Book Review: The Tainted Cup

Posted on July 8, 2024 by erictaveren

My MFA thesis starts up this fall and I’ve decided to write a fantasy mystery (Mystasy?), because those are two genres I don’t see paired up too often. And whereas I’ve had the idea for this book/series for quite a while, I haven’t had the time to devote to it. Once I made my decision, it begged the question, what is a fantasy mystery?

As luck would have it, I was walking out of my local library and a cover on the staff recommendation shelf jumped out at me. The gold on navy with green accents pulled my eye and I found myself hushing my kid so I could read the back. I needed to know what a fantasy mystery was. The back read “A Holmes and Watson-style detective duo take the stage in this fantasy with a mystery twist, from the Edgar-winning, multiple Hugo-nominated Robert Jackson Bennett.”

I was ready to ask the question “where have you been all my life?” to both the book and the staff recommender (thanks Mao), simply from holding it in my hand. I’d instantaneously set The Tainted Cup on a pedestal without even realizing it. And it didn’t disappoint.

The story starts with our main protagonist, Din, as he investigates his first murder. He’s partnered with brilliant eccentric recluse Ana, who never steps foot on the crime scene (or out of her house for that matter). This grisly and disturbing murder is only the beginning, because as with any mystery (and transformer), there’s more than meets the eye.

I never want to give away spoilers, so here’s my brief rundown of what I liked and why you should read it:

The magic system is neat. Botanical and just vague enough to be mysterious in its own right.
Din’s flaws make his resourcefulness impressive. Plus he’s not too shabby with a sword. :)
Ana’s logic is never Deus Ex Machina. There’s never any logical leaps stemming from withheld information. Everything is presented, ready for you to figure it out.
Also: kaiju. Because why not.

Obviously there’s more going for it than what’s listed, but no sense giving anything away. Oh, and did I mention it’s the first in a series? The Tainted Cup just came out this year, so we’ll have some waiting to do (2025 according to google), but with the character, world, and story setup that happens in these pages, we’ll before too long be able to return to this world and continue sleuthing with Din and Ana.

One surprising aspect for me was the amount of violence in the book. And by that, I mean there was much less than I expected. Most fantasy has crazy action scenes with swords and magic and mythical beasts. Mysteries often have chases and, of course, murders. You’d think that crossing the two genres would ratchet that up a bit. Not really. And that’s not a bad thing. It wasn’t even until after I’d finished that I’d had this realization. Personal preference: I’d have loved some more fights. But it worked just fine without them.

I very much appreciated how the information was doled out to the reader. Sometimes we got the info and made the connection along with the characters. Sometimes the detail was mentioned chapters earlier and only became relevant at a later time and it was on us to remember it. And other times we were given hints at known information that wasn’t pertinent in the moment, but became a promise of a meaningful reveal later.

But how, as a writer, do you determine what information to give and when? That’s a good question, and one that applies to more than just mysteries. You might have guessed it, our craft subject of the day is:

Information Rationing.

Let’s start with characters who have information. When it comes to non-perspective characters, information rationing isn’t too difficult. People lie. Or they’re ignorant. Or they tell half-truths, intentional or not. You can pick any number of reasons why a non-perspective character will omit information, assuming it works with the story and their character of course. Bilbo doesn’t tell Frodo the details of his ring. The Dursleys tell Harry his parents died in a car crash. The International Fleet doesn’t tell Ender those aren’t just games. They’ve got reasons, and those reasons make sense for the characters and the plot.

Perspective characters are trickier. When Katniss has that flashback about Peeta giving her bread, we learn something about the both of them that impacts the story later on. That memory is triggered and she conveys that information to us. But what if we she withheld that memory? The characters’ connection later on wouldn’t make as much sense.

Even more to the point, take when Penelope is truly shocked about something Lady Whistledown said. It doesn’t make any sense. She is Lady Whistledown. The character’s knowledge of her secret role is hidden, even in her POV. Unless there’s a Fight Club situation going on, she would reasonably have thought once or twice about the fact that she is the one writing gossip.

An effective way around this is for the character to be cognizant of the fact that they have information, and then move on. Everyone has secrets, but let’s say we’re in your head, and your secret comes up. You’re not going to not think about it. That’s silly. And unrealistic. And it loses the reader’s trust.

In The Tainted Cup, there’s a situation just like that. Din (and this isn’t really a spoiler since he thinks about it right away in chapter one) has somewhat regular thoughts about not wanting Ana to find out what he did, or what his limitations are. We eventually learn the truth, and all his actions make perfect sense because of it. But we don’t feel cheated as the reader, because Din was honest with us about what he knew, and we knew why he wasn’t going into specifics.

And beyond character information, there’s story information. One way story information is distributed is via the plot. For the longest time, those two terms were synonymous in my head. The way I like to think about it now is the story is what happens. The plot is the order in which we see it happen. In Edward P. Jones’ The Known World, we see the story of this fictional county through the lives of its many inhabitants. The stories are given to us in bits and pieces, from character to character and back again. If all those characters’ stories were told chronologically, one at a time, we’d still get the whole story, but we’d lose so much context and interconnection as we experienced each one. The rationing of information, the order in which the story is told, is was makes that story great. One of the many reasons, actually.

And of course we have to talk about mysteries. Finding clues, finding information, is what those books are all about. There are probably a ton of different ways to go about it, but I like to look at a mystery’s disbursement of information like a family tree. A likely incestuous family tree, but you get the idea. At the bottom is, for the sake of the analogy, you, the inciting incident, the moment that kicks the story off. From there we branch up to the parents, the clues we find. Some people only have one parent, some have two or four or even more. And those parents don’t exist in a vacuum. They have parents and cousins and aunts and uncles and secret lovers and all that.

But how do you know just how many parents your story needs? How many different people is your grandpa going to make kids with? For that, I start at the other end of the family tree. Your great great great great grandparent, for example. The bad guy. I need to figure out what they did, who they did it with, and why they did it. Each of those is one of their kids. Each of those kids will have their own motivations and actions and relationships, making kids of their own. Sometimes those kids will meet, sometimes they’ll get a little incestuous. But before long there’ll be this massive family tree of plot, all leading to the bad guy. You just need to find one of the bottom descendants and start your story there.

As with any incestuous relationship, the goal of the participants is to keep it hidden. Your protagonist needs to figure out which cousins did which cousins, and why. Surely it wasn’t just because of a pair of big brown eyes. Right? Right? Treat each step of the family tree as a new secret. Some won’t be hidden, they’ll just need to be traced. “Ohhhh, that’s who my great-grandma was.” Others will definitely be hidden and will take a bit more work. “Aunt Peggy did what?!” But once all the tree has been revealed, each clue, each relationship, will make sense and support the structure of the entire tree.

Wow. I had not planned on that analogy, especially not as much lover from the same mother. But I think it works. And you know what else works? The Tainted Cup. Without further ado, here’s how The Tainted Cup fares with The Author’s Arsenal.

For excellent character creation and portrayal, I award The Seal. Ana definitely is set up to be a big player in future books, but Din especially shines. For phenomenal world-building, I award The Scroll. The ecology of the world alone is astounding, but add in the politics and history and classism… very nice. And for brilliant storytelling, I award The Quill Pen. In order for a mystery to work, the storytelling has to be on point. And it very much is.

If you you’re a fan of either fantasy or mystery, and especially if you’re both, I highly recommend picking up The Tainted Cup. I don’t think I’ve read anything quite like it, and I’m certainly glad I did.

As always, feel free to let me know if there’s a book you want reviewed.

Book Review: Miranda and Caliban

Posted on June 13, 2024 by erictaveren

I want to start this review off with a disclaimer: I am in no way professing to be a Shakespeare expert. Am I smarter than the average bear regarding The Bard? Yes. Evidence: I subbed a high school English class a few months back and they were studying Romeo and Juliet. A couple of kids said they were shocked by the ending, and I was like, what? He literally told you it was going to happen. At the beginning. Like a bad movie trailer. Then I recited the prologue from memory.

While not an expert, after majoring in English and Theatre Arts, I’ve got a healthy bit of Shakespeare under my belt. And of all his plays, my favorite is The Tempest. I, for kicks and giggles, rewatched my Blu-ray copy of Helen Mirren’s Tempest a few weeks ago. I have a fairly detailed character work-up and world-building done for a Tempest retelling of my own I’d like to write. L. Jagi Lamplighter’s Prospero’s Daughter trilogy is on my shelf, patiently waiting its turn. So you can imagine my excitement when I heard about Jacqueline Carey’s Miranda and Caliban.

My first exposure to Jacqueline Carey came back in high school when Kushiel’s Dart was published. It’s an alternate history set in France, with fantasy elements. It was steamy. And BDSM-y. 2001 me definitely was not expecting what I’d stumbled across. Kushiel’s Dart was Romantasy before that was even a term. So when I picked up Miranda and Caliban and saw their physical closeness on the cover, you can imagine the expectations that bloomed in my mind.

Those expectations immediately ran into a brick wall. For those who haven’t read The Tempest, let me give you a very truncated version: Prospero, the rightful Duke of Milan, and his daughter Miranda are marooned on an island, having been nefariously exiled by his brother Antonio with the help of the King of Naples. On the island with them are Caliban, a monstrous-looking native, and Ariel, a powerful sprite, both of whom serve Prospero against their will.

With Ariel’s help, Prospero conjures a storm that shipwrecks his usurping brother, the King of Naples, and the King’s son Ferdinand. Prospero orchestrates events to lead Ferdinand to fall in love with Miranda. Meanwhile, he confronts the conspirators, leading them to repentance, avoids an assassination plot by Caliban, and ultimately forgives his enemies. He renounces his magical powers, frees Ariel, and prepares to return to Milan to reclaim his dukedom.

All’s well that ends well.

The problem I had at the get-go was this line from The Tempest:

Filth as thou art, with humane care, and lodged thee

In mine own cell, till thou didst seek to violate

The honor of my child.

Act 1, Scene 2, Lines 349-351

Basically, we learn that Caliban at one point tried to rape Miranda. And that he’s not sorry about it. So with this line in mind—with Miranda and Caliban being a love story—Ricky Ricardo started shouting in my head: “Carey, you got some ‘splainin’ to do!”

I never want to give spoilers, so I’ll just say what my expectation was for how this could work out. Prospero is the one who says Caliban tried to rape her, and Caliban (who is said to not have the greatest command of English) says he wishes it had happened. Miranda does not corroborate Prospero’s claim. The only way I could see this working was that they were in love and were just about to do the dirty, when Prospero walks in. He assumes it’s rape, when in actuality it was consensual.

That was my guess. I won’t say how it played out, except that Carey’s story makes sense regarding that line. There was another sticky part that I hadn’t thought about initially, though its problematic nature became very clear. Prospero and Miranda have been stranded on the island for twelve years. She was three when they arrived. That means she’s currently fifteen years old. Caliban was already there and living on his own, and he’s now nineteen years old. For them to have a relationship, especially a physical one… that’s a bit dicey.

With Carey’s retelling focusing on everything leading up to The Tempest, we’re able to see Miranda and Caliban’s relationship grow and bloom into something almost beautiful, contrasting well with the island and the demands of Prospero. What I enjoyed the most was the integration of magic into the story. In the play, Prospero does *hand wave* MAGIC. No explanation, nothing beyond the play telling us so. In this novel, we learn how the magic works, and what all the characters go through as a result of this magic.

It’s also fun to get internal monologues, character reactions, and thoughts to give deeper meaning to their relationships. Yes, actors can convey much on stage, but the text of Tempest, as with plays in general, is limiting. It’s the nature of the medium. But here, instead of actors conveying the story, Carey does so via the novel.

The only quibble I have with the novel is regarding the relationship logistics and my modern sensibilities. When they’re younger, we know there’s an age gap, but all their interactions are innocent. Friendly. As they get older, we learn the exact gap: four years. Of course, there can be the arguments of being historically accurate, or accurate based on the source material, but with adaptations, there’s always room for leeway. Creative liberties. Every reader’s sensibilities vary, but for me, the age gap might have been a good area to fudge.

And that brings us to the topic of the day: adaptations.

We’ve all seen direct adaptations of books: Harry Potter, Lord of the Rings, Gone Girl, etc. You’ve likely even seen direct adaptations of Shakespeare, like the Leonardo DiCaprio Romeo and Juliet, or the Keanu Reeves Much Ado about Nothing. I want to talk about adaptations that use the source material as a springboard as opposed to a script.

An interesting adaptation that comes to mind is Wicked. Gregory Maguire’s novel was adapted from the original Wizard of Oz novel. Specifically, the story of how Elphaba came to be the Wicked Witch of the West. Wicked was then adapted into a musical. That musical is now being adapted into film. But if we’re talking about Shakespeare, look at Lion King. Or 10 Things I Hate About You. Those are adaptations of Hamlet and Taming of the Shrew.

Or, if we want to look at novels, A Thousand Acres by Jane Smiley is King Lear. Fool by Christopher Moore is also King Lear. Moore’s protagonist also headlines two more Shakespearean adaptations, A Serpent of Venice and Shakespeare for Squirrels, the first being a combination of Merchant of Venice and Othello, the other A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Then there’s Shylock is My Name by Howard Jacobson, very clearly Merchant of Venice. And those are just the ones off the top of my head.

But what’s the point of adaptations? Why do we have them? It’s hard to speak on the motivations for others, but for me, it’s about the love of the story and characters. I doubt Christopher Moore woke up one morning saying, “Man, I hate that King Lear garbage. I should do it better. And raunchier.” More likely, given the sequels, he has a love for Shakespeare and wanted to share that love with an audience that may not have been as open to The Bard.

That’s another reason right there. Audience. This can work two ways. First, it can tap into a fan base that already exists. Had I picked up A Thousand Acres and read about a dying farmer and the drama revolving around what’d happen to his farmland, I’d have chucked that across the room and not looked back. But when I was given it and told it was King Lear, I was all, “Ooooh, interesting…”

The flip side is introducing readers to Shakespeare who have zero interest in him. You wouldn’t believe how much groaning and complaining I hear during the Romeo and Juliet sections in high school classes. But If I gave the kids who like dick jokes a copy of Fool, and the ones interested in modern fiction Shylock is My Name, all of a sudden you’ve got people invested in the stories of Shakespeare.

What makes an adaptation though? In Miranda and Caliban, Carey created a whole narrative to give context to the relationship between the titular characters, something portrayed in the original text as him lusting after her. Moore’s Fool takes us through the events of King Lear, but through the eyes of Pocket, and takes great liberties with the fool’s relationship with the other characters. Smiley’s A Thousand Acres’ setting is completely separate from King Lear’s, but runs through the same plot and character concerns. Each is an adaptation, and each is done differently.

As someone who has plans to write a Shakespearean adaptation, I can say that my goal is to introduce new readers. There’s not a ton of overlap with sci-fi and Shakespeare, so that could be a fun demographic to tap into. Also, as I said at the beginning, The Tempest is my favorite of his plays, so a love of the source material goes a long way.

So, with this broad understanding of the purpose of adaptations, how does Miranda and Caliban hold up? How does it fare with the Author’s Arsenal?

For exceptional character development, giving new depth to established characters, I award The Seal. For world-building and setting, giving life to an island and magic almost entirely unspecified in the play, I award The Scroll.

For non-Tempest readers, Miranda and Caliban is an engaging introduction to the world of the Tempest. For Tempest fans, it adds much more depth to the characters, Prospero and Ariel included. Jacqueline Carey has done a fantastic job of creating a narrative that will satisfy those familiar and unfamiliar with Shakespeare alike.

That’s all for now. As always, let me know if you have a book I should review.

Book Review: The Blinding Knife

Posted on May 25, 2024 by erictaveren

So, I officially hate Brent Weeks. Not actual hate where I wish him harm or anything, but more in the “man, you’ve made my life inconvenient” sort of way.

The Blinding Knife is the second in the Lightbringer series, following The Black Prism. My hatred stems from his magic system and world building. Eight years ago (I know, because I have my notes), I came up with this fun magic system involving the color spectrum, where people have different powers based on the color of light they’re exposed to. That’s super simplified, but the basic premise. I told my idea to Gavin, one of my fellow MFA students, and he was like, “Oh, like the Brent Weeks books.”

Say what? I’d never heard of Brent Weeks at that point, and the idea that someone had already published a magic system that was the same as the one I’d just spent a ton of time working on was disheartening. At the end of the semester that classmate gifted me a copy of The Black Prism so I could see what similarities existed. And because he really liked the book.

Flash forward to this past summer. I hadn’t read The Black Prism yet, not because I didn’t want to, but just because of its placement on the “to read” list. I was thinking about another story, and I mentioned to my wife that creating a base number system based on the story’s pantheon seemed super neat, especially when information could be interpreted different ways. I put some work into that, but mainly it was an idea to come back to.

Then I started reading The Black Prism in the fall. And yes, the magic was based on light. To my relief, that was where the similarity ended. How the magic functions and is tapped into is completely different, but any chromatic based magic system I use will still be seen as less novel because of The Black Prism’s existence.

Then I read The Blinding Knife these last couple of weeks. And guess what it introduced? A base number system based on the story’s pantheon. My jaw dropped as it was explained in-story. Are you kidding me, Brent Weeks?! A friend of my is now joking that I read the entire series in the past and have shut it out of my conscious memory. He’s waiting for my next idea and for it to be something from one of the next books. Sigh.

But, as much as I can joke that I hate Brent Weeks, I am thoroughly enjoying his books. So, let’s review The Blinding Knife (with minimal Black Prism spoilers).

The Blinding Knife picks up immediately where The Black Prism left off. Kip, Gavin, Karris, and Liv each leave Garriston with their own revelations about themselves and their companions. Kip is struggling to find (and earn) his place in the Chromeria, while the shadow of his father looms over him. And he’s got that fancy knife. Gavin’s mortality clock has advanced and he still has most of his great purposes to fulfill. Karris knows, and boy is that conflicting. And Liv is seeing things in a new light *ahem* and needs to reconcile what that’ll cost.

A few new characters are also introduced as Kip learns how to use his magic, and those relationships are clearly setting up more drama in future books. The Colors are dragging their feet and Andross Guile is still a world-class douche. A card game is introduced that becomes important for multiple reasons.

One of the more interesting aspects of the second installment is how the magic system is able to expand without (usually) feeling like deus ex machina. Weeks uses a simple but effective tactic for this: everything we’ve learned is what the Chromeria has authorized. In other words, there are secrets to the magic that rebels, color wights, self-taught drafters, etc., can, in a narrative sense, spontaneously use, in a way that doesn’t feel like cheating on the author’s part.

We also dive a bit deeper into the religion of the world. In the first book, we heard Orholam’s name prayed to and cursed with all the time. Now we are introduced to the concept of the Old Gods. Religion becomes a central arc for one of the main supporting characters and drives much of the action in the story (as it does in the real world).

Another aspect that impressed me was the escalation of stakes. For example—and without giving spoilery details—there’s a romance between two characters. And it’s not working. Then, yay, it’s going to happen! Then, shit! Oh, it’s doomed. Then, yay, it is happening. Then, shit shit shit, there’s no way it’s happening now. I won’t say how it ends, but the escalations kept me on my toes and very concerned for the outcome of the characters.

I think the part I enjoyed the most about the book wasn’t something I was actively aware of while reading. And that’s the point, and the goal of fiction. I became so immersed in the story, in the world, that I was happily along for the ride. I didn’t stop to analyze or think about what was happening (that happened when I wasn’t reading), I was able to sit back and just read.

As with the first book, and as to be expected in epic fantasy, there are fight scenes galore. Most are small, some larger, and of course there’s always the climatic confrontation. These scenes didn’t exist merely to have physical conflict. There is a narrative and/or character purpose for each. And each does double duty to delve further into the magic system and the world the characters inhabit.

And that brings me to the craft topic of the review. I just said that fights are a staple, and being such, there’s the risk of a dime-a-dozen feel. That doesn’t happen here because of *drum roll* specificity.

Specificity is the cure for the common trope. It allows you to take any idea and make it your own, no matter how common or overly used. For example: You ever hear of Star Wars? Hunger Games? Interview with the Vampire? Wizard of Oz? What do they all have in common? They all follow the same story arc. Almost exactly the same. What makes them different? The details. Specificity.

I know that’s a very broad brush with which to talk about details making stories unique. Let me use another example, this time from The Blinding Knife itself. I’d mentioned the introduction of a card game in the world of the story. It’s called Nine Kings. As I was reading the story I was engaged with the cards and their descriptions, as well as the strategy Kip employed while playing. There are so many different cards that there can be different decks, and each deck is normally themed around a color (the colors of the Chromeria). I recall having the passing thought at one moment that it reminded me of Magic the Gathering, but then the story moved on and so did I.

Well, as it happens, Brent Weeks was introduced to Magic the Gathering after writing the first book, but before writing the second. He enjoyed the game so much, that he wrote his own version of it into the sequel. Now, for those who don’t know, I am very into Magic the Gathering. I’ve played since middle school and have two massive library card catalogs filled with cards. Even with my massive history and knowledge of the game, I only had the briefest of moments of recognition with Nine Kings. Why? Specificity.

Weeks was able to take a concept that I was very familiar with and tweak it, adding detail after detail after detail in order to make it unique and distinct. This can be done with anything, no matter the source material. Have a character with a physical ailment/limitation? That’s nothing new. But if you’re specific about it, it becomes part of the character, as opposed to a descriptor of the character. Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow’s Gabrielle Zevin spent chapter after chapter on Sam’s ankle/foot injury, and we were given a character whose physical limitations impacted the story in unique and heartbreaking ways, different from any other character with a physical limitation.

Depending on your choices, you don’t need to spend chapter after chapter on those details, but you need enough to make whatever concept or decision you’ve come up with fully your own. I say that I hate Brent Weeks because of the similar ideas, but the key to making that not an issue is specificity. We can both have magic related to light, but the how, the why, the drawbacks and benefits, all the nuances a magic system needs are what will separate them and make my story stand apart. Specificity.

Now, time for the big reveal. What tools in The Author’s Arsenal does Brent Weeks wield in The Blinding Knife?

For exceptional storytelling/narrative, I award the Quill Pen. There are a lot of balls for Weeks to juggle, a lot of motivations playing against one another, and it all flows so smoothly that the complexities don’t bog down the reader.

For depth and richness of theme, I award the Inkwell. Colors. The Light Spectrum. Wavelengths. What seems like a limited concept has been integrated into the world so richly that we’re fully on board with this unique magic system and how it colors *cough* every aspect of life in that world. Each color means something, and the characters act and react appropriately based on those colors.

And for world-building and setting, I award the Scroll. It sort of overlaps with the theme award, but I can’t say enough about the fully realized world we’re given and all the minutia included to ground that world and make it real. Details. Specificity. It’s all there.

A Blinding Knife has been the most enjoyable book I’ve read all year. My jaw literally dropped, I couldn’t put it down, and my wife more than one time had to sit through me retelling her aspects of the plot she had not one iota of investment in. Good times.

And there you are. If you have a suggestion for a review, feel free to drop it in the comments or send a message.

Book Review: If you don’t have something nice to say…

Posted on May 18, 2024 by erictaveren

Let me start by saying the title is a little misleading. I do have something nice say for each of these books. But just one thing. I could probably think of more, but as a whole I found these to be lackluster reads. I’m definitely not going to put in the effort of giving each a full review.

The books in question are Alcatraz Versus the Evil Librarians, by Brandon Sanderson, A Map of Days, by Ransom Riggs, and Outlaw: Champions of Kamigawa, by Scott McGough.

I feel that I should give reasons for why I read these particular books. For the Sanderson one, I’ve liked everything Sanderson. Until now. For the Riggs one, I’ve read the three prior Miss Peregrine’s books and have enjoyed them. But the arc ended with book three. This was the start of something new. And the McGough one, I’ve played Magic The Gathering since middle school, and recently decided to read all of the novelizations of the sets.

Each of these books is in a series. I don’t intend to read additional Alcatraz or Miss Peregrine. I will read more of the Magic books, because they change authors, characters, worlds, etc. That, and nostalgia goes a long way in relation to entertainment. Why do you think Ready Player One was so successful?

But, the one good thing about each:

Alcatraz Versus the Evil Librarians: The magic system is super neat, which is no surprise coming from Brandon Sanderson. I want to know more about how it works. Unfortunately, I actively don’t want to deal with Alcatraz so much that it overshadows the magic.

A Map of Days: We got glimpses into a bunch of new time periods and settings, and their relation to the present day of the story was interesting.

Outlaw: Champions of Kamigawa: The description of how spell-casting and various magics worked was neat, especially knowing the cards those spells are based on, especially in conjunction with the characters wielding them, coming to life as opposed to a picture on a piece of cardboard.

And I’ll leave it at that. Hopefully I won’t have too many more of these posts, but unfortunately not all books can go the distance.

Book Review: A Court of Mist and Fury

Posted on May 11, 2024 by erictaveren

When I told one of my tenth graders I was reading this book, she was scandalized. We were on the topic of books because I saw her reading The Belgariad, which I was shocked by as I haven’t seen anyone reading that since I’d read it over twenty years ago. Apparently her dad’s making her read it. Good for him. And her, too.

Anyway, the idea that a dude, especially a grown-up dude, was reading that book was almost too much for her to take. I can only guess at her ideas as to why I was reading New Adult Romantasy (too sexually graphic for YA, IMO). Part of the reason was that I’d seen so much about the series across social media that I knew I’d have to give it a go at some point. Part was that Jacqueline Carey teed up the genre for me back in my Belgariad days. The third part of the equation was there were no holds on it in the Libby app. The stars aligned (and not just in the Rhysand sort of way).

Warning for book one (A Court of Thorns and Roses) spoilers. Obviously, in a book review for a sequel, there will be spoilers for book one. If you haven’t read it, stop here. If you have, here we go.

A Court of Mist and Fury picks up with Feyre and Tamlin, she newly fae and he once again fully empowered. They’re engaged, they’re in love, just what’d you’d expect following the ending of the first book.

But things are not as they seem. Feyre had made a deal with Rhysand to spend one week a month with him in the Night Court (sans John Larroquette), where she’ll learn exactly who Rhysand is, and what life is like for the fae when not under Amarantha’s thumb.

Feyre not only has to deal with that bargain, but also the fame that comes with being the one to stop Amarantha. Everyone knows, and everyone is very, very grateful. And I’m not just talking about her Summer Court subjects (she is engaged to Tamlin, after all), but the fae across all the courts.

I don’t want to get into spoilers, and because the narrative structure of this book is different than A Court of Thorns and Roses, it’s hard to say more than what I already have without giving away surprises. What I will do is offer comparisons between the two.

More magic? Yes. More of the hot and sticky? Yes. Higher and clearer stakes? Yes. More fun action? Yes. More Feyre acting illogical? No, thankfully. All around, it’s a better book than the predecessor.

I spent most of the first section afraid that it would be nothing but illogical Feyre, but as soon as it switched gears I was on board. Tons of fun character development, world building, and contextualizing moments from the first book that enriched the narrative and made me like the first book more than I initially did.

Some of the non-perspective character motivations were a little shaky at times, but with so many characters, it’s hard to make everything fit snuggly. It has been the most fun read of the year so far, but it’s not without its flaws.

Which brings me to the craft subject of the day: foreshadowing.

Foreshadowing is a fairly common concept, but also very broad. Simplistically, foreshadowing is a warning or indication of a future event. But that definition implies we recognize the foreshadowing. Sometimes that’s the point, to purposefully clue the reader into something. Concrete foreshadowing. When Romeo dreams of seeing Juliet dead, the audience knows that’s how he’s going to find her. When Chekhov overtly draws attention to the gun, we know it’s going to play a role.

Other times, we’re given hints that only make sense after the reveal. Prophecy foreshadowing. Like in Sixth Sense, when the kid says he sees dead people, and they don’t know they’re dead. When we find out Bruce Willis is dead, that line carries a lot more meaning. Or even in A Court of Thorns and Roses, when there’s the line about Tamlin’s stone heart, we think it’s a common metaphor about being cold, or callous. Then we find out it’s a literal stone heart which is the key to defeating Amarantha.

Flashbacks and flash-forwards are another common medium for foreshadowing. In Hunger Games, we get the flashback of Peeta giving Katniss bread, essentially feeding her when she’s in need. Later, when Peeta needs feeding, Katniss feeds him, balancing out that act of kindness.

Next up is abstract, or symbolic foreshadowing. This is often used with setting. It was a dark and stormy night, or, a fog settled over the town. It can also be used with objects that have cultural meanings/baggage. In American Beauty, there is the iconic scene of the young girl lying in a pile rose petals, with more falling on her. Roses are often a symbol of romance and lust. In the same movie, you see the main character’s wife methodically pruning the roses in her yard. This will give us expectations about his relationship with both those women.

Lastly, we have fallacy foreshadowing, or a red herring. This is similar to the concrete foreshadowing, except it is supposed to trick the reader, as opposed to give them insight. When Obi-Wan tells Luke that Vader killed Luke’s father, that sets up the surprise reveal that Vader is Luke’s father. In Game of Thrones, Littlefinger pits Arya and Sansa against each other, readying us for a sister vs sister showdown, but they join forces and turn on him.

Foreshadowing is effective in that we have learned how to interpret the various types, and when the reveal comes, we are pleased or satisfied. When foreshadowing doesn’t work is when it tries to be one type, and ends up falling flat, or turns into another type. When you set up a proper foreshadow, you essentially make a promise to the reader. If you don’t fulfill that promise, the moment falls flat, and you lose that reader’s trust.

As I mentioned earlier, Sarah J. Maas handles foreshadowing well in the first book, especially with that stone heart moment. There are good instances in A Court of Mist and Fury as well (the one that stick out involves her sisters), but also a mishandled one that, for me, kept me at arm’s length the rest of the story. I won’t give it away, I’ll just say it involves “merfolk”, so you know what I’m talking about when it happens.

So how does A Court of Mist and Fury fare with the Author’s Arsenal?

For world-building and setting, A Court of Mist and Fury earns The Scroll. We had a taste of the fae world in the first book, and we really delved deep and explored so many new locations and cultures, in addition to expanded on what we already knew.

And for character building, it earns The Seal. Many of the characters were presented in new light, and grew to be much more than they were before. The relationships between Feyre and her companions (and their relationships with each other) are was drive the narrative and suck the reader into this world Maas has created.

Unlike some other books I’ve read recently, I’m looking forward to the next installment. I’m just hoping Elain becomes more than just a pretty mannequin.

Side note: If I had the time and energy, I’d have tied The Belgariad into the review’s ending, a sort of foreshadowing. But it has been twenty-plus years since I’ve read them and it’s hard to remember specific details. Forgive me. :)