sabran, but she has taken it upon herself to protect the queen at all costs.

For enthusiasts of the high fantasy epic, The Priory of the Orange Tree is the real deal, a book large enough to draw its own gravity, with maps in the front and a glossary at the back. But it ultimately derives most of its heft from the crossed motivations of its range of characters, from Sabran’s old friend Loth, caught in a deadly quest of his own, to Tané, an ambitious and obsessive would-be dragon-rider from the Eastern end of the world, which revers the creatures that the West fears.

Shannon frequents well-loved fantasy concepts but rarely leaves a familiar trope untampered with. Her dragons, honed to the setting they inhabit, are so specific in their biological quirks that it’s hard not to feel that you could do further research into your favorite species if you could only find the right field guide. Her prose is self-assured and light on its feet, maintaining a tightrope height without sacrificing the tension of its narrative or descending into the overwrought; her dawn doesn’t break, but “crack[s] like a heron’s egg,” causing “pale light [to] prowl . . . into the room.” Lay this one in as a companion for a lazy summer break or a weekend spent snowed in.

 

ALSO IN BOOKPAGE: Read our Q&A with Samantha Shannon about The Priory of the Orange Tree.

In the kingdom of Virtudom, one of many territories featured in Samantha Shannon’s new high fantasy novel The Priory of the Orange Tree, a monarchy is necessary to keep evil at bay.

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While The True Queen is the second in Zen Cho’s Sorcerer Royal series, in many ways it is more of a standalone novel than true sequel. It is true that readers who enjoyed Sorcerer to the Crown will delight in the reappearance of familiar characters and settings, as well as the expansion of Cho’s vision of a magical Regency England. But because The True Queen is told from the perspective of characters new to Prunella, Henrietta and Zacharias’s world, the novel gives incoming readers a smooth introduction to Cho’s complex and exciting creation. But be careful—once you’ve experienced Cho’s vision of the past, you will never want to leave.

The True Queen opens in the weeks after Muna and her sister Sakti found themselves on the shores of Janda Baik, a tiny (and fictional) island. Stripped of their memories by an unknown magician, the girls take refuge with the witch Mak Genggang. But as the weeks go on, Sakti and Muna learn that their memories may not be all that the curse took from them. Sakti is beginning to fade from existence, and the sisters’ only hope in lifting the curse is to travel to Britain and enlist the aid of the Sorceress Royal. But when Sakti gets lost in the Unseen Realm between Janda Baik and Britain, Muna must learn how to navigate the world of magicians without Sakti. In the process, she will learn exactly how far she’ll go to save her sister.

Purposefully or not, much of historical fiction and fantasy tends to show a whitewashed view of European history. In both Sorcerer to the Crown and The True Queen, Zen Cho reminds us that Britain was far from homogenous. And while Cho never strays into direct discussions of imperialism (at its core, The True Queen is a fairly light book), it is a constant presence. Its threat looms in Janda Baik as Mak Geggang struggles to keep the influence of the British from growing on the island. And while few are outright hostile towards Muna, she is treated as an exotic addition to society rather than a person of her own. These additions distinguish the novel from others of its genre, making The True Queen a book worth reading for lovers of historical fantasy and thoughtful historical fiction alike.

While The True Queen is the second in Zen Cho’s Sorcerer Royal series, in many ways it is more of a standalone novel than true sequel. It is true that readers who enjoyed Sorcerer to the Crown will delight in the reappearance of familiar characters and settings, as well as the expansion of Cho’s vision of a magical Regency England. But because The True Queen is told from the perspective of characters new to Prunella, Henrietta and Zacharias’s world, the novel gives incoming readers a smooth introduction to Cho’s complex and exciting creation.

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In Elizabeth Bear’s richly textured Ancestral Night there’s a hole in space-time, and the good ship Singer is going to see what’s on the other side. A sentient ship capable of complex thought, Singer is helmed by Haimey and her shipmate Connla. When Haimey boards a derelict ship the crew hopes to salvage and inadvertently discovers a heinous crime, the team realizes they’re in way over their heads. Bear gives her characters the space to develop on their own terms, never missing a chance to world build in the interim. It’s often by the slimmest of margins that our heroes avoid disaster, and only a thin layer of metal separates the “slowbrains” (read: things that breath air, according to Singer) from the vastness of space. But the profound connection between man and machine at its heart will keep readers turning the pages.

In Elizabeth Bear’s richly textured Ancestral Night there’s a hole in space-time, and the good ship Singer is going to see what’s on the other side.

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Sci-fi heavyweight Ann Leckie pens a unique fantasy debut in The Raven Tower. The ruler of Vastai is bound to the Raven, a god who watches over the city. If the god dies, so does the ruler. Mawat, the heir to the throne, returns to Vastai to find his uncle sitting in his father’s seat. Eolo, Mawat’s attendant, captures the attention of another god, who needs a physical vessel to carry out his will. What is uncovered is a lifetime of conspiracy and agendas that threaten the lives of everyone in the kingdom. In a characteristically ambitious move by Leckie, first- and second-person perspectives alternate, mixing palace intrigue with the new god’s mythical backstory. Eolo’s sections are narrated by this god, who may or may not be reliable, lending the entire tale a voyeuristic, ephemeral quality. Leckie’s confidence pays off here, establishing her unique perspective in an entirely new genre.

Sci-fi heavyweight Ann Leckie pens a unique fantasy debut in The Raven Tower.

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Do you ever find yourself wondering what the next blockbuster epic fantasy series will be? Howard Andrew Jones’ For the Killing of Kings might be it. When Elenai’s mentor is murdered after discovering that a legendary sword hanging on display is a fake, she has no choice but to flee the city of Darassus with the help of Kyrkenall, a reckless warrior who knew the sword’s owner. While wandering the wilds and struggling to keep ahead of a vengeful conspiracy that traces all the way back to the queen, Elenai and Kyrkenall must unravel the mystery of the sword in order to clear their name and bring justice to the dead. This is a traditional epic fantasy with all the stops pulled out—an interesting magic system, squabbling warrior factions—but its vivid, varied characters set it apart. And Jones puts additional weight into the history just prior to the story’s setting, adding mystery and depth to this perfect introduction to a new fantasy universe.

When Elenai’s mentor is murdered after discovering that a legendary sword hanging on display is a fake, she has no choice but to flee the city of Darassus with the help of Kyrkenall, a reckless warrior who knew the sword’s owner.

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