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i_read_whatSo last time: Carollan's gone. Hart's back! And Keely got to hold a baby! Woo?
So we rejoin Keely as she is going to "see the lion". Basically, she's going to the Lion Throne to have a talk at it. This is something that's going to happen more in book seven, I think.
Anyway, Keely's a tough protagonist for me, because I don't actually disagree with any of her actual feelings. It DOES suck to be engaged at birth to someone you don't know and don't love. It DOES suck to be in a setting where your only value is the offspring that you have. It DOES suck when you want to do things and enjoy things but are prevented from them due to something as arbitrary as gender.
I just wish she were smarter about things. And less cruel to people who aren't in much better situations than she is.
Anyway, I do rather like this:
"You," I said quietly, "are a selfish, demanding beast, requiring too much of us. Stealing our freedom from us, denying us free will.. . warping us to your will in the name of a vanished race."
Silence from the mouth. From the eyes, emptiness.
A wave of frustration rose to lap at my accusations, driving them shoreward toward the Lion. "For how many decades—how many centuries—have you sat here on the dais, secure in your power and pride, your absolute arrogance, knowing us faithful, dutiful children too honor-bound to even consider turning our backs on your demands? To reconsider our place in the tapestry of selfish gods, weaving us this way and that?"
Yet again, no answer. Nor did I expect it; it was only a beast of wood. Nothing more than a symbol, yet binding a race regardless. Locking shackles around our souls.
This is why I find the Teirnan so damn frustrating. Because Roberson's so busy giving us an idiot strawman and letting him parrot ridiculous theories and accusations, which wiser characters inexplicably believe without basis, that she's ignoring that there is a legitimate reason o not want to serve this goddamn prophecy.
I'm a broken record again, I know. But if you think about it, the relationship between the Cheysuli and the Prophecy is an abusive one. Tahlmorra is all well and good, but it also seems to result, more often than not, in painful, unpleasant death, torture, rape, and all that fun shit. They're all busy giving their bodies, minds, souls and children to serve this prophecy that may or may not even be a good thing.
Forget that nonsense about whether or not they'll lose their lir. That's meaningless. How about an easier question: how do they know that the demigods that they're bringing back, these ultra-powerful Firstborn, ancestors to the Cheysuli AND the Ihlini will be good people? Remember, they're not just consolidating bloodlines, they're consolidating power too. They're handing rulership of half the known world to a being that they don't know anything about.
What if he's the worst parts of his ancestors? We don't know. And maybe more of these characters should wonder about that?
And maybe characters should wonder, if the prophecy didn't exist, would Strahan even have bothered with the brothers? With Donal and Niall? Would Lilith have targeted Ian? Would Bronwyn have had a chance to live and birth a baby with someone who actually loved her?
I do rather like this sitting in the iron throne moment:
I climbed the marble steps. Faced the Lion squarely. Then, without thought, swung around and sat myself down on the cushion. Settled hands over the paw-shaped wooden armrests and thrust myself back, back, into the depths of the Lion Throne, feeling the head looming over my own, sensing the weight of years, of strength, of power. Acknowledging what it was even against my will.
Ambience. The trappings of heritage, shaping my heart, my will, my beliefs. I could deny it no more than myself.
Anyway, someone comes in. She thinks, at first, that it's Brennan. The height, weight and posture are the same, except the missing hand. (I'm not sure why paragraph reads like this. Keely knows the difference between her brothers, but fine.)
Hart tells her that the Lion suits her. She has the pride for it and the arrogance. Keely retorts that she finds the beast too demanding and would prefer her freedom.
Hart's here to talk to her about what happened with Ilsa and Blythe. Blythe being the name of the baby.
Blythe. I had not even asked. "She should not have done it, Hart. What if something had happened?"
He shrugged, still looking around the hall. "She felt it necessary. Ilsa is—intuitive. And also immensely compassionate." He swung back almost abruptly, reassessment duly completed. "Are you forgetting one of the foremost tenets of the clans?" he asked intently. "Something you, of all people, should know: 'If one is afraid, one can only become unafraid by facing that which causes the fear.' "
I tensed against the Lion. "And you think I am afraid of a baby?"
"I know you are. I know you, Keely: you are terrified."
Hart's apparently taken up with psychoanalysis.
A flick of his only hand dismissed the beginnings of my retort. "Not of dropping her; that is natural.
No. You are afraid of the baby itself, your baby, and what it represents." He climbed the bottom step of the dais and stopped, arms tucked behind his back. So casual, my middle brother; so nonchalantly intent. "You are afraid to leave the womb, Keely . . . afraid to set free your emotions for fear of losing yourself."
It is interesting coming from Hart. His part in Pride of Princes, though well written, was busy with a LOT of concepts. One of which was his unwillingness to tie himself down to Ilsa, even though that was the logical solution to a whole lot of problems. Brennan wanted responsibility, Corin wanted to prove himself, but Hart just wanted freedom too.
Hart has apparently been reflecting:
"I do. You forget: I was the most irresponsible of us all, the least likely to be trapped by the demands of my tahlmorra." He climbed another step. "I was the middle son, the wastrel son, whose only concern was how to win the game, how to take a chance and win; to risk myself, my lir, my tide, all on the fall of a rune-stick." His twisted grimace was self-mocking. "Aye, what I did made no difference at all, I thought, which left me free to conduct myself as I chose. And I chose to wager away Solinde, Ilsa . .. my hand."
Instantly, I denied it. "Oh, Hart—"
His tone was perfectly steady. "I wagered it, Keely. And it was easy, #053)—" he thrust his left arm out in front of his body, between himself and me, "—so easy, Keely, because I thought I did not matter. Because I thought I could win." He took the third and final step. Now he stood on the dais, level with the Lion, and held me with his eyes, his posture; with the intensity of his being. "I have been afraid of many things, and I have been afraid of nothing. Neither is comfortable, though ignorance makes a better bedmate." He shook his head; the earring glinted. "Your fear is not misplaced, but it can be overcome. The gods know you have the strength and courage for it, Keely ... I know it, too. We all do—" he grinned, "—which is why you drive us half mad with the violence of your passions."
I do like this. I like it a lot better than Hart's ending in Pride of Princes.
Keely doesn't like it though. She accuses him, "all of [them] as assuming her opinions are born out of female contrariness. And you know, that's actually never come up. Both Brennan and Hart have been openly sympathetic to Keely's position, even if they disagree with her conclusions.
But this just kind of segues into some shilling about Keely's specialness:
"Not at all," he said flatly. "Gods, Keely, do you forget the power in your blood? We do not; we cannot. You are more gifted than any of us, and such power carries a price. I know what I feel in lir-shape ... I know the overwhelming allure, the draw and danger of the link. And that is with only one lir, Keely—do you think none of us knows how difficult it is for you, with recourse to any shape? How strong you have to be to maintain your balance while lured by so many possibilities?" He shook his head slowly, sympathetically. "You are afraid, rujholla; that I promise you. You are afraid you will lose the 'Keely' the power has shaped. Wed to Sean, you are cheysula. With a child you are jehana." He paused, speaking still more quietly, more gently. "But what becomes of Keely? What becomes of the avatar of our race?"
I really wish Maeve were the protagonist of this book. I wish Maeve and Keely's roles were switched. Not just because I like Maeve better but because I really don't like the implicit indication that Keely deserves her freedom more than anyone else because of her special magic powers.
And what the heck is this "avatar of our race" stuff? Keely has cool Old Blood power, sure, but so did Gisella, Isolde, Bronwyn and Alix before her. And she doesn't have any more of a percentage of Old Blood than Brennan, Hart or Corin. She's just the only one who gets any perk out of the deal.
And I'm realizing that some of my ambivalence toward Keely may be because she reminds me of Donal. Not in personality, even at her worst, Keely's better than that asshole. But because of the emphasis on her specialness. Like Donal is legitimately special, because he's the first Cheysuli Mujhar in generations, but there's so much made about his blood, his two lir, and that stupid fucking sword.
The sword was particularly egregious because, up until Donal, it had just been a pretty fancy weapon with symbolic virtue. It was Carillon's symbol of rank, created by Finn's father. It was Finn's attempt to connect with his legacy. All important aspects, but in mundane sense. Then, in Donal's hands, it's suddenly magical and a Big Fucking Deal.
And then when it's Niall's turn to have it, it gets thrown into the pit, because it's worthless to the story now.
Keely's powers are like that too. We've seen Old Blood ladies throughout this series, and at no point have these powers meant anything in terms of their worthiness of respect or what they're entitled to. If anything, they were repeatedly showed to be a detriment. Alix was treated as a bloodmare, pretty much destined to get married off to someone. Bronwyn was traded off for the prophecy. Isolde was manipulated by her ambitious husband. And Gisella had been literally insane.
But NOW, NOW it matters. It means something. And it's why Keely deserves freedom and the ability to be treated like a warrior.
Spoiler: as far as I remember, Keely's the last female protagonist with Old Blood. The girls of Blythe and Aidan's generation are like Maeve: they don't shapeshift. These oh so special Old Blood powers end here. Like Donal's sword, they don't matter, then they do, but just for this ONE SPECIAL CHARACTER, and then...not relevant again.
Ugh.
Hart tries though.
"Who could well embody more of what we were than you." Hart smiled as, startled, I snapped my head up to stare at him. "Aye. Have you not thought of that? Your child, your children, may be forged of stronger iron than even the jehana. And they, too, will be required to find the proper path. No matter how difficult." He was close to me now, so close. He put out his hand, his only hand, and touched my head, smoothing tangled hair. "You are not alone, Keely . . . not while any of us live. Not while your children live."
I shut my eyes tightly. "I am tired," I said, "so tired."
...Well, maybe if you didn't go flying off to Rory all the time you could get some sleep. Sorry, that's petty. Keely hasn't really annoyed me yet this chapter.
But now we're going to veer into a really weird tangent, because, well Roberson.
"I know, Keely. Nothing for us is easy, least of all for you." He sighed. "So much—-too much—is at stake."
I thought of Teirnan again. Of Maeve and the child in her belly.
"Hostages," I told him. "Every single one."
Hart frowned. "Who?"
"The children. Born, unborn . . . does it matter? Hostages to the gods. Prisoners of tradition." I pulled myself out of the Lion. "She is a lovely girl, rujho . . . a lovely little Cheysuli. I hope the gods are kind to her."
...okay.
I'm genuinely not sure how Maeve's situation compares. But okay, I'm glad for the hint of sisterly sympathy.
Anyway, she heads back and Ian catches her. She fills him in on shit we already knew and Ian acts like this is useful information because Roberson couldn't think of a better excuse for Keely and Rory to hang out:
"I found him," I said grimly. "I asked him. He sailed from Erinn immediately after the brawl in the tavern, and did not stay to discover if Sean survived or not."
Ian's face was solemn. "How long ago?" I drew in a breath. "He said we should hear, as he put it, today, tonight or tomorrow ... or perhaps a month from now." I shrugged. "We remain in ignorance, su'fali, and no way of knowing. All we can do is wait."
It still doesn't make sense. Rory's been here for weeks now. But fine, whatever.
Ian reminds her that she's supposed to tell Niall. She's hesitant, and somewhat saved because Niall's "closeted with Taliesin". It's wrong that that phrase made me snerk a bit. Poor dude. He thinks tomorrow is better. Or the next day. And with Strahan about and Hart here, there's lots of distractions.
...okay, fine. Whatever. I still love you Ian, even if you're serving as your author's nonsensical mouthpiece.
And then we inexplicably segue to an age joke:
"—he will want nothing to do with questions of Sean's health." I nodded. "We have waited this long ... a little longer will not hurt."
"A little longer, and you will be an old woman." He smiled, brows arched, as I glared. "Well? You are nearly twenty-three, are you not? Niall had five children by this age."
"And you, su'fali?" I asked sweetly. "You are—forty-five? Forty-six? And there is frost in your hair ..." I grinned, turning toward my chamber. "I think you had best go look in the polished plate before we speak of age.
Okay, whatever. The chapter ends here.
So we rejoin Keely as she is going to "see the lion". Basically, she's going to the Lion Throne to have a talk at it. This is something that's going to happen more in book seven, I think.
Anyway, Keely's a tough protagonist for me, because I don't actually disagree with any of her actual feelings. It DOES suck to be engaged at birth to someone you don't know and don't love. It DOES suck to be in a setting where your only value is the offspring that you have. It DOES suck when you want to do things and enjoy things but are prevented from them due to something as arbitrary as gender.
I just wish she were smarter about things. And less cruel to people who aren't in much better situations than she is.
Anyway, I do rather like this:
"You," I said quietly, "are a selfish, demanding beast, requiring too much of us. Stealing our freedom from us, denying us free will.. . warping us to your will in the name of a vanished race."
Silence from the mouth. From the eyes, emptiness.
A wave of frustration rose to lap at my accusations, driving them shoreward toward the Lion. "For how many decades—how many centuries—have you sat here on the dais, secure in your power and pride, your absolute arrogance, knowing us faithful, dutiful children too honor-bound to even consider turning our backs on your demands? To reconsider our place in the tapestry of selfish gods, weaving us this way and that?"
Yet again, no answer. Nor did I expect it; it was only a beast of wood. Nothing more than a symbol, yet binding a race regardless. Locking shackles around our souls.
This is why I find the Teirnan so damn frustrating. Because Roberson's so busy giving us an idiot strawman and letting him parrot ridiculous theories and accusations, which wiser characters inexplicably believe without basis, that she's ignoring that there is a legitimate reason o not want to serve this goddamn prophecy.
I'm a broken record again, I know. But if you think about it, the relationship between the Cheysuli and the Prophecy is an abusive one. Tahlmorra is all well and good, but it also seems to result, more often than not, in painful, unpleasant death, torture, rape, and all that fun shit. They're all busy giving their bodies, minds, souls and children to serve this prophecy that may or may not even be a good thing.
Forget that nonsense about whether or not they'll lose their lir. That's meaningless. How about an easier question: how do they know that the demigods that they're bringing back, these ultra-powerful Firstborn, ancestors to the Cheysuli AND the Ihlini will be good people? Remember, they're not just consolidating bloodlines, they're consolidating power too. They're handing rulership of half the known world to a being that they don't know anything about.
What if he's the worst parts of his ancestors? We don't know. And maybe more of these characters should wonder about that?
And maybe characters should wonder, if the prophecy didn't exist, would Strahan even have bothered with the brothers? With Donal and Niall? Would Lilith have targeted Ian? Would Bronwyn have had a chance to live and birth a baby with someone who actually loved her?
I do rather like this sitting in the iron throne moment:
I climbed the marble steps. Faced the Lion squarely. Then, without thought, swung around and sat myself down on the cushion. Settled hands over the paw-shaped wooden armrests and thrust myself back, back, into the depths of the Lion Throne, feeling the head looming over my own, sensing the weight of years, of strength, of power. Acknowledging what it was even against my will.
Ambience. The trappings of heritage, shaping my heart, my will, my beliefs. I could deny it no more than myself.
Anyway, someone comes in. She thinks, at first, that it's Brennan. The height, weight and posture are the same, except the missing hand. (I'm not sure why paragraph reads like this. Keely knows the difference between her brothers, but fine.)
Hart tells her that the Lion suits her. She has the pride for it and the arrogance. Keely retorts that she finds the beast too demanding and would prefer her freedom.
Hart's here to talk to her about what happened with Ilsa and Blythe. Blythe being the name of the baby.
Blythe. I had not even asked. "She should not have done it, Hart. What if something had happened?"
He shrugged, still looking around the hall. "She felt it necessary. Ilsa is—intuitive. And also immensely compassionate." He swung back almost abruptly, reassessment duly completed. "Are you forgetting one of the foremost tenets of the clans?" he asked intently. "Something you, of all people, should know: 'If one is afraid, one can only become unafraid by facing that which causes the fear.' "
I tensed against the Lion. "And you think I am afraid of a baby?"
"I know you are. I know you, Keely: you are terrified."
Hart's apparently taken up with psychoanalysis.
A flick of his only hand dismissed the beginnings of my retort. "Not of dropping her; that is natural.
No. You are afraid of the baby itself, your baby, and what it represents." He climbed the bottom step of the dais and stopped, arms tucked behind his back. So casual, my middle brother; so nonchalantly intent. "You are afraid to leave the womb, Keely . . . afraid to set free your emotions for fear of losing yourself."
It is interesting coming from Hart. His part in Pride of Princes, though well written, was busy with a LOT of concepts. One of which was his unwillingness to tie himself down to Ilsa, even though that was the logical solution to a whole lot of problems. Brennan wanted responsibility, Corin wanted to prove himself, but Hart just wanted freedom too.
Hart has apparently been reflecting:
"I do. You forget: I was the most irresponsible of us all, the least likely to be trapped by the demands of my tahlmorra." He climbed another step. "I was the middle son, the wastrel son, whose only concern was how to win the game, how to take a chance and win; to risk myself, my lir, my tide, all on the fall of a rune-stick." His twisted grimace was self-mocking. "Aye, what I did made no difference at all, I thought, which left me free to conduct myself as I chose. And I chose to wager away Solinde, Ilsa . .. my hand."
Instantly, I denied it. "Oh, Hart—"
His tone was perfectly steady. "I wagered it, Keely. And it was easy, #053)—" he thrust his left arm out in front of his body, between himself and me, "—so easy, Keely, because I thought I did not matter. Because I thought I could win." He took the third and final step. Now he stood on the dais, level with the Lion, and held me with his eyes, his posture; with the intensity of his being. "I have been afraid of many things, and I have been afraid of nothing. Neither is comfortable, though ignorance makes a better bedmate." He shook his head; the earring glinted. "Your fear is not misplaced, but it can be overcome. The gods know you have the strength and courage for it, Keely ... I know it, too. We all do—" he grinned, "—which is why you drive us half mad with the violence of your passions."
I do like this. I like it a lot better than Hart's ending in Pride of Princes.
Keely doesn't like it though. She accuses him, "all of [them] as assuming her opinions are born out of female contrariness. And you know, that's actually never come up. Both Brennan and Hart have been openly sympathetic to Keely's position, even if they disagree with her conclusions.
But this just kind of segues into some shilling about Keely's specialness:
"Not at all," he said flatly. "Gods, Keely, do you forget the power in your blood? We do not; we cannot. You are more gifted than any of us, and such power carries a price. I know what I feel in lir-shape ... I know the overwhelming allure, the draw and danger of the link. And that is with only one lir, Keely—do you think none of us knows how difficult it is for you, with recourse to any shape? How strong you have to be to maintain your balance while lured by so many possibilities?" He shook his head slowly, sympathetically. "You are afraid, rujholla; that I promise you. You are afraid you will lose the 'Keely' the power has shaped. Wed to Sean, you are cheysula. With a child you are jehana." He paused, speaking still more quietly, more gently. "But what becomes of Keely? What becomes of the avatar of our race?"
I really wish Maeve were the protagonist of this book. I wish Maeve and Keely's roles were switched. Not just because I like Maeve better but because I really don't like the implicit indication that Keely deserves her freedom more than anyone else because of her special magic powers.
And what the heck is this "avatar of our race" stuff? Keely has cool Old Blood power, sure, but so did Gisella, Isolde, Bronwyn and Alix before her. And she doesn't have any more of a percentage of Old Blood than Brennan, Hart or Corin. She's just the only one who gets any perk out of the deal.
And I'm realizing that some of my ambivalence toward Keely may be because she reminds me of Donal. Not in personality, even at her worst, Keely's better than that asshole. But because of the emphasis on her specialness. Like Donal is legitimately special, because he's the first Cheysuli Mujhar in generations, but there's so much made about his blood, his two lir, and that stupid fucking sword.
The sword was particularly egregious because, up until Donal, it had just been a pretty fancy weapon with symbolic virtue. It was Carillon's symbol of rank, created by Finn's father. It was Finn's attempt to connect with his legacy. All important aspects, but in mundane sense. Then, in Donal's hands, it's suddenly magical and a Big Fucking Deal.
And then when it's Niall's turn to have it, it gets thrown into the pit, because it's worthless to the story now.
Keely's powers are like that too. We've seen Old Blood ladies throughout this series, and at no point have these powers meant anything in terms of their worthiness of respect or what they're entitled to. If anything, they were repeatedly showed to be a detriment. Alix was treated as a bloodmare, pretty much destined to get married off to someone. Bronwyn was traded off for the prophecy. Isolde was manipulated by her ambitious husband. And Gisella had been literally insane.
But NOW, NOW it matters. It means something. And it's why Keely deserves freedom and the ability to be treated like a warrior.
Spoiler: as far as I remember, Keely's the last female protagonist with Old Blood. The girls of Blythe and Aidan's generation are like Maeve: they don't shapeshift. These oh so special Old Blood powers end here. Like Donal's sword, they don't matter, then they do, but just for this ONE SPECIAL CHARACTER, and then...not relevant again.
Ugh.
Hart tries though.
"Who could well embody more of what we were than you." Hart smiled as, startled, I snapped my head up to stare at him. "Aye. Have you not thought of that? Your child, your children, may be forged of stronger iron than even the jehana. And they, too, will be required to find the proper path. No matter how difficult." He was close to me now, so close. He put out his hand, his only hand, and touched my head, smoothing tangled hair. "You are not alone, Keely . . . not while any of us live. Not while your children live."
I shut my eyes tightly. "I am tired," I said, "so tired."
...Well, maybe if you didn't go flying off to Rory all the time you could get some sleep. Sorry, that's petty. Keely hasn't really annoyed me yet this chapter.
But now we're going to veer into a really weird tangent, because, well Roberson.
"I know, Keely. Nothing for us is easy, least of all for you." He sighed. "So much—-too much—is at stake."
I thought of Teirnan again. Of Maeve and the child in her belly.
"Hostages," I told him. "Every single one."
Hart frowned. "Who?"
"The children. Born, unborn . . . does it matter? Hostages to the gods. Prisoners of tradition." I pulled myself out of the Lion. "She is a lovely girl, rujho . . . a lovely little Cheysuli. I hope the gods are kind to her."
...okay.
I'm genuinely not sure how Maeve's situation compares. But okay, I'm glad for the hint of sisterly sympathy.
Anyway, she heads back and Ian catches her. She fills him in on shit we already knew and Ian acts like this is useful information because Roberson couldn't think of a better excuse for Keely and Rory to hang out:
"I found him," I said grimly. "I asked him. He sailed from Erinn immediately after the brawl in the tavern, and did not stay to discover if Sean survived or not."
Ian's face was solemn. "How long ago?" I drew in a breath. "He said we should hear, as he put it, today, tonight or tomorrow ... or perhaps a month from now." I shrugged. "We remain in ignorance, su'fali, and no way of knowing. All we can do is wait."
It still doesn't make sense. Rory's been here for weeks now. But fine, whatever.
Ian reminds her that she's supposed to tell Niall. She's hesitant, and somewhat saved because Niall's "closeted with Taliesin". It's wrong that that phrase made me snerk a bit. Poor dude. He thinks tomorrow is better. Or the next day. And with Strahan about and Hart here, there's lots of distractions.
...okay, fine. Whatever. I still love you Ian, even if you're serving as your author's nonsensical mouthpiece.
And then we inexplicably segue to an age joke:
"—he will want nothing to do with questions of Sean's health." I nodded. "We have waited this long ... a little longer will not hurt."
"A little longer, and you will be an old woman." He smiled, brows arched, as I glared. "Well? You are nearly twenty-three, are you not? Niall had five children by this age."
"And you, su'fali?" I asked sweetly. "You are—forty-five? Forty-six? And there is frost in your hair ..." I grinned, turning toward my chamber. "I think you had best go look in the polished plate before we speak of age.
Okay, whatever. The chapter ends here.