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In Nikan, opium opens the gateway to the gods. Confined to their Pantheon in the spirit realm, they can only hope to influence the choices of those on earth with whispered promises through the haze of pipe smoke. For Rin, an undersized orphan, the thought of communing with the gods is terrifying. But as the drums of war begin to beat in R.F. Kuang’s extraordinary debut novel The Poppy War, Rin discovers that a day might come when she has no choice.

After testing into Sinegard, the most elite military academy in Nikan, Rin Fang discovers she is special. Through training with a seemingly insane professor, her shamanistic ability to conjure fire starts to blossom. When Mugen, a militaristic empire who defeated Nikan in previous Poppy Wars, invades their homeland, the students find themselves dispersed into the middle of a horrific ground war. Rin, conscripted into a misfit band of shaman outcasts, must fight both the ever-advancing Mugen army and her increasing sense that something inside her desperately wants to escape. Her sanity might be the price of finding the answers.

R.F. Kuang must first be congratulated on seamlessly drawing on and then reshaping Chinese history as influence for the world Rin inhabits. Martial arts sparring sessions and colorful street parades instantly conjure images of western Asian culture, but at no point does this world ever feel like a simple reflection of our own. Nikan’s richly detailed culture and history feel substantial and authentic, supporting the characters’ actions as the war unfolds.

And when that war begins, it’s almost shocking in its realness. It is not a conflict fought far away as Rin sits idly in a classroom. The violence is immediate, visceral and wrenching, pulling on the reader’s sense of disgust and anger. The “war is hell” trope plays out solemnly and intimately here, leaving no character untouched. By the climax of the narrative, everyone the reader meets is scarred.

Thank goodness we have Rin to lead us through it. Her tenacity, stubbornness and insecurity are instantly sympathetic and Kuang’s attention to Rin’s feelings opens up oceans of emotional depth. There’s a definite weight to Rin’s conflicting choices that only builds as the suspenseful final act plays out. It would be a thrill to see Rin, fresh from the crucible of The Poppy War, on the pages of a sequel novel. With such a brilliant start, one can’t help but think how certain hers and Kuang’s futures surely are.

 

ALSO IN BOOKPAGE: Read our Q&A with R.F. Kuang about The Poppy War.

In Nikan, opium opens the gateway to the gods. Confined to their spirit realm, Pantheon, they can only hope to influence the choices of those on earth with whispered promises through the haze of pipe smoke. For Rin, an undersized orphan, the thought of communing with the gods is terrifying. But as the drums of war begin to beat in R.F. Kuang’s extraordinary debut novel The Poppy War, Rin discovers that a day might come when she has no choice.

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In the first two books of the Themis Files, Dr. Rose Franklin discovered and rebuilt an alien war machine, nearly doomed the human race to extinction at the hands of an aggressively benevolent alien power, wrenched survival from the jaws of an untimely demise and was accidentally whisked off into space along with a linguist named Vincent, his daughter Eva and General Eugene Govender of the Earth Defense Corps. Now, nine years later, she must save her species again, this time from itself. With her friendships fractured and thrown into a cauldron of eugenics and Cold War imperialism, she must rely on her intelligence, instincts and stubborn unwillingness to accept the world as it is.

Sylvain Neuvel is an engaging and atypical writer. Like the rest of the series, Only Human is told entirely in transcripts of conversations, interviews and news reports, and Neuvel handles this challenging storytelling medium extremely well. The story he tells is interesting and compelling, in large part due to the complexity of the supporting cast. Although the most enigmatic character from the first two novels—his name is never revealed, even when he details his own history—is absent, Vincent’s struggle with the responsibilities of fatherhood, and the blurred moralities of geneticist Alyssa Papantoniou and GRU officer Katherine Lebedev admirably fill that void. Even if the ending has a touch of deus ex machina, this is a story driven by its people more than its plot.

The familiarity of that plot at times makes Only Human the literary equivalent of a cover band of a cover band composed of better musicians than the groups they mimic. It is most reminiscent of Carl Sagan’s Contact or the recent film Arrival, both of which also featured an alien species contacting humanity at some technological milestone, a group of scientists attempting to decode that civilization’s language to construct and use a giant machine, and a realization of the flaws in human nature. But Neuvel’s narrative technique sets the Themis Files apart from its predecessors and demonstrates that even the most well-worn stories can always be told better than before.

Only Human is a fitting conclusion to a well-crafted sci-fi fable of human fallacy. Its plot may cover previously trodden ground, but its narrative technique and character depth make it worth the reader’s time. Just be sure to read the rest of the trilogy first.

In the first two books of the Themis Files, Dr. Rose Franklin discovered and rebuilt an alien war machine, nearly doomed the human race to extinction at the hands of an aggressively benevolent alien power, wrenched survival from the jaws of an untimely demise and was accidentally whisked off into space along with a linguist named Vincent, his daughter Eva and General Eugene Govender of the Earth Defense Corps. Now, nine years later, she must save her species again, this time from itself. With her friendships fractured and thrown into a cauldron of eugenics and Cold War imperialism, she must rely on her intelligence, instincts and stubborn unwillingness to accept the world as it is.

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In an alternate version of ancient Rome, mages blessed by the gods wield elemental magic, shaping the land and the people within it. For years, the dictator Ocella ruled Aven with fear, working to strip the society of all the trappings of the Republic, and killing entire families of Senators and bureaucrats who displeased him. After her sister’s husband is put to death, noblewoman Latona was forced into service of the dictator as mage and (presumably) as mistress. With his death, she and her sisters are free once more.

But keeping her powers suppressed for so long has come at a price: Latona now struggles to keep control over her growing powers as she relaxes the suppression over her gift. Simultaneously, the death of the dictator has left a power vacuum within the political arena. Among the men who would seek to gain power and guide Aven to greater glory is Sempronius Tarren. His political machinations bring him together with Latona, setting them both on a path that is as dangerous as it is unclear.

From Unseen Fire is brilliantly imagined and plotted. Its world is rich, with no detail left unattended to. Cass Morris has generated Tolkien-level tomes of information about the world of Aven to make the world come alive. And come alive it does. The city and the world we explore teem with life, and not just of the alternate-Roman variety. The different cultures that intersect in Aven have different motivations, different gods and different ways of practicing magic. This level of within-world work gives From Unseen Fire a verisimilitude that can be missing from similar books.

And the level of work Morris put into this book isn’t just seen through world building. Every character (with perhaps the exception of Latona’s unfortunate husband) seems like they could be the lead of a story all their own, happening just offscreen. Readers don’t always know where they are going but always have the sense that, while characters may walk out of the frame, their movements are not unaccounted for. Morris knows where they are and what they are doing at all times, in the sort of instinctive way you know where your hand is even in the dark. This mastery of character development prevents Morris’ plot-heavy book from overpowering its characters.

With so much plot and so many characters, Morris has to take the beginning of the book slowly—any faster, and readers would lose the thread and not be able to tell one character from another. The beginning is definition-heavy, dragging the reader through exposition rather than letting us discover things for ourselves through the actions and words of Morris’s brilliantly developed characters. And the slow pacing does begin to wear on the reader in one major way. Latona is obviously the heroine, but it is not immediately clear that Sempronius is a main character, flawed or otherwise. His chapters come too far and few between in the early chapters to make much of an impact, and it is not immediately clear that we as readers should trust him any more than we trust his political opponents. That unpredictability does, however, become part of Sempronius’s charm as he grows into his role as leading man.

But while the beginning of From Unseen Fire may drag slightly, once things get going, they fly. The book rockets along at breakneck speed through the machinations of the Senate, and the public (and personal) struggles of Latona and Sempronius. Any wait at the beginning is well worth it as the pieces fall into place as the book progresses. Readers who are patient enough to let Cass Morris build the world around them will be rewarded handsomely with an amazing ride.

In an alternate version of ancient Rome, mages blessed by the gods wield elemental magic, shaping the land and the people within it. For years, the dictator Ocella ruled Aven with fear, working to strip the society of all the trappings of the Republic, and killing entire families of Senators and bureaucrats who displeased him. After her sister’s husband is put to death, noblewoman Latona was forced into service of the dictator as mage and (presumably) as mistress. With his death, she and her sisters are free once more.

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Decibel Jones, one-time rock god and full-time personification of glam and glitter, wakes up from a hangover to confront an alien invasion. More precisely, he wakes up to find himself being abducted. The aliens want to know more about humanity, and they have chosen Jones and his old band, the Absolute Zeros, as the best living specimens.

That is the extent of the similarities between Space Opera and any other book about humankind’s first interaction with extraterrestrial life. Decibel Jones and the Absolute Zeros are not bound for an examination room and a catalog; rather, they are headed for a stage. These aliens’ research method of choice is, of all things, a song competition, and they hope to determine whether or not humanity has enough soul to be allowed to survive.

Although Catherynne M. Valente’s delightful sense of humor is the most constant aspect of her prose, it is not the most memorable. Although her comedic talents are reminiscent of Douglas Adams at his best, Valente’s palette is far larger. Her prose is always quick and engrossing, but the content ranges from a glitzy, sometimes profane satirization of the music industry and its larger-than-life characters, to dead-serious flashbacks and a genuinely moving finale.

That ability to fluidly tie real-world tragedy together with psychedelic hilarity is perhaps Space Opera’s most impressive attribute. Valente’s writing here is as strong as anything taught as “good prose,” although the rock and whimsy will keep it from finding its way into the traditional literary canon anytime soon. And that’s a shame. It takes confidence, skill and talent to craft a tragic disco ball metaphor, and Valente has all three in spades.

At the end of the day, Valente’s fiction of a high-stakes, sequined Intergalactic Idol ably addresses what it means to be human and what it means to love someone, while being ever-entertaining and, crucially, being the kind of book that makes you want to dance. It’s got soul, after all.

Decibel Jones, one-time rock god and full-time personification of glam and glitter, wakes up from a hangover to confront an alien invasion. More precisely, he wakes up to find himself being abducted. The aliens want to know more about humanity, and they have chosen Jones and his old band, the Absolute Zeros, as the best living specimens.

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The Swan sisters were sentenced to death 200 years ago in Sparrow, Oregon, drowned in the harbor as a punishment for witchcraft. Every summer, however, they return to inhabit the bodies of young girls and lure boys into the same harbor, seeking revenge on the town that destroyed them. Penny, like so many locals, has accepted Sparrow’s fate. But when Bo, a mysterious outsider, arrives on the eve of Swan Season unaware of the danger he faces, Penny knows this is the summer things have to change.

Fans of Leslye Walton (The Strange and Beautiful Sorrows of Ava Lavender) and Anna-Marie McLemore (The Weight of Feathers) will enjoy The Wicked Deep, Shea Earnshaw’s newest contribution to young adult magical realism.

This novel’s dark whimsy draws readers in as the mysteries of the Swan sisters’ curse—and Bo and Penny’s desire to break it—unravel in a town where drownings have become an annual spectacle and spelled cakes that dissolve unpleasant memories.

Billed as “Hocus Pocus meets Practical Magic,The Wicked Deep is an enchanting, romantic read. Though Ernshaw’s mortal characters often feel like unfinished sketches, the three sisters at the center of the novel are magnetic, as is the magic that has settled over the town of Sparrow like fog blown in from the sea.

Billed as “Hocus Pocus meets Practical Magic,The Wicked Deep is an enchanting, romantic read.

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“You are the soul of all men,” a man tells the canine narrator of Tomorrow, written by Damian Dibben, an actor, screenwriter and bestselling author of the History Keepers, a children’s book series. This dog is more than a best friend; he is a loyal companion for more than three centuries, remaining by his master’s side as he works as a chemyst, mathematician, doctor and metallurgist in European castles, courts and field offices. After they’re separated in Venice in 1688, the dog continues to wait and look for his master.

When Vilder, another long-living man, thinks he’s spotted the master in 1815, he leads the dog on a search through the Waterloo battlefield and beyond. By the time we learn the dog’s and master’s names toward the end of the book, they have already made indelible marks on everyone they’ve met, including readers.

The dog’s search for his master is also a search for what endures through the ages. The master encounters Galileo, Queen Henrietta Maria (nicknamed Generalissima by her inner circle), Louis XIV (in the era of “grand hair, heeled shoes, exaggerated cuffs, coloured stockings and everywhere—attached to elbows, knees and ankles—bows and fussy spills of ribbons”) and famous British poet Lord Byron. While these powerful people rise and fall, the arts provide abiding inspiration and comfort for the hopeful master and dog wherever—and whenever—they are. They delight in their senses, particularly smell, which is excellently rendered by the canine narrator. In London, the dog finds a “universe of odours . . . the all-pervading rye-starch smell of painted timber, here the air was spiced with exotics: sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg, coffee and chocolate.”

With a hint of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein and a dash of W. Bruce Cameron’s A Dog’s Purpose, Tomorrow confronts big questions about life’s purpose and celebrates life’s pleasures.

 

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

“You are the soul of all men,” a man tells the canine narrator of Tomorrow, written by Damian Dibben, an actor, screenwriter and bestselling author of the History Keepers, a children’s book series. This dog is more than a best friend; he is a loyal companion for more than three centuries, remaining by his master’s side as he works as a chemyst, mathematician, doctor and metallurgist in European castles, courts and field offices. After they’re separated in Venice in 1688, the dog continues to wait and look for his master.

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Madeline Miller’s enthralling second novel may be about a goddess, but it has a lot to say about what it means to be a woman. In Circe, the acclaimed author of The Song of Achilles (which won the Orange Prize in 2012) unfurls the story of the legendary witch from Homer’s Odyssey with lyric intensity.

Circe grows up in the palace of her father, the sun god Helios, listening to stories of the legendary fall of the Titans and conflicts among the gods. Like all immortals, Helios is ruthless, capricious and obsessed with maintaining his status. Circe, a goddess without exceptional beauty or discernible power, is sidelined in his court, unworthy of even being married off. It isn’t until Circe falls in love with a mortal that she realizes she has the ability to bless or harm others through transfiguration—a discovery that causes her to be labeled a threat. Helios exiles her to a remote island; there, she is able to further develop her skills with pharmakeia, the art of using plants and herbs to perform magic.

Though sailors occasionally attempt to seek shelter on her island’s shores, Circe protects herself by transforming any men with bad intentions into pigs. As centuries roll by, key encounters with gods and humans alike punctuate her isolated existence—a meeting with Medea and a shocking midwifery scene are particularly mesmerizing. Eventually, Circe’s connections with others force her to embrace her powers, breach her exile and choose her destiny.

Miller, who studied classics at Brown University and teaches high school Greek and Latin, paints a vivid picture of classical Greece: the mindset of its people, the beauty of its landscapes, the details of daily tasks. The elemental allure of mythology, with its magic and mystery and questions of fate and free will, is presented here with added freshness that comes from seeing this world from a female perspective. Like its heroine, this is a novel to underestimate at your peril.

ALSO IN BOOKPAGE: Read a Q&A with Madeline Miller for Circe.

The acclaimed author of The Song of Achilles unfurls the story of the legendary witch from Homer’s Odyssey with lyric intensity.
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Anthologies can be dismissed as attempts to get more work out the door from bestselling authors. This tendency might lead some readers to neglect a book of staggering beauty. The Tangled Lands, a joint effort between Paolo Bacigalupi and Tobias S. Buckell, isn’t just good for an anthology. It soars.

The four parts of The Tangled Lands tell the story of a failing civilization. Its last hope, the Blue City of Khaim, is under the stranglehold of both its rulers and a menacing magic bramble. The bramble, a nearly mystical force, grows insatiably in the presence of magic. The slightest spell fertilizes it, allowing it to grow and swallow houses, fields and even entire cities. The people of Khaim fight against the bramble, burning and cutting it back every day even as they deal with the stream of refugees from already fallen cities. Khaim’s last magister, Archmage Scacz, has made any use of magic punishable by death, even as he creates his own sorcery-fueled castle in the sky. All the while, the people of Khaim toil on, hoping to eke out an existence before the tide of bramble swallows them as well.

While many characters stand out within The Tangled Lands, the anthology’s greatest creation is the city of Khaim. One of the great issues with world building, especially when an author is constructing a place alien to our own, is that it requires a fair bit of explanation. In the hands of less talented storytellers, it can feel less like fiction and more like an interesting history class. Bacigalupi and Buckell build their world so precisely that everything feels natural and inevitable. Instead of seeming alien, their fantasy world gives the reader the sense that they are strolling into a world they already know.

One of the most difficult things about this anthology is that there are no easy answers. Some may see this as a weakness of the second set of stories, “The Children of Khaim” and “The Blacksmith’s Daughter.” Both tales are gloomy, and it could be argued that there is no payoff for the emotional investment that the two stories demand. There is only the smallest sliver of hope and little resolution—but that is the point. The city of Khaim, despite the best efforts of its tyrants, isn’t just destined to fall. It is fallen, even if its residents and rulers haven’t accepted it yet. What life—what hope—can really come out of a city like that? The payoff is there, even if it isn’t always what we want it to be.

That may seem like a dour view of The Tangled Lands, but all four stories are beautiful, subtle and well worth every moment spent reading them. Their writers understand not just how to give readers what they want but also how to write stories that couldn’t have happened any other way.

Anthologies can be dismissed as attempts to get more work out the door from bestselling authors. This tendency might lead some readers to neglect a book of staggering beauty. The Tangled Lands, a joint effort between Paolo Bacigalupi and Tobias S. Buckell, isn’t just good for an anthology. It soars.

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It’s been six years since the colonists of Donovan, the farthest known planet capable of supporting human life, have had contact with the Corporation. A business and nation state in one, the Corporation was supposed to send frequent ships full of supplies and medicine to the colonists, as well as act as a guaranteed way back home.

Abandoned on a planet where nearly everything is poisonous and almost every alien life-form is capable of inflicting sudden, often very painful death, the colonists mutiny against their controlling overseer, set up their own governments and do their best to survive. W. Michael Gear’s Outpost begins when a Corporation ship, the Turalon, arrives armed and ready to take control of the planet and its people.

The Corporation has actually been sending ships to Donovan steadily over the years—but none have returned or even shown up in the planet’s atmosphere, and no one knows why. And when another, older Corporation ship suddenly appears in the planet’s atmosphere, everyone on it has been dead for decades. Supervisor Kalico Aguila, the woman in charge of the Turalon, nearly tips into an Ayn Rand parody at the beginning of Outpost, but her increasingly panicked anxiety over what might befall her if she leaves the planet is empathetically and effectively portrayed.

A violent confrontation seems inevitable, but Gear takes a character-driven, organic approach to the plot, deriving a level of humor that is surprising for a book with a statue of human bones on its cover. The Donovan colonists have gone various shades of native—most are clad in the scaly rainbow skin of quetzals, the large and vicious lizards that rule the bush outside their heavily guarded settlement. Aguila expects to be met with deference and fear, but her high heels sink in the mud, and the colonists call her combat-ready Marines “soft meat.”

Despite how extremely, almost hilariously dangerous the planet is, Gear’s knack for human detail and vivid depictions of the rugged natural beauty of his world make the death trap of a planet appealing. A large section of the novel is from the point of view of the Marines’ leader, Max “Cap” Taggart, as he explores the wilderness of Donovan alongside colonist leader Talina Perez. Taggart’s delight at the freedom and purity of life on the alien planet—and his unquestioned respect for the stalwart Talina—makes him a far more appealing and complex figure than the cynical grunt he first appears to be.

Nearly every character in Outpost has hidden depths and hidden sorrows, from Talina’s odd connection to the savage quetzals to the philosophical underpinnings behind her fellow leader Shig’s sangfroid. Gear’s novel at times reads more like an introduction than a properly formed novel, but with a world so rich, with so many characters to fascinate, it’s still an excellent start to an intriguing new sci-fi series.

It’s been six years since the colonists of Donovan, the farthest known planet capable of supporting human life, have had contact with the Corporation. A business and nation state in one, the Corporation was supposed to send frequent ships full of supplies and medicine to the colonists, as well as to guarantee a way back home.

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The act of combining man and machine into something more has fascinated science-fiction authors for decades. There’s something mysterious and wonderful about the similarities between firing neurons and humming microprocessors. But what if the union of organic and inorganic matter manifested in the form of an entire space ship? What if the Millennium Falcon could speak? If Gareth L. Powell’s ripping space opera is any guide, it would be one heck of a ride.

In Powell’s future, military spacecraft are sentient, capable of communicating and choosing their course without input from a human. The Trouble Dog, one such ship in the Conglomeration fleet, seeks penance from the destruction she wrought during wartime by joining the House of Reclamation, a search-and-rescue company. When an unknown ship shoots down a large space liner carrying a thousand tourists in a disputed system, the Trouble Dog and her scrappy crew rush to the rescue. What they discover, however, could start an all-out war.

Like the ship herself, Embers of War practically zooms across space, pulling the reader along with it. This is an excellently paced adventure that swells with energy and force, upping the stakes at every turn of the page. It also manages to consider some heady and relevant questions as it jumps in and out of hyperspace. A longing for redemption is laced through the story, adding welcome emotional momentum to each new challenge. This also makes the concept of ships as sentient beings all the more intriguing; like any human, Trouble Dog struggles to articulate feelings of remorse, self-loathing and doubt.

Having such a fun ensemble cast also keeps the narrative upbeat. The calm and confident warship, the dropout punk captain, the intelligence agent in an exoskeleton—all are sharply defined and full of life. Short, varied third-person chapters buzz from one perspective to another, almost like cuts in a film. The reader always feels close to the main story, never needing to pause for breath between one important passage and the next.

Readers will no doubt notice a number of sci-fi influences here. Heinlein and Clark, along with a healthy dose of Joss Whedon’s “Firefly,” might have stoked the engines for Trouble Dog’s journey. Though no stranger to space opera thanks to 2011’s The Recollection, Powell’s deft hand at action scenes and his confidence with high concepts like sentient spacecraft should make any reader looking for a new voice in the genre very pleased indeed.

What if the Millennium Falcon could speak? If Gareth L. Powell’s ripping space opera is any guide, it would be one heck of a ride.
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Elena Mendoza was conceived via parthenogenesis—literally a virgin birth—and has long lived with the consequences of her strange origin story (and her classmates don’t even know about the fact that inanimate objects speak to her).

She’s content to hang out with her best friend, Fadil, and crush on Winifred “Freddie” Petrine from afar, but the universe has other plans. When a boy shoots Freddie in front of Elena, she has no choice but to listen to the voice coming from the Starbucks sign, telling Elena she has the power to heal Freddie. After successfully healing her gunshot wound, Elena learns that these voices have big plans for her and her newfound abilities—but every time she uses her powers, people are mysteriously raptured into the sky. How can Elena refuse to help those in front of her? But how can she use her gifts when they might be bringing about the end of the world?

During this apparent apocalypse, Elena and Fadil pursue their respective crushes and deal with the changing nature of their lifelong friendship. As Elena gets closer to Freddie, she discovers that the real Freddie is nothing like what she had imagined; instead, she's prickly, challenging and intriguing. Smart conversations between the teen characters, a matter-of-fact exploration of the spectrum of sexuality, and deep philosophical meditations make up the bulk of the action here in between Elena’s acts of healing. Though somewhat repetitive, Shaun David Hutchinson’s (We Are the Ants) eighth novel is a timely portrayal of uncertainty and anxiety on both a global and personal level.

Elena Mendoza was conceived via parthenogenesis—literally a virgin birth—and has long lived with the consequences of her strange origin story (and her classmates don’t even know about the fact that inanimate objects speak to her).
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BookPage Teen Top Pick, March 2018

Tomi Adeyemi’s hefty fantasy debut—set in a kingdom with traditions and mythology reminiscent of Nigeria and greater West Africa—is an astounding feat of storytelling and world-building.

Seventeen-year-old Zélie is a divîner, one who is born with the ability to perform gods-given magic and easily distinguishable by their white hair. When their magic fully manifests, divîners can become maji—but that was before the cruel king of Orïsha ordered an anti-magic raid that killed Zélie’s mother. Since the raid, magic has disappeared, and divîners have been relegated to second-class citizens.

When hotheaded, impulsive Zélie and her nondivîner brother, Tzain, go to the market in the nearby capital, they end up helping a young woman escape the city guards. The girl turns out to be Amari, princess of Orïsha, who has discovered the reason magic disappeared—and a possible means to get it back. However, next in line for the throne is Amari’s older brother, Inan, who is determined to thwart the trio’s plan. But Inan has a secret of his own: There is a power awakening within him that connects him to the magic he fears and to his enemy, Zélie.

This epic is filled with fascinating landscapes, complex mythology and nuanced characters coping with a world on the brink of massive change. The royals must confront their power, privilege and the horrific deeds of the king, while Zélie and Tzain reckon with the psychological ripples of their mother’s death.

Unmistakably descended from traditional high fantasy, Children of Blood and Bone is perfectly positioned to join the ranks of sprawling speculative worlds for teens, bringing with it a much-needed Afrocentric perspective.

 

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

Tomi Adeyemi’s hefty fantasy debut—set in a kingdom with traditions and mythology reminiscent of Nigeria and greater West Africa—is an astounding feat of storytelling and world-building.

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Ten generations of clones, spaced 10 years apart, with 10 of each model in each generation: They are the Homo factus, the Made Men, cloned from the humans who founded Vispera 300 years ago with a vision to save their species from an apocalyptic plague. Now that there is no poverty, hunger or disease in Vispera, these clones live predictable lives from their births in embryotic tanks to their planned deaths at age 100.

Seventeen-year-old Althea-310 spends her days apprenticing as a Council recorder, participating in Pairing rituals and communing with her nine sisters, silently sharing thoughts and soothing hurt feelings through a psychic link. But one day, someone new appears in Vispera. Jack is a human, made in the lab for an experiment whose purpose is unknown to all but a few older clones. He can’t commune and doesn't understand the clones’ culture, and the clones can’t understand his asthma, his unpredictable emotions or his love of music.

While Jack tries to find his place in Vispera and Althea-310 starts to question the harmony she’s always known, larger issues come to light. The clones have been copied too many times and their genetic lines are beginning to weaken. Items keep disappearing from communal stores, and Samuel-299—Jack’s so-called father—finds defending Jack’s continued existence increasingly difficult. New revelations soon force Jack, Althea and Samuel to make difficult decisions about the future of their supposedly perfect home.

Fans of Lois Lowry’s The Giver and Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World won’t want to miss Your One & Only.

Fans of Lois Lowry’s The Giver and Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World won’t want to miss Your One & Only.

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