![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kalinara posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
i_read_whatSo the prologue introduced us to Niall, this book's main character. It was only a brief glimpse (and I'm honestly not sure why it was separated out as a prologue, considering that chapter one starts off in the same scene), but we at least got to see that Niall, unlike his predecessor, actually seems rather ordinary.
That may seem like faint praise, but given how Legacy of the Sword slammed us over and over again with Donal's Chosen One status, I'll fucking take it.
So we start out with a bit more of an angsty monologue from Niall, that lays out his issue pretty clearly:
I think no one can fully understand what pain and futility and emptiness are. Not as I understand them: a man without a lir. And what of them I do understand comes not of the body but of the spirit. Of the soul. Because to know oneself a lirless Cheysuli is an exquisite sort of torture I would wish on no man, not even to save myself.
My father was young, too young, when he received his lir, and then he bonded with two: Taj and Lorn, falcon and wolf. Ian was fifteen when he formed his bond with Tasha. At ten, I hoped I would be as my father and receive my lir early. At thirteen and fourteen I hoped I would at least be younger than Ian, if I could not mimic my father. At fifteen and sixteen I prayed to all the gods I could to send me my lir as soon as possible, period, so I could know myself a man and a warrior of the clan. At seventeen, I began to dread it would never happen, never at all; that I would live out my life a lirless Cheysuli, only half a man, denied all the magic of my race.
And now, at eighteen, I knew those fears for truth.
Lir really should be italicized but I am way too lazy for that bullshit. There are a lot of fucking italics in this series.
Anyway, to continue damning Roberson with faint praise, I actually do like this. I do think maybe Niall needs to get some perspective and meet people who are hungry or homeless or orphaned, but he's an eighteen year old prince, so I'm willing to give him some allowance here. But there's a really interesting element here that I'm not sure that I've seen touched upon in a lot of sequels, namely, what is it like to be the less-impressive child of the Chosen One?
Niall of course gives us a look at what he's envious of:
Ian still knelt by the king stag. Tasha—lean, lovely, lissome Tasha—flowed across the clearing to her lir and rubbed her head against one bare arm. Automatically Ian slipped that arm around her, caressing sleek feline head and tugging affectionately at tufted ears. Tasha purred more loudly than ever, and I saw the distracted smile on Ian’s face as he responded to the mountain cat’s affection. A warrior in communion with his lir is much like a man in perfect union with a woman; another man, shut out of either relationship, is doubly cursed…and doubly lonely.
...I really do wish Roberson wouldn't lean so heavily on that "perfect union" comparison. I know that Cheysuli do not bang their lir, but sometimes...
Anyway, for all his angsting, Niall does acknowledge that [g]rowing up a prince and heir to the throne of Homana was more than enough for most; would have been more than enough for [him], were [he] not Cheysuli-born. So I already like him more than Donal, who tried to convince us that being a prince was a terrible burden. Niall appreciates his rank and title, and is trying to be content with them.
Niall also proves himself better than his father by showing some capacity for empathy, noting that as a bastard, Ian is only tolerated among Homanan aristocracy because he's the son of the Mujhar:
And so Ian, as much as myself, knew what it was to lack absolute acceptance. It was, I suppose, his own part of the discordant harmony in an otherwise pleasing melody. It only manifested itself for a different reason.
Hey, I'll take it.
And actually, Ian and Niall seem to have a pretty decent brotherly relationship. Ian notices right away that Niall is angsting about something:
“Niall—?” Ian rose with the habitual grace I tried to emulate and could not; I am too tall, too heavy. I lack the total ease of movement born in so many Cheysuli. “What is it?”
I thought I had learned to mask my face, even to Ian. It served no purpose to tell him what torture it was to see my brother with his lir, or my father with his. Most of the time it remained a dull ache, and bearable, as a sore tooth is bearable so long as it does not turn rotten in the jaw. But occasionally the tooth throbs, sending pain of unbearable intensity through my mind; my mask had slipped, and Ian had seen the face I wore behind it.
...okay, I do think the melodrama is going to get a LITTLE old. Niall is very eloquent in his angst, but egads, man. I suspect your mask isn't as great as you think.
That said, I also think that little note about their respective heights/builds does a nice job of reminding us that it's not JUST about the cool magic pet. It's about being connected to his culture. Something that's reinforced when, after a bit of banter, Ian suggests that they take the dead stag to Clankeep for preparation.
I shut my mouth on an answer and did not say what I longed to: that I much preferred the palace. Clankeep is Cheysuli; lirless, I am extremely uncomfortable there. I avoid it when I can.
Ian glanced up. “Niall, it is your home as much as Mujhara.” So easily he read me, even by my silence.
I shook my head. “Homana-Mujhar is my place. Clankeep is yours.” Before he could speak I turned away. “I will get the horses. My legs are younger than yours.”
It is an old joke between us, the five years that separate us, but for once he would not let it go. He stepped across the dead king stag and caught my arm.
“Niall,” The levity was banished from his face. “Rujho, I cannot pretend to know what it is to lack a lir. But neither can I pretend your lack does not affect me.”
Ian is also not Donal, by the way. He's a good brother. He cares.
Niall gets to monologue out loud for once, about his pain, and well, I'm rolling my eyes a little. It's not HIS fault. He's just saying his feelings out loud, which is a good thing! But I JUST heard it in first person narrative form two pages ago. So it's a little repetitive. Stop it Roberson, Niall deserves better.
He does touch on an additional issue though: Aislinn.
I smiled, albeit wryly, more than a little resigned. “How does it affect my mother? Because to her, my lacking a lir emphasizes a certain other bloodline in me. It reminds her that in addition to looking almost exactly like her father, I reflect all his Homanan traits. No Cheysuli in me, oh no; I am Homanan to the bone. I am Carillon come again.”
The last was said a trifle bitterly; for all I am used to the fact I look so much like my grandsire, it is not an easy knowledge. I would sooner do without it.
Ian sighed. “Aye. I should have seen it. The gods know she goes on and on about Carillon enough, linking her son with her father. There are times I think she confuses the two of you.”
I shied away from that idea almost at once. It whispered of sickness; it promised obsession. No son wishes to know his mother obsessed, even if she is.
And she was not. She was not.
Oh dear.
There's also a note about Aislinn's dynamic with Ian. They don't hate each other. They don't even dislike each other. But there's no real affection. Niall notes that it's a toleration, or mutual apathy. And that's a little sad, too.
But it's interesting. I don't remember this sort of familial complexity coming up in previous books. It makes me hope that we'll get a scene where Aislinn and Ian find some kind of common ground. I like Aislinn, and while I completely understand her antipathy toward her husband's other family, that's not Ian's fault. And I think that while he's grown now, Ian might still need a mother's comfort sometimes.
(It makes me wonder also, we know that Niall envies Ian. Does Ian envy Niall, too?)
So we get to see Clankeep:
My legendary grandsire had, thank the gods, come home again to take back his stolen throne; his return ended Solindish and Ihlini domination and Shaine’s purge. Freed of the threat of extirpation, the Cheysuli had also come home from secret keeps and built Homanan ones again. Clankeep itself, spreading across the border between woodlands and meadowlands, had gone up after Donal succeeded to the Lion on Carillon’s death. And though the Cheysuli were granted freedom to live where they chose after decades of outlawry, they still preferred the closeness of the forests. Clankeep, ringed by un-mortared walls of undressed, gray-green stone, was the closest thing to a city the Cheysuli claimed.
As always, I felt the familiar admixture of emotions as we entered the sprawling keep: sorrow—a trace of trepidation—a fleeting sense of anger—an undertone of pride. A skein of raw emotions knotted itself inside my soul…but mostly, more than anything, I knew a tremendous yearning to belong as Ian belonged.
Clankeep is the heart of the Cheysuli, regardless that my father rules from Homana-Mujhar. It is Clankeep that feeds the spirit of each Cheysuli; Clankeep where the shar tahls keep the histories, traditions and rituals clear of taint. It is here they guard the remains of the prophecy of the Firstborn, warding the fragmented hide with all the power they can summon.
Like Donal, Niall wants to be at Clankeep, because then he'd be Cheysuli. Poor guy. For all the monologuing, I DO feel for him.
But hey, remember, there are actually THREE siblings! And now we meet Isolde, who is hanging out in the rain!
“Ian! Niall! Both my rujholli at once?” She wore crimson, which was like her; it stood out against the damp grayness of the day as much as her bright ebullience did. I saw her come dashing through the drifting wet curtains as if she hardly felt them, damp wool skirts gathered up to show off furred boots of sleek dark otter pelt. Silver bells rimmed the cuffs of the boots, chiming as she ran. Matching bells were braided into thick black hair; like Ian, she was all Cheysuli. Even to the Old Blood in her veins.
She's delighted to see the king's stag, and the brothers banter a bit about how they hunted it. Niall, like little siblings must, totally tattles to his big sister.
“How kind of you to recall it.” I smiled down at ’Solde. “He set Tasha on me the moment I prepared to loose my own arrow, and the cat spoiled my shot.”
’Solde laughed, smothered it with a hand, then attempted, unsuccessfully, to give Ian a stern glance of remonstration. At three years younger than Ian and two years older than I, she did what she could to mother us both. Though I had my own mother in Homana-Mujhar, ’Solde and Ian did not; Sorcha was long dead.
So anyway, they head inside. There's more banter:
’Solde stepped aside, shaking her head in disappointment, and all the bright bells rang. “Babies, both of you, to be so particular about the weather. Warriors must be prepared for anything. Warriors never complain about the weather. Warriors—”
“’Solde, be still,” Ian suggested, calmly reining his stallion toward the nearest pavilion. “What you know of warriors could be fit into an acorn.”
“No,” she said, “at least a walnut. Or so Ceinn tells me.”
I love all three of them. Siblings!
That said, the Ceinn mention triggers Ian's protective older brother instincts. Niall is as clueless as we are, but APPARENTLY, Ceinn is a fellow warrior who has just asked Isolde to be his cheysula.
Honestly, I want to highlight all of this sibling exchange. It's just so delightfully siblingy. But I'll just show you some highlights.
“Ceinn?” Ian, knowing the warriors better than I, could afford to sound astonished; all I could do was stare. “Are you sure he said cheysula and not meijha?”
“The words do have entirely different sounds,” ’Solde told him pointedly, which would not please Ian any at all. But then, of course, she did not mean to. “And I do know the difference.”
Also:
Ian, still scowling, cast a glance at me. “Well? Are you going to say nothing to her?”
“Perhaps I might wish her luck,” I answered gravely. “Whenever has anything we have said to her made the slightest amount of difference?”
“Oh, it has,” Isolde said. “You just never noticed.”
I have no idea why I find them so likable, but I do.
Anyway, Ian asks why Ceinn, and Isolde answers that he pleases her. Does she need another reason?
Nope! But it does remind Niall, and us, of the separation between him and his half siblings:
Ian glanced at me, and I knew our thoughts ran along similar paths: for a woman like our sister, a free Cheysuli woman with only bastard ties to royalty, there need be no other reason.
For the Prince of Homana, however, there were multitudinous other reasons. Which was why I had been cradle-betrothed to a cousin I had never seen.
Gisella was her name. Gisella of Atvia. Daughter of Alaric himself, and my father’s sister, Bronwyn.
I feel for you here, Niall. The whole cousin-fucking thing is creepy.
Niall says that if Ceinn pleases Isolde, than that's good enough for Ian and him. Ian, a little more begrudgingly, agrees.
The chapter ends with another note of mild sibling jealousy, as Isolde admits that she knew they were coming because Tasha told her. Reminding Niall that "even she claimed gifts that I could not."
Okay, so. I DO like Niall a LOT more than Donal. I'd probably go so far as to say he's my favorite lead character that we've had so far (my actual favorite comes later), on account of he's actually got the capacity for empathy and isn't an intentional rapist. That said, the angst gets old, real fast.
I'm hoping that Roberson eases off on it a little. I can appreciate, intellectually, that the lir angst is actually a really big deal in Cheysuli culture, but not being Cheysuli myself, my capacity for sympathy only goes so far. I do appreciate the novelty of having a more ordinary protagonist, but I'd like him to stop whining about it.
That said, as I recall, Niall will get more substantial problems soon enough. Meanwhile, I'm glad to see that, so far at least, Ian is pretty great. I remember him being my favorite in this book, and I hope that holds true.
That may seem like faint praise, but given how Legacy of the Sword slammed us over and over again with Donal's Chosen One status, I'll fucking take it.
So we start out with a bit more of an angsty monologue from Niall, that lays out his issue pretty clearly:
I think no one can fully understand what pain and futility and emptiness are. Not as I understand them: a man without a lir. And what of them I do understand comes not of the body but of the spirit. Of the soul. Because to know oneself a lirless Cheysuli is an exquisite sort of torture I would wish on no man, not even to save myself.
My father was young, too young, when he received his lir, and then he bonded with two: Taj and Lorn, falcon and wolf. Ian was fifteen when he formed his bond with Tasha. At ten, I hoped I would be as my father and receive my lir early. At thirteen and fourteen I hoped I would at least be younger than Ian, if I could not mimic my father. At fifteen and sixteen I prayed to all the gods I could to send me my lir as soon as possible, period, so I could know myself a man and a warrior of the clan. At seventeen, I began to dread it would never happen, never at all; that I would live out my life a lirless Cheysuli, only half a man, denied all the magic of my race.
And now, at eighteen, I knew those fears for truth.
Lir really should be italicized but I am way too lazy for that bullshit. There are a lot of fucking italics in this series.
Anyway, to continue damning Roberson with faint praise, I actually do like this. I do think maybe Niall needs to get some perspective and meet people who are hungry or homeless or orphaned, but he's an eighteen year old prince, so I'm willing to give him some allowance here. But there's a really interesting element here that I'm not sure that I've seen touched upon in a lot of sequels, namely, what is it like to be the less-impressive child of the Chosen One?
Niall of course gives us a look at what he's envious of:
Ian still knelt by the king stag. Tasha—lean, lovely, lissome Tasha—flowed across the clearing to her lir and rubbed her head against one bare arm. Automatically Ian slipped that arm around her, caressing sleek feline head and tugging affectionately at tufted ears. Tasha purred more loudly than ever, and I saw the distracted smile on Ian’s face as he responded to the mountain cat’s affection. A warrior in communion with his lir is much like a man in perfect union with a woman; another man, shut out of either relationship, is doubly cursed…and doubly lonely.
...I really do wish Roberson wouldn't lean so heavily on that "perfect union" comparison. I know that Cheysuli do not bang their lir, but sometimes...
Anyway, for all his angsting, Niall does acknowledge that [g]rowing up a prince and heir to the throne of Homana was more than enough for most; would have been more than enough for [him], were [he] not Cheysuli-born. So I already like him more than Donal, who tried to convince us that being a prince was a terrible burden. Niall appreciates his rank and title, and is trying to be content with them.
Niall also proves himself better than his father by showing some capacity for empathy, noting that as a bastard, Ian is only tolerated among Homanan aristocracy because he's the son of the Mujhar:
And so Ian, as much as myself, knew what it was to lack absolute acceptance. It was, I suppose, his own part of the discordant harmony in an otherwise pleasing melody. It only manifested itself for a different reason.
Hey, I'll take it.
And actually, Ian and Niall seem to have a pretty decent brotherly relationship. Ian notices right away that Niall is angsting about something:
“Niall—?” Ian rose with the habitual grace I tried to emulate and could not; I am too tall, too heavy. I lack the total ease of movement born in so many Cheysuli. “What is it?”
I thought I had learned to mask my face, even to Ian. It served no purpose to tell him what torture it was to see my brother with his lir, or my father with his. Most of the time it remained a dull ache, and bearable, as a sore tooth is bearable so long as it does not turn rotten in the jaw. But occasionally the tooth throbs, sending pain of unbearable intensity through my mind; my mask had slipped, and Ian had seen the face I wore behind it.
...okay, I do think the melodrama is going to get a LITTLE old. Niall is very eloquent in his angst, but egads, man. I suspect your mask isn't as great as you think.
That said, I also think that little note about their respective heights/builds does a nice job of reminding us that it's not JUST about the cool magic pet. It's about being connected to his culture. Something that's reinforced when, after a bit of banter, Ian suggests that they take the dead stag to Clankeep for preparation.
I shut my mouth on an answer and did not say what I longed to: that I much preferred the palace. Clankeep is Cheysuli; lirless, I am extremely uncomfortable there. I avoid it when I can.
Ian glanced up. “Niall, it is your home as much as Mujhara.” So easily he read me, even by my silence.
I shook my head. “Homana-Mujhar is my place. Clankeep is yours.” Before he could speak I turned away. “I will get the horses. My legs are younger than yours.”
It is an old joke between us, the five years that separate us, but for once he would not let it go. He stepped across the dead king stag and caught my arm.
“Niall,” The levity was banished from his face. “Rujho, I cannot pretend to know what it is to lack a lir. But neither can I pretend your lack does not affect me.”
Ian is also not Donal, by the way. He's a good brother. He cares.
Niall gets to monologue out loud for once, about his pain, and well, I'm rolling my eyes a little. It's not HIS fault. He's just saying his feelings out loud, which is a good thing! But I JUST heard it in first person narrative form two pages ago. So it's a little repetitive. Stop it Roberson, Niall deserves better.
He does touch on an additional issue though: Aislinn.
I smiled, albeit wryly, more than a little resigned. “How does it affect my mother? Because to her, my lacking a lir emphasizes a certain other bloodline in me. It reminds her that in addition to looking almost exactly like her father, I reflect all his Homanan traits. No Cheysuli in me, oh no; I am Homanan to the bone. I am Carillon come again.”
The last was said a trifle bitterly; for all I am used to the fact I look so much like my grandsire, it is not an easy knowledge. I would sooner do without it.
Ian sighed. “Aye. I should have seen it. The gods know she goes on and on about Carillon enough, linking her son with her father. There are times I think she confuses the two of you.”
I shied away from that idea almost at once. It whispered of sickness; it promised obsession. No son wishes to know his mother obsessed, even if she is.
And she was not. She was not.
Oh dear.
There's also a note about Aislinn's dynamic with Ian. They don't hate each other. They don't even dislike each other. But there's no real affection. Niall notes that it's a toleration, or mutual apathy. And that's a little sad, too.
But it's interesting. I don't remember this sort of familial complexity coming up in previous books. It makes me hope that we'll get a scene where Aislinn and Ian find some kind of common ground. I like Aislinn, and while I completely understand her antipathy toward her husband's other family, that's not Ian's fault. And I think that while he's grown now, Ian might still need a mother's comfort sometimes.
(It makes me wonder also, we know that Niall envies Ian. Does Ian envy Niall, too?)
So we get to see Clankeep:
My legendary grandsire had, thank the gods, come home again to take back his stolen throne; his return ended Solindish and Ihlini domination and Shaine’s purge. Freed of the threat of extirpation, the Cheysuli had also come home from secret keeps and built Homanan ones again. Clankeep itself, spreading across the border between woodlands and meadowlands, had gone up after Donal succeeded to the Lion on Carillon’s death. And though the Cheysuli were granted freedom to live where they chose after decades of outlawry, they still preferred the closeness of the forests. Clankeep, ringed by un-mortared walls of undressed, gray-green stone, was the closest thing to a city the Cheysuli claimed.
As always, I felt the familiar admixture of emotions as we entered the sprawling keep: sorrow—a trace of trepidation—a fleeting sense of anger—an undertone of pride. A skein of raw emotions knotted itself inside my soul…but mostly, more than anything, I knew a tremendous yearning to belong as Ian belonged.
Clankeep is the heart of the Cheysuli, regardless that my father rules from Homana-Mujhar. It is Clankeep that feeds the spirit of each Cheysuli; Clankeep where the shar tahls keep the histories, traditions and rituals clear of taint. It is here they guard the remains of the prophecy of the Firstborn, warding the fragmented hide with all the power they can summon.
Like Donal, Niall wants to be at Clankeep, because then he'd be Cheysuli. Poor guy. For all the monologuing, I DO feel for him.
But hey, remember, there are actually THREE siblings! And now we meet Isolde, who is hanging out in the rain!
“Ian! Niall! Both my rujholli at once?” She wore crimson, which was like her; it stood out against the damp grayness of the day as much as her bright ebullience did. I saw her come dashing through the drifting wet curtains as if she hardly felt them, damp wool skirts gathered up to show off furred boots of sleek dark otter pelt. Silver bells rimmed the cuffs of the boots, chiming as she ran. Matching bells were braided into thick black hair; like Ian, she was all Cheysuli. Even to the Old Blood in her veins.
She's delighted to see the king's stag, and the brothers banter a bit about how they hunted it. Niall, like little siblings must, totally tattles to his big sister.
“How kind of you to recall it.” I smiled down at ’Solde. “He set Tasha on me the moment I prepared to loose my own arrow, and the cat spoiled my shot.”
’Solde laughed, smothered it with a hand, then attempted, unsuccessfully, to give Ian a stern glance of remonstration. At three years younger than Ian and two years older than I, she did what she could to mother us both. Though I had my own mother in Homana-Mujhar, ’Solde and Ian did not; Sorcha was long dead.
So anyway, they head inside. There's more banter:
’Solde stepped aside, shaking her head in disappointment, and all the bright bells rang. “Babies, both of you, to be so particular about the weather. Warriors must be prepared for anything. Warriors never complain about the weather. Warriors—”
“’Solde, be still,” Ian suggested, calmly reining his stallion toward the nearest pavilion. “What you know of warriors could be fit into an acorn.”
“No,” she said, “at least a walnut. Or so Ceinn tells me.”
I love all three of them. Siblings!
That said, the Ceinn mention triggers Ian's protective older brother instincts. Niall is as clueless as we are, but APPARENTLY, Ceinn is a fellow warrior who has just asked Isolde to be his cheysula.
Honestly, I want to highlight all of this sibling exchange. It's just so delightfully siblingy. But I'll just show you some highlights.
“Ceinn?” Ian, knowing the warriors better than I, could afford to sound astonished; all I could do was stare. “Are you sure he said cheysula and not meijha?”
“The words do have entirely different sounds,” ’Solde told him pointedly, which would not please Ian any at all. But then, of course, she did not mean to. “And I do know the difference.”
Also:
Ian, still scowling, cast a glance at me. “Well? Are you going to say nothing to her?”
“Perhaps I might wish her luck,” I answered gravely. “Whenever has anything we have said to her made the slightest amount of difference?”
“Oh, it has,” Isolde said. “You just never noticed.”
I have no idea why I find them so likable, but I do.
Anyway, Ian asks why Ceinn, and Isolde answers that he pleases her. Does she need another reason?
Nope! But it does remind Niall, and us, of the separation between him and his half siblings:
Ian glanced at me, and I knew our thoughts ran along similar paths: for a woman like our sister, a free Cheysuli woman with only bastard ties to royalty, there need be no other reason.
For the Prince of Homana, however, there were multitudinous other reasons. Which was why I had been cradle-betrothed to a cousin I had never seen.
Gisella was her name. Gisella of Atvia. Daughter of Alaric himself, and my father’s sister, Bronwyn.
I feel for you here, Niall. The whole cousin-fucking thing is creepy.
Niall says that if Ceinn pleases Isolde, than that's good enough for Ian and him. Ian, a little more begrudgingly, agrees.
The chapter ends with another note of mild sibling jealousy, as Isolde admits that she knew they were coming because Tasha told her. Reminding Niall that "even she claimed gifts that I could not."
Okay, so. I DO like Niall a LOT more than Donal. I'd probably go so far as to say he's my favorite lead character that we've had so far (my actual favorite comes later), on account of he's actually got the capacity for empathy and isn't an intentional rapist. That said, the angst gets old, real fast.
I'm hoping that Roberson eases off on it a little. I can appreciate, intellectually, that the lir angst is actually a really big deal in Cheysuli culture, but not being Cheysuli myself, my capacity for sympathy only goes so far. I do appreciate the novelty of having a more ordinary protagonist, but I'd like him to stop whining about it.
That said, as I recall, Niall will get more substantial problems soon enough. Meanwhile, I'm glad to see that, so far at least, Ian is pretty great. I remember him being my favorite in this book, and I hope that holds true.
Great, this series is back...
Date: 2022-02-27 08:23 am (UTC)That may seem like faint praise, but given how Legacy of the Sword slammed us over and over again with Donal's Chosen One status, I'll fucking take it.
Pan: Also, Donal wasn't worthy of being a Chosen One. I see them as being balanced between good and evil, and Donal is a rapist, so too evil.
My father was young, too young, when he received his lir, and then he bonded with two: Taj and Lorn, falcon and wolf. Ian was fifteen when he formed his bond with Tasha. At ten, I hoped I would be as my father and receive my lir early. At thirteen and fourteen I hoped I would at least be younger than Ian, if I could not mimic my father. At fifteen and sixteen I prayed to all the gods I could to send me my lir as soon as possible, period, so I could know myself a man and a warrior of the clan. At seventeen, I began to dread it would never happen, never at all; that I would live out my life a lirless Cheysuli, only half a man, denied all the magic of my race.
And now, at eighteen, I knew those fears for truth.
Finn: Believe me, not being the Chosen One and to actively fight destiny is not easy. I can sympathize.
Pan: Don't worry, even without a lir, I am sure you can do a lot, Niall.
...I really do wish Roberson wouldn't lean so heavily on that "perfect union" comparison. I know that Cheysuli do not bang their lir, but sometimes...
Leah: This series is already very wrong without bestiality AND autoeroticism at once.
[g]rowing up a prince and heir to the throne of Homana was more than enough for most; would have been more than enough for [him], were [he] not Cheysuli-born.
Leah: At least his angst makes sense.
“Niall,” The levity was banished from his face. “Rujho, I cannot pretend to know what it is to lack a lir. But neither can I pretend your lack does not affect me.”
Pan: Ian is a good friend.
I smiled, albeit wryly, more than a little resigned. “How does it affect my mother? Because to her, my lacking a lir emphasizes a certain other bloodline in me. It reminds her that in addition to looking almost exactly like her father, I reflect all his Homanan traits. No Cheysuli in me, oh no; I am Homanan to the bone. I am Carillon come again.”
Finn: A bad king who makes bad choices of women and lets his daughter be raped?
Ian sighed. “Aye. I should have seen it. The gods know she goes on and on about Carillon enough, linking her son with her father. There are times I think she confuses the two of you.”
I shied away from that idea almost at once. It whispered of sickness; it promised obsession. No son wishes to know his mother obsessed, even if she is.
And she was not. She was not.
Poor Aislinn.
But hey, remember, there are actually THREE siblings! And now we meet Isolde, who is hanging out in the rain!
“Ian! Niall! Both my rujholli at once?” She wore crimson, which was like her; it stood out against the damp grayness of the day as much as her bright ebullience did. I saw her come dashing through the drifting wet curtains as if she hardly felt them, damp wool skirts gathered up to show off furred boots of sleek dark otter pelt. Silver bells rimmed the cuffs of the boots, chiming as she ran. Matching bells were braided into thick black hair; like Ian, she was all Cheysuli. Even to the Old Blood in her veins.
Pan: Uh oh. A female lead. Hope she doesn't meet the fate of others.
’Solde stepped aside, shaking her head in disappointment, and all the bright bells rang. “Babies, both of you, to be so particular about the weather. Warriors must be prepared for anything. Warriors never complain about the weather. Warriors—”
“’Solde, be still,” Ian suggested, calmly reining his stallion toward the nearest pavilion. “What you know of warriors could be fit into an acorn.”
“No,” she said, “at least a walnut. Or so Ceinn tells me.”
Pan: I like this dynamic.
Finn: That's true about warriors.
Gisella was her name. Gisella of Atvia. Daughter of Alaric himself, and my father’s sister, Bronwyn.
Pan: Don't remind me.
Ian, still scowling, cast a glance at me. “Well? Are you going to say nothing to her?”
“Perhaps I might wish her luck,” I answered gravely. “Whenever has anything we have said to her made the slightest amount of difference?”
Pan: Well, women in this setting do need luck.
That said, the angst gets old, real fast.
And even that is more justified than Donal's.
Re: Great, this series is back...
Date: 2022-02-27 03:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2022-03-07 01:44 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2022-03-07 01:50 am (UTC)