Review: Laura R. Samotin’s ‘The Sins on Their Bones’ (ARC)

★★☆☆☆

My reviews are always unbiased, but in the interest of transparency please note I received a free copy of this book ahead of its publication (Random House Canada – 7th May, 2024).

It has taken me far too long to write this review, but finally, here it is. Though I can’t decide exactly what genre to shelve The Sins on Their Bones under, I would say the vibe here is YA dark fantasy meets porno. Two stars is perhaps a rather generous rating, but the book did manage to hold my attention through to the end, and I think a portion of my distaste is owed to my personal reading preferences.

Dimitri, or Dima, is an emperor without an empire. Deposed and defeated on the battlefield by his traitorous husband, Alexey, Dima has fled, and now lives in hiding with his flirtatious spymaster, Vasily, and a handful of other loyalists. With the betrayal still raw, Dima dreads the possibility of capture and reunion with the abusive, controlling man he failed to kill when he had the chance, and who he does, even after all that has happened, still have feelings for.

The intended focus of the book seems to be the relationship between love and trauma, both in the sense that true, patient love can help us heal, and in the sense that misguided romantic feelings can sometimes trick people into staying or remaining emotionally invested in relationships that are inherently destructive.

Unfortunately, The Sins on Their Bones palpably lacks the maturity to handle this heavy subject matter with any delicacy. Though the characters are in their 30s, they read like young teenagers, and the book dwells more on the shock of sex and violence than on the surrounding psychology.

Smut is all well and good when it comes packaged in a robust surrounding plot, but on its own it is not the stuff of narrative substance. That’s even when it’s well-written, which is not the case here. It is impossible to discuss The Sins on Their Bones without addressing the sex, however, mostly because there is so much of it, but also because there isn’t much else here to talk about. The Slavic-inspired fantasy setting remains largely unexplored, the characters have few dimensions, and because so much is told to us through memories rather than immediate circumstances, the narrative is weak and lacks momentum.

Of the 400 pages, about 300 consist of angsty reflections, sex, and scenes of sexual domestic violence. The latter are made all the more unpleasant by the lack of clearly delineated boundary between Dima’s masochism and the abuse inflicted on him by Alexey. The sexual aspect of the romance between Dima and Vasily is also uncomfortable, as this relationship leans towards sexual exploitation and enabling. The blurred lines between what is meant to be amorous and what is objectively abusive mean the true focus of the book is the common ground between sexual violence and rough sex. This is exacerbated by the lack of clear expression when it comes to illustrating the fundamental differences between true consent and the illusions created by psychological manipulation and abuse.

I do think this book is the product of good intentions, and the queer-normative setting will appeal to a certain audience. I am usually a receptive reader when it comes to stories about found family and healing, but in this case I don’t think the writing actually does the work of exploring these themes. The focus on bodies and bruises feels lurid rather than provocative and psychological. Though there is far too much explicit content for this book to be classed as anything but adult, the characters do not have the depth for it to feel like a mature read in any other context.

The one thing I did like about the novel was the Jewish folklore. I found it refreshing to read about a magic system grounded in lesser-known religious myths and traditions. The Jewish practices and beliefs woven throughout the narrative do lend the book some character.

To sum, The Sins on Their Bones is easy enough to get through, but this wasn’t a read I can say I truly enjoyed. In my opinion, the manner in which this book deals with sexual trauma is both clumsy and vaguely sordid. The worldbuilding does have good bones, and the novel’s worst flaws might have been obscured had other themes been more developed, but because sexual violence is so much the main subject matter, it is hard to ignore the feeling that this book reads in rather poor taste.

Review: Fonda Lee’s ‘Jade War’ (#2 The Green Bone Saga)

★★★☆☆

Rating rounded up from 2.75 stars. Jade War (2019) is a heavier read than its predecessor, Jade City, and not just because it is 600 pages long. In essence, this sequel can be described as ‘the same but more’. Everything that is noticeable about the first book is carried over and amplified in Jade War, for better and for worse.

I had exactly the same struggle settling into the read. There are so many parallels in the opening chapters it is unreal – there is even a similarly gratuitious sex scene around the 50-page mark. Thankfully, things do get moving after 100 pages or so, and thereafter it was easy enough to rattle through to the end. Again, because I found the narrative fast-paced and gripping, I finished the book at speed.

I was hopeful that this installment in the series would be darker in tone, so was pleased to see this realised. Together with the fallout from the previous book, the events that take place in Jade War force the characters, especially Hilo, to get their hands truly dirty, which feels like a more mature, realistic take a family who rule by intimidation, and whose business often situates them firmly outside the law.

“Enough,” Shae declared, loudly enough to disrupt Ayt midsentence and be heard by those nearby. There was a ripple of astonishment through the crowd, and in the space where Ayt’s searing aura met Shae’s like lava pouring against rocks. Shae continued advancing, implacably, cold as the moon. “You’ve insulted and slandered me enough.”

With that being said, anyone who liked the first book for its characters will probably struggle somewhat with their less-than-heroic development here. For Hilo, Jade War is essentially a villain arc, to the extent that I struggle to see how he can be redeemed in the series finale. With Shae, aside from one cinematic confrontation, it’s an exercise in wasted potential. This book mostly just uses her for cheap subplots that feel fresh from a soap opera, denying her any real chance for growth. Anden, too, was a real disappointment. I struggled not to skim-read his chapters out of boredom.

From the outset, this series has tended towards plot-driven narration. This is magnified in Jade War, with events taking place over several years. There is nothing wrong with plot-driven narratives – they offer pacier, action-packed storytelling, and can more easily stage things on a grand scale – but they do require the characters’ decisions to be largely explained by external events. That isn’t the case here. Because every situation in Jade War is the result of the characters’ personal choices, we need insight into their inner lives to understand their reasoning. We don’t always get it. Life-changing decisions (and mistakes) are made without the emotional context that would explain them, which paints the characters as unintelligent and lacking in self-awareness.

…He’d viewed his situation in the bleakest of terms, as a jadeless, damaged exile salvaging what few options remained to him. Only now did it seem to Anden that perhaps there was a path forward, resolving out of the fog.

Also, whether the book actually reaps the benefits of plot-driven narration is questionable. Jade War is less cohesive than Jade City, the structure episodic and meandering, to the extent that the bigger picture is often lost. There was some info-dumping in the previous book, but here it seems to be the author’s weapon of choice in making things make sense. There is no knowing, of course, but I do think it is plausible that this book was rushed through publication in an effort to ride the coattails of Jade City‘s success, because the writing is less polished, and the story seems to suffer a lack of direction.

I’m giving this book almost three stars mostly because it was so easy to read, and because of that one knockout scene that still gives me hope for Shae, but overall I found this a disappointing sequel. Though it is a long book, the characters, who the first book established as complex, interesting people, are given little chance to shine. I also think there are several elements here, from poorly written sex scenes to seedy plot devices, that serve only to cheapen the series.

I will in all likelihood read the big finale, Jade Legacy, to find out Hilo’s fate – and in the hope that the author finally does Shae some justice – but I’m in no hurry. Sadly, this book curbed much of my initial enthusiasm for the series.

Review: Fonda Lee’s ‘Jade City’ (#1 The Green Bone Saga)

★★★★☆

It took me a while to get comfortable with Jade City (2017). Initially, I found the writing inaccessible, and I struggled to warm to the characters. It was definitely worth pushing through the first 100 pages though. By the end, I was reading into the small hours, simply unable to put the book down.

Janloon is a city ruled by two feuding Yakuza-esque families, both blessed with an affinity for jade that gives them enhanced martial art abilities. Kaul Lan, the ‘Pillar’ of No Peak, struggles to maintain a fragile truce with the Mountain clan, much to the frustration of his hot-headed brother, Kaul Hilo, who is ready to go to war in defence of his family’s honour. Their sister, Kaul Shae, has returned home after several years abroad, but remains divided between loyalty to her brothers and her distaste for her family’s machismo ways. Meanwhile, Emery Anden, the Kauls’ gifted cousin, is in his last year at the Academy. With relations between the clans worsening by the day, he must prepare to join the impending battle for supremacy.

I enjoyed reading Lan and Shae’s chapters more than Hilo and Anden’s, though Hilo did grow on me in the second half of the book – of all the characters in Jade City, I think he undergoes the most development. The only chapters I truly disliked were those that follow a secondary character, Bero. Thankfully he doesn’t crop up that often, but this perspective seems to have been included only for the sake of exposition.

“All right. Take the time you need, like you said. But there’s nothing to figure out, Shae. If you don’t want to be a Kaul, you shouldn’t have come back.” He raised a finger before she could reply. “Don’t argue; I don’t want to forget that I’ve forgiven you. You want me to leave you alone for now, I will. But I’m not as patient as Lan.”

The Kauls have distinct personalities and some major differences of opinion, which makes their family dynamic complex and realistic. I liked the various conflicts they face in navigating the difficult balance between familial love and duty towards the clan. Anden’s narrative is somewhat weaker than the rest, but given that he is the youngest member of the cast, I think it’s reasonable to assume he will become a more interesting player as the series progresses.

The East Asian-inspired urban fantasy setting works well as the clans’ battleground, and there is a real sense of intrigue. We can already see the influence of bigger powers that rule the world beyond the clans’ disputed territories, suggesting that the next books will up the ante and force the characters to play for higher stakes.

I ended up liking Jade City so much that I almost forgot the things I frowned at to begin with, but I could never quite look past a particularly gratuitous sex scene in the opening chapters. This crass introduction to Hilo’s girlfriend, Wen, reads like something out of the 90s. In the context of its female characters, this is somewhat true of the entire book. I have seen several reviews that praise this series for its strong women, but so far I don’t see it. Wen is little more than a sex object, Ayt Madashi – the leader of the Mountain clan – has no real presence, and Shae essentially surrenders her autonomy, which she won at great cost, in defeated acceptance of the path her male relatives want her to follow.

All earthly conflict, so the Deitist philosophers say, stems from the original offense of the children against their parents and of siblings against one another. All human progress and virtuous striving is likewise an attempt to achieve familial forgiveness and a return to the spiritually and physically divine state, which lies latently but distantly remembered.

Jade City is a fantasy novel, so I don’t think it’s fair to expect it to read as the most gritty, realistic depiction of organised crime and gang violence. With that being said, I do think this book would have been a better one had the tone been somewhat darker. At times, the author seems determined to present the Kauls as a kind of noble Samurai clan, forgetting that they are (supposedly) the city mobsters, and therefore amoral by trade. If there is any honour to be defended here, it is surely the kind that exists among thieves.

Also, because things are so toned down from the grim reality of living in a city ruled by gang activity, there is a sense that the book takes itself too seriously. The characters see themselves as a band of ruthless tough guys, but it is difficult to believe that they would fare well outside the protections of aisho. Even once moon blades come out and blood gets spilled, I found things a little soft around the edges.

Overall though, I do think Jade City is a solid, enjoyable read, full of good ideas. Despite the book having a few aspects that aren’t to my taste, I can see why it won so many awards. I am definitely invested enough to continue with the series, and will be sinking my teeth into Jade War immediately.

Review: Silvia Moreno-Garcia’s ‘The Beautiful Ones’

★★★★☆

This 290-page novel is a romance with a pinch of fantasy thrown in. Though it deals with themes of deception, betrayal and heartbreak, it is nevertheless a dose of pretty-people-in-pretty-places escapism.

Nina Beaulieu, 19, is new to Loisail, where she is experiencing her first Grand Season. The glamorous parties of the city’s wealthy and beautiful were supposed to be a chance to find her Prince Charming, but her rustic ways have made it difficult for her to fit into the cosmopolitan circles that her guardian cousin and his elegant wife frequent. Nina also has her ‘talent’ to contend with, which sends crockery flying across the room and shakes books off their shelves whenever she loses her composure.

Hector Auvray also has a telekinetic ability, one so perfected that it has taken him around the world as a touring performer. A rags-to-riches success story, but heartbroken, he has come to Loisail in search of his one true love, the beautiful woman who promised she would wait for him, then didn’t.

Young, trusting and naïve, Nina is ill-prepared to navigate the passions and pains of falling for a man with a complicated, unresolved past, but each passing day tangles Hector deeper in his own web of romantic deception. Will Nina’s love steer him from disaster, or will he remain caught by the spell of the woman who has always held him in her power, and who wants him to break his young friend’s heart?

“You said you wrote me a letter,” he told her. “What did it say?”

“Nothing important.”

“Nina, please,” he said knowing instinctively that it was important. And there was a coldness to her eyes, which had been gentle and honest. There were seeds of disappointment in the curve of her mouth, melancholy in her movements where before he’d only ever found a vibrant joy of the world.

Hector knew what she’d written. Not the words but the meaning. It was engraved in the space between them.

Though not particularly complex, The Beautiful Ones is a touching, heartfelt love story. It is fairly chaste (kisses and cut-to-black), but no less passionate for it. Together with the setting, the focus on manners and matters of honour lends a charming, old-fashioned vibe. If you enjoyed the writing style in Mexican Gothic, this book is similarly gorgeous to read. Like Noemí, though not as forthright, Nina is a passionate woman who lives life true to her heart. The two books are very different in tone, however – The Beautiful Ones lacks the darker, horror element that gives Mexican Gothic its edge.

Towards the end, I did find myself wishing that this book had a few more teeth. I liked its conflicts and the characters’ growth, but I found the ending a bit too tidy, and there are few passages of hammy description that lose some of the novel’s power as an illustration of the bittersweet perspective that comes from heartbreak.

I also think the book would have been a better one had Valérie been a more complex and well-rounded antagonist. As Nina’s rival in love, she is a naturally unsympathetic character, but I don’t think it was necessary for her to be written as such a pantomime villain. Particularly in the chapters that show us Valérie’s thoughts and motivations, things feel a little cartoonish.

Overall however, I did thoroughly enjoy this book. Far too much to rate it any lower. I absolutely love the lush, verdant quality of Silvia Moreno-Garcia’s writing, and will definitely continue to work my way through the rest of her books.

Review: Benjamin Liar’s ‘The Failures’ (#1 The Wanderlands) (ARC)

★★★★★

My reviews are always unbiased, but in the interest of transparency please note I received a free copy of this book ahead of its publication (DAW – 2nd July, 2024).

In short, wow! The afterword mentions that the author has been working on the worldbuilding behind this book (their debut) for decades, and the devotion certainly shows. The Failures is a heavy slice of literary high fantasy, and a real treat of a read. Worlds this clever and creative do not come along every day.

We are in the Wanderlands – a strange, subterranean realm that is falling steadily into darkness. The Silver Age is ancient history, and the scant light that lingers, scattered between rogue city states and the ruins of once glowing empires, is failing. The scheming Wise toy with the last pockets of civilisation, the encroaching night brims with strange machines, old magic and monsters, and there are rumours that the end is truly nigh. After all the long years of his imprisonment, the Giant lies still awake.

No doubt about it: this is a world in need of a hero. Too bad the one it once had has fallen from grace. Sophie Vesachai saved the world way back when, but now, 20 years later, she is just one among many lost souls trying to drink their way through the endtimes. As the past converges with the present, however, Sophie finds herself once again figuring in the calculations of powerful forces. Ready or not, willing or no, it’s time to rise to the occasion.

The Failures is a book of several stories which gradually tie together as the narrative progresses. The end result is a tapestry of interwoven plotlines that it is no exaggeration to describe as seamless. So often with books like this, stronger elements of the overall narrative are undermined by weaker plot threads, but I remained thoroughly invested throughout. Aside from Sophie’s narrative, I also really liked the tension in the Deader plotline, and the complex sibling relationship between James and Chris.

The worldbuilding is one of the best elements of the book. It is clever and complex, but not overbearing. The extensive lore of the Wanderlands bleeds through very naturally, and it feels like there is always more left to reveal. Though there is a steampunk element to the setting, the overall vibe is much less derivative than that word might imply. This is a machine world that melds machines with strange, ancient magics, often blurring the line between. None of the characters are quite what they seem, even to themselves, which deepens the narrative’s sense of eeriness. The book also makes excellent use of foreshadowing, whilst still holding some of its secrets until the very end.

The dialogue is often coarse, which I would usually find irritating, but in this instance I think it does help in making the book unpretentious, which might not be the case if the characters took themselves more seriously. This is a book that deals in big ideas and complex, deeply flawed personalities – I liked that this is balanced out by a lack of pomposity. In essence, this is a book that shows its intelligence without showing off.

I do think The Failures could have been better titled. Personally, I think the title is unappealing, and I would argue it does not reflect the substance or character of the narrative. Otherwise, I think this book is simply fantastic, and I am really looking forward to revisiting the Wanderlands in future. Given that this book is the product of so many years of work, I sense it might be a while before we hear anything about a sequel, but this is an incredibly strong opening to the series, and not a book I am likely to forget.

Review: John Wiswell’s ‘Someone You Can Build a Nest In’ (ARC)

★★★★☆

My reviews are always unbiased, but in the interest of transparency please note I received a free copy of this book ahead of its publication (DAW – 2nd April, 2024).

We’re barely out of February, but if this book isn’t my weirdest read of the year, I’ll need to spend some time reflecting on my life choices. A highly unorthodox fantasy romance, Someone You Can Build a Nest In is a thoroughly enjoyable, accomplished debut. Equal parts humour, sweetness and gory bloodthirst, this 300-page romp in the woods delivers a love story as strange as it is delightful.

Shesheshen is an amorphous, shapeshifting monster who survives by eating humans and using their bones and organs to sculpt her body into whatever form best suits the search for fresh prey. Born inside her father’s corpse, which she ate, together with her two siblings, who she also ate, Shesheshen is merciless, and motivated by nothing besides her insatiable appetite for human flesh.

Even the most terrifying monsters have their nuances, however. Catch Shesheshen at the right moment, and she might leave your eyes in your skull, at least for the moment.

Homily, a passing human, is lucky enough to stumble upon Shesheshen whilst our creature of darkest nightmare lies half-dead at the bottom of a gorge, too weak to attack anyone. In this unsuspecting (and juicy-looking) woman, Shesheshen has her first encounter with a human whose qualities include some basic humanity. After some tended wounds and TLC, Shesheshen takes the path of gratitude, choosing not to immediately devour this strange new acquaintance. And they say romance is dead.

Of course, love is never a story without a few challenges to overcome, and there are certainly some difficult conversations that need to be had when your species reproduces in the parasitoid manner of the Ichnuemon wasp (find a host, insert eggs, then watch one’s ravenous larvae devour said host from within). Also, there’s the small fact that Homily’s entire family are hunting Shesheshen, eager to stab out her heart. They are in for a disappointment if they catch her – the only organs she has, she stole – but still.

You would be forgiven for thinking that a book with such a bizarre premise is not worth taking seriously, but Someone You Can Build a Nest In is a more thought-provoking read than it might seem. It discusses the relationship between love and trauma in surprising depth. A fantasy (borderline horror) romance is not where I would have looked to find psychological complexity, but this book confidently tackles some challenging topics. Self-sacrifice, boundaries and bodily autonomy are all presented here with nuance. Though the narrative voice is more funny than philosophical, the author manages to convey some genuine wisdom about unconventional forms of love and what it means to be in a healthy relationship.

At 300 pages, this is a fairly short read. All very well, but it does lead to my one quibble, which is that I felt certain conflicts were resolved too quickly. To describe Shesheshen as inhuman is an understatement – Wiswell commits to a sense of ‘otherness’ on every level of his protagonist’s characterisation. Many would say that true love means loving a person for all that they are, but it is one thing to embrace a person’s little imperfections, quite another to take the murderous appetites of a truly monstrous predator in one’s stride. Personally, I felt Homily would have been a more well-rounded character had she struggled more (or at all) with the truths of Shesheshen’s nature. The ease of her acceptance made me wonder if she could truly see her strange lover, and whether she actually wanted to.

As a reading genre, I rarely have much luck with romance, so I was pleasantly surprised by how much I enjoyed this book. It is a little trashy, but mostly in a good way. I liked the dark humour and the genuine conflicts standing between Shesheshen and Homily and their happy ending – miscommunication is not the only thing these characters need to overcome.

Overall, Someone You Can Build a Nest In is a fun, funny and surprisingly moving novel. There is a lot more here than the novelty of oddness. It is weird read, no two ways about it, but easily one of my favourites so far this year. I will be on the lookout for this author’s next book!

Review: Gregory Maguire’s ‘Mirror Mirror’

★★★★☆

Set in the early 1500s, this dark retelling of Snow White is an authentic yet imaginative take on the original Grimm fairy tale. I did not expect great things, courtesy of some less-than-glowing reviews, but Mirror Mirror (2003) turned out to be a much better read than I had anticipated. Uneasy, and in places somewhat disturbing, this 280-page novel perfectly captures the eeriness which lurks at the heart of traditional fairy tales.

At seven years old, Bianca de Nevada watches her father leave their estate, Montefiore, dispatched on a holy quest, or a fool’s errand, by the infamous Cesare Borgia. Left to the clutches of Cesare’s vain, unscrupulous sister, Lucrezia Borgia, few imagine that Bianca will survive to see her father again – if he ever returns home.

This melding of fairy tale elements and the landscape of Italian history works well. The Borgia siblings, whose reputations encompassed many murders and much sexual depravity, bring bite to a tale that, because of the Disney association, readers may be inclined to view as toothless. In summoning up the shadowy heart of the Grimm brothers’ tales, and tying this to the rumoured atrocities of real historical figures, Maguire’s reimagining of Snow White makes for a spine-tingling read. Bianca may be innocent, but the narrative certainly is not.

“There’s more than one way to tease a secret out of a young thing,” he said. “A soldier can be hung in a cage in the sun till he confesses, or he can be wooed into submission if he’s pretty enough. Come here, come here, my little mouse.”

Bianca knew enough not to come forward. “A mouse doesn’t accept invitations from a cat,” she said politely. “A mouse wouldn’t know how to converse with a cat.”

Softened as they have been over the years, now often digested as innocent bedtime reading, it is easy to forget that fairy tales were seldom intended to comfort or to offer reassurance about the triumph of good over evil. True, most fairy tales take place in worlds where peasant girls may hope to marry princes, but fairy tale realms brim with dark forests, vengeful curses and cruel poisons. Even when love wins, and this is not always the case, justice in the average Grimm kingdom tends towards viciousness.

Mirror Mirror taps into this darker vein, creating a creepy, lingering narrative. Its villains are frightening in their perversity, and inspire a prickling sense of discomfort. In its original packaging, Snow White is more a moral tale than a cautionary one, expressing the value of being kind in times of adversity, but Mirror Mirror blends this with a more sinister fairy tale lesson: to survive, we must not only be good and courageous, but careful.

I did enjoy Maguire’s most famous novel, Wicked (the inspiration behind the hit musical), but I actually preferred Mirror Mirror. Snow White is a less detailed narrative than The Wizard of Oz, and this gives Maguire more room to manoeuvre. Also, it is important to recognise that this a different kind of story. Mirror Mirror is looser and more allegorical than Wicked, and the reader must work harder to figure out what it all means, but I would argue this makes it a deeper, more thought-provoking narrative.

The brows on her face were pale as the underside of a dragon’s gullet. Indeed, there was something of the look of a corpse about her, though we’ve come to realize this is true of all humans. They begin to die with their first infant’s wail. But it was truer of her, because of the tone of her skin.

This book poses more questions than it answers. The ending is ambiguous, and in places we are left to intuit our own meaning. This is particularly true of the ‘dwarves’, who are more like golems than anything else, and a riddle without an answer. For some readers, this will be frustrating, but personally I think open-ended narratives can be satisfying so long as they are well-written, which this novel certainly is.

There is only one thing I truly disliked about this book, but it is the reason why I did not rate it five stars. An odd thing in a book that is otherwise so clever in its use of language, but the novel does somewhat sexualise its female characters. Sex is an undercurrent in most fairy tales – many can be interpreted as cautionary tales about the threat of sexual violence – but I found the frequent references to breasts plainly unnecessary, and male-gazey.

Otherwise, and overall, I did like the way Maguire presents his characters. Bianca, characterised as a girl in the final hour of her innocence, is a quiet but convincing heroine, and Lucrezia, whilst not utilised to the extent she might be, makes a much more complex, well-rounded villainess than the nameless Evil Queen. I do not think this book is for everyone – the vibes are genuinely creepy – but if you like dark, literary fairy tales, Mirror Mirror is worth adding to your TBR.

Review: Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni’s ‘The Palace of Illusions’

★★★★☆

The Palace of Illusions is a 2008 bestseller. Narrated by Panchaali (also known as Draupadi), the novel is a loose retelling of the Mahabharata – the Sanskrit epic which chronicles the political rivalry between the Pandavas and their cousins, the Kauravas, culminating in their vengeful war for supremacy.

Born from fire, Panchaali’s destiny sees her become the wife of all five Pandava brothers (it’s complicated), much though she struggles to suppress her feelings for their sworn enemy, Karna. The Palace of Illusions fleetingly covers most of the events in the Mahabharata, but the book’s primary focus is Panchaali’s life story. We do not see inside anyone else’s head, and the narrative makes limited efforts to unpack the deeper motivations of the wider cast.

I am not as familiar with the Mahabharata as the Ramayana, but it is immediately obvious that the author took some artistic liberties when writing this book. Divakaruni chooses to characterise her heroine as a rebellious female perspective on a male-dominated society. Though the text is somewhat guilty of imposing modern, feminist values on an ancient time that was anything but, the author does manage to frame things in a relatively unobtrusive manner. Overall, The Palace of Illusions is a relevant take on the subtleties of feminine power in patriarchal societies, as well as a testament to the will and intelligence of a woman whose life choices shaped India’s mythic history.

“Love comes like lightning, and disappears the same way. If you’re lucky, it strikes you right. If not, you’ll spend your life yearning for a man you can’t have.”

Divakaruni’s descriptive prose is a real pleasure to read, balancing its sweetness with an eye for poignancy and the bittersweet. The strongest section of the book is its opening chapters, which paint an evocative picture of Panchaali’s young life. The portrayal of her relationship with her twin brother, Dhri (Dhrishtadyumna), is particularly lovely. I found it to be one of the book’s strongest elements, even though this relationship is largely set aside once the husbands arrive on the scene.

After Panchaali leaves her father’s court, the narrative loses some of its initial gleam, leaning more towards ‘telling’ than ‘showing’. The pace picks up, dramatically, which makes things feel a bit rushed and messy. Because there is so much happening, and so little time to stop to look around, a number of major life events are thrown at the reader in clumsy half-sentences that feel throwaway.

The characterisation of Paanchali’s five husbands is also not what it could be. We do vaguely get to know Yudhishtir and Bheem, but Arjun is pretty flat, and as for the other two… What were their names again? The novel is only 360 pages, which is not enough space for each marriage to have its own growth arc, but ignoring the complexity of the situation and the feelings it engenders in the various parties involved seems like a cop-out. Divakaruni also largely ignores Paanchali’s relationships with her children, as well as her feelings about motherhood.

All this time I’d believed in my power over my husbands. I’d believed that because they loved me they would do anything for me. But now I saw that though they did love me – as much perhaps as any man can love – there were other things they loved more. Their notions of honour, of loyalty toward each other, of reputation were more important to them than my suffering. They would avenge me later, yes, but only when they felt the circumstances would bring them heroic fame… The choice they made in the moment of my need changed something in our relationship. I no longer depended on them so completely in the future. And when I took care to guard myself from hurt, it was as much from them as from our enemies.

When it comes to Karna, Panchaali’s inner conflicts are at their most well-written. In this relationship (or lack thereof) more than any other, Panchaali is challenged and changed. I do feel the book glosses over Karna’s failings, however, sometimes at the expense of complexity and realism. When vicious anger prompts Karna to publicly dishonour Panchaali in the worst way imaginable, the incident becomes water under the bridge far too quickly. Love may entail forgiveness, but that does not mean forgiveness is easy, nor that it can (or should) be given unconditionally.

There is one other significant relationship that threads the course of Panchaali’s life: her ambiguous friendship with wise, playful Krishna. I greatly enjoyed the scenes between these two characters. Krishna’s hidden depths make the relationship mysterious, hard to quantify, adding a thought-provoking element to a book that is in places too surface level to conjure a deep subtext.

Light reading for Mahabharata buffs and an accessible introduction for the uninitiated, The Palace of Illusions is a well-crafted retelling that successfully balances respectful homage with wider appeal. On the basis of the beautiful prose, I will definitely be adding some of Divakaruni’s other novels to my TBR list.

Review: Scott Lynch’s ‘The Republic of Thieves’ (#3 Gentlemen Bastard)

★★★☆☆

Having dirtied their hands as vengeful survivors, as pirates, con artists and thieves, it is now time for Locke and Jean to lend their wealth of criminal expertise to a new sphere of dubious enterprise: politics.

The Republic of Thieves picks up a few weeks after Red Seas Under Red Skies, and we again start with a change of scenery. This time the action ships us to Karthain, home of the merciless Bondsmagi. Having dealt with one of these vicious schemers before, barely escaping with their lives, Locke and Jean enter their newest contract with no small degree of trepidation, and only because they have no alternative.

The book is a mash of two timelines. One follows Locke and Jean as they compete against an old friend to rig Karthain’s election. The other takes us back to the Gentlemen Bastards’ formative years, following the then-adolescent gang as they dabble in theatre. Both plotlines are a backdrop for the novel’s main interest: Locke’s yo-yo relationship with Sabetha.

“Sloppy idiot,” Sabetha muttered at last. “You’re trying to be charming. Well, I do not choose to be charmed by you, Locke Lamora.”

Waiting in the wings since the first book, given to us in shadowy hints from the start, it is fair to say that Sabetha’s reputation was going to be hard for her to live up to. By the start of this book, Locke has been pining after his first love for five years, his feelings not having cooled during their long separation, nor due to the fact that they parted ways as little more than children. In terms of credibility, the setup is quite a stretch, and to justify a character as dynamic and interesting as Locke holding the flame for so long, Sabetha needed to be at least as complex and compelling.

My hopes were not high on this score, I must admit, especially after the ludicrous romantic subplot that reared its ugly head in Red Seas. Locke and Sabetha are complicated. Despite a shared upbringing and similar career paths, their relationship is dogged by the fact that they have both lived through considerable trauma. Add to this Locke’s depression and Sabetha’s penchant for jealous narcissism, and the recipe is a fool’s bet for happily ever after. This is not necessarily an issue, given that toxic, conflict-laden relationships breathe drama and narrative tension, but pulling something like this off in a way that elicits readerly sympathy is a mean feat, especially without dramatic character development.

Locke’s narrative journey in Republic of Thieves is one of hopeless mooning, and that after a woman who (I hate to break it to you, Locke) just isn’t that into him. In truth, this arc – if a slog in which no one learns anything can be called that – serves to render a likeable, exciting character a pitiable shadow of himself. The tough lessons that Sabetha’s ‘love’ serve to teach our protagonist bounce off him without sticking, meaning that we end this book in essentially the same position we started.

I also found Sabetha’s characterisation very weak. We were promised another antiheroic legend, but Sabetha’s role as Locke’s formidable rival plays second fiddle to her role as his love interest. Indeed, her entire characterisation centres around this relationship. Sabetha returns just as Locke remembers her, unchanged by her half a decade running solo – never mind that five years is time enough to significantly develop a young person’s character. The lack of distinction between reality and rose-tinted memory makes Sabetha read more fantasy dream girl than well-rounded antiheroine. Also, her criminal talents get little time on stage, ceding space to pithy introspections about Locke. Given that even Locke, despite his puppy-eyed devotion, sees Sabetha as a reductive stereotype – a ‘beautiful bitch’ – the overall feel is half-arsed and ambivalent.

“Quit being so hard on yourself. We are what we are; we love what we love. We don’t need to justify it to anyone… not even to ourselves.”

Because the romance is so much the novel’s focus, Republic of Thieves utilises less of Lynch’s enviable plotting skills than the previous books. I found this instalment of the series rather samey – the setting is another harbourside city, there is another mission to pull off against the odds, and Jean and Locke are again the unwilling servants of an all-powerful overseer. I do love the unique Venetian flair of Lynch’s worldbuilding, but at this point things are getting a bit old. I really hope the next book treads some new ground that does not so closely resemble the old. It must also be said that the plot is not the only thing that romance pushes to the side-lines. Poor Jean spends this novel being absolutely relegated.

Yet, my rating is a solid three stars. How? Why?

The main reason is that despite its frustrations I found this book aggressively readable. 600 pages, and I ploughed through the whole thing in a day. It might be a messy train wreck, but I could not bring myself to put it down. For now, I am choosing to believe that Lynch intends Locke x Sabetha to develop as a disaster romance, and I therefore credit this book as the convincing start of a devastating narrative arc that will ultimately destroy Locke or change him for the better.

The Thorn of Emberlain comes out next year (after much delay), and though I say this in full acknowledgement of the fact that my enjoyment here was largely owed to the poisonous pleasure of disliking the characters and passing judgement on their terrible life choices, I am ready for more. Bring it on!

Review: Scott Lynch’s ‘Red Seas Under Red Skies’ (#2 Gentleman Bastard)

★★★★☆

The problem with the best books in any genre is that they set the bar incredibly, unreasonably high. Even if the sequels of such books are excellent reads in their own right, there is no avoiding a judgement based on comparison. I mention this to explain my long hesitation in getting to Red Seas Under Red Skies. It’s not that I didn’t want to pick this novel up. It’s just that it took a while for the magic of The Lies of Locke Lamora to fade – it needed to, if I was going to give the sequel a fair chance.

A chunky 630 pages, Red Seas picks up two years after the events of the previous book. Locke and Jean are back, and they are no longer adolescent rogues. A dynamic duo, seasoned in skulduggery, our boys are now men with battle scars. There is a pleasing sense of continuity, in that whilst our antiheroes survived the perils of Camorr, Red Seas does not present them with a clean slate. They come to this new adventure with the burden of some serious baggage.

Having slaked his thirst for vengeance, Locke is a changed character. He is older and (marginally) less cocky, but more fundamental than this is the fact that he now has different motivations and priorities. Having done the work of avenging his fallen brothers, he is tired. He does not want to win so much. On some level, he even wants out of the game. This brings interesting implications to his dynamic with Jean, who is used to relying on Locke’s vicious intellect.

“Gods, when did we discover how easy it is to be cruel to one another?”

If you enjoyed The Lies, you will like Red Seas, at least to some extent. I feel I can wager this with safe certainty, since the two books have a great deal in common. They are both antiheroic heist narratives seasoned with a generous dose of vengeance, both square Locke and Jean against some truly evil villains, and they share a pseudo-Venetian setting. Lynch carried forward many of the qualities that made The Lies such a gripping read – in many ways a good thing – but it must be remarked that the staging feels familiar. The move to a new but very similar city seems like a waste of time, so it’s probably just as well we do not spend the whole narrative there.

True to the title, large chunks of Red Seas are spent beyond the harbour. Highly skilled thieves, Locke and Jean must nonetheless learn the tricks of a different class of a criminal as they dabble in piracy. Or something like. The ‘pirates’ who people the secondary cast are an odd bunch. Compared with the grittiness of Lynch’s overall worldbuilding, it seems worth remarking that Captain Drakasha and her crew are strangely cuddly.

As far as piracy goes, it’s very family-friendly. Aside from the fact that these pirates are upstanding citizens who steal only from vessels that can afford to lose their cargo, there are literal infants on board. I don’t see why pirate captains cannot be parents, but is it realistic for them to juggle such roles successfully, and with breezy ease? Lynch would say yes, but I think presenting the brutal, murderous lifestyle of a marauding seadog as a lifestyle compatible with young children is to present piracy in a manner rather removed from the profession’s essential nature. In a softer setting, it would probably be less noticeable, but the stark contrasts with this series’ dark tone and violence make this arc seem rather sanitised, and a bit silly.

Of course, what I’m really here for is the bromance. I love reading about complex platonic relationships. Give me soul sisters and devoted brothers-in-arms. I don’t want to read about kisses. Instead, I want kindred. The sense of brotherhood is one of the things that elevates The Lies to the top tier of fantasy, so I was hoping for more of the same. I did get it, but to a much lesser extent. There is no denying that Jean and Locke love each other. They are brothers, and they would die for each other, but Red Seas relies on the fact that we already know this. Unhappily for those who delight in poignant moments of intense fraternity, Locke and Jean’s relationship is presented here as a given. The subtle changes to Locke’s personality do force Jean to adopt a position that is less faithful follower and more loyal protector, but the development is minimal.

“Only one way to win when you’re being chased by someone bigger and tougher than you. Turn straight around, punch their teeth out, and hope the gods are fond of you.”

Red Seas instead places its emphasis on our heroes’ relationships with the secondary cast, which is unfortunate. As someone who reads a fair bit of fantasy, I have learnt to maintain low expectations of the genre’s romantic subplots. Sometimes one comes along, however, that is impossible to ignore. The romantic subplot in Red Seas is one such, and not for good reasons. This romance is, in a word, excruciating. To avoid spoilers, I shall simply describe it as a pus-ridden boil upon the face of love.

For a four-star review, I do seem to be racking up quite the stack of criticisms, so perhaps it’s fair to accuse me of being a little harsh. Cringe factor aside, I will say that Red Seas is a respectable and well-written sequel. Lynch is a very neat writer, and this narrative is tightly crafted. It is difficult to write about brilliantly intelligent minds – epiphanies and ingenious solutions rely on the author’s ability to fathom them – so there is no denying Lynch’s dexterous hand for plotting. The writing is also good, especially the dialogue, which shows a fun, crass sense of wit.

At the close, I can’t say I loved this book, but there were certainly aspects that I really liked. Unfortunately, there is just no resisting the urge to compare this novel to its predecessor, and the question of which is the better book is a no-brainer. I now look to the series’ third instalment, The Republic of Thieves, with a mite less expectation, but I would be lying if I said I was completely out of enthusiasm. There is still a lot we do not know about Locke’s childhood, and there are other questions I would like to see answered. For one thing, what was that thing in the Parlour Passage? Maybe we’ll find out, maybe we won’t. Either way, I shall certainly be joining Locke and Jean on their next adventure. Review in due course!