Sounds a little strange, isn’t it? Still, some of you who’ve been watching my LJ may remember that little post I made some time ago about letting your readers do your describing for you. Since I’m a little tired of Bitterwood (and my brain needs a little time to recover) I thought I’d expound a little on the concepts I pointed out therein.

You’ve probably been told by whoever it is that inducted you into writing to “show, don’t tell”. While this, like all other “rules” of writing, is more of a guideline than anything else (since it’s like drawing. If you can make it look good, it doesn’t matter what you do), it’s still there for a reason, and it’s a very good reason indeed—enough for it to hold most of the time. Showing tends to grant better immersion and character empathy for the reader, and tends to be more involved and open-ended (within the limits set by the prose) for the reader’s imagination to take over. Still, this isn’t a showing vs. telling discussion, and I’m not going to let it be one, so there.

So far, I’ve encountered while both reading and writing four ways of getting across information to the reader that will help fill in and colour the details of your characters to the reader. This list probably isn’t exhaustive—I’m not going to claim that—but it does cover the more common ways of getting description across. Some methods may combine one or more of the following, and it’s important to know when to use what to maximum effect.

Note that these are my personal terms for these methods, and are by no means “official” or anything on those lines.

1. Infodumping
2. Breaking up and hiding
3. Direct inference
4. Imaginative inference

Infodumping

Infodumping’s probably the most common method that authors use in speculative fiction on order to get across how something looks, smells, tastes, feels, and sounds, although the most commonly appealed-to sense is of course, sight. This may have had its roots in that humans are primarily very visual creatures, but most writers are indeed aware that good description (for a relative value of good) should appeal to all the five senses and at least try to cater to sound, and perhaps smell. Infodumping depends highly on “telling”—directly stating how something is, and I believe that such things work for “neutral” statements—things like a character’s height, eye colour, the fact that the lilies are blooming, that the cloud in the sky looks like a bird, so on and so forth. “Loaded” statements—things which I’m suppose to judge the characters on, especially on moral attributes such as kindness, valour, honesty—are better off shown and left to the reader’s imagination, and this post isn’t on them anyways.

The main problem of infodumping, of course, is that it brings the flow of the plot and prose to a screeching halt, stopping all action while the author takes utter care in describing the wonderful rustic countryside, the incoming new character from a foreign land, or perhaps the new bustling city. Everyone else takes a break while the Wise Old Mentor carefully explains to the Young Dunderheaded Hero about the Scepter of the Seven Seas or the Ruby of Rude Rowdiness of what-have-you, and the reader’s eyes glaze over, because frankly, he or she couldn’t give a damn because you, as the author,didn’t give them reason to.

It’s also very hard to do anything else other that flat out information-relaying with an infodump, since these by definition are huge blocks of exposition—often written in third-person-omniscient, to make the problem worse.

True enough, sometimes it’s impossible to avoid an infodump. Perhaps one must know why werewolves are bad, or why the violet-eyed men of the sea are impervious to all edged weapons. Perhaps the description of the countryside will figure into the chase scene across said countryside in the next chapter, or maybe the heroine will take the string of beads off that traditional dress shop and use them as a makeshift garrote. Still, it’s imperative that the infodump be kept as short as possible, and as always, the author should try to split it up if possible and stuff it discreetly into the prose (which is point two.)

Infodumping isn’t completely bad—it does have its virtues in that it’s direct, to the point, and there’s no chance of misinterpretation or ambiguity. The problem is that these virtues are as equally mirrored by the method in point two, breaking up and hiding, and I personally feel point two does a better job of direct telling without the cons of infodumping. However, if you’re willing to take the hit because it is so essential that your character has violet eyes, that they play such an important role in the plot that you’re afraid the reader will miss this detail and want to draw all the attention you want to it—fine. Just please, make sure you’ve given your readers a reason to care about the character, or they’ll just skim over the description and not notice that yes, your character has violet eyes.

Breaking up and hiding

Breaking up and hiding is also very commonly used by authors in the genre, and is what it says on the label—the pertinent exposition is broken up into chunks and scattered across the prose. The degree, scope, and forms of breaking up and hiding are very wide and diverse; for example, it may be hidden in a dialogue tag:

“Blah blah blah,” she said, toying with her golden hair.

The above is a rather obtrusive example, but still much better than the traditional infodump. Dialogue is also used to hide exposition:

“And he ran all the way here like an Ankaran mare!”

“Really?”

“Yes! That fast!”

From here, we can see that an Ankaran mare is supposed to move fast, and the fact is disguised in a simile that’s being said in dialogue. This one’s better-disguised than the previous example, but of course, circumstances dictate all—if the character in question is not used to fidgeting or using similes in speech, there’s going to be a bit of incongruity and the disguise is going to be lost.

Still, I personally favour this method for getting across information that needs to be explicitly stated, like how Victor has an underbite or how the spaghetti monsters from the planet Zog have three nostrils. Done right, it can blend seamlessly and naturally into the prose, and yet retain all of the clarity and directness which infodumping has. It’s also much easier to do more than one thing with breaking up and hiding (naturally, since you’re trying to hide the exposition in something else):

Victor beamed. “She’s got her daddy’s underbite.”

This snippet does two things: firstly, it establishes a physical attribute of two characters, and implies how one of them feels about this. Of course, knowing further that this is Victor talking about his daughter, it further implies more things about their relationship, about how Victor feels about physical resemblance between family members, how underbites are viewed, and more, if you’re willing to give it a bit of a stretch. Try to imagine how I’d have done this in a traditional infodump. Hard, isn’t it?

Direct inference

Now we’re moving into showing territory. Direct inference usually comes from a character’s actions, and while it’s the primary way of showing “loaded” attributes, I’ve already stated I’m not going to go there. The difference between direct inference and hiding is that nowhere is it stated that character A has X physical attribute. An example would be a character having to duck under a doorway (of course, this wouldn’t apply in, say, a human entering a hobbit’s home). Nowhere is it mentioned that the character is tall, but the reader can infer that the character is tall—otherwise, why would he need to duck under the doorway in order to enter?

Of course, this can be a problem if what’s inferred clashes with any preconceived notions about the character the reader has brought in, or god forbid, your own explicit description. You’ve heard me complain recently about how Metron using a cane in Bitterwood was absolutely jarring, because the inference (biped) clashed with the preconceived notion of standard fantasy dragons (quadruped) and that there was no hint or suggestion prior to that scene that it wasn’t the case. Although to be fair, this isn’t the fault of the method itself—there simply wasn’t enough setup prior to the scene, and if it’d been mentioned there and then that been biped I would have been thrown out of the prose as well. (Although probably not as violently)

Another potential problem with direct inference is that thanks to our good old social theory of symbolic interactionism, what you intend the reader to infer from a certain action, possession, or whatnot may have a very different effect from what you intended. To take some “loaded” examples, since they’re more common, you’re all familiar with Paolini and his hippie vegan atheist elves, and how he meant them to be superior to everyone else. We know better; it just makes them look stupid, deluded and pretentious. Of course, this is an extreme case. You’re also familiar with Twilight and how Edward stalking Bella is supposed to be reflective of his love for her, but to us it just makes him appear creepy and obsessed.

Now let’s try to translate this to physical attributes. Someone who eats slowly might be neat, or he might have a weak jaw, or cavities, or be in the mind to enjoy his meal, or might not have a very wide mouth, or…you get the idea. It’s probably good in such ambiguous situations to back up direct inference with a little breaking up and hiding of telling to get rid of ambiguity—unless that’s what you’re aiming for.

Imaginative inference

This is where the deliciousness sets in. Imaginative inference, as I see it, is where there is near-to-none description of the characters in question and the reader is guided by the author in constructing his or her own personalised vision of the characters through said characters’ actions, dialogue, thoughts, and so forth. Since it’s often part of the reader’s imagination, imaginative inference in action is often hard to spot, but a very good example of this would be Jo Walton’s Tooth and Claw—a parody of the Victorian Novel. Save for the most important traits, the characters are almost never described, and the author guides the reader through the use of tropes of the Victorian Novel to establish settings, characters, and backgrounds.

In short, it’s a big game of “let your imagination and knowledge fill in the blanks”.

The advantages are obvious—there’s no jarring or breaking of the action to speak of, since there’s no explicit description at all. The reader is actively engaged in the process of forming the characters, and there’s not much reason to be bored. A bit of shameless plugging here, but I’ll just include a small snippet from the beginning of Morally Ambiguous to illustrate my point:

Nodammo had dropped the first sugar cube in her tea when the hero alarm went off.

“And we haven’t even opened for the day,” she said before she stirred in another sugar cube and watched it dissolve, ignoring the bells that rang throughout the tower. “Agnurlin, would you be so kind as to check whether the village children have been playing with the heroism detectors again? I’ve had it with the false alarms.”

“Will Mistress be wanting the usual this morning?” A rather tall and yellowed skeleton stood by the dining table, and with a practiced half-bow set down a tea-tray and a platter of honey-lined fruit sandwiches. Nodammo wondered once again how her butler managed to keep his waistcoat starched and spotless, then reminded herself she had more important things at hand.

“Yes, thank you. Agnurlin, would you mind hurrying up? Can’t be too careful with heroes turning up around these parts of late.”

“My apologies, Mistress.” Agnurlin crossed the dining hall to the wide balcony in a very butler-like gait, the tap-tapping of his feet on the masonry creating echoes in the dining hall’s corners. Once he was out of sight, Nodammo made short work of her tea and considered consequences. The last three alarms had been duds, two of them caused by straying children and another by a flying cow, but it never hurt to be vigilant.

After all, it’d been complacency that’d killed her grandfather.

“What do you think the hero alarm means, Victor?” she asked between sips of her tea. “Has the Company finally started making inroads here?”

The black dragon curled by the enormous fireplace stirred; one draconic eye opened, fixed itself on Nodammo, and shut again. “I hate hero alarms, especially when they go off during breakfast.”

“You hate everything, Victor!”

“Too much noise, Boss. Couldn’t you at least set them to play some soothing music instead of this din? Greendowald’s Fifth Symphony might be a good choice.”

“Victor…”

The black dragon reached out, speared a sandwich on a claw tip and dropped it daintily on his tongue. “Just make it stop. I hate the way it drones on.”

“Fine.” Nodammo waved a hand, and the deafening ringing stopped. “Better now?”

“Very much so. We’ve a long day ahead; no point starting it in a downdraft. Now would you be so kind as to hand over the lemon crackers? Not very filling, but that’s biscuits for you.”

Between sorceress and dragon, the lemon crackers and fruit sandwiches steadily disappeared till only crumbs remained.

“What’s taking Agnurlin so l—eeyagh!” A stray strawberry slice bounced off the front of Nodammo’s dress and landed on the floor. “Agnurlin, I am not my mother! I know she hasn’t been in retirement for that long, but please don’t do that!”

Agnurlin contrived to look innocent, despite having no facial muscles, and pulled a spyglass out from his waistcoat. “Mistress, you might want to see this. Heroic activity has been detected in the direction of the Generic Little Village.”

“You mean the one with a capital ‘G’, ‘L’ and ‘V’?”

“The very one, Mistress.”

“Well, no point in dragging the matter out. The best hero is one where you’ve cleared up the bloodstains before lunch.” Without another word, Nodammo took the spyglass from Agnurlin, strode out on the balcony, and put the spyglass to her eye.

“Oh,” she said at last. “Botheration.”

What do you think Nodammo looks like? What would someone who had a butler, listened to classical music, drank tea from teacups and have small fruit sandwiches and lemon crackers, so on and so forth look like? Here I’m trying to draw on the “cultured” stereotype that many people are aware of, and by having Nodammo act in such a manner and people recognize the stereotype, they immediately draw up the image of such a person associated with the stereotype. It seems to have worked; most of my beta readers, after having gone through a few chapters, reported they got the impression of Nodammo as a strict, English-esque young lady.

For a lark, let’s take Victor out for a two-snippet spin:

“I hate little villages.”

“Now, there’s no need to keep up appearances here, Victor,” Agnurlin shouted over the shrieking wind. “We’re going into the village to get some white lettuce, check whether the hero has arrived yet, and that’s it. Why don’t you land in that grassy patch over there?”

“I hate white lettuce.”

“But white lettuce is good for you. Mistress says it’s very cleansing for one’s insides, even for dragons. Cooked in soup, the nutritive and alchemical value increases—”

“I hate soup.”

***

Nodammo hadn’t remembered Victor’s teeth being so sharp.

“Boss, I understand what you’re getting at and you have my interests in mind, but please, please don’t ever fucking pull rank on me again, because I HATE PEOPLE PULLING RANK ON ME. I call you ‘Boss’. That means I’m an employee, and that entails the happy fact that I can quit any time I like if you start treating me like a goddamn pet. It’s all there in your granddaddy’s contract, ‘kay? Very legal. Very proper.”

General thuggishness, taciturn unless angered, has a certain sense of self-worth—again, it’s not too hard to guess what Victor looks like, or at least, form an impression of him. Of course, there isn’t much to go on for either character—which is one of the problems of imaginative inference—forming an accurate depiction of a character is going to take a long time, since the character(s) will need to be portrayed in a variety of situations—which can be problematic if you need to establish an important physical trait early on or in a snap. As always with inference, too, there’s the risk of the reader getting the wrong idea and going off on the wrong tangent; one of my beta readers suggested that imaginative inference worked better for parodies because readers are expected to be aware of the tropes and conventions, and react accordingly, and that there’s less chance of misinterpretation.

Furthermore, imaginative inference isn’t very good for details, and should thus be supplemented with breaking up and hiding for best effect, which should also give the more visual readers something on which to anchor their imaginations on (hence dealing with the problem of too little description).

Conclusion

Personally, I prefer having to use mostly imaginative inference coupled with break down and hide for drawing my characters, but that’s just me writing up something I’d read. Again, everything has its time and purpose, and balancing the various methods’ strengths to cover their weaknesses is a skill every writer should have.

Comment [19]

We’ve been presented with Bitterwood, by a certain James Maxey. I’ll confess as to not having read this before, but this is standard operating procedure for most BFT3Ked books anyways—the whole “evaluate as you go along” schtick. Here’s a shot of the cover art, for those of you schmucks who happen to be interested in this sort of stuff.

Hm. Not particularly inspiring, at least from my jaded and cynical point of view, or maybe it’s because of the fact I’m listening to remixed soundtracks from “Zombies ate my neighbours” while typing this out. Anyways, let’s take a look at the blurb:

“It is a time when powerful dragons reign supreme and humans are forced to work as slaves, driven to support the kingdom of the tyrannical ruler King Albekizan.

“However, there is one name whispered amongst the dragon that strikes fear into the very hearts and minds of those who would oppress the human race. Bitterwood. The last dragon hunter, a man who refuses to yield to the will of the dragons. A legend who is about to return, his arrow nocked and ready, his heart full of fiery vengeance…

“Bitterwood plans to bring the dragons to their knees. But will he bring the remnants of the human race down with him?”

This is when I get the popcorn out. Hmm. Evil Dark Lord? Check. Oppressed people? Check. One-man army? Check. Last hope of humanity? Check. Revenge plot? Check. No visible subversion of tired, overused tropes? Check. Of course, book blurbs can be misleading (just look at that of Touched by Venom’s), but more often it goes the other way, and chances really, really aren’t looking good for this one right from the outset. I could have forgiven everything on that list if there’d been just a hint of a subversion, at place, but it seems not. Oh well.

Well. Time for a bit of schadenfreude, then. We’ll see if this is third-grade drivel, or not.

We open in the middle of a peach orchard, in the PoV of a boy named Bant. Heh. Now I’m reminded of DO. Anyways, apparently there’s an ongoing fertility rite to some Goddess Ashera that’s being held in Bant’s Rustic Little Village (you know, the kind which inevitably gets destroyed in order to serve as the Call to Adventure for the hero), and it involves lots of people having sex each other. Seems like this Goddess isn’t all feminist, though:

“In theory, on the Night of Sowing, women were free to choose any partner they wished. In practice, no woman could even refuse any man of the village on this night; to do so would be an insult to the Goddess.” (Pg. 10)

I’m not sure if this portrayal of the Stereotypical Fertility Goddess is intentional, or just a side effect of the whole attempt to inject tension into this “forbidden love” scene, since he’s waiting for his “love” to make it here so he can have her all to himself, and she doesn’t have to be gang-raped by a bunch of men. Mm. So in time, the lucky lady—her name happens to be Recanna—arrives in the orchard, and Bant tries to talk her into going along with the plan:

“What’s wrong?” he whispered, rubbing her back.

“This,” she said, sounding frightened. “Us. Bant, I love you, but…but we shouldn’t be here. I’m afaid.”

“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” Bant said, stroking her hair. “As you say, you love me. I love you. Nothing done in love should cause fear.” (Pg. 11)

Uh-huh. I wonder how many men have said that to women, just before getting her pregnant with an unwanted child. That doesn’t appear to be an issue here, though; Recanna is more afraid of going against the rites of the Goddess and calling down punishment for their sins. anyways, they’re about to do the deed when they spot a light on the road leading into the village. Apparently this isn’t a good thing, because lights aren’t supposed to be lit this night, and the two of them are wondering on whether this spells doom for the village when Jomath, Ban’t‘s Evil Elder Bullying Brother, turns up.

Whee. Naked Good Woman. Evil Bullying Man. One doesn’t need to be a rocket scientist to figure out what happens next. Invoking the name of the Goddess (of course, not because he really believes in her, but just as a justification), Jomath proceeds to beat the shit out of Bant, taunting him all the while, and then there’s a whole half-page of DARK RAGE on Bant’s part, after which Jomath proceeds to almost-rape Recanna. Because y’know, it’d be too horrible if she actually got raped, since she’s the Designated Love Interest and everyone knows that the Designated Love Interest must have his/her (but more often her) first time with the protagonist, and it’ll be the Best Sex Ever.

But more importantly, here’s a small question: why does the OMGDARKRAGE work in DO, but not in here? What’s the difference between RuGaard’s OMGDARKRAGE and Bant’s OMGDARKRAGE that the former inspires actual anger on the part of the reader directed at the character/s the author means it to (in the former case, the rest of RuGaard’s family, in this case, Jomath)? The answer is simple: in DO, we’re allowed to sym- and empathise with RuGaard first before he goes and has his fits of OMGDARKRAGE. We’re allowed to make up our minds, get enough information as to whether the OMGDARKRAGE is justified, and most importantly, I didn’t get the vibe that the author was trying to arm-twist me into feeling one way or the other.

Compare it to here—three pages into the narrative proper, and we’re already getting our arms twisted by Mr. Maxey. I don’t know why I should be caring about Bant or Recanna; Mr. Maxey’s just banking on the automatic rape of a woman = bad reflex in an attempt to produce sympathy in readers. It’s not stupid, because it does work on an undiscerning audience, but it damn well is lazy. I have zero emotional connection with any of the characters; they could die this very moment and I couldn’t care one whit less. It’s only made worse by the fact that Mr. Maxey has to resort to the stupidest of stock tropes for a minor character and make him a one-dimensional satellite character grates on the ol’ sensibilities, not to mention I’m getting the impression here Recanna is being fought over like a trophy to be had.

Maybe I’m reading too much into this, but the end result is the same: instead of being afraid of and for Bant, he’s now just a stupid emo, and if you’ve read my drabbles on first impressions, this is going to have lasting damage on any future analysis. Yes, there’s a fine line between working and not working, between cheesiness and and being truly intimidating, but there’s no reason why it can’t be walked, considering that good authors can do it consistently and without requiring the so-called “standard” tools, which more often than not are counterproductive (not a book example, but see Seymour Guado from FFX, which after a bit of toning down to make believable, could have worked very well. Too bad SE just HAD to make him over-the-top).

Anyways, there’s a scream from the direction of the village and from the orchard they can see a huge bonfire burning in the middle of the village. Ayup. You know what’s going to happen here. Conveniently for Recanna’s virginity, Jomath drops the matter, and they race back to the village, but not before more Informed Attribut-ing:

“Alone, Bant could have outpaced Jomath, even with his head start. Jomath had gotten all the brute strength in the family, but Bant’s slight, wiry build made him the fastest runner in the village.” (Pg. 16)

Because, as we all know from RPGs, big people can’t move quickly. Yes, you will tend towards a lean frame if you run a lot, but lean does not mean you can’t be big, and it damn well doesn’t mean you can’t move fast, or else no one would watch heavyweight boxing. End of story. What I’m bitching about here is a) the mindless adherence to stereotypes and b) the telling style of the narrative used here. The three of them get closer to the village, and on their way back, just outside the village is a big black dog tethered to a cart.

That’s right, a big black dog. As big as an ox. Which smells like rotting meat. And belongs to the Evangalist Strawman.

…Facepalm I know Christianity’s an Acceptable Target right now, but why don’t authors go and kick another Acceptable Target for a change? Like hetrosexual white men, for example? Or people of oriential descent? Or megacorporations? When I read this for the first time, I was already thinking “all right, I know how this is going to go.” And true enough, I was disappointed in everything but my expectations.

But that’ll be covered when we go across it later. For now, what we get is a two-thirds page description of the Generic Fertility Goddess’ temple, which we will never see or interact with again after it gets burnt down, which it it doing right now. Anyways, our dear Evangalist Strawman comes out of the burning temple with the statue of the Goddess, plonks it right in front of the villagers, and recites the First Commandment in “a thunderous voice”, before taking out an axe and cutting off its head:

“It may be,” the stranger growled, “that you dwell in ignorance, and are unaware of your sin.” He lifted the heavy tool with a single hand high over his head. “I have been sent by the Lord to show you the way.” The axe flashed down like lightning, splitting the Goddess in twain. (Pg. 18)

Clap clap clap clap Of course the people of the village don’t like that, and they all bugger off to swarm him. All their blows come to naught, and the EVIL BIG BLACK DOG happily slaughters them down to the last man, all while Bant and Recanna watch on. We’re supposed to get the idea that Bant is an antihero, because he supposedly feels nothing for the people being slaughtered, even those of his own family, but it isn’t working. Some of this can be explained by the sheer amount of telling that’s going on and the idea that the author expects me to take everything he says about his characters as gospel, part of it can be explained that I STILL don’t have any sympathy or even empathy for Bant, and another part can be explained by the plain fact that I’m already hating this story and am disinclined to like it any further, which only goes to show the importance of getting off on the right foot.

Anyways, when the carnage is done, our Evangalist Strawman dismisses the dog and walks up to Bant and Recanna, asking their names. After that little formality, Mr. Strawman forcibly marries the two of them, telling them “do not question the commandments of the Lord”. We learn that Mr. Strawman’s name is Hezekiah, Bant gets a copy of the Bible, and he’s to be taught how to read. Of course, him actually learning to do so is skipped over. More blah as Bant and Recanna kiss, and we end the prologue with this head-banger:

“This is how Bant Bitterwood learned that hate could change the world.

This is how Bant Bitterwood found God.” (Pg. 24)

Twitch Thanks for insinuating that God = hate.

Where should I start? I’m not even a Christian, I’m an agnostic, and this pisses me off so much. Christianity-bashing in the genre is so stupid, unimaginative and overused that the moment a single Christian Strawman appears on-scene, that’s it; we’re going to get treated to a whole sideshow of wonky antics that’d put real-life Islamic Radicals to shame for not trying hard enough. Hezekiah turning out to be a Really Advanced Robot later on doesn’t mitigate it any. It’s just like the Red Queen in Dragon Strike. You can put the shit in a different bucket, you can make your stupid villain a squid from the butter jelly dimension of Atlantis, and in the end, it’s still a stupid villain, it’s still the same stupid shit.

Hell, it makes it even WORSE, since all the “thunderous voices” and “protection of faith and god” turns out to be really because he’s a Really Advanced Robot. Which falls neatly in line with the “religious people don’t really believe in their religion, but merely use it as an avenue to power” paradigm. Hezekiah later reveals that a) he knows he’s a robot, since he needs to make repairs to himself and b) he has a maker that isn’t God. It’s insinutated there that whatever small measure of belief he has, it’s just there because he’s been programmed to do so, and he doesn’t have much at that.

Great job being prophet of God if ten centuries of being a prophet still ends up with Christianity being a no-name religion in this conworld; Christianity only took a few hundred years to become the official religion of the Roman Empire. Oh wait, he destroys anything he touches.

All of the above could be true and a reflection of our world. All real-life evangalists could be evil robots working out to destroy all we hold dear in the name of some religion. And it’d still be unimaginative and stupid to follow the conga line of Christianity-bashing in the genre.

And DO authors even THINK of the implications of what this means for the conworld? The existence of Christianity and the Bible mean that this has to be some post apocalyptic-version of Earth, since I don’t remember Hezekiah crashing in a space pod onto the planet’s surface. First off, that means magic as it’s commonly understood, and not “television shown to cavemen” is flat right out of the equation. Then, you’ve got basic physics of Earth, which dictate that there’s a limit to the weight versus muscle cross-sectional area ratio (which determines strength), and the heaviest flying bird on Earth is ten kilogrammes. That means the dragons, flying as they are (not gliding), are RIGHT OUT.

Then we have all the stupidity, like the English language being used exactly as we know it today after a thousand years at least, which is incredibly stupid given linguistic evolution, and the question of why the paper-and-ink bibles haven’t fallen apart, and—

—You know, at least most post-apocalyptic settings spend a lot of time addressing these questions.

——

And here’s the minor rant:

You know, I really, really am wondering about the diametrically opposing suggestions in having a borderline Sue, who happens to be not just a Paramortal psychologist dealing with the mental problems of all sorts of supernatural creatures (from vampires. And werewolves. And ye typical Fae. Maybe if we got a Jiangshi or Potianak my eyes wouldn’t glaze over so badly, but I understand the book’s written for a western audience), when dealing with the psychological problems of humans is already tricky enough ground. Oh, then there’s the fact that said Sue is a Marine Special Forces Operative who “can get physical with them when the situation calls for it”.

Fine, whatever. I won’t go into that now.

Alas, the cover art appears to be dedicated to a blond bombshell in a tight-fitting singlet and jeans. Said blond bombshell is of course, physically perfect without the excess musculature you’d expect of someone in excellent physical condition, either bulky or wiry, a nice hourglass figure, and the pose said character is in is perfectly positioned to let anyone looking at the cover art get a nice view of her approximately 42DD-E sized mammaries, complete with gratituous amounts of cleavage almost right up to the nipples. Which doesn’t make sense, since most women who work off all that fat don’t usually have enough left over to get very big mammaries, especially if they do a lot of running. When was the last time you saw a female athlete with anything over a B?

…Yeah.

Oh, and did I forget to mention the very manly-man vampire brothers she has a love triangle with? Very manly-man indeed. Oh, and she gets captured and needs the manly-man vampire brothers to save her, whereupon they fight over her. Actually, they fight over her for pretty much the whole of the story.

…Really, every single UF story is starting to look the same. The ones with female protagonists always involve kick-ass girls who happen to come into contact with very manly-man male-types and get into psuedoromantic relationships, while the ones with male protagonists seem to always involve poverty-stricken private detectives who live at the edges of society, both mundane and supernatural, and who all have tortured secret pasts.

Gets out sandvich Nom nom nom, om nom.

Comment [15]

Note that this chapter was originally done in two separate bits, but I mushed it together for your reading convenience. That’s why the Failcount resets after Bant’s scene.

Chapter 1:

We open with Bant, in the middle of a wood. Of course, I know it’s Bant, but for some reason, the prose insists on referring to him as “the hunter”. This worked in DO, because at that moment RuGaard didn’t have a name and it was specifically meant to point out the fact that said not having a name would scar him for life (or at least, according to Mr. Knight), but here, I don’t see any reason for witholding Bant’s name, except perhaps in an attempt to be mysterious. I mean, come on, don’t you think “hunter” is deep and mysterious? Like “raven” or “wolf”?

Ahahaha. In any case, it’s merely causing confusion and making Bant less of a character that the reader can immediately identify as the PoV character. Congratulations. Anyways, Bant’s all pleased with himself over having brought down a sky-dragon, and we get a whole page of unbroken description right three pages into the introductory chapter. Holy shit, Batman! Before I have any reason whatsoever to care about how these dragons look like!

I’m being serious here. Eyes glazing over serious. Pointless infodumping is one of the cardinial sins of contemporary fantasy fiction, and while it might be information you need to get across, one unbroken page of solid description is not the way to do it. Because, y’know, INCLUING is impossible, or even giving the information in broken dribs and drabs. As much as Mr. Maxey is desperate to get the message across, we don’t need to know everything about sky dragons right now, thank you very much. How about introducing it naturally a little while before it’s actually needed, so while it doesn’t seem like a pointless throwaway reference, it doesn’t seem like something made up on the spot to justify something, either?

Blah blah, more exposition on how the sky dragons consider themselves artists, blah blah, feathered scales, blah blah, how they think it’s beneath them to hunt, blah blah. In any case, Bant picks off the dragon’s backpack (yes, it is a “leather satchel”) and rifles through its contents:

Bant receives items:

-Bottle of wine x 1
-Peasant loaf x1
-Eel jerky x1
-Horch, which is a paste made from sardines, olives and chillies, all fermented. x1
-Book of nature studies, beautifully illustrated x1
-Writing materials x1

…Where’s the Captain Picard facepalm when you need it? Given the way the sky dragon was described, half the shit in its backpack would be wildly inappropriate. First up: bottle of wine. By all means, this bottle is what we humans on Earth would recognise as a bottle, since there is no information to the contrary. Now, bottle. “Crocodilian jaws”. Bottle. “Crocodilian jaws”. Do they fit? Of course not. Unless they were dumping it in their mouths, and then there’d be no way to control the flow (which these oh-so-civilised and refined sky dragons wouldn’t like), there is no way one is getting wine from bottle into “crocodilian jaws” without a LOT of spilling. Necks of bottles were designed for people with LIPS. Fail x1.

Next up, hard peasant loaf. Requires sopping and chewing. A LOT of both sopping and chewing. “Crocodilian jaws” are NOT made for chewing, which is why they can regrow the odd tooth when one gets knocked out—biting precision isn’t important for such a jaw model, which also explains why we humans and plenty of other mammals only grow limited sets of teeth. Crocs use their teeth for grabbing prey, killing them and biting chunks off whole. Fail x2.

Eel jerky. Fine. No problems. Ditto horch. Now it’s time for book of nature studies. In linen paper. By people with sharp, two-inch claws.

Can you see the problem here? Fact of life: people handle objects roughly. Maybe they’re tired, or they slipped, or an accident happened. Whatever the case, even amongst us humans who keep our nails fairly neat and trimmed, books get damaged, books get torn. Now imagine people with two-inch-long sharp claws. Parchment and paper ain’t going to last long. Fail x3.

Writing materials. I’m having trouble figuring out how people with two-inch claws on each digit would conventionally hold a pen in a fashion that approximates us humans, since the pen is described as a quill pen, but I’m willing to give this a pass. For now.

Already, I can tell from this the amount of care and thought which Mr. Maxey put into his worldbuilding, which is absolutely none at all. He just took humans, stuck on wings and all the other bits, and declared them done when as I’ve mentioned before, merely changing the physical alone has a massive ripple effect into the social, mental, spiritual and other worlds. Mr. Maxey didn’t stop to consider how the differences in physical attributes would affect his dragons, even if they’re more on the lines of humanoid furries rather than the traditional hexapod quadrupeds. Even Limyaael points out clearly in this rant that the simple addition of wings to humans will require plenty of thought and change from what we know and think of as “human”.

But evidently, someone didn’t care. Fail x4.

Anyways, Bant is all cold and dark and gloomy, and he slices out the sky dragon’s tongue and goes om nom nom on it after having built up a fire, then he goes and burns the nature studies book, but not before contemplating writing a letter home:

Opening the bottle of ink, he dipped the quill and drew a jagged, uneven line upon the page. He tried again, drawing a circle, the line flowing more evenly this time. Across the top of the page he began to write “A B C D E…” and it all came back to him. (Pg. 28)

Congratulations. Thank you for ruining what pathetically little immersion I had, if I had any remaining. Thank you for dragging me out of your conworld and plonking me right down into the real one. Thank you, Mr. Maxey, for completely neglecting and ruining any sort of linguistic evolution, if you’re going to go the route of “this is really post-apocalyptic earth!” People in the early 1900s spoke very much differently from how we do today, and that’s within the same language. Just imagine…ugh. I don’t even care. You hear me? I don’t care anymore. LALALALALALALA.

Fail x5.

We get more glimpses of Mr. Maxey’s wonderful methods of characterising his anti-hero protagonist:

Here the hunter stopped. If only. These were weak words, regretful. They had no room in his heart. This was not a night to lose himself in memory and melancholy. Tomorrow was an important day.(Pg. 28)

Thank you for telling me all that, instead of showing it. Would it have been too much to ask to let me interpret his emotions for myself? And really, there’s wanting your protagonist to be a cool antihero, and there’s trying too hard. Mr. Maxey is definitely trying too hard. You see, no matter how un-heroic your character is, you still have to have some measure of em-and sympathy for your character. You can’t make your character completely unlikable—I’m very sorry, but trying to get the readers to read on by making them hope something terrible will happen to your protagonist generally isn’t a good idea, and that’s what seems to be happening here.

Coming back to the point of DO, RuGaard is very definitely an anti-hero, given his whole life is built on lies, his complete misanthropy and bouts of pure, unadulterated hate and in the end, deep suspicion of even his own wife. Yet he’s likable. There are good traits that are played up, not-so-good-but-not-bad traits that form the crux, and most importantly, we’re given to understand why he does what he does.

Second example: Rocky and Freckle from Lackadaisy Cats. Rocky is clearly crazy and has dome some not-very-nice things in his time, while Freckle is a cute little mild-mannered kitten-face who happens to go batshit insane in the presence of firearms. Both of them happen to be morally dysfunctional at least part of the time and certainly qualify as being anti-heroes (being rumrunners would probably have done the trick alone), but they’re likable to some degree.

Let’s say I’m a reader who hasn’t read the book blurb; right up to page 29, I have not seen a single redeeming quality about Bant. Oh, Mr. Maxey tried to arm-twist me with Jomath all right, but that does NOT work on me, and this impression of Bant is not going to go away quickly. Fail at properly introducing anti-hero. Fail x6.

Anyways, Bant watches the rest of the book burn.

In any case, we leave Bant behind and get a scene change to the great hall of King Albekizan. However, from now on I shall refer to him as Evil King, since that’s as far as his characterisation goes. Of course, the PoV character happens to be a human woman by the name of Jandra, who happens to be the apprentice of Evil King’s court magician, Vendevorex. Apparently, this is allowed because Vendevorex is SMRT, but of course, up to this point I have nothing to base this on except for Mr. Maxey’s word for it, and you think I’m going to believe that something in a story is so just because the author says it is, rather than on how the character actually behaves? Minor fail x1.

Fat chance.

Besides, historically, one class that relies on the subjugation of another was nautrally very jittery about the subjugated class getting their hands on education and positions of power, for obvious reasons. And given the way the Evil King is characterised as we’ll see shortly, I doubt Jandra would be given the chance to even survive, let alone appear at his court, even as someone’s pet. But what do I know? I’m just a guy who cares about logic. At least the courtiers have the sense to disdain her.

In any case, there’s some description of the great hall. Jandra’s wearing a satin gown with an elaborate peacock headdress…yadda yadda…dragons lounging around on silk mats…yadda yadda…description of sun-dragons…yadda yadda…drummers, choir…golden cushions for Evil King and pillows for the Queen…

Wait, what?

I’m not even sure what fabrics are doing in the same place as a room full of people with rough scales, sharp feathers and talons. You asking me why the fabrics aren’t already ripped and torn all over? You really asking me? Well, my theory is that there was a mass happenstance of Solids Toughening Under Pre-Induced Duress, or STUPID for short, which allowed the fabrics to escape unharmed. Of course, it’s just a theory, although there’s already been substential evidence to back it up. Fail x1.

More pointless description (hey, you get the idea) flows by, and then the Evil King’s High Biologian (no! The correct term is “biologist”! “Biologian” isn’t even a word! Minor fail x2!) comes out, and we get the following snippet, which sadly, is rather characteristic of how Mr. Maxey likes to write his prose regarding his characters:

He hobbled forward, supporting himself with a gnarled staff. Despite his stooped, crooked body, Metron commanded respect. Everyone present lowered their eyes in reverence. (Pg. 31)

Holy redundancy, Batman! Not only does Mr. Maxey tell, he shows AND tells, therefore making one of them redundant! You see, if everyone lowers their eyes, especially in reverence, I can INFER that they respect him and so don’t need to be TOLD as well that they do so! If I’m TOLD that they respect him, under the right circumstances I would accept it, but you don’t need to SHOW at the same time! It’s almost as if Mr. Maxey thinks readers are retards and can’t figure the simplest of things for themselves. Minor fail x3.

And a cane? A CANE? This is quite possibly our first suggestion that we’re dealing with more “anthro-furry” dragons, rather than your conventional quadruped hexapods. Upon reading this for the first time, I had to stop and think about why the hell a quadruped creature would fucking need a cane for, and that dragged me once again from my pathetic attempts to immerse myself in the—oh, who am I kidding. The thing is, if Mr. Maxey had bothered to make it clearer in his lavish descriptions of sky and sun-dragons that they differed from the typical portrayals, there wouldn’t have been this problem.

And don’t give me that shit of “aren’t you the one who complains about cliches?” Because I’m not arguing against the subversion, but rather, on how Mr. Maxey handled it—by saying “elf”, “dwarf”, “goblin”, or anything else, you ARE going to evoke pre-conceived notions and templates about said species in the minds of your readers, and it is vital to establish how YOUR interpretation of these so-called stock fantasy races differs from the templates before you actually put them in action. Fail x2.

More description of Metron being presented before Evil King. Particularly egregious excerpt:

The strength in Metron’s eyes allayed her fears. (Pg. 31)

Telling and a pathetic attempt to use physical description in lieu of actual characterisation, but I already covered that. THE EYES DO NOT HAVE IT. By now, it’s best to completely avoid using eyes to make any sort of “deep” statement about a character. Minor fail x4.

Anyways, directly after that, we get a full-half page of description regarding Bodiel, Evil King’s younger son. Blah blah, arrival, flowery prose, blah blah, I don’t care any more. Note that after three pages of this scene, we still have no idea what this ceremony is supposed to be about, nor has anything happened, considering all three pages were almost chock-full of description of the scene in Evil King’s great hall. Great pacing. I feel no connection for Jandra or any of the characters introduced here; it seems as if Jandra’s only here to provide a pair of eyes for the—oh, wait, that’s probably the ONLY reason she’s here. But that’s not the worst thing. After the Obnoxiously long and pointless description of Bodiel, we get this kicker:

Jandra’s heart fluttered at Bodiel’s beauty. (Pg. 31)

…Getting back memories of Touched By Venom.

…Oh god.

DO NOT WANT. Fail x3.

Anyways, Metron begins the ceremony proper with the ritual greeting, which seems like a whole lot of sycophantry, but hey, I guess he’s not to blame for the way it’s worded. At last, we manage to learn what all this hoo-hah is about, even if it takes us a bit of head-hopping. Ready for the great reveal? Apparently there’s a ritual in which the sons of the Evil King compete to see which has the honour of being banished from the kingdom. Yes, really. Supposedly, the hope of this is that the banished sons will return to overthrow their fathers, and hence rule with even greater strength, and supposedly this practice has kept the Evil King’s line in power since time immemorial.

Facepalm Let’s pick this apart one problem at a time, shall we? 1. Learning proper statesmanship and the ins and outs of running a country isn’t very well done when you’ve BEEN BANISHED. (Where to, though? The way things are set up, it seems as if the whole world is this kingdom, anyway) 2. It never states how the son is supposed to do the overthrowing against a whole kingdom, which them would be a pointless quest if he had to go solo. 3. Having no clear line of succession is obviously not good for the stability of any country, and 4. What if a king fails to produce male, or indeed, any issue at all?

This is one of the things which sounds like a great idea, until you dig a little deeper and realise the only place where it could be taken seriously would be in a parody. Fail x4.

More wonderful characterisation by Mr. Maxey:

The king’s youngest son, Bodiel was universally recognised as the dragon most likely to best his father. He was strong, fast and charming, a master of politics as well as combat. Shandrazel was larger and, most agreed, smarted, but few believed he could previal. bodies possessed the will the win at all costs. The lust for victory boiling in his blood rivaled Albekizan’s and perhaps even surpassed it. (Pg. 33)

(Gets out sandvich) Nom nom nom, om nom. I don’t think I have to repeat myself as to why this is bad. Fail x5. Finally, we learn what the competition consists of; two slaves are going to be released into the woods, and the kiddies have to hunt them down and presumably kill them. Hurrah hurrah. So the cages are opened, and the slaves run into a tunnel which leads into the forest, but not before Mr. Maxey shows off his excellent ability to convey characters’ emotions:

Jandra again felt a stirring of guilt. She was in awe of the ritual she was witnessing, swept up in the grandeur. Shouldn’t she feel some remorse over the fates of the slaves? (Pg. 34)

I rest my case, and will only point out the worst violations of this bit of general writing knowledge. Or perhaps not. Heh. Minor fail x5. At least what we’ve had so far hasn’t been TOO bad, but Evil King opens his bloody mouth for the first time and perfectly justifies why I’m calling him little more than Evil King:

“Humans these days are worthless,” Albekizan said, addressing the High Biologian. “In my youth the humans had more spirit. They were alwyas finding sharp rocks to wield as weapons, or hiding in tiny caves. I remember how one doubled back and hid within the palace for two days before being captured. Now, the slaves run blindly, leaving a trail of excretement any fool could follow. Why can’t we find good prey anymore, Metron?” (Pg. 34)

…

(Takes another bite of sandvich) Nom nom nom, om nom. I don’t know about you, but after reading this paragraph, I can’t help but be reminded of the worst of caricatures. Is it too much to ask for an antagonist who isn’t a gloating idiot? Again, Mr. Maxey’s determined to arm-twist me into hating Evil King by placing him so far on the scale of conventional western morality that I have no choice but to dislike him, because god forbid someone be affably evil, if they have to be evil in the first place. Well, guess what? I’m equally determined to say “fuck you” to such cheap tactics. Fail x6.

Of course, the High Biologian points out that humans have been systematically culled for a long time, and that “the breed must inevitably decline”. Vendexorex, of course, putters along and suggest the hunting of humans be temporarily stopped to “let the stock recover”. Uh. Whatever. Of course, this provokes another over-the-top response from Evil King:

“Bah!” Albekizan snorted, raising his bejeweled right talon dismissively. “You and your softness for humans. They make fine pets and adequate game, but you would let them breed like rabbits. The stench of their villages already sullies my kingdom.”

“Their villages fill your larders with food and your coffer with gold,” Vendevorex said. “Allow the humans to keep more of the fruits of their labours, and they will improve the conditions in which they live. They dwell in squalor only because of your policies.” (Pg. 35)

Ah, yes. Whoever could forget the number one evil tool of any evil regent: taxes, taxes, taxes. Perhaps I could be persuaded to care more if I actually knew what evil policies were in place beyond the absolutely generic ones and saw them in action; at least the Generic Little Village which gets destroyed by the Dark Lord’s legions of terror happens to show them in action. If this turns out to be another Inheritance with everyone (everyone who is good, anyway) talking about how evil the Evil King is without actually seeing some of the bloody repression of the common man in action, I have nothing to say.

Of course, in a typical Evil King fashion, Evil King gets pissed at advice of advisor that doesn’t match his preconceived notions. How exactly someone who happens to be so much of a bloody idiot happens to have held power centuries is beyond me; authorial intervention, probably. I’ll just quote Limyaael on this:

“It doesn’t make much sense to have stupid people conquering the world. Either villains are really secretly intelligent until the hero comes along, at which point their wits drain away, or everyone else who tried to resist evil in the past was monumentally idiotic. The hero always seems to be not only more intelligent than his nemesis, but supremely more intelligent than his nemesis.

How did the nemesis become a nemesis, then?

Think about it. If the dark lords in fantasy really failed as badly most of the time as they do when confronting the heroes, their reigns should have ended centuries ago when they did something like leave a large and obvious loophole in their plans that their enemies could slip through. Lack of intelligence turns them cartoonish.”

Fail x7.

In response to that, Vendevorex pulls the “you commanded me to speak freely in the past and haven’t rescinded that order” stunt. In any case, Evil King swallows what he was about to say and orders the hunt to begin. Bodiel’s off in a flash, but the other son, Shandrazel, refuses to take part:

“You know my feelings. I do not desire your throne. I will not hunt Tulk. This ceremony is archaic and cruel. There is no need for blood to be shed. Simply appoint Bodiel as your successor. Your word is law.” (Pg. 36)

Stilted language aside (I mean it. Try saying this out loud. Do you think it feels natural at all?), it’s interesting to note that in a supposedly non-anthrocentric world, morality is still defined by who likes humans and who doesn’t. Wonderful, isn’t it? Vendevorex and Shandrazel are Good because they like humans, and reversely, anyone who doesn’t like and looks down on humans are portrayed as utterly horrible and evil.

It’s also interesting to note that Shandrazel also shrugs—which even if it’s technically possible due to a bipedal humanoid body structure (which I still have problems accepting, considering that body structure can only support so much size and weight before the leg bones, no matter how dense and strong they are, and note that most flying creatures often have hollow bones to reduce weight—oh, why am I even bothering? Remember that the heaviest flying bird on Earth is 10 kilograms? But—but this isn’t Earth, and physics doesn’t apply here—but they’re using English, and Christianity’s around, even if it’s only an Evil Robot, and…and…does not compute. Does not compute!), the shrug is very particular to modern western symbolism. Why non-humans should blindly adopt it—oh wait, these dragons are really people with parts glued on. Silly me. Fail x8.

Someday we’ll look back at this and laugh. And laugh. And laugh. Ooh boy.

So Evil King and his elder son have a staring-down contest, but not before this particularly horrible outburst:

“And you are breaking that law!” Albekizan shouted, spittle spraying the floor before him. “I command you to hunt!” (Pg. 36)

Oh noes, oh noes. Spluttering villain, which brings in a whole bunch of ugly connotations. Fail x9. Anyways, the staring match goes on for a while, which doesn’t really make sense if Evil King was willing to kill off the previous two sons who got banished. Why spare this one and go against what little characterisation Evil King has been given? It doesn’t make sense, really—oh wait, if Shandrazel died, the resolution at the end would be impossible, so Evil King must be an idiot and let him off.

This, my friends, is what we call an idiot plot—where the characters must act like idiots to keep it on the rails. Fail x10. So the staring match continues, when the Queen suddenly leaps up and shrieks that her son’s dead.

(Yet another bite from sandvich) Nom nom nom, om nom. Evil King breaks the staring contest to comfort her, and we get a prime, overmelodramatic example of what I personally call “the pathetic fallacy” and some others call “sadrain”. In short, it’s the manipulation of the weather to heavy-handedly set the mood:

Almost as if his saying had made it so, the night fell quiet. The thunder faded and the wind shifted, silencing the rain for an instant. At this moment, a mournful, anguished howl rose from the distant forest. Lightning flashed and thunder washed away the voice. The wind twisted, whipping back into the hall with a harsh blast of cold rain, sending the torch flames dancing wildly. Tanthia gasped as one of the torches extinguished, a soul forever lost.

“He’s dead!” Tanthia cried. “My son is dead!” (Pg. 37-38)

(Finishes the sandvich) Nom nom nom, om nom. Well, that certainly was melodramatic. Since I mostly share Limyaael’s thoughts on this, I’ll just quote her:

_“I tend to distrust this technique. As you said, it can be done well, but it’s very hard. It’s even worse when the author takes note of it (as in one of the DragonLance Chronicles, where Weis and Hickman actually note the rain is like weeping). When it doesn’t work, it’s another heavy-handed way of the author telling you how to feel about her characters.

I think it can work when the author’s already established that a particular weather pattern is normal- someone weeping in what you’ve already been told is a monsoon season, for example- or when it’s used as irony, such as a bright and cheerful day on which a battle happens.”_

Well, I can safely say that in my opinion, it damn well didn’t work. Minor fail x6. Noting that things are going pear-shaped all of a sudden, Vendevorex and Jandra make a hasty retreat, the former sprinking magic powder over them both to make them INVISIBIBLE. I know that Mr. Maxey really wants to show off his character’s skills, but this seems hardly an appropriate time for such a trick, and the courtiers seem to have the attention span of a gnat, since they’re all immediately in awe of said trick instead of, y’know, being concerned about the drama, especially in the presence of an plot-convenience horribly contrived insane king.

So they’re gone, and Shandrazel flaps off in search of his brother. We get a whole page’s worth of Mr. Maxey’s Wonderful Characterisation Format, by now which I’m sure you’re familiar with, so I won’t elaborate. The only bit I want to point out is that his mother eats baskets of white kittens by the truckload. Yes, really.

Despite his father’s keenness for the sport of hunting humans, Shandrazel saw no more challenge in it that he did in his mother’s appetite for devouring baskets of white kittens. (Pg. 39)

All fucking right, they’re fucking evil, fuck it. You don’t have to fucking make them EAT FUCKING KITTENS to TELL ME HOW FUCKING EVIL THEY ARE. Stop it, stop it, STOP IT. Fail x11. Anyways, he putters around to come across the sky-dragon’s body we saw just now. Some pointless blahs about how this guy used to be his old teacher, blah blah, more pointless blahs, and then he and Evil King do some more searching until the come across Bodiel’s body. Let’s take a look at his reactions:

Albekizan’s eyes burned with fury, fury and something more, an emotion he’d not seen in his father’s eyes for many years: passion. Albekizan, cradling Bodiel’s dead body, was filled with frightening, fiery life. (Pg. 40)

Lightning struck nearby, again and again, shaking the ground. Fire spouted from the tops of the tallest, most ancient trees. Albekizan didn’t flinch. Shandrazel couldn’t move. As the thunder faded from their ringing ears, Albekizan held the arrow to the sky and shouted a single, bone-chilling word.

“Bitterwood!” (Pg. 41)

There are so many problems with this that I don’t know where to start. Again, overly melodramatic, making it completely cheesy, and the pathetic fallacy only makes it worse. Minor fail x7. Now for the important part. Evil King has been characterised as evil. Doesn’t care about subjects, both draconic and human. Kills own sons. Does lots of evil and bad things which we haven’t seen yet. And we’re supposed to believe that he’s the type to love this particular son all of a sudden? Are you kidding me? You don’t just mangle your characters’ characterisation like that just to further the…oh, wait, this is an IDIOT PLOT. What was I expecting? I could have seen Evil King taking this as an insult to him, but his actions suggest otherwise, and it’s explicitly stated in the book blurb that he’s supposedly avenging Bodiel. So, no. Mangled characterisation. Fail x12.

Then we get on to the bigger problem: WHY WERE THERE NO GUARDS AROUND THE PALACE? You know, traditionally, most palaces, even summer/winter ones, were very well-guarded—heck, it’s where the bloody head of state lives. You’d expect there to be a patrol at all times. Forest? Most royal forests, or the equivalent thereof, had a forester or two—people whose job was to live in the forest, know its ins and outs, keep out trespassers and poachers, and make sure it was fit for use whenever the nobility fancied a bit of sport. Oh, there’s one we’ll see in the next chapter—a buger by the name of Zanzeroth. WHAT THE FUCK WAS HE DOING? HOW WAS BITTERWOOD ALLOWED TO GET SO CLOSE—oh, wait, SHEER INCOMPETENCE ON THE PART OF THE ANTAGONISTS TO ADVANCE PLOT. You know, I wonder why he didn’t just lie in wait and smack Evil King with an arrow as they searched for Bodiel. Oh, wait. If he did that, there’d be no story. Stupid me. Fail x13.

One more point: How did Evil King know conclusively it was Bitterwood? It could have been the fletching on the arrow perhaps, since it was studied for a bit, but it’s never conclusively explained. Besides, it could dang well have been someone else impersonating him. There’s some ambiguity here, so I’ll give our dear friend the benefit of the doubt here, but a few WORDS to make it clearer wouldn’t have hurt.

And so we end this disgusting tripe which is an excuse for a chapter. End of round: minor fail x7, fail x13, epic fail x0. Total fail score: 7 + 13*3 + 0 = 46.

Comment [21]

Chapter 2:

To be honest, I’m now very tempted to give a cameo in MA to a minor hero named Batterwoad. He will try too hard to be evil and anti-heroish, utterly fail at it, as well as utterly fail at killing Victor, who has something of a brain.

Well, it’s the same night, and we find ourselves in the woods in the PoV of dragon slave by the name of Gadreel. Apparently, his master, Zanzeroth—who appears to be forester, hunter and tracker rolled into one, you know, the common “woodsman” template—and Evil King are scouring the forest for signs of Bitterwood. As I’m reading the prose of their search, I can’t help but get the feeling that it just doesn’t flow, that the prose itself, like the characters’ dialogue, is bloody stilted, but since this is admittedly rather subjective, I’m not going to be assigning any sort of fail to it. A small sample to prove my point:

Albekizan stood nearby, watching the aged hunter step gingerly over the muddy ground. Albekizan ignored Gadreel. Gadreel hoped the king’s snub was due to his fascination with Zanzeroth’s methods. (Pg. 42)

Well riddle-dee-dee. You expect me to believe Gadreel’s been a slave for the past three years when he’s not used to the high and mighty ignoring him, least of all the bloody Evil King who’s supposed to be horribly cruel to everyone? Again, it’s not showing thought or any research into the mindsets of most slaves which unfortunately, tend to go against uprisings and the like. Minor fail x1.

Anyways, we never see Zanzeroth’s mad tracking SKILLZ in action (besides him making proclaimations about how events turned out, with the occasional footprint), and this is supposedly because Gadreel knows jack shit about his master’s work, but I suppose that after three years in his master’s service, it would be impossible for even a slave to pick up on bits here and there, would it? But fine, I’m willing to give this a pass. We get a half-page dump of description about Zanzeroth (who, of course, is rugged. Because all woodsmen, with the exception of elf woodsmen, are rugged.) Zanzeroth asks about Shandrazel, and this is what Evil King has to say:

“Do not speak that shameful name,” Albekizan said, his eyes narrow. “I’ve placed that traitor underguard for now. His final fate will be left for the morning. We will not discuss this further. For now, Bitterwood is our only goal.” (Pg. 43)

Again, the eyes do NOT have it. I could excuse narrowed eyes, as they’re very common and a bit hard to find a substitute for, but it’s still an itch I can’t scratch. That’s not the main problem, though; the main problem is that Evil King’s concern for Bodiel is seeming more and more contrived by the moment. We’ve never been given any reason why someone known for killing off his own sons should favour the one most dangerous to his continued regime, and Shandrazel doesn’t seem to be any better off. Maybe Mr. Maxey is trying to “humanise” Evil King by making him love his son, but it doesn’t work because 1) even if it did, one white spot in a sea of black isn’t going to do jack shit, and 2) it crushes any consistency in the characterisation to hell, making it seem as if Evil King does what the plot needs him to. Fail x1.

And I’m just wondering, just under what reasons Shandrazel is being charged with treason for. But that’s just me, wondering too much about stuff again.

Another problem here is the CSI-style reporting of Zanzeroth. Supposedly, this scene is intended to be tense, with them pursuing Bitterwood as he flees the scene, trying to catch him before he makes it to safety. The fact that Zanzeroth happily pauses to give every single excrutiating detail about the supposed crime is reminiscent of the way CSI puts it: that they’re at the scene long after the criminal’s fled and have all the time in the world to piece things together and track him down—which they do NOT. The exposition of the crime reconstruction, interspersed by Gadreel’s grumbling about his lot and of course, the gratituous exposition on how he became a slave—there is simply no sense of tension or immediacy whatsoever. Fail x2.

And what’s up with the numerous titles Bitterwood’s been given? All sorts of crap from “The Ghost Who Kills” to “The Predator” to all sorts of other crap. Also, apparently Mr. Maxey needs to remind us about every 2/3rds of a page that “Bitterwood is no ordinary man”, or some variant thereof. You know, I’m starting to wonder if Bitterwood is an authorial self-insert, but since I haven’t got any evidence to back it up, I’ll give it a pass.

Anyways, Zanzeroth fills one and a half pages with his CSI-style reconstruction of Bodiel’s death, by the end of which my eyes have happily glazed over, thanks to me being utterly bored. La dee da dee da. Anyways, the reconstruction is over, and Zanzeroth happens to slip in the mud. Gadreel goes over to help him up, ad has his offer spurned; the automatic assumption is that the spurning is because he’s a slave. Of course, that ignores the fact that things do happen for multiple reasons; Zanzeroth might have been too proud to accept help from anyone at all, but it’s just a thought on the side. Still, it’s clear that Mr. Maxey can do things right, show events happening and leave it up to the reader to interpret things for themselves. Why he doesn’t do so more often, I have no idea.

In any case, the place retinue of earth-dragons steps out of the foilage (what a convenient place to hide them!) and Zanzeroth has them release the Evil Dogs, a.k.a ox-dogs. Because they’re dogs, and are as big as oxes. Wheeee. The Evil Dogs go sniff about:

“And Bitterwood?” Albekizan said, studing the trees surrounding them. “What became of him?”

“He fled, of course,” said Zanzeroth, placing his spear back in its quiver. “On horseback. He’s miles away but we’ll find him. Even after a hard rain the ox-dogs can follow a horse’s scent.” (Pg. 46)

First things first. Spears do NOT belong in quivers. EPIC FAIL x1. I mean, what the hell? Spear. Does. Not. Go. In. Quiver. Arrows. And. Bolts. Do. And don’t give me that shit. For a spear to be used properly, it has to be a certain proportion of the wielder’s height. Even if these other-people (I really hate calling them dragons. They don’t have the mental, the social, the spiritual, even the physical beyond their own bodies implications of being one) were bigger, the spears would need to be scaled up to their proportions, hence making it impossible for them to practically fit in a quiver. That’s just ignorant and dumb; even CHILDREN know a spear’s too big to fit in a quiver. If they were small enough to do that, you might as well call them “sharpened chopsticks”.

Pant pant

Another question. If the Evil Dogs can follow a scent infallibly, then why the fuck aren’t they tracking Bitterwood directly? Why are they tracking his fucking horse and happily being led on a merry chase? I mean, they have his arrows. Why—oh, I give up trying to get this to make sense. Fail x3. So the hunt is on…and we break the action for one and a half pages of description of earth-dragons, Gadreel angsting over how he became a slave, and yet more angsting on his part. Uh, fine. Whatever. Couldn’t it have been moved to a lull in the bloody action, where there might be a chance to, y’know, at least make getting the information across seem more natural? Besides, I don’t give two shits about Gadreel, and him angsting without me caring first has just tipped the scales against it. PROTIP: get readers to care for your characters before you spill their life story out to them. Fail x4. Anyways, for your convenience and the safety of your brains, I’ve condensed the infodump to the salient points for your benefit:

-Gadreel missed the last three clan gatherings.
-This, apparently, is a serious enough offence for him to be tied up and sold as a slave.
-Zanzeroth won him in a bet.
-Now that he’s in the presence of Evil King almost daily, Gadreel hopes to impress Evil King so much he’s rewarded with freedom.

Oh, look, it’s my old friend the sandvich again. Nom nom nom, om nom. Anyways, the dogs catch onto the horse’s scent, and ta-da! Surprise, surprise, they’ve been tricked! There’s Bitterwood’s horse, but the man himself is nowhere to be seen! DUH! Evil King isn’t too happy about that, and Zanzeroth hands the spears to Gadreel, claiming they’ll only slow him down. Here’s our dear friend’s reaction:

Gadreel struggled to hold the giant wooden shafts with the gleaming steel heads. Only sun-dragons could ever hope to wield such massive weapons effectively. (Pg. 50)

Yeah. Whatever. Right. Which only furthers my wondering at what a fucking quiver is doing holding those things. Anyways, the hunt continues, until they reach a series of cracks in the earth. Apparently these cracks are EVIL and stretch for miles beneath the kingdom, so people (and dragons) don’t usually dare cross them. Cue an infodump on Evil Cracks and speculation as to their purpose and construction, blah blah, four circles being the symbol of death. I really don’t see why. If you look at symbols of death in most cultures, at least most of them have some logic to them. Skulls and bones are very popular in many cultures, as are animals associated with decomposition. Black is popular in western culture. White is the colour of death in Chinese culture, since it represents the paleness of the skin after death. Whatever the case is, there’s usually some logic that ties into the greater part of the culture, with death rites, superstitions and all, but there’s none of that here; it’s just used to explain away why there’s conveniently no one else around and stops there. If you’re going to have symbolic interactionism, at least have a BASIS for it. Minor fail x2.

I’d just like to point out one thing: that on our timescale, man-made buildings do last quite a bit, but on the Earth’s own timescale, what’s probably going to be left of us to the sentient jellyfish or crabs or hippopotamuses is going to be a layer of broken plastic sandwiched between the topsoil and Burgess Shale. I’m already having enough trouble trying to reconcile the use of English, what apparently is magic enough and Evil Advanced Robots without Ruins Of Ancient Civilisation That Was Really Us coming into the picture, thank you very much. The more i read on, the more the setting of this book is starting to look like an issue of Dr. McNinja.

…At least Dr. McNinja has ninja zombie robot pirates ON PURPOSE. Fail x5.

Surprise, surprise. The trail ends at a tunnel, and one of the ox-dogs is dead, having being crushed by a big rock. Now if only more rocks would fall and everyone in this story would be so kind as to die, we could call it a day and go home. Unfortunately that’s not the case, so of course, Evil King just HAS to mention it AGAIN:

“He’s Bitterwood,” said Albekizan. “The predator. He’s no mere human.” (Pg. 52)

Oh god, shut up, shut up, SHUT UP. I don’t want to be told how awesome and fear-inspiring and dark and dangerous your fucking little shit is, really, because—le gasp!—I might actually not agree with the author on how I should feel about this little PoS. The broken record on this topic merely serves to INCREASE my antipathy, not decrease it. Anyways, the chase goes on, and eventually they end up at “an ancient, low building formed of vine-covered brick”. Of course, an arrow comes flying out through a window as they approach, landing right between the eyes of the ox-dog.

Again, I’d like to ask. If Bitterwood had a clear shot at Evil King, and as according to the book blurb, killing Evil King will solve everything, then WHY DIDN’T HE JUST FUCKING SHOOT EVIL KING WHEN HE COULD?

…Oh, wait. Because them we wouldn’t have an excuse to get a 600-odd page book. Silly me. Again, example of idiot plot, where everyone has to be an idiot in order for the plot to proceed. Nom nom nom, om nom. Fail x6. Of course, like the idiot he is, Evil King orders the royal guard into the structure to get Bitterwood out. So they all blindly rush in, and get blown up by a booby trap.

…

…

…Is it really too much to ask for some level of competency in mooks that aren’t supposed to be literally mindless? Is it too much to ask for them to form a perimeter around the structure to prevent Bitterwood from bolting, then send one sacrificial lamb in? It doesn’t have to work, but could they at least try? Pretty please with a cherry on top? Could SOMEONE at least not destroy all tension by having the hero take candy from a baby? Fail x7.

Alas, Bitterwood’s not in the trap, and so we don’t get to see this piece of shit excuse for a Stu get blown up in a ball of flame. Instead, he’s running for what’s recognisable to us as a manhole cover (thank god Mr. Maxey didn’t explicitly call that) and slips inside. Zanzeroth goes after him, just misses catching the bugger, sticks his spear in and a fraction of a second later an arrow comes out of the two-meter-wide hole and grazes his eye.

…

…

…AHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!

Ahem.

A very large problem with how bows are represented in today’s literature is how they’re used in the exact same manner as guns are. It’s crept in and embedded itself so deeply into our consciousness that most people don’t flinch when you say to “shoot an arrow”, even though the term is technically wrong. (FYI, it’s “loose an arrow”.) So I’m expected to believe that in that half-second, Bitterwood managed to unsling his longbow (since he was explicitly described as using one, a shortbow wouldn’t have the required kick anyways, and he was using both hands to lift the manhole cover), a weapon that is formally described as at least being as tall as the wielder (wikipedia puts most variants of English longbows at around 6’6”. That’s two meters.) draw an arrow from wherever he’s keeping them, notch the arrow, pull back an arrow about 75 centimeters (about 30 inches) at a power of anywhere from 220 (modern longbows) to 900 (African elephant bows) newtons, and aim it at Zanzeroth’s eye AND loose it.

Mr. Maxey, you’re really fucking stretching the old suspension of disbelief here. EPIC FAIL x2. Now not even the deliciousness of the sandvich can stop me from being a sad dragon now. Really. PROTIP: Even with an M-16 assault rifle fully loaded, you’re not going to go from unsling to fire in a fraction of a second. A pistol, maybe. A longbow? Well, fuck me upside down. Next thing we know, Bitterwood will have the amazing power of bullet time.

After a lot of cursing and swearing, both Evil King and Zanzeroth realise the manhole is too small for them to go into, so Gadreel steps up to the plate and offers to go instead. Hurrah hurrah, thanks for not noticing how those mooks died in a giant fireball. Still, I guess the bravery has to count for something, if stupid recklessness equals bravery.

So Gadreel goes into the manhole, and finds himself in a tunnel “barely eight feet in diameter” and “half-filled with rushing water”. Abandoned sewer, or storm drain? Your call. Most modern storm drains are much smaller than that, though, so it’s definitely an Absurdly Spacious Sewer . A little way into the drain, Gadreel starts having second thoughts, and something catches in his legs. Oh, look, it’s Bitterwood’s cloak. Hurrah hurrah. So our dear Gadreel decides he doesn’t have a spine after all, and goes out with his prize. Evil King isn’t too impressed, but gives Gadreel a figurative pat on the head for trying. We cue back to Zanzeroth, who happens to be toying with the universal panacea in the fantasy genre, also known as “herbs”:

“Zanzeroth was squatting on the ground, pressing a bloodied bundle of leaves to his injured eye. No one alive knew more about the medicinal properties of forest plants, the entire world was his pharmacy.” (Pg. 57)

I’ve ranted about about “herbs” that I shouldn’t have to explain why they are a bad thing. Fail x8.

So la dee da dee da, the search’s called off—for some reason, and we’ll see what Evil King has to say about this:

“No,” Albekizan said. “I admire your spirit, old friend, but we need not chase this demon into further traps. There’s a solution to this problem, an obvious one. We’ve paid a horrible price this night. I vow this—the debt of Bitterwood will be repaid in blood.” (Pg. 57)

Nom nom nom, om nom. This coming from the idiot who, two pages ago, “fell to his belly before the dark ring, thrusting his fore-claws into it, grasping blindly, his need to capture Bodiel’s killer blotting out all caution”. I really, REALLY get the impression the characters here are just puppets being jerked around on strings in accordance with the idiot plot and, well, not characters. Oh, for a shred of consistency. Fail x9.

I guess we know what happens to the poor ole humans next. The whole setup here reminds me of the recent arc of Order of the Stick involving Varsuuvius. Character A causes problem in the first place, character B retaliates in a (well, more or less) justified and understandable manner, and then character A uses said retaliation as an excuse to justify his initial actions in the first place. To use a rather rude analogy, it’s like Nazis herding Jews into ghettos, then using the filth and squalor in the ghettos to justify putting the Jews there in the first place—happily blind to the fact that they were the ones who put them there.

Oh, of course, we’ve heard about all the evil things Evil King has supposedly done, but we’ve never seen any of it. Even ERA-fucking-GON has the Ra’suck come and burn down Garrow’s farm, at least demonstrating their Evil. We haven’t seen Evil King do jack shit yet. Batterwood (I shall henceforth call him Batterwood) is now portrayed as the primary aggressor in this so-called conflict, which makes it rather hard for me to “want to join his fight for humanity’s sake”, as the book blurb suggests. Fail x10.

Fuck this. Total fail score: 2 x minor fail + 10 x fail + 2 x epic fail. Fail score: 44.

Comment [15]

Chapter 3: Baby-eating. Yes, really.

Well, at last I’ve managed to convince my brain that it wants to be hurt very badly indeed, so here we are again. Hurrah hurrah. Anyways, it’s mid-morning the next day after Bodiel’s murder, and Evil King goes up to the roof of his palace to sunbathe. This, of course, is an excuse to give us a massive infodump on the state of Evil King’s kingdom, which is described as being three hundred miles from east to west, and an unspecified distance from north to south (well, it is given, but ‘far, far’‘ is hardly a quantitative unit of distance). (Un) fortunately, there’s no map that came along with the book, so we’re stuck with this description. Anyways, we learn that “impassable mountains”, “endless, trackless marshes”, “endless oceans” and the Ghostlands, whatever they are, form the boundaries of his little kingdom, which apparently is all that’s left of the world.

Again, I’d like to point out that to a flying people, land barriers should be utterly ineffective. All right, so I might just accept mountains forcing flying creatures so high up that there’s no oxygen. But marshes? Oh, come on. And endless marshes? I don’t think so. Salt or freshwater? Where does the water inlets come from? Where does it go, if it doesn’t flow out to the sea? I suppose I’m just irked that all the landforms are just so conveniently placed, like the way mountain ranges are often too straight and meet at right angles to other ranges. It just doesn’t seem natural. Then there’s the problem of putting mountains right next to marshlands, which grates on the old sensibilities—in between those two elevations there’ve got to be some foothills, some flat, passable land.

I just get the feeling that Mr. Maxey didn’t give two shits about proper geography and plonked landmasses where they were convenient. Fail x1. Anyways, we get even more of Mr. Maxey’s Wonderful Characterisation Methods:

“Beloved Bodiel was dead. He wanted to trade his wealth and power, his own life, even, to undo this horrible truth. But there was no one with whom he could demand such a trade.” (Pg. 60)

Sigh. Again, I remain unimpressed by Mr. Maxey’s methods. We’ve never seen Evil King care for Bodiel, we’ve never even seen him INTERACT with Bodiel, and suddenly I’m supposed to believe that the guy who has had a history of offing his sons suddenly loves one so much, just because the author told me so. For goodness’ sake, Bodiel was a fucking McGuffin. So far, I could replace Bitterwood murdering Bodiel with Bitterwood stealing the wonderous plot device of hoopla from Evil King’s palace, and it wouldn’t make one whit of difference.

Fail x2.

Anyways, if this shit wasn’t enough, we get a whole one-page description of Evil King’s palace, after which comes shit about its history, how it was constructed, shit like that which will probably have no impact whatsoever on the storyline and then we get these wonderful little gems:

“The vibrant, explosive light of the external palace hid a cold, stony heart.”

“Autumn lay close. Cold days were coming to the kingdom.” (Pg. 61)

Nice foreshadowing there, la la la la la. Minor fail x1. Anyways, after landing, Evil King goes down into the depths of his palace, and apparently this is where Bodiel was born. Yes, born.

“More, it was where he had gazed upon Bodiel, damp from birth.” (Pg. 62)

I’ll only echo Sam when she considered the idea of giving birth to something with scales, sharp feathers and talons: owwww. Now the scene from humanoids from the deep is stuck in my mind, the one where the alien baby claws its way out of…yeah. Yes, some snakes birth live young (then, they’re oviviparous as compared to being truly viviparous like mammals are), but those don’t have talons, sharp feathers and scales. Again, it just irks me, because it’s more evidence that our dear Mr. Maxey didn’t give a shit when building his dragons. Eggs might be the so-called cliched thing to do, but they’re highly justified in this case.

La la la la la, crappy worldbuilding, la la la la la. Nothing new here, move along, move along. Fail x3.

Anyways, the queen’s waiting down there, and they natter on a bit over Bodiel’s death. Evil King is convening a council of war to begin a manhunt for Bitterwood, and there’s more bullshit said, but here’s what I want to point out:

“Talk of vengeance is not the same as talk of grief,” she said, her voice trembling. “I hear no pain in your voice. Where are your tears? Come with me, my king. come with me to the Burning Ground. By now, bodiel lies in state. stand by my side as I go see him.” (Pg. 63)

Of course, Evil King refuses on the grounds of not showing weakness, from which I want to draw two points:

-Again, it’s a complete rehash of Evil King’s flipflopping all over the place. First he loves his son, then he doesn’t, then oh yes, he does, then oh no, he doesn’t, because Bitterwood needs to escape, then oh yes, he does again, so that there’s an excuse for the plot to go on, then oh no, he doesn’t, because Mr. Maxey wants to arm-twist us into thinking Evil King’s a cold-hearted bastard. This is the biggest pile of flipflopping bullshit I’ve seen a character go through, and it’s not making me happy. Fail x4.

-Secondly, Evil King is supposedly HORRIBLY EVIL for not wanting to show weakness. Problem is, this is EXPECTED of him as a head of state. After 9/11, what would be your impressions of Bush if he’d been weeping and wailing as he addressed the world? Heads of state are supposed to be focal points about which the citizens of a nation can rally about. They’re supposed to be pillars of strength, to be slightly cheesy about it. So what if we had Evil King show weakness? Then he’s a bad ruler. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t. Lovely. Fail x5.

So anyways, Evil King throws the Queen a sop by saying he’ll join her later, the war-council’s summoned, and the Queen is left to weep. We’re supposed to infer that Evil King is a cold-hearted bastard, but his actions here are utterly justified, which completely ruins the effect. Lovely.

Scene change time! We cut to a flashback of Vendevorex during the night before. For some reason, he’s gone out to find Cron and help him escape by giving him food, clothes and a knife while being invisibible. I suppose it’s to his credit, but this does put me off on a very interesting tangent:

Why is it that “good” characters follow (or eventually do) twentieth-century western morals and ideals, and “bad” characters reject them? Oh, we all know the reader sym/empathy reason, but that aside, why? I don’t mean as in anti-heroes, where the rejection of standard morals and values, either of the world itself (in which case, it’s still the same old bucket) or western morality is more often than not portrayed as a virtue in itself, appealing to the “cool” and “rebellious” factor to attract the readers to them. I’m referring to traits like not liking children, being unegalitarian (which neatly covers discrimination of any sort), wanting money, being sadistic and unecessarily violent so on and so forth—it’s rather easy to spot who’re the protagonists and who’re the antagonists these days. Of course, there’re always a few exceptions like good old GRRM, but I’d like more greyness in my characters, that they’re, y’know, more like real people.

Yes, it can be an uphill task to make such characters likable, but whoever said writing a novel was easy? Coming back to the character of Vendevorex, if I wasn’t already sure he was holding the Protagonist Ball during the court scene, I damn well am sure now. Anyways, Cron isn’t dumb, and he figures it’s Vendevorex. La dee da dee die.

A side note on the invisibible powder: Materials Science and Engineering class in here, so this might get a bit technical. transparency occurs when a material’s potential energy states for electrons do not possess values that correspond to the energy values of the photons of visible light—I.E, the “band gap” is too wide for the photons to be absorbed, and so the photons pass through the material unimpeded—hence transparency. We can still see glass, of course, because a number of the photons are scattered by the material’s surface.

For Vendevorex’s invisible powder to work, it’d have to either redirect the photons around the user and leave him or her in the exact same direction that they would have been of the user hadn’t been in the way—something which I cannot accept a powder doing due to the randomness of the particles, although I think researchers are working on a rigid cloaking shield which can do this (don’t take my word for it. It might have been a brain fart). The other way is to alter the chemical composition of the user him/herself such that the “band gap” in the user’s chemical composition is to large to accept visible light AND prevent any reflection or refraction from occuring. I don’t think you’d like it if your chemical composition was changed.

TL:DR? Invisibible powder is impossible on our world, by our current technology standards and to be honest, I don’t think it’d work in a hard SF setting, either. Since Mr. Maxey was kind enough to confirm that our setting is post-apocalyptic Earth, my conclusion is that this magic invisibibibibibility powder is a whole pile of bullshit. Fail x6.

Thank you.

Anyways, Cron’s all proper and grateful, and asks about Jandra. Because she’s beautiful, and he’s wondering just what is her “job”, and what’s the life like, and—

“What I’m wondering is, is there, you know, sex involved? Do dragons find humans attractive? I know some girls get hot over dragons. I have a sister who—” (Pg. 68)

I’m now chewing my delicious sandvich with deliberate slowness. Gag reflex, you see.

No. Stop it. Get it out of my brain. Ugh. Touched by Venom aside, I’m getting all the bad memories of the times when I was writing about Dragonkin, and I would mention it other writers, and they’d be all “You sicko, you write furry porn!”. That aside, though, I’m sure it did happen in some instances, given that a) all sorts of fetishes exist and b) given the dragons’ position of power. Which still leaves the question of the actual mechanics, given the physiological differences; as Victor points out in Morally Ambiguous, a size twelve bolt is going to have a hard time fitting into a size one nut, but…you know what? I’m not going to think too hard about this. Ugh. Fail x7.

Anyways, Vendevorex shuts Cron up, and essentially tells him to go to the river where he’ll find a boat and escape from there. We get another scene cut back to the current day, and Vendevorex’s back at the palace, still invisibible and looking for Jandra. Apparently she’s down at the human servants’ quarters, playing the old game traditionally favoured by royalty or the otherwise privileged in the genre: Being With The Commoners, because associating with them and being able to go back to your comforts later on is just like being a member of the working class. Minor fail x2. There’s some description of the filth and squalor in which the humans live, and finally, we get to see some real oppression of the humans, no matter how expected it is.

On a side note, while I know how much Mr. Maxey wants me to know the humans are being Evilly Oppressed™, it really doesn’t make sense to have humans living filthily RIGHT NEXT TO THE PALACE, especially since these buggers supposedly know plenty about biology, and I should hope by extent, pathology. They’d probably want to clean up the place for their own health’s sake, or at least, to not have a disgusting view from outside the window.

It’s also interesting to note the fact the most cities in the middle ages were stinking and dirty without anyone needing to do the oppressing, even for what might be the rich sections of town—people simply didn’t bother throwing their trash properly, and dumped it into the street or yes, a ditch dug into the street. If there were rivers, so much the better—plenty of rivers were positively fouled with waste.

Blah blah blah, shanty town, blah blah blah, stinking ditches to carry away waste, blah blah blah, children playing in filth. Because we’re supposed to feel sorry for the children playing in filth—nope, nope, not working, not working. Minor fail x3. You’ve probably heard my diatribes on “women and children”, so I’ll stop that here for a lovely snippet:

“If a man were to ever try and live with the wealth and comfort of a dragon, Albekizan’s tax collectors would simply come and take it all away. Humans lived in squalor because that was all Albekizan would allow.” (Pg. 70)

Yeah. Whatever. Fine. You know, I really do get annoyed at this sort of shit. Wahh waah waah, we’re so oppressed, and all we’re going to do is to sit around until the great hero comes along and inspires us to overthrow our shackles and rise up against injustice.

And here I am wondering why exactly, if Evil King’s regime is so horribly EVVVVIL and UNJUST and HEAVILY TAXED, the people haven’t done a single piece of shit about it? A well-known example is the history of Black slavery in the US of A. Slaves didn’t just sit down on their hands and say “woe is me” until the Emancipation Proclaimation was issued. Some of them rebelled by pretending to be too dumb to understand orders, working the minimum to avoid punishment, stealing small items from their masters to inconveneince them and make their lives easier, and keeping snippets of their old cultures alive even with the cultural indoctrination they faced. More overt actions included the Underground Railroad, and even those most slave uprisings were bloodily suppressed, that didn’t stop them from trying every now and then.

Next example: Nazi Germany. You may have read about the Japanese diplomat who managed to save the lives of many Jews by issuing them visas out of Germany to Japan, about people who holed up and hid for years, about Schindler’s List, about efforts to smuggle Jews out of Nazi-occupied territories.

But what I’m getting at is that no matter how horrible and hideous the regime is, there usually isn’t any sort of resistance except what the hero’s associated with. People just sit around hand-wringing until the hero turns up, says a few trite, cheesy lines, and it’s viva la revolution time, which of course works. Because it wouldn’t be an uplifting story and all that crap if it failed, would it? It’s just dumb. Because tax collectors can’t be bribed, assets can’t be disguised or hidden, people simply CAN’T resist because they need the hero to save the day.

Bleargh. Fail x8.

For some reason, we get to do some head-hopping, switching from Vendevorex’s PoV to Jandra’s PoV without rhyme, reason or even a bit of warning. Minor fail x4. La dee da dee DIE. Personally, I’m wondering why exactly Jandra is allowed to wander in and out of the castle as and when she likes it—even if she is tolerated as Vendevorex’s pet, most people would woulder if they saw the neighbour’s dog running wild.

But never mind. Today Jandra’s gone down to the shantytown to talk to Ruth and Mary, two women whose mothers happened to give Vendevorex advice on how to properly raise a human child when Jandra was still very young, so that’s why she’s friends with them. Apparently, Ruth and Mary are in their twenties but seem “middle-aged”, because of the hard life they’ve been through due to Evil King’s oppressive taxes.

(Cough)

Frankly, I’m not surprised. Even with a reasonably balanced and steady diet, most people in that technological level didn’t live past their late forties—primarily a combination of manual labour being much more widespread than it is today, a general lack of medical knowledge and a cavalier attitude towards hygine were the main contributors. I.E. People weren’t middle-aged, because they were dead by then. It was rather uncommon for a low to whatever passed for a middle-lower class woman in the 1500s to live past her last menustral period.

Well, there’s plenty of gossip about as to who killed Bodiel. I suppose talk does get around, but it’s almost as if there isn’t an attempt to control or suppress the exchange of knowledge, a central pillar of any proper dictatorship. Oh well. Anyways, Ruth and Mary are pressing Jandra for information about Bodiel’s death. Of course, silly little Jandra spills the beans on all that she knows. There’s some speculation on whether Crom really managed to kill Bodiel or not, blah blah, everyone’s going to be in trouble if that was really the case, and we have something particularly appalling:

“Do you think that matters to Albekizan? I’ve heard that in villages where they can’t pay the tax, he takes the babies and devours them as the parents watch. (Pg. 71)

(Twitch) Epic fail x1.

Ow. My sensibilities. So the queen eats kittens while the Evil King eats babies. That’s how you know they’re EVVVVIL. Of course, Jandra doesn’t really believe that, or at least, claims she doesn’t, and Mary and Ruth all are like “you’ve been pampered”, and Vendevorex takes the opportunity to make a dramatic appearance behind them, take Jandra in hand and hustle her back to the palace, but not before this…bit…

Vendevorex decided he’d heard enough. With a thought he allowed his aura of invisibility to fall away, revealing himself behind Jandra.

Ruth turned pale. Mary turned a bright shade of pink. (Pg. 72)

OH BOY! SANDVICHES! THE ONE THING IN WHICH I TAKE GREAT DELIGHT IN FEASTING UPON!

OM NOM NOM NOM!

Are you absolutely sure that character’s name is “Mary” and not “Zarq”? Because I damn well think it is. Oh, and again, I’d like to reiterate the whole Dr. McNinja-ish feel to this conworld. Fail x9.

Thank goodness the chapter ends here. Our Failscore for this chapter totals to 3*1 + 9*3 + 6*1 = 36.

Comment [49]

Chapter 4:

Current music setting the mood for this analysis: Zero Wing’s BGM music for the first stage. “Open your eyes” by Uemura Tatsuya. Very fitting title for what we’re going to be doing.

Well, we’re back, and this time we’re opening in the War Room of Evil King’s palace. Unfortunately, this means that we’ll be getting two whole pages on the interior of Evil King’s war room, the interior decor, the tapestries ubiquitous to fantasy palaces and the scenes depicted on them, headhopping from omniscient third-person to Zanzeroth’s PoV to omniscient third-person once again, blah blah, lands beyond Evil King’s kingdom which Zanzeroth once traveled to, blah blah, how Evil King doesn’t acknowledge that any lands beyond his kingdom exists, blah blah, introduction in omniscient third-person to Kanst, general of the king’s armies, blah blah, description of Kanst, blah blah, jumping into Zanzeroth’s PoV again for him to contemplate his mortality, blah blah—by the time the action starts, we’ve managed to haul ourselves a good two pages of padding.

Unfortunately for us, Kanst’s description is rather stupid flat-out:

“He wore steel armor polished to a mirrored finish that was unblemished by any actual blow from a weapon. Albekizan liked Kanst, which again to Zanzeroth spoke ill of the king. Kanst was all bluster and polish. The king had a bad habit of surrounding himself with advisors who were more show than substance. Kanst and Vendevorex were the two best examples.” (Pg. 76)

Problem, problem, problem. First off, the description, once again, flat-out telling “loaded” statements and trying to strong-arm me into looking at a character from a particular angle, happily making me go the other way and hate the author more out of sheer revulsion. And Kanst’s armour? Well, supposedly we’re to infer that he’s never seen actual combat, but really, it’d have been highly improper to wear dented, battered plate to an official function. Even Sam Vimes of the Ankh-Morpork City Guard wears his ducal regalia during official city functions.

Second problem, which ties back to the basic antagonist competency problem—if all the king’s advisors are so horribly incompetent, how the hell is he creating a reign of terror for the humans? Again, let’s look at a classic real-life example: Nazi Germany, in which I’m seeing parallels in here. People like Goering, Goebbels (Metron), Heinrich Himmler (Kanst), Dr. Mengele (Blasphet)—they certainly were competent at what they did, and the same goes for the rank and file. If you look at some old photos of the systematic rounding-up of the Jews onto the trains to the death camps, it’s horrifyingly organized, which is more than I can say for how the dragons handle things.

But here? If they’re all so ineffectual, why hasn’t Evil King’s dictatorship collapsed under its own weight already, especially since it’s highly centralised? Why hasn’t the treasury been emptied due to mismanagement? Why aren’t the peasants taking advantage of the situation to hide their assets, lynch tax collectors, plot revolution (without the need for Morningwood)? Up till now, I haven’t seen any suggestion of a cult of personality, which is all too common to your standard dictatorship, right up to literally worshipping the dictator as a god, neither have I seen any attempt by the government to control the spread of information, as evidenced by the fact the humans are allowed to freely gossip amongst themselves, so there’s no reason why this can’t be the case. Why aren’t the soldiers grumbling about why they aren’t paid? Why aren’t the roads running into ruin? Again, I’d like to ask the question: how is this government still standing if there isn’t anyone halfway competent around?

Third problem is the taking-candy-from-a-baby problem—if the antagonists are hardly effectual, then there’s not much challenge or tension in the protagonists fighting them. During the whole chase scene in chapter 2, there’s no tension at all, even if Zanzeroth’s CSI-style reporting hadn’t been around. Of course I know Bitterwood’s going to escape, but at least, I’d like to be fooled for a moment that there might be a chance he might actually, y’know, get captured. The complete incompetency and cartoon-like behaviour of Evil King and the palace guard completely wipes that out.

Anyways, Zanzeroth, Kanst and Metron are having a little chat about what’s going to be done next, and there’re some remarks on how old everyone’s getting. Zanzeroth casually mentions that he’s over a hundred and feeling it—which is what I call “breaking up and hiding”, or Jo Walton calls “incluing”. Either way, it’s telling of sorts, but a) unobtrusive, b) feels natural (by which I mean it belongs within the context its used), c) is appropriate for the information being conveyed and d) still gets the point across without too much ambiguity. This is how it should have been done most of the time, and when I look between this and Kanst’s description I do wonder whether this was an accident or otherwise.

Anyways, Evil King putters into the war room. There’s a bit of blathering about whether Bitterwood’s a myth or reality, and we get this immensely hilarious and stupid bit, which I’ve pointed out before:

“Still, I am not blind to the possibility that other humans assist Bitterwood,” Albekizan said. That’s why I’ve called you here. We are going to devise a way to remove the stench of humans from my kingdom forever. I’ve tolerated their kind far too long. They breed like rats. Their dung-encrusted villages spread disease. They create nuisance by leeching off dragons as beggars and thieves.” (Pg. 79-80)

Let’s cue the dramatic drum roll to Evil King’s Final Solution to the Jewish…oops, I mean, human problem.

Metron broke the silence by clearing his throat, then asked, “all humans, sire?”

“Every last one.”

“From what area?”

“From the world.” (Pg. 80)

(Sigh)

Really, Evil King now is pretty much the equivalent of Hitler; proposing genocide happily places him too far on the scale of morality (as it applies to antagonists) to even contemplate empathising with him. Mr. Maxey has stated in one of his replies that his intention was to make Evil King and Morningwood equal opposites on different sides of the conflict; I’ll shortly address why this isn’t the case when the relevant text quotation comes up.

Of course, everyone’s rather shocked at the prospect. Vendevorex makes his appearance and pleads the humans’ case, stating their usefulness in the economy, the relationships that many dragons and humans share, and that the humans will retaliate with considerable force if they know the game is up. Guess what Evil King does? He ignores Vendevorex and gives this particularly stupid quote to Metron while assigning him his duties:

“In your role as the protector of all knowledge, do you not teach that millions of years of evolution have produced the dragon as the highest form of life? We are by rights the masters of the earth. The human religions claim that they were created separate from other species. If they are not part of nature, why should we tolerate them?” (Pg. 81)

Oh, FFS. As if he wasn’t already cartoonish enough in his evil. This is like the antagonist going up to a helpless puppy and kicking it while laughing madly, just to show how obviously evil he is. Anyways, Metron gets to be the equivalent of Goebbels in the Third Reic—oops, I meant kingdom, and is charged to “Educate all dragons to this fact.” and “Persuade them to the logic of our cause.”

This is ridiculous. Which brings to mind a small point on the side—so much for the dragon rites of succession making each generation of rulers ever more capable and powerful, as they were supposed to do. Oh well. Anyways, Evil King wants Vendevorex to concoct a plague that will wipe out all of humanity. (Technically speaking, shouldn’t this be more into Metron’s territory? We’ll have to see their portfolios more in-depth, then.) Of course, having been given the protagonist ball to hold, Vendevorex refuses. Evil King fails to help his case by stating that he’s ordered all the humans in the palace slaughtered, and that he’s holding Jandra hostage, and finally by ordering Vendevorex clapped in irons and be sent down to the dungeons.

Dear god. Vendevorex’s response to this? To brutally slaughter the guards while making his apparently very magical escape.

The ruby in his silver skullcap glowed brightly. with a crackle Bander’s spear crumbled to ash. The black particles swirled from the shocked dragon’s talons, flying in a dark stream toward the wizard to encircle him in a shadowy vortex.

“Kill him!” shouted Albekizan.

The guards rushed forward. A weighted net was thrown over the black vortex, the wind of its passing causing the miniature tornado to collapse into an expanding cloud. One by one the earth-dragons lunged, tackling the cloud of ash. The sound of steel striking steel, then ripping muscle and cracking bone reverberated through the hall.” (Pg. 84)

#

By now, the ash lost its momentum and drifted to the stone floor. It was difficult to make out from the tangle of bloodied limbs and gore exactly what had happened. when the earth-dragons who could stand had finally risen, all that remained on the marble floor was the tattered remains of one of the guards, chopped beyond recognition. Of the wizard, not even a single scale could be found. (Pg. 85)

So much for someone who “has no patience for needless death” and is supposedly amazingly powerful, yet unable to concoct an escape without needlessly murdering a whole bunch of redshirt minions in the process. Thank you very much, now Vendevorex has managed to make himself appear an utter hypocrite. And this is the person Mr. Maxey says is the main protagonist. Again, it’s a clear disjoint between what Mr. Maxey claims Vendevorex is and how he acts, and I’m going to believe the latter rather than the former, thank you very much. He’s “a product of his culture”? Where does it matter? I’m not seeing it. He “has no patience for needless death”? But he just created a whole lot of it for its own sake! Claiming characters have traits, or even having them when they’re not put into practice and don’t affect the characters’ actions in any way—they might as well not be there.

This is highly personal, but once someone’s an utter hypocrite, it’s going to be a hell of a challenge to make them anywhere near likable—and when the protagonist is unlikable, there’s something seriously wrong with the way things are going.

Note here that it’s perfectly possible for protagonists to be morally grey or antiheroic while still remaining likable. Again, I’ll discuss this matter with the Bitterwood/Albekizan divide later on, but I’d just like to point out that if the reader is not induced to care about the characters in question, they’re not going to be reading on.

The insinuation here is clear: Vendevorex doesn’t hold the life of a dragon to be of equal worth of that of a human. Of course, whether this is good or otherwise depends on the circumstances, but unfortunately, the circumstances are against us today. First off, as I’ve pointed out, Vendevorex is supposedly for the sanctity of life, yet through his actions he clearly contradicts himself. Secondly, he’s supposed to be for the equality of dragons and humans, yet shoots himself in the proverbial foot by proving he doesn’t give very much for the lives of dragons—and just because prejudice is against a “dominant” or “bad” group doesn’t make it any more justified or right. Thirdly, as I’ve pointed out above, it makes him utterly unlikable, or at least to people who realise that just because people happen to be oafish minions doesn’t mean you have free license to murder them as you please.

Which brings us to the second point. Everyone knows the fate of your sad old guards, who all too often than not only made the mistake of choosing the wrong employer, and serve no purpose except to be slaughtered by the hero in your stereotypical “cool” scenes. So much for that. Humans count, dragons don’t. Because unlike humans, dragons aren’t sentient, they don’t have families, they don’t have emotions, they can’t feel pain, they weren’t intending to go off this shift and have a few drinks or the equivalent thereof with their friends…

I really, really hope the moral dissonance here is clear, in a book that supposedly deals with tacky issues such as racial relations.

Thirdly, while this conworld is supposed to be dracocentric and the humans the sad, oppressed people, it doesn’t help the case that this incident only serves to strengthen my convictions that morality in this conworld is utterly anthrocentric. Actions against humans are terribly evil and constantly decried, while actions against dragons are at best, given one or two lines from Shandrazel.

Of course, this whole incident could also be seen from another point of view—a good/evil dichotomy rather than a dragon/human one. That if you work next to Evil, sweep Evil’s floor, do Evil’s bills, unknowingly have a drink with Evil at a bar or are in any way remotely associated with Evil, the value of your life is absolutely nothing and the protagonist can torture and murder you without any hint of remorse. And this is a notion that I, thank you very much, find absolutely repulsive.

In any case, Vendevorex makes his dramatic and unecessarily gruesome exit. Zanzeroth makes a last bid and throws his hunting knife at the wizard, narrowly missing. What, you didn’t think he’d actually hit? Oh, and Vendevorex’s blood “smells of lightning”. I suppose there’ll be another superhero-ish explanation for this, like him really being the equivalent of one of the X-Men, or nanomachines, or something on those lines.

Anyways, Albekizan’s all angry now, and he calls for someone to be brought from the dungeons, horrifying even Zanzeroth. Supposedly, by the advisors’ reactions, this individual is supposed to be threatening in some manner.

Guess what his name is? Blasphet. Of course, the similarity of his name to “blasphemy” isn’t lost on me, and to make things even worse, he has the moniker “the murder god”.

As has been discussed before on the Antishurtugal LJ, a lot of SF/F antagonist names which try to sound threatening such as “The Dark Hand”, “Shai’tan” or “Adolfo” don’t really work because they sound absolutely cheesy. It suggests that the author isn’t confident enough to make the antagonist threatening through showing his or her actions during the course of the story, so he or she has to prop it up with these methods. The result is that even though the antagonist may be truly threatening, the reader has already made connotations with the cliched and cheesy, and these first impressions will colour the way the reader sees this character for the rest of the character’s appearances.

Think back to the truly creepy and dangerous antagonists you’ve seen in SF/F literature so far. How many of them have had names like that? “The Handicapper-General”. “Ministry of Love”. “Vorbis”. “The Auditors”. “The Jenonine”. Of course, correlation doesn’t necessarily mean causation, but the trend is worth studying, and I’ve provided a possible explanation above. Even superhero comics, which Mr. Maxey says he’s writing in the trend in, do use this to some effect. “Lex Luthor”. Any evil vibes if you didn’t know the character? “Magneto”. “The Joker”. Ordinarily, they’d be neutral names or monikers; it’s the way the characters act that defines them as threatening antagonists. (Then again, we do have some names like Dr. Doom…)

Anyways, the point is that the over-the-top name massively hurts Blasphet’s credibility as a threatening antagonist.

In any case, this ends the scene and we get a scene change to Jandra. Of course, that’s not before we get some description of Jandra’s quarters, which she shares with Vendevorex and is pretty much like a stereotypical alchemist’s workshop, with bottles and tomes, etc, etc, you know the drill. More exposition on how the humans will come to her every now and then for healing salves and love potions, yadda yadda.

Anyways, she’s reading on her silly little clam-snails when the guards (earth-dragons, of course) barge into her room and clap her in irons before dragging her out. Of course, that isn’t enough, so they have to be cheesily evil and slap her. There’s a bit here which is an itch that I have to scratch:

“The earth-dragon guards were no taller than her, but they possessed incredible strength. Earth-dragons were slow and a bit dim-witted, but still dangerous.” (Pg. 88)

This is a perfect example on the subjectivity of tropes (in this case, Dumb Muscle). In a game setting, this would make sense in order to “balance” the game and make for fair gameplay, which partially explains why “warrior”-type characters have low intelligence scores (or the equivalent thereof) and “wizard”-type characters have low physical attributes. However in a narrative setting, this would make less sense, and even less in a world that’s supposed to be a continuation of ours. The trope here is applied blindly and without justification, and now that we’ve had some insight as to our dear author’s direction with the human/dragon conflict, that the humans are kept dumb and uneducated by the dragons, it goes completely against the so-called egalitarian message by hardwiring a basis for racial discrimination into the dragons themselves.

Plus the fact that stupid, incompetent redshirt guards, or antagonists, for that matter, are never a good thing.

Anyways, it soon becomes clear where she’s being taken: to a chamber up in a tower with a good view of the courtyard below, where the guards are executing the humans one by one, Mary and Ruth included. Lovely. I’m not sure why the guards have unlocked her manacles, herded her into an exquisite room and aren’t watching her at all times when Albekizan’s given explicit orders that she’s to be killed. By all rights, she should be down there and first with her head on the chopping block, since she’s a priority target. Really, I don’t understand—oh wait, it’s so that she can escape. Silly me.

Oh, I also wondered why they’re killing them one by one when it’d be so much more efficient to do it in mass number ala the gas chambers.

This is an example of the problem I highlighted earlier on. Jandra only escapes because the antagonists, in this case, the redshirt guards, are stupid. It’s not through any particular stroke of intelligence on her part, not because of careful planning, but because the guards were stupid for no particular reason, especially after being given explicit orders to the contrary. It cheapens her so-called victory and makes it stupid and hollow.

Of course, Ruth and Mary get executed, which is a perfect excuse for Jandra to angst. Before it’s her turn to get her head on the chopping block, though, Vendevorex appears at the room’s barred window and calls out for Jandra (while invisible, of course). After a bit of nattering and ridiculously easy fooling of the incompetent guards, Vendevorex crumbles the mortar around the window, allowing Jandra to escape, but not before Jandra thrusts her hand in a nearby pitcher of water and magics—oh, wait, let me rephrase that—uses Amazingly Advanced Technology to turn the water inside to fog, obscuring their escape.

Let me now be pedantic. First off, common sense. How much water can there be in the average pitcher? One, two liters? Not enough to create the kind of thick fog required for vision impediment. That, in no way, is enough obscure my bedroom, let alone a large, exquisitely furnished room. Oh well. Stretching the suspension of disbelief once again.

Well, who didn’t see that coming? So Jandra gets rescued, hurrah hurrah, cue completely description of them plunging down, la la la, flying above the forest that surrounds the palace, cue aerial guard chasing them—oh, come ON. You think they’ll actually succeed? Vendevorex tells Jandra to make them invisible, and finally, we learn the exact mechanics of the invisibility powder:

Jandra clapsed her mentor’s neck more tightly with her left arm while her right arm reached into the pouch of silvery dust she kept on her belt. The wind snatched most of the dust from her grasp the second she pulled her hand free, carrying it beyond the range of her control. She knitted her brow in concentration, envisioning each individual particle of dust in her palm, feeling it come to life. She released it, and with effort kept enough of the dust close to her to make the light deflection possible. The tiara on her brow grew warm as she extended the control field, bending the flight of the dust to her will, swirling the motes into a sphere large enough to encompass Vendevorex’s wingspan. Suddently the sunlight summed as the particles began to follow the reflective pattern Vendevorex had taught her. (Pg. 92)

By this excerpt, the invisibility powder appears to work on reflective principles by creating a “mirror shield” of sorts, and the impression I’m getting here is of a giant disco ball. Unfortunately, reflection does not create invisiblity, and hence one can see disco balls. As I’ve mentioned before, invisibility occurs when the photons pass unimpeded through the object on the paths they would have taken had the object not been there. Reflection at best would create a visible reflective surface, and even assuming the few motes of dust were somehow, through amazingly advanced technology, able to collide with every single incoming photon and deflect them away from those two, the guards might not have been able to see Vendevorex himself, but they would have easily been able to see the visible reflection the powder creates, pretty much defeating the point.

Trust me on this. I’ve crammed enough optical properties of materials for my exams. True invisibility—not just merely transparency—is a tricky business. You’ve got to deal with reflection, you’ve got to deal with refraction, you’ve got to deal with stimulation from the invisible spectrum and re-emission into the visible spectrum, you’ve got to deal with suspiciously low patches of intensity (hypothetically), you’ve got to account for all of the above from all possible incident angles in three-dimensional space, and all the other needling little things like if you truly found a way to make yourself invisible, you’d either be blind or as good as blind, since either no photons would be getting to you, since they’d be all rerouted around you to avoid suspicious low intensity, or the fact that if you decolourised the pigments in your eyes you’d be blind.

Then even if you did manage to make yourself transparent without having the sci-fi equivalent of a petrify spell cast on you, there’re still flaws in your supposedly transparent crystal structure which will scatter light, leading to different levels of transparency, and of course, there’d be your edges, which would essentially be one enormous light-scattering grain boundary.

It’s not surprising that the few truly invisible materials as we know (when compared to air. If we’re looking from another medium, say, water, then water’s invisible, while air isn’t) are all gases, since they don’t have crystal structures and their molecules aren’t closely packed enough for their effective electromagnetic fields to have a great deviance from that of air (I.E. the permitivity isn’t too different). Still, refraction is still visible between pockets of cool/hot air as a distortion. I can’t think off the top of my head any solid/liquid material that is invisible. Pedantic, perhaps, but I really, REALLY need to scratch this itch and point it out.

And I’m going to explain it here once and for all, so watch my lips carefully, because I don’t want to have to explain it again:

The reason I’m being so anal about the science involved here is because in claiming this is post-apocalyptic Earth with a general technology level lower than that of what we have today, this novel locked itself into a “hard” science fiction paradigm, as opposed to a “soft” science fiction paradigm. The difference between “hard” and “soft” sci-fi is that in “soft” sci-fi, the more “magical” aspects of the genre tend to be handwaved. Star Trek doesn’t claim to be set on the same world (as we understand it) as we do, it’s set at level of technology far further than what we have today, with the possibility of importation from non-Earth cultures—the expectations created in the watchers of Star Trek are different from, say, people watching a Twenty Minutes Into the Future show like, say, Terminator. Sentient computers aren’t so much a stretch of old suspension of disbelief than replicators.

Long story made short—suspension of disbelief for “soft” sci-fi is much, much more flexible than for “hard” sci-fi. Of course, there’s a spectrum, but while people won’t argue about Scotty beaming up someone, I believe they’re very much justified in asking a few questions about the mechanics of things that’re going around here, especially if they’re wrong by current understanding. Maybe if there weren’t so many attempted explanations and “oh yeah, this magic-looking action is really science!” exclamations, I wouldn’t have been so anal. But since there are, and the novel seems like it’s trying really hard to be “hard” (hurr, hurr, I made a pun)

This is best exemplified by a novel series which suffered from its attempt to shift from the “soft” to “hard” paradigms—the Dragonriders of Pern series. I’m sure you’ve heard of it. Somewhere in the middle of the series (around The Renegades of Pern and All the Weyrs of Pern), McCaffrey apparently decided to do away with as many of the “magical” aspects of the series as possible and replace them with “scientific” ones; I.E. a shift from “soft” to “hard” sci-fi. The exact method through which this was accomplished was an arguable ass pull (AIVAS), but with it the main characters suddenly went around piloting spaceships, putting on spacesuits, going from “idiot” to “PH.D” levels of “science” in the span of a few years. Most importantly to our discussion, psuedoscientific explanations got thrown out for everything that was vaguely magical, from the ridiculous triple-helixed firelizard DNA to Mentasynth to the famous telepathy.

I suppose you can guess the fan reaction. Readers less attracted to the turn the novels were taking quit the series entirely, but that’s not the focus of my argument. The focus is that suddenly, bits and bobs about the dragons that were once taken for granted or went unquestioned were suddenly pulled into question. How could this work? How could that work? Why was this happening? Something that was clearly unsuited to “hard” SF was being forcibly pummeled to fit the hole, and it showed. The level of suspension of disbelief that was required was torn down, and with it a good bit of the series’ quality and attractiveness.

In short: Bitterwood, whatever the author’s intentions, has made itself known to me as “hard” sf through the prose itself. The science must work, or at least, not be proven wrong. Got it? Good, let’s move on. On a side note, nanites are really just sci-fi’s way of saying “a wizard did it”, much like genetic engineering is the new radioactivity.

Anyways, they’re puttering along, and in a moment of plot convenience, Jandra’s concentration wavers, and with it their invisibility shield. Oh noes, the guards are onto them, and one of them, surprisingly, is competent enough to almost hit Vendevorex. Note here: almost is never good enough. But oh well, god forbid that the antagonists be allowed some sort of minor victory; in another bit of plot contrivance, Jandra’s grasp on Vendevorex slips. Unfortunately for us, she doesn’t fall to her death, but instead has a couple of trees and a river break her fall. She climbs out to face the guard, about to kill her—

—But he doesn’t, despite the fact that Jandra and Vendevorex are supposedly now on kill on sight status. I’d just like to quote Sam Vimes here, or at least, his thoughts:

“If you get captured, hope like hell it’s an evil man. An evil man will want to gloat. A good man will kill you with hardly a word.” If half the antagonists stopped puttering around and actually took opportunities when they had them, Jandra and perhaps Vendevorex would already be dead. Again, antagonist competency problem.

Which also brings up the basic way militaries are organised: you never go anywhere alone while in the field. You always at least have your buddy with you, and you let someone else besides him or her know where you are going. Or at least, that’s the way my two years in the armed forces were spent, both in boot camp and later posted out to the navy. It’s only common sense.

Anyways, Vendevorex emerges from the trees, cloaked in an illusion that makes him appear small and unthreatening. Again, I don’t understand why the guard didn’t finish off Jandra and turn on him if he looks so helpless. No, his reaction is to stare until Vendevorex drops his illusion and attack. Now we’re treated to a scene that reminds me of the scene in Eragon in which our favourite dragon-rider threatens a guard with a burning grain of sand:

Vendevorex allowed his circle of invisibility to break apart. He stood ten feet away with the body of the aerial guard at his feet. The guard clawed helplessly at his jaws, emitting small, muffled grunts through his flared nostrils. The skin around his mouth was melted togehter. Large talon-shaped holes had been burned into his wings; he would never fly again.

“When your brothers find you and cut your mouth open, I want you to give them a message from me,” Vendevorex growled. His eyes glowed as if lit by an internal sun. “My decision to run should not be interpreted as a sign that I am weak of defenseless. Anyone who attempts pursuit will face a fate much worse than yours. If I didn’t want you to tell your brothers this, I would have killed you already. You live only because you retain this slight usefulness to me.” (Pg. 96)

Mighty similar, aren’t we? Producing the same assaulted sensibilities and sensations of revulsion? And again, this is supposed to be the reluctant hero, the person who sees no point in needless death. The person who in the same chapter, said that killing off humans was an idea he found abhorrent. The guy, who by authorial word, is supposed to be the main protagonist. The guy we’re suppose to like and empathise with.

I don’t remember Prof. Xavier, whom Vendevorex is supposed to be the equivalent of, doing cruel and unusual punishment to redshirts. Care to remind me? Then again, who cares? They’re guards. Their sole reason for existing is to become cannon fodder for the protagonists and be test dummies for their amazing powers. Everyone knows that.

Anyone remember Paolini and his little quote on how he aims to emulate LOTR and Beowulf? Yeah, I’m feeling it myself too. In any case, Vendevorex and Jandra take their chance to make good their escape, and that ends the chapter.

Comment [91]

Chapter 1:

Hello there, and welcome again to the Plane of Literature, where the evil wizards have trapped us and are forcing us to read books that are of dubious enjoyment value. Since we’ve had a request to stop doing The Dark Griffin, the wizards have sent us a new book—and they promise us that it’s really, REALLY bad this time. It’s called “The Pearls” by a certain Deborah Chester, and we’re going to hold it up to the magic mirror for all you folks back in the sanity of your homes:

With that out of the way, let’s get on with the book blurb, shall we?

“Lady Lea—beloved sister of the Emperor Caelan—is beautiful, good-hearted, and magically gifted, with the ability to see into the hearts of others. And when what she sees moves her to tears, those tears are transformed into flawless pearls.

Lord Shadrael, dispatched by his warlord brother to kidnap a member of the royal family, chooses Lea. A hardened warrior, he believes himself impervious to her powerful gifts. But on their journey though the fearsome Hidden Ways of the shadow world, he is drawn to Lea’s goodness and inner strength…

In Shadrael, Lea can foresee her destiny, even as she anticipates great grief. For ultimately, if she is to save Shadrael from his own darkness, she will have to choose between her brother and her abductor…”

Now let’s see. There are already a few warning points here, and if I’d seen this book at the library without intentionally looking for something to pick apart, I probably wouldn’t have picked it up. (By the way, if you are wondering why I’m bothering to pick it apart then, 1. Schadenfreude and 2. using the mistakes of others to teach readers what I believe is stupid). Still, here we are with this book, and let’s see:

*First off. Massive Purity Sue alert. There’s no attempt at pretense here—we’re explicitly told all these things about her, to the whole “I cry pearls” thing. Traditionally, it’s diamonds, but what the hell. The problem is that this ability suggests that the Sue will never be wrong about anyone, that her perceptions will equate to objective reality (thanks to the failsafe of the whole crying-pearls-thing), and to quote Limyaael, when your character’s perceptions equal objective reality in the book the only thing you can do is draw and quarter her.

*Following up from the whole purity sue thing, I don’t like the way said quite-possibly-purity-sue is described explicitly as being having positive traits. It suggests that whoever who was assigned to write the blurb either 1) is reflecting the book’s style of prose 2) didn’t have enough confidence in the characters to bring out their traits that the readers need to be “primed” through the blurb, or 3) just didn’t care, neither of which bode well for the book.

*And of course, there’s nothing remotely new in this blurb—or at least, that I can see. By all appearances, it’s your average high fantasy romance with a bit of action thrown in to give it a bit of plot framework. I’ll freely admit to having a tendency to shy away from fantasy romance, but I do read it if it’s well done (unlike a LOT of paranormal romances nowadays). But this—it’s all been done before, without even “hey, it’s a vampire!” or “hey, it’s a werewolf/djinn/ghost/angel/random mythic yet hunky and studly male who is ripping off my bodice!” to try and make it new! (And I’m not complaining that it’s not paranormal romance, but you get what I mean).

Of course, the blurb could be completely misleading; we’ve seen that before with Touched by Venom. But what we have so far is hardly enthusing, since the blurb suggests that rather than being internal, the problems faced by the characters are mainly external, which doesn’t lend itself to good character development. and I could be utterly and completely wrong and the book could actually be good, which to be honest I hope it is, but at this rate I wouldn’t be betting my lunch money on it.

Anyways, let’s get on with the chapter proper.

We open in the crossroads and apparently border town of Kanidalon (since customs offices are mentioned), whereupon we get the obligatory page of description about the town. I understand that this author is rather established and can afford to start slow, but really, just because you can doesn’t mean you should, for the sake of the readers. Of course, Kandalon appears as your stereotypical dark and seedy town—where there’s plenty of crime, everything can be had for a price, I’m sure you know that stereotype that I don’t have to write out the paragraphs of exposition dedicated to it.

Then on the next page, the scene shifts to a small nameless village somewhere close to Kandalon itself, making me wonder why we wasted all that time describing Kandalon proper, and it is into this village that the evil™ warlord Lord Vordachai rides into with his minions.

Of course, we must have some form of exposition about him, and so we get another page of it. Of course, Vordachai has to look the part of the evil™ warlord, complete with being big, brutish, having lots of spikes of villiany on his weapons and armour, having “dark, beady eyes”.

Victor would like to file a formal protest.

As I’ve said before, the problem I have with this sort of labelling is that it doesn’t encourage readers to think or form their own opinions of characters based on their words and actions. Instead, it attempts to force readers into accepting characters as the author wants them to be seen through the use of established stereotypes, and that annoys me to no end. It’s bad enough when the author tries to arm-twist me into hating someone through the gratituous hurting of children, but it’s absolutely and completely disgusting when physical appearances are used.

Of course, the first thing Lord Vordachai does is ask for the headman and demand to know how many inns and/or drinking establishments there are in this dusty little village, which by the author’s own admission, is “tucked away in the foothills”, “hard to find”, and “a place no prudent man entered if he valued his life or money purse”. (Pages 1-2).

Guess what? There are three. Now, I could better accept it if there was heavy traffic through the nameless dusty village, but there isn’t. The only people who come here are criminals, which means most of the market is domestic—so who stays in the inns?

Oh wait. Inns are there. They’re part of the scenery. Much like the ale which is served in them on the next page. Or the solders in them playing drakshera, which apparently is a game in which you balance a dagger by its point on the tip of your tongue without your tongue splitting.

Is that even possible?

That aside, though, I’ve flipped a few pages forward and noticed a rampant tendency to call rabbits smeerps—quails aren’t quails. Oh no, that would be too mundane, boring, and clear. No, we’ve got to muddle it up by calling them “qualli”. Fine. Whatever. I don’t care. So long as it doesn’t get too confusing for everyone involved. But please, do try and remember this cartoon whenever you see a made-up word in a fantasy novel:

Yeah. Enough complaining. Finally, we get to see one of our main characters, who is Shadrael. He’s sitting in the inn nursing a drink when one of his spies (who, alas, is described as a “rat-faced man”. Because people who look like rats are rats who rat people out. Oh look, I made a joke. How clever am I.) comes up and tells him Lord Vordachai’s in town. Hooray. So Shadrael’s all unconcerned as his brother call out for him, with a large number of insults and expletives mixed in (how else would you know he’s a stupid, loud buffoon?), and eventually after a stupid game of Silly Buggers they go out to talk some, whereupon we get the obligatory paragraphs of description regarding Shadrael which I will summarise for the sake of your continued alertness:

*Shadrael used to serve the shadow god. The implications of this are unclear.

*He is a seasoned soldier—well, technically the term is donare, which I suppose given the context means a very special soldier of some sort (how exactly is as yet unclear), who has passed into army legend by daring to take the Kiss of Eternity, a.k.a. shul-drakshera—

All right, this is getting a little more than stupid. How can I be properly impressed by this whatever shul-drakshera if I don’t even know what it entails and the risks involved? Of course, contextually I can tell it was something dangerous, but compare “I did something really, really dangerous” and “I went out and single-handedly wrestled the nine-eyed cyclops of the Dank Dark Tower of Doom”. It pays to be specific here, because with all these stupid made-up terms it’s just annoying.

Anyways, the next twelve pages can be summarised as such, because really, there’s a LOT of Silly Buggers being played while the below conversation is going on. All right, I understand the brothers don’t like each other. All right, I already know Vordachai is your sad, stereotypical buffoon. There’s no need to stomp all over the pacing and have them bicker at every possible turn like Designated Love Interests, although I suppose it might be interesting if they were Designated Love Interests. Wouldn’t that be—ahem—interesting.

I’m not complaining about proper character development, but there is a point where it becomes padding to thicken the book, and this has definitely crossed that line by slowing the plot to an abyssmal crawl.

*Vordachai is resentful of the fact that the previous emperor’s promise to let the province of Ulinia become independent has not been fulfilled. Comes up with a plot to kidnap the current emperor’s sister who is travelling, and hold her for ransom in exchange for the province’s independence. Hurrah.

*This is where Shadrael comes in—for a price, he and his minions are to kidnap her en route. A letter will be dispatched to implicate someone else as the culprits, and Vordachai will put himself in place as her rescuer and save her and so get the freedom of his province as a reward. Hurrah hurrah.

There’s still a LOT of bickering, but eventually Shadrael agrees and that’s the end of the chapter.

Comment [24]

Chapter 2:

The chapter opens with a small infodump about Shadrael. Apparently, he was one a servant of the shadow gods (whatever the implications of that are), and used to get majeek from them. Sadly, the shadow gods are gone, dead or something, whatever the case is, they’re not around for him to get any more majeek from. So what Shadrael has is carefully hoarded and when it runs out he’ll be a “walking husk of a man”. Now, this ties in with the current emperor whose sister he has to kidnap, because the emperor apparently had something to do with making the shadow gods go away. Fine, revenge, although slightly overused as a motivation, still works here. Shadrael secretly wants to one-up the emperor by snatching away his sister, so fine.

So now it’s time to call in the troops. Shadrael uses majeek to create flares in the sky to signal his rather scattered troops, troops which have grievances against the emperor, and apparently this is quite draining for him. I’m not sure exactly how much majeek he has left, so I can’t really comment on how smart such an act would be, but I have the lingering suspicion he’ll have enough until he needs to fail for dramatic purposes.

Oh well.

Anyways, Shadrael goes back to the inn for a wash-up, and we invariably get the “man in the mirror” scene, which we all know is an excuse to infodump at us. Dear god, if you have to do this, can we at least do it without using a mirror of some sort? Anyways, blah blah, darkly handsome, blah blah, well muscled and lean (of course, we can’t have the male lead in a romance novel be soft and pudgy, can we?), a completely different man after washing grime, blah blah, infodump on armour, blah blah, black and lots of spikes of villiany on it, blah blah infodump on sword, blah blah, has blood amber in it, supposedly good luck, blah blah blah trinket hidden weapons medals etc etc etc.

This, by the way, takes up most of two pages. Whee. Anyways, when he’s done dressing, he makes a quick prayer to the shadow gods for his success, and it’s quite telling what kind of gods they’re supposed to be:

“Let war come. Let my sword bite deep in thy service. Strengthen me, O Beloth, that I may forget the ties that bind men to men, honor to honor. Help me serve only thee in my quest to shatter the reign of Light Bringer. May they shadows return forever. Saeta.” (Pg. 25-26)

Uh-huh. Let’s disregard the resemblance to Christian prayer, and look at what the bugger’s praying for. Not very altruistic, eh? Oh well, even the book blurb says he needs to be saved from the Evil Darkness, etc, etc, so I’m not quite surprised. When this is done with, Shadrael goes into the inn’s common room where his minion—I mean, troops are tormenting a dog. Because they can. And they’re ugly and smelly and dirty and indisciplined from lack of military life—

—All right, someone’s laying it on juuuust a bit thick, eh? All right, they’re nasty characters. Whatever. Anyways, plenty of infodump on how in the past he’d have all of them flogged, etc for such crap like what they’re doing right now, blah blah, surliness, insubordination, the names of a few of the troops who were really good troops in the past but who’ve all gone soft. And he makes it out to be their fault, although if he was a really good leader he should have kept his men in shape even if they weren’t on active duty. Besides, they’re supposed to be mercanaries and bandits, and how did they get anything done or stolen without discipline and planning, especially with a legion garrisoned in the nearby city?

Don’t ask me, I’m just a reader. I mean, what do I know? Of course, some of the troops still call each other by their old military titles, but we can’t have understandable ones like “centurion”, can we? No, we get “centruin” instead. Again, I’d like to direct your attention to the little graph we had last chapter—while the story hasn’t progressed into Bad yet, we’re already deep into Mind-Numbingly Boring—and I’m not sure if it’s better.

The main problem here is that I don’t care. And it’s not because I don’t want to care—I would love to be proven wrong and discover that this book is actually amazing and a truly epic romance that manages to draw people generally averse to the genre to it. I haven’t been given a reason to care for or against the princess. Vordachai is clearly made out to be unlikeable, we haven’t seen the princess yet so I can’t form an opinion of her, and I still haven’t been given a reason to cheer for Shadrael. He’s doing this for revenge and money—not exactly the most altruistic of amibitions, he’s not an underdog, and as we’ll see later, he’s not the best of souls around. Just because he’s the male lead doesn’t cut it to keep my interest, and all the other bits and pieces just don’t add up.

In any case, Shadrael tries to impress upon them the importance of military discipline, since they’re going to be moving out again. Of course, the men aren’t too keen on that, so in the traditional evil overlord fashion, he kills one of them with MAJEEK to whip the rest in line. Oh, yes, wasting your preciously hoarded power for something that could have been achieved with something less superflous:

“Shadrael waited until Wilbis recovered himself enough to look up. whatever the man saw in Shadrael’s gaze made his eyes bulge with fear.

He lifted his hand in a plea. ‘No, m’lord Commander. No! Please—’

Shadrael severed and saw the man’s threads of life reaching out from his head and body toward infinity. Shadrael cut them. In the blink of an eye it was done, and Wilbis lay dead on the floor. As Shadrael turned to the others, the shadows murmured and whispered in his blood, filling his mind with the sweet lust for more killing.” (Pg. 30)

Uh, right, whatever. Of course, all the minions—I mean, men—are terrified, and scuttle away to get ready to march out. They’re just about to move out when a raven with a white band about its throat flaps its way to Shadrael and a voice speaks into his mind. Apparently a mysterious agency wishes to contact him and of course, they want to talk. No prize for guessing what’s the topic of conversation. A portal opens in the air, apparently leading to some EBIL shadow world known as The Hidden Ways, and of course, Shadrael steps in. Because he’s just that awesome. Not.

Comment [8]

Chapter 3:

When we last saw Shadrael, he had just entered a portal to the Hidden Ways, although he didn’t know who created the portal, what his or her intentions are, or where it really leads. Maybe the author wants to show his familiarity with these “Hidden Ways”, but I don’t think placing yourself in someone else’s power is something that Commanders seem to do very often. Hell, even if you knew how portals worked, would you step in one that just randomly appeared out of nowhere?

Anyways, Shadrael bumbles along the Hidden Ways. Of course, as in any fantasy travel, we can’t miss out on descriptions of the landscape, so there they are in all their glory—caves with imprints of demons, rocks that burn, etc., etc., oh, and why are my eyes really glazing over, hmm.

In any case, he comes to an open area of emptiness and meets up with some guy. Apparently this guy’s name is Urmaeor, and Shadrael knows him from sometime in the past (even though he didn’t recognise the voice initially, or whose messenger it was). Blah blah on their history, etc., etc., Urmaeor is pretty much the equivalent of a dark cleric or somesuch, and technically they used to be on the same side. Hooray.

To make a long story short, Urmaeor’s boss, Lord Barthel, who happens to be the new chief of the Vindicants (some DARK AND EVUL priesthood or the other) has heard of what Shadrael is going to do from him summoning his army together. Since the Vindicants stand a lot to gain (exactly what isn’t stated) from having Purity Sue in their possession, Urmaeor wants Shadrael to work for them instead of Vordachai and hand Purity Sue over to them after the kidnapping. However, Shadrael doesn’t want to do that, since he believes the shadow gods are gone for good and working in their name isn’t going to achieve anything. Of course, Urmaeor can’t have that, so he attempts to coerce Shadrael to his side with the following: physical pain, mind control, temptation, bribery with offers from their hoard of shadow magic and a soul, claiming his brother will betray him once Shadrael’s side of the job is done, appealing to his sense of revenge.

And Shadrael, the guy who just killed someone with DARK MAJEEKS for disrespecting him last chapter, sits through all of it without so much as storming off. Oh well. Don’t look at me like that; I’m not writing the prose, I merely relate what happens therein. The whole thing sort of reminds me of the much-maligned scene in the Gold Brick between Galbatorix and Oromis—gee, you don’t threaten and poke people when you’re trying to use words to convince them to your side. Eventually, Shadrael has had enough and leaves the Hidden Ways by opening a portal,and that ends the chapter.

Wow, that was fast.

Chapter 4:

At long last, we get to see our female lead: the princess Lea E’non. Yes, this is probably highly personal and a nitpick, but extrapolation from previous experience leads me to believe that names with apostrophes in them which do not have sufficient cultural backing from other, similar names in the conworld give me the willies. So sue me for not wanting to see another Xy’wipopo’lion ever again.

Whatever the case, she’s being carted in a rather luxurious litter with an armed escort. Of course, this means that she must bemoan her fate despite living in the lap of luxury:

“It made no sense to her why she had to stay out of sight while they travelled through these small towns dotting the banks of the Parnase River, when two weeks ago she’d been allowed to ride her cream-coloured gelding along a road lined with cheering villagers.

Imperial politics. She frowned impatiently. ‘Sit here. Eat this,’ she muttered aloud. ‘Ride out of sight. No, today wave to the crowds. Don’t smile. Smile with your utmost charm. Be friendly. Be aloof. Bah!’” (pg. 47)

All right. Are you kidding me? Are you kidding me? I can understand that the intention of this outburst is supposed to portray the princess as a honest and direct person and hence endear us to her, but with a little more thought applied, it does the exact same opposite. The situation’s vaguely reminiscent of the whole “I am a princess who is forced into an arranged marriage woe is me” complaint common throughout the genre, which essentially involves wanting all the perks of being a princess (such as living in the lap of luxury, or more specifically in this case, silk-lined leather curtains and soft cushions) without any of the responsibilities of being an important political figure. It doesn’t help here that the things she’s complaining about are trivial, and only serve to make her look like an utterly spoilt brat.

Of course, no travelling scene would be complete without a description of the landscape, so we patiently stop and wait while we get two paragraphs devoted to how nice and cool and clear and pristine and so forth the landscape is. Then her litter gets stuck in “an enormous bog of mud and cinder” where the road should be. Why her escort didn’t notice it before her litter got mired is a mystery to me, but it gives the author a lovely excuse to describe her escort, down to the colour of their livery and the history of their regiment. All right, fine. Whatever. Anyways, it seems that she has to get out, and so the leader of her escort, a guy named Thirbe carries her out over the mud—but not before we get a paragraph of description about him, too. Of course, while this is happening, note that “Every man who happened to glance in her direction smiled and nodded respectfully.” (pg. 49)

Yeeeeah, right. Because everyone who’s good loves you. Excuse me while I get out my sandvich:

Nom nom nom, om nom. Nothing like fresh lettuce and tomato to wipe away the bad taste of Sue. I wouldn’t have minded it so much if it’d just been that, but no. Once Purity Sue is on the ground, she goes hoppity-skip like someone who’s had one too many yellow-spotted mushrooms:

“Lea smiled back cheerfully, and no sooner did her red leather boots touch the ground than she was twirling around in excitement.

‘What is this place? what a pretty little valley. It looks leagues away from—’” (Pgs. 49-50)

I don’t know about you, but the only reason for twirling in excitement I consider acceptable is if you’re dancing. How many reasonably sane young women have you seen twirling while excited? I don’t know about you, but if a prospective date were twirling in excitement, I’d write her off as 1) on drugs, 2) an airhead, or 3) having had a lobotomy.

The problem with this sort of activity is that it makes her look like an airhead and completely idiotic and naïve, which, by the way, are not typical traits of someone who is potentially an enormous political bargaining chip in the hands of an enemy. They are also not traits of someone who has been brought up in your standard fantasy court intrigue. And finally, it is clobbering me over the head with the fact that Purity Sue is a Purity Sue, and I do not like being clobbered over the head with anything whatsoever.

For the record, this is not the last time she goes hoppity-skip, and is one of the mildest cases. The way things are going, I’m expecting rainbows and hearts to erupt from her bosom later on.

In any case, Purity Sue and Thirbe sit and chat awhile as they wait for the litter to be pulled free. This goes on for two pages and has a lot of pointless moaning on Thirbe’s part, so I’ll just cut to the salient points:

—They’re on this road because scouts from the escort reported there was a fire in a village along their original route. Where these scouts are now and why they didn’t report the road=mud incident is unknown.

—Purity Sue spots a potential shortcut, off in the distance, a very old road which even Thirbe doesn’t know anything about.

—Purity Sue is ridiculously sweet and chirpy throughout the whole bloody conversation, happily welcoming heavy snowfall and refusing a tent and fire without regard to the very real possibility of frostbite. This is doubly puzzling when she claims she was born within sight of a glacier, which should only impress upon people the importance of staying warm in cold conditions.

Of course, despite Thirbe’s reservations, she’s intent on making time with the wondrous new shortcut she’s discovered. Because y’know, people who take shortcuts never have anything bad happen to them. Of course, Thirbe is all “that place gives me the creeps”, so Purity Sue asks him if there’s anything more to his feelings than a “feeling”, so to speak. When Thirbe has to admit that there isn’t, she goes all “I am strong wimminz and not fragile” and “cold will not kill me”. Again, it only reinforces the impression of her as a spoilt brat who gets everything she wants one way or another. It doesn’t make her a “strong woman”, in any sense of the term. Of course, the whole conversation is peppered with bits of repulsiveness on these lines:

“Her laughter rang out merrily, causing several people to look in her direction.” (Pg. 52)

I think we should rename this book “Everyone who is Good loves Purity Sue.” Seriously. It’s like every single male in the whole bloody universe is attracted to her, and if you aren’t you’re Evil or otherwise corrupt and flawed. I think the following can sum up my feelings at this moment:

…yeah. Thirbe protests some more, but Lea’s all “I will have my way”, in a completely non-aggressive manner that yet has nothing to do with logic and everything to do with plot contrivance and people magically agreeing with her:

“‘Should we turn back?’ she asked.

He nodded, to her disappointment, but said, “I’d prefer it. but we’ve gone nearly a day this way. If the road hasn’t been cut ahead of us, and so far the scouts don’t report such, then I suppose it’s better to keep going than lose another day retracing our steps.” (pg. 53)

No, you idiot. The emperor might be ticked at you bringing his sister to his destination a little late, but he’s not going to be happy if you get there without his sister at all, you idiot. With matters of import such as these, it’s better to err on the side of caution and not let the princess waltz off without most of her escort on the pretext that they need to make time—

—oh, wait. It’s just an excuse to get rid of the escort so she can be kidnapped and start a whole bloody romance with Mr. Broken Man. Yeah, yeah, yup. Seen it all before. In any case, she and a reluctant Thirbe abandon the escort and putter along when one of the captains from the party catches up with her. Of course, said captain is clean:

“No mud splattered the shining perfection of his boots, for he’d been riding at the head of their column all day.”

Is a horrible misogynist:

“It’s one thing to ride for exercise, Lady Lea, but to travel so far for the rest of the day will only fatigue and chill you unnecessarily.”

“Why have you created this myth that I am fragile?” Lea asked.

“All the finest ladies are agreeably fragile.”

“I will not break, Captain, and I can withstand the cold as well as anyone.” (pg. 54)

So on and so forth. To be honest though, the misogynistic exchange aside, everything the captain says or does could be reasonably construed as having concern for Purity Sue, since if she goes missing it’ll probably be his head, but of course we all know he’s CLEAN and EVIL. Then again, what Purity Sue wants, Purity Sue gets—which brings us back to the point of her being a selfish bastard who really refuses to consider the needs and wants of others who don’t happen to be designated as Good or being love interests.

I won’t dally through this pointless exchange, but eventually Purity Sue and Thirbe break free of the captain and run off into the Great Beyond, but not before she gives the captain this wonderful bit of advice:

She held up a hand to silence him. “I suggest that in addition to a pry pole, your men try laying bundles of sticks across the bog, so that once my litter is free the other wagons don’t stick in the same spot. (pg. 55)

You see, suddenly I’m reminded of an episode of Talespin (oh, to be a kid in the 90s with actual GOOD cartoons instead of the tween crap that’s on nowadays) where Baloo gets injured and can’t fly the Seaduck, and Rebecca, his boss, is convinced she can replace him just because she’s his boss. And there Baloo is sitting in the co-pilot/navigator’s seat, while she lectures him on the basics of flying out of a do-it-yourself book she bought. The Disney animators damn well did a good job on Baloo’s facial expressions.

But what I’m getting at is that telling someone obviously more experienced than you how to do his or her job, especially the basics, is a very big insult. This applies doubly when s/he was every reason to be familiar with the nuances, and you don’t. And when Purity Sue makes this sort of snide remark AND the author expects us to believe in Purity Sue’s wonderful goodness in rainbows and puppies through crapping rainbows and puppies instead of actually applying said goodness where it counts—

—oh wait, the captain is EVIL and MISOGYNISTIC. You can do whatever shit you want to him and not have a twinge of actual conscience. My bad.

Blargh. Chapter end.

Comment [8]

Cross-posted from the LJ:

Hello there. Before you ask, no, I’m not going to be stopping the BFT3K of A Taste of Magic. Instead, I’ll see if I can get away with alternating between the two and still finish A Taste of Magic within a reasonable timeframe. Yes, I understand that I haven’t had the time and willpower to finish up a BFT3K for some time, but I’m sure I can do it this time round with not one, but two. You believe me, don’t you?

Yeah, you must be thinking I’ve got all the free time in the world.

In any case, today our newly acquired target will be Hawkmistress!. That’s right, complete with an exclamation mark at the end, and written by the Marion Zimmer-Bradley. I’ll admit up front I eschew almost every single one of the big-name authors and series for one reason or the other, but with all the same effect—from Robert Jordan to L. Modesitt Jr, they all make me want to tear my eyes out, for I cannot unsee what there is to be seen. But yes, I am going to be trying to tear up a MZB book, and no doubt there will be someone out there who stops, stares and then passes a quiet note to the people at Sword and Sorceress to immediately reject all of my future submissions for badmouthing the great MZB.

Another reason why I’ve avoided MZB’s books is that she reportedly was as batshit about her brand of feminism as Terry Goodkind is about his Randian philosophies, and didn’t hesistate to use her books as soapboxes in order to preach to the unenlightened masses. Of course, you know I’m against soapboxing on principle, and it doesn’t take too long to put two and two together.

Anyway, here we are. Hawkmistress!:

Our local Crazy Bird Lady assures me that it’s horrendously stupid, but maybe that’s because she’s a falconer herself. I’ll be doing this book blind—I freely admit to not haveing pre-read it before embarking on this quest, and maybe I’ll be pleasantly surprised. Or more likely, not. In any case, this remains to be seen. I will be conferring with Crazy Bird Lady on falconry issues and bird behaviour for the purposes of this sporking, so I don’t think I’ll be making any mistakes on the falconry side of matters.

Do understand I’m reading this from an omnibus edition which also includes Stormqueen!, so the first page is actually page 393 of the book in total.

In any case:

Chapter 1:

We open with a young woman named Romilly in the mews with a hawk. Fair enough. She’s trying to feed the hawk here by cutting strips of meat from a carcass, but apparently she’s a telepath and the emotions of the terrified hawk are flooding her mind and overhelming her senses.

It’s here that we get the first major factual blunder of the book, right on the first page:

Even as Romilly pulled the small sharp knife from her belt, and carefully cut a piece from the carcass placed conveniently near, she was shaking with the effort not to strike out, to pull away in a frenzy from the strap that held her—no, not her, held the hawk—to the falcon-block; merciless leathers, cutting her feet— (Pg. 393)

According to Lenka, you don’t put a hawk on a perch made for a falcon, and vice versa. Well, you could, if you wanted to lame the bird for life. The purpose of any training, no matter how harsh, is not to to cripple the subject being trained. And when properly fitted, jesses don’t hurt the bird, nor do tethers. But of course, the bird has to suffer, because supposedly everything was so terrible back then, even though it frankly doesn’t seem to be the case.

In any case, we’re treated to an immediate backstory of Romilly. Uh, no. I can try to understand this in part—by the time this book was written, MZB was quite popular with a large fanbase, and she could count on people being interested in her books on their faith in her. However, I still hold that any book in a series should be open to new readers (that helps expand your fanbase, from the author’s point of view), something which plenty of authors I consider good such as LeGuin, Brust and Pratchett have done.

In any case, we learn that Romilly is a telepath by birth (what the hell is it with genetic magic?), one of the rarest and most powerful forms of laran (I.E. obfuscation of magic) in the world of Darkover. One of her brothers was apparently called to the Towers, which appear to be places where people with magic are trained in its use, and this has pissed off her EVVVVIL father that he refused to let any more of his children be tested for magic.

As a result, Romilly’s magic, which enables her to get into the mind of any animal (really. People get pissed when they realise they’re being manipulated; you’d imagine animals would at least be terrified.) There’s more exposition on how she managed to get her hands on this particular hawk (one and a half pages total), but the only really important bit is that this hawk is a Verrin hawk, which means it’s SPESHUL:

Verrin hawks, taken full-grown in the wild, were more stubborn than hatchlings reared to handling; a bird caught wild might let itself starve before it would take food from the hand, and better it should fly free to hatch others of the same fine breed, than die of fear and hunger in the mews,untamed. (Pgs. 397-398)

So Romilly had considered letting letting the falcon go free—

Wait, what the FUCK, it’s a falcon now?

Lenka has explained this to me at length when I consulted her for Embers research:

“Falcons and hawks (eagles belong to the same family as hawks) are biologically as closely related as cats and dogs. Or fish and marine mammals. Everything is different – the overall shape of the body, personality, behavior, even the way they poop – yes, really – the only things they have in common are that they are both birds and that both of them have evolved to be the best hunters they can be.”

Complete with pictures and a rather long explanation of how falcons and hawks hunt (which has proven useful in Lenka vs. Valise bird-fights), I can safely say that MZB at the very least, knew shit about falconry when she was writing this, since this is a basic tenet of the hobby.

Anyways, she had considered letting the hawk-falcon-thing go free when suddenly, she looked into the bird’s eyes and magically (yes, quite literally) knew that she could tame it. Which is why she’s here in the mews with the bloody bird. More exposition on how the fever’s come to the castle, and how she hates her lessons and needlework (of course! Being a lady is horrible! Never mind that plenty of fantasy ladies in the hands of competent authors actually manage to do more than the pants-wearers!) In any case, she’s determined that the bird bow to her wishes and insists on breaking it:

But this hawk was hers! Never mind that it sat on its block, angry and sullen, red eyes veiled with rage and terror, bating wildly at the slightest movement near her, the wings exploding in the wild frenzy of flapping and thrashing; it was hers, and soon or late, it would know of the bond between them. (Pg. 399)

To quote Lenka: the birds never forget, not do they forgive. You have one chance, and you’re out. Magic or no, they have too much pride, and mistreating a bird essentially equals “forget it”. And if her magic makes it love and accept her…well, humans using magic to make other humans love them is considered morally wrong. Given how most such “bonds” are supposed to be, what’s the difference between making an animal love you with magic?

And how do you break a hawk or falcon or whatever the fuck this bird is supposed to be? Why, by starving it, of course. By starving it until it does what you want it to:

You don’t leave a hawk at this stage, Davin had told her. Not for a moment. She remembered asking, when she was small, not even to eat? And he had snorted, “if it comes to that, you can go without food and water longer than a hawk can; if you can’t out-wait a hawk you’re taming, you have no business around one.” (Pg. 400)

Aaand there’s more on this later, but for now we’re treated to a standard fantasy princess whine on how she wants to be a falconer with a big, badass bird but of course LADIES have to have small docile birds, yadda yadda, society is stifling me, yadda yadda, I have as strong magic as my male relatives, yadda yadda, so on and so forth, echoing millions of whiny fantasy princesses from The Riven Kingdom to Disney Cartoons, and I roll my eyes and nod my head before backing away slowly.

Rule one of message fantasy: no anvilicious messages. We’re not children. We can make our own decisions. I read novels to be entertained, not to listen to your political beliefs.

But it still goes on and on:

Since Ruyven had gone, Romilly had been sternly turned over to her stepmother, expected to stay indoors, to “behave like a lady.” She was not almost fifteen; her younger sister Mallina had already begun dressing her hair with a woman’s butterfly-clasp, Mallina was content to sit and learn embroidery stiches, to ride ecorously in a lady’s saddle, to play with stupid little lap-dogs instead of the sensible herding-dogs and working-dogs around the pastures and stables. Mallina had grown into a fool, and the dreadful thing was that their father preferred her as a fool and wished audibly that Romilly would emulate her.

Never. I’d rather be dead than stay inside the house all the time and stich like a lady. Mallina used to ride well, and now she’s like Luciella, soft and flabby, she startles away when a horse moves its head near her, she couldn’t ride for half an hour at a good gallop without falling off gasping like a fish in a tree, and now, like Luciella, she simpers and twitters, and the worst thing is, Father likes them that way! (Pg. 402)

Uh-huh. Because it’s utterly wrong to seek power through alternative routes—through sexual manipulation, through influence, through the oft-used court intrigue, through sleeping with a man and knifing him after the deed, to use a facade of weakness to make others underestimate you, to spy on places where a man would be noticed…and all the alternative routes that I’ve seen women in fantasy take instead of riding horses and wearing pants.

But my main beef isn’t with wanting to ride horses and wear pants. You want to do that, fine. My beef is that these alternative methods of gaining power are rubbished and female characters who embrace them are rubbished by the author. I’ve seen similar attitudes espoused by modern-day more extreme feminists—that women who choose to be homemakers and do jobs traditionally perceived as feminine are selling out or deluded by the patriarchy, that they’re weak or outright retarded—exactly mirrored in the excerpt above: “You don’t follow my brand of Scotsmanship; you’re not a true Scotsman!”

In any case, first a man named Ker comes in to bother her, and she sends him away snappishly. Then her own father comes in, and with the usual “this is no place for a LAAADY to be” line sends her out of the mews, but not before this revolting line:

Here is food, come and eat…nausea rushed through her stomach at the smell and sight of the dead meat on the gauntlet. Yes, hawks feed on fresh-caught food, they must be tamed by starvation into feeding on carrion… (Pg. 404)

What. The. FUCK.

So much for your loving and empathic bond. So much for that. Rotting meat will KILL most birds of prey, unless they happen to be buetos, who can scavenge and digest the toxins produced by fouling meat. Again, MZB knows jack SHIT about falconry, still in the first chapter.

Oh, and did I forget to mention that wild birds aren’t tamed? Of course, we get acknowledgement, even from the EVVVIL father, that Romilly is something SPESHUL:

“Zandru’s hells,” the MacAran swore, “If but one of your brothers had your strength and skill, girl! But I’ll not have it said that my daughters must work in mews and stable. Get you inside, Romilly, and not another word from you!”

His face was angry and implacable; the hawk bated again, at his anger, and Romilly felt it surging through her too, an explosion of fury, frustration, anger, terror. She dropped the gauntlet and ran, sobbing with rage, and behind her, her father strode out of the mews and locked it behind him. (Pg. 404-405)

Apparently, this is supposed to be another instance of her father’s wretched misogyny and cruelty, but all I’m seeing is a whiny girl who didn’t bother trying to parley, explain or empathise and instead immediately threw a tantrum when she didn’t get exactly what she wanted. One of the “justifications” I’ve seen on the internet for this so-called hawk “training” is how horrible everything was in this Darkover place, and naturally this training must be horrible, too. Well, Romilly isn’t behaving like a fifteen-year-old who’s grown up in a hard world with an understanding of her responsibilities and duties necessitated by an unsure survival, but instead of a whiny fifteen-year-old Britney Spears wannabe who got transplanted into a faux-medival world.

So Romilly goes back to her room, and a servant brings her bread, warm milk and honey. What a hard life, to have servants looking after you. Then she muses some more on her evvvil family, her evvvil father and stupid sisters and spoilt little brother, and then her thoughts turn to the hawk-falcon-thing still trussed up in the mews. Of course, she worries about the prospect of her evil father beating her, although it’s explicitly mentioned he’s never laid a hand on her in her life before.

Beatings without beatings. Oh, we must make her father look evil and give her something to angst about, but god forbid that she actually be physically imperfect. Really, it’s belittling victims of real abuse by suggesting what Romilly is going through is as bad as REAL abuse people suffer at the hands of other people.

Of course, her father is so evil as to look down on animals, and everyone knows that kicking puppies is bad:

Her father himself had always hold her that a good animal handler never began anything with hawk or hound or horse, that he could not finish; it was not fair to a dumb creature who knew nothing of reason. (Pg. 406)

After working with animals and getting in their minds for most of his life, he thinks this way because…well, he needs to be evil! You must hate him! The great MZB says so!

In any case, after making sure that the whole household is sleeping, Romilly sneaks down to the mews again. Wait, I thought her father had locked it behind him? Then how did she get in there—no, I don’t want to know, and frankly, don’t care except wonder how the great MZB could have made such a basic blunder.

In any case, she cuts off more of the rotting meat and tries to get the bird to feed, all the while using her magic to psyche the bird into subservience, wiping away all traces of guilt by justifying that the torture is for the bird’s own good:

No, she thought, it is not a violation to teach or train an animal, no more than when nurse taught me to eat porridge, even thought I thought it nasty at first and wanted nothing but milk; because if she had fed me upon milk and babies’ pap after my teeth were grown, I would have been sickly and weak, and needed solid food to grow strong. I wear clothes even though, no doubt, I would sooner, then, have been wrapped in my blankets like a swaddled baby! And later I had to learn to cut my meat with a knife and fork instead of gnawing at it with fingers and teeth as an animal would do. And now I am glad to know all these things. (Pg 410)

Number one. Why doesn’t she apply this same train of thought to her parents wanting her to “be a lady”? Number two: the difference in all this is that she was not starved, beaten or treated cruelly, and knew the purpose of such learning. This cannot be said for the way the bird is being treated.

The actual psyching:

She filled her mind with images of soaring free above the trees in sunlight, trying to open her mind to the memory of the last time she had hunted; seeing the bird come spiralling down with its prey, of tearing apart the freshly killed meat, so she could give the bird its share of the kill… (Pg. 410)

But you must eat and grow strong, preciosa, she sent out the thought again and again, feeling the hawk’s hunger, her weakening struggles. Preciosa; that is your name, that is what I will call you, and I want you to eat and grow strong, Preciosa, so we can hunt together, but first you must trust me and eat…I want you to eat because I love you and I want to share this with you, but first you must learn to eat from my hand…eat, Preciosa, my lovely one, my darling, my beauty, won’t you eat this? I don’t want you to die…(Pg. 410)

Can you imagine something like this being broadcasted into your head repeatedly? “You will love me. You will love me. I love you too, and you are only denying it to yourself. Love me and be my minion and I will give you everything.” Equal relationship my ass; this is clearly setting up for a dominant-submissive relationship like so many Animal Companions in fantasy, and it really wouldn’t be a problem IF IT WAS ACKNOWLEDGED AS SUCH AND THE RELATIONSHIP NOT TREATED AS IF THEY WERE BFFs.

Of course, the bird finally breaks. What, did you imagine it wouldn’t? It eats the rotting meat, and by all rights it should sicken and die within days like a REAL raptor would, but of course we know that’s not going to happen. Of course, Romilly is overjoyed that the bird is now her mindless slave, full of love and affection for her, and she goes to where the pigeons are kept, wrings the neck of one and then lets the bird feed on actual food.

When the hawk had fed…she could feel the dulling of hunger, and even her own thirst receded…she set it on the block again, and slipped a hood over Preciosa’s head. Now it would sleep, and wake remembering where its food came from. She must leave orders that food for this hawk must be very fresh; she would have birds or mice killed freshly for it until Preciosa could hunt for herself. It would not be long. It was an intelligent bird, or it would not have struggled so long; Romilly, still lightly in link with the bird, knew that now Preciosa would recognize her as the source of food, and that one day they would hunt together. (Pg. 413)

Or more likely, according to Lenka, it’ll remember you as its tormentor and fly away at the first opportunity, if not outright claw you to bits. Hell, even Danny claws Lenka sometimes when he’s displeased with her. On the chest, or even her face. Anyways, Romilly’s being all pleased with herself when her EVVVIL father bursts in on her and yells at her for her disobedience. Of course Romilly yells back at him, saying he isn’t grateful at all that she’s managed to break the bird, and that if she has her super-speshul magic she’s supposed to use it and that she’ll never be a lady. Naturally, being the designated evil misogynistic prick, her father has no good answer for that, and there’s another beating without an actual beating to show how evvil he is:

And as she slipped past him she could feel that blow he started to give her, then held back—he could not bring himself to strike anything, and she had saved the life of the hawk. But out of his rage of frustration he shouted after her at the top of his lungs, “You haven’t heard the last of this, damn you, Romilly!” (Pg. 414)

Yeeeah, whatever. Chapter end and I don’t care already.

Comment [46]

Chapter 2:

In the last chapter, our dear Romilly managed to, in a feat that should have logically killed the bird, tamed a very special bird that’s so special the author couldn’t decide if it was a hawk or falcon, and naturally named her Preciosa. This of course, pissed off her evil misogynistic father, and they made a huge row about it that should be more suited to a modern fifteen-year-old bitch than a young woman that was the product of her time and setting.

In any case, the chapter opens with Romilly and her siblings having a lesson that’s being taught by her governess, reading and writing to be particular. Of course, she’s being piss-poor inattentive, looking out of the window and dreaming about hwo she’s going to train Preciosa to do her every bidding, how she can’t trust the hawk/falcon/bird thing not to fly away, and how they’re going to go places together. Of course, this doesn’t stop her from excelling at her lessons anyway. Of course, her sister, the designated sell-out to the evil patriarchy, complains about the lesson, and this sets off the governess on a speech on the importance of education to women that doesn’t fit the scene at all:

“My fingers ache,” Mallina grumbled, “Why must I learn to write anyway, spoiling my eyes and making my hands hurt? None of the daughters of the High Crags can write, or read either, and they are none the worse for it; they are already betrothed, and it is no loss to them!”

“You should think yourself lucky,” said the governess sternly, “Your father does not wish his daughters to grow up in ignorance, able only to sew and spin and embroider, without enough learning even to write ‘Apple and nut conserve’ on your jars at harvest time! When I was a girl, I had to fight for even so much learning as that! Your father is a man of sense, who knows that his daughters will need learning as much as do his sons! So you will sit there until you have filled another sheet without a single blot. Romilly, let me see your work. Yes, that is very neat. While I check your sums, will you hear your brother read from his book?” (Pg. 416)

I’m not disagreeing with the base point here, and even if I did I shouldn’t be bringing it into the picture, because then it wouldn’t be a discussion on the book. Yes, education is important, not just for women but for everyone. The problem here is that Mallina is turned into a caricature of the opposing viewpoint, hell, not just here but pretty much in every scene she’s turned up in. Why? She’s the designated sell-out brainwashed tart in service of the evil patriarchy, just as we had the idiot atheist in Dragonknight and the strawman robot Christian in Morningwood . Because it’s impossible for women to want to get married, or understand the importance of strategic alliances between families to ensuring economic prosperity and stability without being a ditzy fat lazy slut.

Flip-flopping of misogynistic father, although here I can damn well see a reason—oddly enough, very few fantasy protagonists are actually lilliterate, despite them sometimes coming from backgrounds that don’t make sense for them to be so (although not in this case). Either they start out knowing their three Rs, or learn amazingly quickly (remember the one-month language learning shit that the Pao pulled off?) Either way, the inconvenience that comes from not being able to read and write is strictly forbidden. This makes all the attempts to portray Evil Father as a misogynistic bastard all the more irritating, since it only makes Romilly look even more of a whiny bitch who doesn’t know how nice she’s having it in life.

And of course, finally, the heroine, paragon of the author’s feminist ideals, can do everything without fail, save those activities which are considered traditionally feminine and hence EVVVVVIL. She’s so awesome at reading and writing that the governess asks her to help in the teaching, makes all animals love her without question, manages to tame on the first try a very rare and special hawk that’s a struggle for even a supposedly professional falconer to try with a reasonable chance of success, can ride excellently, blah blah, blah blah, and I look at the steadily lengthening list of Romilly’s abilities and get out the popcorn.

In any case, Romilly helps with the governess teaching her younger brother to read and write, and of course, does excellently. Who’da thought it? After that, it’s time for sewing and emboridery, and since this is a traditional feminine activity it is Bad and Evil and hence forbidden to a modern and forward-thinking woman.

Lenka is a modern and forward-thinking young woman, being a law student and falconer. She can also sew well. I am a member of the male persuasion, and I can sew well enough to mend ripped pillowcases and put back fallen buttons. Last time I checked, I had a dongle instead of a port.

OH NO! LOGIC PARADOX!

Which only goes to show the soapboxing and stupidity in said soapboxing. In any case, Romilly isn’t good at sewing, while being an evil sellout to the patriarchy, Mallina is. Of course, her efforts have to be rubbished by Romilly:

“Well,” said Romilly, driven to the wall, “What do I need of embroidered cushion-covers? A cushion is to sit on, not to show fancy stiching. And I hope, if I have a husband, he will be looking at me, and not the embroidered flowers on our wedding sheets!”

Mallina giggled and blushed, and Calinda said, “Oh, hush, Romilly, what a thing to say!” But she was smiling. “When you have your own house, you will be proud to have beautiful things to adorn it.” (Pg. 419)

Yes, it was pretty, Romilly thought, but why did it matter so much? A plain one would keep her just as warm at night, and so would a saddle-blanket! She would not have minded, if she could have made something sensible, like a riding-cloak, or a hood for a hawk, but this stupid flower-pattern designed to show off the fancy stitching she hated! (Pg 419-420)

I would like you to go over to the School of Architecture and tell all the folks over there that decoration and aesthetics are completely irrelevant to an abode, and hear them laugh your ass out of the door. Frankly, I wouldn’t have minded it so much if Romilly had acknowledge that while she doesn’t see the same value that Mallina does in stiching, the latter still has a right to value what she does, believe in its importance, and choose the course she wants in life. No, instead she has to go out of her way to rubbish Mallina’s work, therefore dragging herself down to the level of Mallina and her evil misogynistic father.

It would be nice if more characters had their “attributes” built around who they are as people instead of having to make a political statement or because “that’s what they do”, as happens most commonly with women and ethic characters (or racial substitutes thereof). I put Lenka the phoenix in the equivalent of a smithy/machine shop because 1) she’s impervious to extreme heat and cold, 2) likes being around plenty of fire, 3) has the drive to acquire the technical knowledge required and 4) it’s a job that doesn’t require to interact with people on a personal level. Nothing at all to do with her gender, but rather who she is as a person. I didn’t sit down and say “all right, I’m going to need a feminist statement to accompany this character, so I’ll put her in a smithy to do a “man’s job”.” Which is what appears to be the case here.

But then again, what did I expect? Saying this is like saying the sky is blue. It’s a MZB book, complete with the reputation. What did I expect? You know, come to think of it, the feminist statements are quite out of turn considering Romilly’s doing the EXACT SAME THING with the bird that the authority figures in her life are trying to do to her, and it’s perfectly fine when Romilly’s the giver but not the receiver.

Anyways, this rapidly degenerates into a squabbling match:

“Well, I ride a horse,” Romilly said, “I don’t sit on its back and simper at the stableboy!”

“Bitch,” said Mallina, giving her a surreptitious kick on the ankle, “You would, fast enough, if he’d look at you, but nobody ever will—you’re like a broom-handle dressed up in a gown!”

“And you’re a fat pig,” retorted Romilly, “You couldn’t wear my cast-off gowns anyway, because you’re so fat from all the honey-cakes you gobble whenever you can sneak into the kitchen!”

“Girls! Girls!” Luciella entreated, “Must you always squabble like this? I came to ask a holiday for you—do you want to sit all day in the schoolroom and hem dishtowels instead?”

“No, indeed, foster mother, forgive me,” said Romilly quickly, and Mallina said sullenly, “Am I supposed to let her insult me?” (Pg. 421)

Aaaand by now, I’m frankly not surprised that Romilly’s more polite than her evil brainwashed sister. Caricatures, people, caricatures. Never a good idea when you’re trying to get a message across. These aren’t young noblewomen growing up in tough times with an understanding of their rights and responsiblities in a harsh world where survival is in doubt. This is a scene right out of a junior high hallway or girl’s locker room.

In any case, Luciella announces that she’s had some riding dresses made for the girls, and she brings them up to the sewing room to have them try them on. During this whole process, Romilly manages to find the time to express her dislike of even more things traditionally considered feminine, such as frills on clothing:

Luciella’s taste ran heavily to ruffles and flounces, and, from some battles when she was a young girl, Romilly feared that if Luciella had ordered her riding-clothes they would be some disgustingly frilly style. But when she saw the dark-green velvet, cut deftly to accentuate her slenderness, but plainly, with no trim but a single white band at her throat, the whole dress of a green which caught the color of her green eyes and made her coppery hair shine, she flushed with pleasure. (Pg. 422)

And the traditional idea of a desirable female figure:

Mallina skulked, “Why must all my dresses be cut like a child’s tunic? I already have more of a woman’s figure than Romilly!”

“You certainly have,” Romilly said, “If you grow much more in the tits, you can hire out for a wet-nurse.” (Pg. 423)

All right, all right. I get the idea. You’re a tomboy. All right. Fine. I know that, I’ve heard it, and you don’t need to keep on repeating it over and over again until I’m throroughly sick of it. Even if Romilly had been a likable character from the outset, this would have grated on me. As it stands, all it does is make me roll my eyes and reach for my water bottle, since I don’t drink alcohol and it’s not nice to be chugging too many sports drinks at this time of night.

On a slightly unrelated side note, I’ve seen two primary schools of thought about this whole women’s figure business by women themselves; one is that it’s rude and/or exploitative of women, and the other that their figure is a symbol of sexuality and feminine power and there’s no shame in using these traditional perceptions of an ideal female figure. Me? I’m not of the female persuasion, but I think if there’s a situation in which a shirtless guy as a sexual symbol is fine, then by extension it should be fine for a lady in a cleavage-exposing top.

But there I go again, soapboxing and not even giving you adequate warning. Bad me! Bad!

Back to the book, then. There’s also news that some people from the High Crags will be here for hawking and hunting during midsummer, and Romilly’s STILL being tiresome about it. I mean, even though Lenka’s SUPPOSED to be a contrary bitch, I had to stop at some point, but this specimen goes on and on and on like the duracell bunny:

Romilly felt no such pleasure—Jessamy and Jeralda were about her own age, but they were like Mallina, plump and soft, an insult to any horse that carried them, much more concerned with the fit of their riding-habits and the ornaments of saddle and reins than in the well-being of the horses they rode, or their own riding skill. (Pg. 423)

To draw an analogy, I think it’d be quite unfair to think of someone as a weakling because they let their butler/chaffeur/mechanic bother with the intricacies of a car, and even more so to lambast them for not being able to drive a grand prix when their intention in buying a car was a ride around the countryside every weekend.

But that’s just my evil, misogynistic self speaking, eh?

Moving on, Romilly consoles herself at the prospect of having to WEAR DRESSES and BE A LADY by dreaming of how she’s going to go riding and maybe fly her newly acquired bird, and she goes back into her room but her riding pants are missing!

Oh noes!

Another thing I’ve noticed about a lot of said “feminist” books is that they hardly deal with the status of women as a whole in the society presented in the novel, and almost never portray it as a general movement across the population. Instead, it’s always focused on a single person, and often concentrates on the superficial instead of the underlying problems. Hence, Romilly’s whininess only serves to excerbate the idea that the problems presented aren’t challenges to women in the Darkover setting, but rather her own selfish desires, and as to the trappings of the problem rather than the problem itself…well, there’s a bloody undue amount of weight put on her riding pants.

Apparently, her evvvil father and stepmother have ordered Romilly’s riding pants to be thrown out, as punishment for her disobeying her father. Guess how she reacts?

“You threw them out?” Romilly exploded. “How dared you?” (Pg. 424)

“I can’t ride Windracer in this!” Romilly wadded up the offending skirts and flung them across the room. “He’s not used to a lady’s saddle, and I hate it, and there aren’t gusts or anything like that! Get me some riding breeches,” she stormed, but Gwennis shook her head sternly. (Pg. 424)

Romilly stared in horror at her nurse. So this was to be her father’s punishment. Worse, far worse than a beating, and she knew that from her father’s orders there would be no appeal.

I wish he had beaten me. At least he would have been dealing with me, directly, with Romilly, with a person. But to turn me over to Luciella, to let her make me into her image of a lady…

“It’s an insult to a decent horse,” Romilly stormed, “I won’t do it!”

She aimed a savage kick at the offending habit on the floor. (Pg. 425)

Before we start, though, I’d just like to slightly paraphrase that last quote:

I wish she had let me starve. At least she would have been dealing with me, directly, with a bird of prey. But to attack my mind, to force me into her image of a loving pet…

I’ll let you draw your own conclusions while I get out the pills.

There’re a few things I’d like to discuss here. Firstly, is the prevalence of pants in this kind of novel. They go beyond the ordinary symbolic crap, and are actually treated as some sort of holy grail for all enlightened women to aspire to, as if they were some sort of +6/+6 pants of awesomeness that gave you magical powers just by putting them on. And frankly, in the worst-case scenarios, some female characters DO have awesome ephiphanies just by putting on pants. Which frankly boggles the mind.

In short, pants are overrated. Romilly would be the person she is, pants or no. Romilly is supposed to make the pants, not the pants make Romilly, and if she’s so pathetic that not wearing pants would cause a complete shift in her personality she wouldn’t be anywhere near a strong character, would she?

Which brings us to the next point. Romilly has no pants. What does she do? She throws a tantrum, is rude and unfair to her nurse, and messes up her habit, which is the result of the hard efforts of so many people, from the weaver to the dyer to the seamstress. I’d like to ask you; is this what you consider to be a strong woman? It might be arguable that Romilly at this point isn’t supposed to be a strong woman and instead grows into one throughout the course of the story, but given as how she’s portrayed now, being all stereotypically tomboyish and anti-traditionalist and all that, I gather she’s supposed to be the “strong, independent, forward-thinking” type. I’d have been far more convinced of her strength if she actually did something, like surreptiously procuring a pair of riding breeches for herself, conspiring with others around the castle to let her go riding with pants in secret, or preparing such a moving speech and apology that moves her evil misogynistic father.

But no, she throws a tantrum, whines and lambasts her nurse, who had no choice in the matter. Great to be a grown-up woman, Romilly.

And finally, I cannot, WILL NOT believe that having your pants thrown away is worse than being physically abused. It’s simply insulting to real victims of abuse, and the constant attempts by the author to make me believe that Romilly is OPPRESSED and ABUSED simply fall flat on their faces and make me laugh.

In any case, Romilly continues to whine and believe that everyone hates her:

“I expected this of Luciella,” she said, “she hates me, doesn’t she? It’s the sort of spiteful thing Mallina might do, just because she can’t ride a decent horse. But I didn’t think you’d join with them against me, Nurse!” (Pg. 425)

Way to be fair to your poor servant, bitch. You’re not the center of the universe, no matter what the author says. Anyways, Romilly goes out the hawk-house to go and fly her bird with a lure, and there’s some crap about birds that I won’t confirm because Lenka isn’t currently here to putch in and I know enough to keep my mouth shut about stuff I’m no sure about. While the bird flies, Romilly continues dreaming about how she’s going to control her bird:

She stroked her again and again tenderly with the feather, crooning nonsense words of love to her, feeling the sense of closeness and satisfaction from the fed hawk. She was learning. Soon she would fly free and catch her own prey, and return to the wrist… (Pg. 427)

Fascinating. All that from a wild thing in what, three days? Two, even? I still stand by my opinion that Steven Brust is the only author I’ve ever come across to portray a BEST FRIENDS FOREVAH human-animal relationship to my satisfaction, and his reign still goes unchallenged. We’re about to end the chapter, but not before we get the obligatory “why am I not a man” and “men have it all better” monologue:

Why, then, had she been given this laran, since it seemed that only a man had the freedom to use it? Romilly could have wept. Why had she not, then, been born a man? she knew the answer that would be given her, if she asked Luciella what she would do with her Gift; it is, the woman would say, so that your sons will have it.

And was she nothing but a vehicle for giving some unknown husband sons? (Pg. 428)

To quote Limyaael:

The same phrases appear over and over again when Special heroines have fights with their parents, want to go hunting or riding, run away from home, or just mope about their Special lives.

“…just because I’m a girl.”
“Act like a lady.”
“I like a woman with spirit.”
“That’s nice, dear, but you’re not a boy.”
“Girls don’t get dirty.”
“Girls don’t do that.”
“But you’re a girl!”

My god, SHUT UP.

It doesn’t impress me with your level of creativity when in the background I can hear a thousand whining voices repeating the same dialogue and thoughts. And it makes even less sense that every single fantasy heroine, in worlds that are supposedly wildly different and the products of wildly different minds, would have the exact same thoughts.

Find a different way of expressing yourself. Give the heroine troubles that don’t arise from what’s between her legs or on her chest. Try it. You’d be surprised how much more “woman-like” the girls and ladies become.

Comment [25]

Chapter 3:

When we’d last left Romilly, she’d just gotten all angry at how dare her evil nurse conspire with her evil mother and equally evil sister and brother to throw her pants away. How dare they! They are so evil! Anyone who gets in the way of letting Romilly do what she wants is immediately evil!

And when a single person is allowed to define the morality of a whole world, it’s time to scrunch up the manuscript, throw it into the fire and go back to the drawing board. Really. The above, my friends, is the number one telltale sign of Sueishness. Not speshulness, not sparkles, not everyone admiring the Sue and exclaiming how wonderful he or she is, but one character being allowed to define the morality of a whole world.

In any case, the chapter opens ten days before Midsummer, when Romilly’s brother Darren comes home. It happens when they’re having a family meal, and Romilly immediately drops all politeness and decorum and runs to the door to meet him, and is actually gleeful at the discord she’s caused:

Behind her she heard the clattering of Rael’s boots, and laughed at the thought of Luciella’s disquiet—the peaceful meal had been disrupted for good, this time. (Pg. 429)

So I’m supposed to forgive Romilly her narcassism, rubbishing and general all-round prickishness…why, exactly? Because she’s the main protagonist? Because she’s being so horribly oppressed by the evil patriarchal system? Because she has speshul powers that she never worked for or spent anything to gain? I really can’t think of a reason I should like Romilly besides the fact that the great MZB says so. Can anyone enlighten me on this?

In any case, even the gate-guards are happy to see Darren return, and he introduces her to his new friend—but not before telling Romilly how amazing she is and how she’s grown as a woman. “You’re a very special man, Richard Cypher,” anyone? Anyways, this kid’s name is Alderic, and he is, to put it in Team Fortress 2 terms, Poor and Irish. Of course, Romilly thinks Darren’s very kind to have befriended a boy outside of his social class and muses on the subject, and I’m wondering just why there’s so much exposition on class struggle in a book like this, especially when Romilly’s shown zero interest in this sort of thing before.

In any case, evil misogynistic father approaches the two after their belongings have been taken up to their rooms, and he and Darren’s friend make political talk. Apparently things are heating up in the world of Darkover, and I suppose fans of the series will probably make more of it than I can, since I’m not familiar with the setting. Anyways, we appear to get the standard fantasy fare, exiled rightful king, civil war, blah blah. GRRM should have taught us all about how laughable the idea of “rightful kings” are, but then again, not everyone’s conworld is as depressing as his is. After all that, Romilly wants to show Alderic her new amazing super-speshul bird, and we get this outburst from not one, but two characters affirming how amazingly wonderful and talented Romilly is:

“Romilly trained it herself,” Rael burst out, while her father frowned. “When Davin was sick. She waited up all night until it would feed, and the hawkmaster said that father could not have done better himself—”

“Aye,” the MacAran said roughly, “your sister has done what you would not do, boy—you should take lessons from her in skill and courage! Would that she had been the boy, and you the maiden, so that you might put skirts about your knees and spend the day in scribbling and embroidering within the house—” (Pg. 433)

I am already more than displeased with Romilly. Having the entire world, even the bad guys, chime in to affirm her superior status over the rest of humanity makes me want to take a whole bottle of pain pills. One of the main things I did for Embers was to make sure Lenka wasn’t the only special person around, and to give everyone equal time. It’s a thing I like to do. In any case, the EVVVVIL MacAran commands Romilly to take both her brother and Alderic to the hawk-house, and she does so, introducing them to Preciosa. Interestingly enough, she uses a feather to stroke the feathers on the bird’s belly, because there’s a powder on feathers that keeps them in proper flying condition. Unless I’ve had a brain-fart, this is correct—save one small point: it’s fine to touch the feathers on their bellies, but not their flight-feathers. And wouldn’t a feather all covered with icky human oils have exactly the same effect our fingers would have?

Lenka, damnit, where are you when I need you for consultation? All right, that was nasty and selfish of me, but I like to not have to write disclaimers when I have to rely on factual stuff.

In any case, Darren’s problem becomes clear: he’s a pussy, terrified of hawks, anything sharp, and anything that moves, really. Which explains why the MacAran is so pissed with him, especially since he’s supposed to be the heir. Of course, the message here is that the evil patriarchal system is just as punishing to men as it is to women, and that everyone should help fight the evil patriarchal system.

This, my friends, is a perfect example of a message that I might well have agreed with in principle, but was utterly and completely fucked up in the delivery. We’ll see more of this later. There’s more talking about Romilly’s eldest brother, yadda yadda, more talking about how wonderful Romilly’s speshul bird is, and there’s this little snippet:

“You trained her? A girl? But why not, you are a MacAran. In the tower where I dwelt for a time, some of the woman tamed and flew verrin hawks taken in the wild, and we are apt to say there, to one who has notable success with a hawk, Why, you have the hand of a MacAran with a bird…” (Pg. 437)

Looks peachy, eh? There’s one small problem, though:

Birds of prey are not tamed.

Birds of prey are NOT TAMED.

BIRDS OF PREY ARE NOT TAMED.

As I understand these things from what Lenka’s told me and scribbled about in her journal entries, there are two ways to get a bird: well, actually one way, considering they come from the same person. You put some birds you already have in a breeding program and get the eggs. From there, you can choose either to have the eyeasses raised by foster parents, or raise them yourself, which makes them imprints and generally more spoiled and demanding than the rest of the lot. You don’t go out and capture one yourself, then break it to your will.

And verbatim, straight off MSN:

“well, it is mostly semantics, BUT considering the relationship you have with the animal, you dont even tame a dog – the dog views you as the pack leader.

so – the closest you can get to the bird is to get it to accept you as its hunting partner – as its equal

you “man” them

you take the bird with you everywhere you go, talk to it constantly to get it used to the sound of your voice, touch it, pet it – contact is very important

if the bird is not comfortable with you touching it, you do so very tenderly, until it realizes you are not hurting it or doing anything harmful to it”

Romilly just chucked it into the mews, took it out for fun once or twice, and otherwise let it rot there. Speaking of which, she’s furious when she finds out the hawk-boy has been feeding the birds rotting offal. Which should have meant they’re all dead, but they’re not so with no permanent harm, so she can get all righteously angry about it:

She turned with relief to Davin, who was coming through the courtyard. “Was it you, old friend, gave orders to feed the hawks on the offal of the kitchens, and not even fresh at that?: She pointed at the pan of offending refuse; Davin picked it up, sniffed disdainfully at it, and put it aside. (Pg. 436)

Ugh. Let’s see what a REAL falconer has to say on the issue:

“When feeding, never feed lungs, especially not if feeding the bird with other birds. Always take out and throw away digestive system – all of it. When preparing birds, like pigeons or quail, you have to be very careful not to rupture the crop when taking it out – thats where digestion starts, so if the bird was sick, chances are the disease has spread there as well. Not that they cannot get sick from the meat as well, but its always safe to take these parts out. I leave the heart and the liver in – they are rich in nutrients and the birds love them.”

So Davin goes up and arranges for the birds to have the best and freshest…innards and offal every day. And Romilly is fine with that:

“I’ve brought fresh-killed meat for your hawk, Mistress Romilly,” Davin said, coming into the stableyard. “One of the cooks had just killed a fowl for roasting at dinner; she let me have the innards for your bird, and I gave orders for the freshest offal of every day to be put aside for you in the morning; that garbage Ker brought was from the day before, because one of the cooks put it aside for the dogs, and he was too busy eyeing the wenches in the kitchen to ask for the fresh meat.” (Pgs. 437-438)

Facepalm

More Lenka quoting from MSN:

“what?

no it isnt?

you know how many diseases are in that?

intestines? nooooooo

you fail so hard

this book should have been called “Hawkslayer-ess! The fastest way to kill a bird”

i am now disappoint

its one of those things

Eventually, they go and fly Romilly’s super-speshul bird with a lure.

Romilly watched jealously as the hooded hawk settled down comfortably on Alderic’s wrist; but Preciosa seemed content and she turned to tying the line around the meat, so that Preciosa could not snap it away too swiftly, and mut bring it down to the ground to eat, as a good hunting-hawk must learn to do; badly tamed hawks tended to snatch food from a lure in midair, which taught them little about hunting practice. They must be taught to bring the prey down to their master, and to wait until the meat was given to them from the hand. (Pg. 438)

Don’t you think it’s amusing that Romilly whines about what her parents are doing to her, and then insists that her bird behave exactly according to her wishes? Anyways, here’s the relevant Lenka-quote:

“birds kill it and they start ripping it and eating, which is okay, since they always start with the breast
when i come, i give the bird good clean food as a reward
but i rarely let them feed on it
yeah, tell the deranged killer to politely wait until you take it, haha
they killed it, so they munch on it
you just have to run to get there as fast as you can
for people its okay, since avian diseases are not easily transferrable to people and cooking kills everything
but raw meat is different”

And upon examining the quote:

“nooooo you cannot teach that
just to wrap up – the bird is protective of its kill and lets you near because it doesnt think you will take its kill – it gets rewarded on the glove. but a kill is a kill so they will eat. they will let you near, but they will still try to eat what they killed
when your bird catches something, you go to it, cover the kill with your bag or something and offer a replacement – a reward
if the bird thinks you are taking its food away, it will try to get it away from you and it will be agressive towards you
so basically – you kill, you eat”

And on the matter of the lure, which apparently means the great MZB STILL can’t decide if the bird’s a hawk or falcon:

“well, there are different types of lures. the one most commonly called a “lure” is this thing made out of leather and it has dried – out wings of the target quarry attached to it. you swing that and the falcon makes high – speed passes at it, simulating hunt in the air. for hawks we use dummy bunnies and for eagles dummy foxes/deer – basically the preys hide wrapped around a large enough cylinder you pull behind yourself, so the bird chases it on the ground – for ground hunters but lures are most commonly used for falcons, the first type of lure is used for falcons eclusively, since you do not fly falcons to the fist”

And on tying a bit of meat to a string and whirling it about:

“no how des that benefit a bird? in no way
with lure, the most important thing is that it looks close enough to real prey and that way they get somewhat of a hunting experience – its supposed to strenghten their muscles and sharpen their instincts”

In other words, falconry fail.

In any case, Romilly’s bird returns to the glove, only not quite on the glove, and Romilly starts bleeding. Darren squeals like a pig at the sight of blood, and Romilly’s all nonplussed about it, because she could never catch anything horrible from a wound, especially in the lack of antiseptic. Anyways, suddenly, Evil Father’s there, and he’s all RAAAAAGE at Darren for not acting LIKE A MAN:

“And this is what I have for a son and heir,” said The MacAran bitterly. He was standing in the dor of the hawk-house, watching the three young people unseen. His voice, even in his anger, was low—he knew better than to raise his voice near a frightened bird. He stood silent, staring with his brows knitted in a scowl, as Romilly coaxed the hawk down to her wrist and untangled the lines. “Are you not ashamed, Darren, to stand by while a little girl bests you at what should come by instinct to any son of mine? But that I knew your mother so well, I would swear you had been fathered by some chance-come beggar of the roads…Bearer of Burdens, why have you weighted my life with a son so unfit for his place?” He grabbed Darren’s arm and jerked him inside the hawk-house; Romilly heard Darren cry our and her teeth met in her lip as if the blow had landed on her shoulders.

“Get out there, now, and try to behave like a man for once! Take this hawk—no, not like that, damnation take you, you have hands like great hams for all your writing and scribbling! Take the hawk out there and exercise her on a lure, and if I see you ducking away from it like that, I swear I’ll have you beaten and sent to bed with bread and water as if you were Rael’s age!” (Pg. 439-440)

This is horribly, horribly terrible because her evil father’s forcing Darren to “go agaist everything which is natural for him”. Terry Pratchett had something to say about the idea of “natural”, which is the basic, “natural” state of humanity being that of living in trees and flinging poop at one another. The whole idea of “responsibility” is going against one’s baser instincts to get done what needs to be done. At what point does one draw the line between needing to fulfil one’s responsibility and giving up because of sheer incompatiability. That’s not an easy question to answer.

But according to Associate Professor Evil, there are three things that are required for one to be evil:

1. Know-it-all.

“First, you must be convinced of your own self-importance, and you must be under the delusion that everyone else is an idiot except for you. It helps to be a college student, so you should all do just fine.”

2. Spoiled

“Second, you must be obsessed with your own rights and freedoms, have a sense of undeserved entitlement, and suffer from a disease called ‘I-can-do-whatever-the-f***-I-want-because-I’m-convinced-that-there’re-absolutely-no-consequences-for-any-of-my-actions’.”

3. Despises authority

“And lastly, you must fancy yourself a rebel who stands against all forms of authority, and thinks that the government, corporations, and ‘the man’ are responsible for all the woes in the world, which of course isn’t very rebellious at all; it’s what every other twenty-something moron who thinks that he’s an individual with an original thought believes.”

Romilly? Evil? By this definition, definitely. And so the chapter closes with her watching her brother struggle with her hawk and wondering just how he can bungle up something that’s so easy. As if I didn’t need more reason to loathe her already.If not for how laughable the characters are, I might have responded better to the message that’s being screamed at us over the loudspeakers, but unfortunately that’s not going to happen any more.

Comment [7]

Chapter 4:

When we last left Romilly, she was watching her EVVIL misogynistic father torture her pussy of a brother by making him fly hawks. Wow-wee. Anyways, we skip ahead to the Midsummer festival, and that’s when Romilly is supposed to first fly her hawk/falcon/bird thing completely free, with the risk that it’ll fly away and never be seen again. With how she’s been treating it and not being around the bloody bird all the time, plus the fact that there’s no such thing as taming a wild bird, what should have happened should have been just that—the bird vanishes, never to be seen again and this crappy book ends.

Anyways, there’s some description of the traditional midsummer festivities: Romilly is given three baskets of sweets and apples from her family, and after that she meets Alderic and Darren to go out hawking. Of course, her amazing you-shall-love-me mental powers have forced the bird to accept her with minimal contact and time, much like all those crappy romances I keep on seeing not just in paranormal romances, but in the genre as a whole:

It was sheer ecstasy to be on a horse again in proper riding clothes, feeling the cool morning wind against her face, and Preciosa before her on the saddle, hooded but alert. She could feel a trickle of awareness from the bird which was blended of emotions Romilly herself could not identify…not quite fear as she had come to know it, not quite excitement, but to her great relief it was wholly unmixed with the terrifying rage she had felt when she began training the hawk. (Pg. 442-443)

In any case, they go to one of the horse pastures, and there’s a gratituous “I love animals, so I must be good” scene:

One small filly flung up her head and came trotting, on spindly legs, toward them; Romilly laughed, slid from her horse and went to nuzzle the baby horse; she came not much higher than Romilly’s shoulder.

“This is Angel,” she said to the young men, “She was born last winter, and I used to feed her with apple scraps—no, Angel, that’s my breakfast,” she added, slapping the soft muzzle away from the pocket where the horse was trying to rummage. But she relented and pulled her knife, cutting a small slice of apple for the filly.

“No more, now, it will give you a belly ache,” she said, and the little animal, evidently taking her word for it, trotted off on her long spindly legs. (Pg. 443)

Is it just me, or does the great MZB use a few too many commas? But again like her bird, the so-called relationship is laughable. She’s not the one who feeds and waters her hawk and horse; she’s not the one who mucks them out, she’s not the one to be by their side and care for them when the going gets tough. She just takes them out for her own pleasure and they’re supposed to LOVE HER SO, and when she’s done with them she chucks them away.

Really, fits the disgusting animal companion clause to a T.

Lenka has basically described the whole acclimatisation process of a bird to me: you take the bird with you everywhere you can conceivably and reasonably take it. You touch it, yes, with your HANDS, preferably all over since as an eyass it isn’t going to be flying anywhere yet, and if it reacts badly you do it very gently until it realises you aren’t intending to hurt it. You talk to it all the time, get it used to the sound of your voice, perhaps even go to the length to put it in your bedroom and sing it to sleep. You are around the bird as much as possible, and that is the number one important thing—the bird has to know you, and you know the bird. Not chuck it somewhere after you’ve “tamed” it and forget all about it until it’s convenient.

In any case, they come across an old horse that’s to be put down in the spring, and there’s some philosophy from our dear friends:

“He had a good life, and will make a good end,” said Alderic, “Unlike men, horses are not allowed to live till they are senile and half mad…if they gave men such mercy as that, I should not—there would not now be a usurper king on the throne in Hali and—and the king would not now be wandering in his exile.” (Pg 444)

All right, you’ve made your stand for euthanasia. Clap. Clap. Clap. There’s some backstory by Alderic on this so-called usurper king:

“You are not old enough to remember when King Felix died? He was more than a hundred and fifty, an emmasca, very old and without sons; and he had long outlived sense and wit, so he sought to put the eldest son of his younger brother on the throne, rather than his next brother’s eldest son, who was rightfully Heir And so the Lord Rakhal, who flattered and cozened an old and senile king and got the Regents all in his hand with bribes and lies, an aged lecher from whom no woman is safe, nor, ‘tis said, the young son of any courtier who would like to curry favor, sits on the throne of the Hasturs at Hali.” (Pg. 444)

I don’t know this Darkover setting, but frankly, if this is an absolute monarchy, then whatever the king damn well says is going to be law, whether they like it or not. And if the king suddenly changes his mind as to who is going to be his heir, no matter who was going to suceed him before, then this new guy would damn well be the rightful heir, because the king would damn well have the final say. Of course, note the horrible arm-twisting: he not only rapes women, but boys as well. Whoopee. Hurrah. And of course, since they’re coming out of the mouth of a Good character, the chance that they are lies spread by his opponents to undermine this new king is pretty much nonexistent.

And of course, like a good old Fisher King scenario, everything is horrible and in ruin just because the wrong ass is on the throne:

“Aye. That I do. And if some kindly courtier had relieved the ancient Felix of his life before ‘twas a burden to him, Carolin would now rule in Hali as a just king, rather than turning the holy city of the Hasturs into a—a cesspool of filth and indecencies, where no man dares to come for justice without a bribe in hand, and upstart lordlings and outlanders wrangle and divide our land among them!” (Pg. 444-445)

Time to quote Assistant Professor Evil again:

3. Despises authority

“And lastly, you must fancy yourself a rebel who stands against all forms of authority, and thinks that the government, corporations, and ‘the man’ are responsible for all the woes in the world, which of course isn’t very rebellious at all; it’s what every other twenty-something moron who thinks that he’s an individual with an original thought believes.”

After that not-so-subtle rant from Alderic on politics and the benefits of euthanasia, it’s now time for Romilly to fly her bloody bird. She lets it loose and it soars away into the distance, making her think it’s lost:

She shook her head. If she had lost the hawk, then she had never really possessed her. (Pg. 445)

Excuse the sobbing in the corner, that’s just Lenka crying at the blase effrontry of someone coming right out and not even disguising the fact that someone is in control here. But no! The bird comes flying back:

Romilly sat, with automatic habit, in the saddle, upright, silent, but the real part of her soared over the high pasture, keen with hunger, in the ecstasy of the flight. Supernaturally keen, her sight and senses, aware of the life of small birds, so that she felt she was smacking her ips (no typo here, this mispelling is verbatim from the book) and almost giggled and broke out of the rapport with the absurdity of it, sudden burning hunger and a desire almost sexual in its striking, blood bursting into her mouth, the sudden fierceness of bursting life and death…

Down. Wavering down. She had just enough of her self-hood left to hold out her fist rock-steady, under the sudden jarring stop of a heavy hawk laden with her kill. she felt tears streaming down her face, but there was no tome for emotion, her knife was in her free hand as she cut the head away, thrust her portion, headless rabbit, into her wallet with the freer hand; all her own awareness was feeding with the greedy hawk on her portion. (Pg. 446)

Jeopardy Think! music plays

My response? “How does one demonstrate shitty treatment of a supposedly equal relationship with an animal companion while proving you know nothing of falconry at the same time?” Seriously, though. The first paragraph is ALL about what the bird can do for Romilly, instead of it, y’know, being SHARED, and while maybe the bird doesn’t have the intelligence of a human and can’t speak, it can damn well still respond to her getting into its mind. But no, it’s not about that Romilly can do for the bird, it’s all about what the bird can do for Romilly.

Next up. The bird doesn’t carry its kill all the way to the falconer. No, instead the FALCONER runs all the way to the BIRD, instead of the other way around, and rewards it there with good fresh meat to distract the bird while covering up the kill. And god, Romilly is feeding her bird RABBIT HEADS. Which is actually good for the bird, since it’ll get to file its beak on the bones. Hmm.

In any case, Romilly’s overjoyed:

Preciosa had come back. She had returned of her free will, out of freedom into bondage and the hood. She choked back her tears as she stroked the hawk with the feather, and knew her hands were shaking.

What have I done to deserve this? How can I possibly be worthy of it? That a wild thing should give up her freedom for me…what can I possibly do to make me worthy enough for that gift? (Pg. 447)

I’ll tell you what you’ve done, bitch. You’re a Mary-Sue. Your bird was given to you by authorial intervention, since if you’d treated any REAL bird like that it’d have died, or much more likely, flown away at the earliest opportunity after savagely attacking you for daring to mistreat it. Is that an answer enough for you?

In any case, everyone finishes up their hawking and they head back to the castle. They notice that there’re strange horses at the gate, and surmise that the highest-ranking of the Midsummer guests have arrived. There’s some political talk, and about someone in particular:

Romilly, relieved that the tension had passed, began to recite the grown sons and daughters of the middle-aged lord of Scathfell; his heir, yet another Gareth (“But they call him Garris, in lowland fashion,” she added), “Dom Garris is not wed, he has buried three wives; I think he is only in is thirtieth year, but looks older, and is lame with a wasting disease of one leg.”

“And you dislike him,” said Alderic, and she grinned, her impish smile. “Why, how could you possibly know that, Lord Alderic? But it is true; he is always fumbling the maidens in corners, he was not above pawing at Mallina last year, when she had not even put up her hair…” (Pg. 447-448)

Hmm. Ugly, because everyone knows that someone ugly is EVVVVIL. Oh, and a lecher as well. And probably nasty to his wives. And not a virgin. And that’s just up front about this Dom Garris guy.

Any chance that he could be our EVVVVVIL Misogynistic Suitor for our EVVVVVIL Arranged Marriage? Anyone?

Nah, couldn’t be, right?

Right?

This hope is sadly crushed when when we see him for the first time when Romilly runs into him in the castle proper:

But, coming around a corridoor, she almost bumped into a tall, pale, fattish man with fair hair, coming from the big bathing-room with hot pools, fed by volcanic springs. He was wrapped in a loose robe and his hair as (yes, this is not another typo on my part. What was the copyeditor doing?) damp and mussed; he had evidently gone to soak away the fatigue of riding. Romilly curtseyed politely as she had been taught, then remembered that she was wearing breeches—curse it! If she had gone about her business he might simply have taken her for an out-of-place servant boy on some errand. Instead his pale flabby face tightened in a dimply creased smile.

“Mistress Romilly,” he said, his eyes sliding up and down her long legs. “An unexpected pleasure. Why, what a pair of legs you have, girl! And you have—grown,” he added, the pallid china-blue eyes resting on the straining laces of the old tunic pulled over her full breasts, “It will be a pleasure to dance with you tonight, now I have had the delights of seeing what so many women so carefully conceal from their admirers…” (Pg. 449)

Wait, so she has long legs (and presumably hips) and full breasts that STRAIN AT HER TUNIC, and she imagines that people will mistake her for a boy…because she’s wearing breeches.

Excuse me, but is everyone in this world blind?

A fat lecher. This is where I go out to take a deep breath, rub my arms from all the arm-twisting, and laugh. And laugh. And laugh.

Oh god, this is even worse than Bitterwood. And do you know what makes it even worse? MZB contradicts her own description of Romilly not more than a page ago:

She was still slender, her breasts scarcely rounded, the hips scarcely more flared than a boy’s, and the long legs were really boyish. But, she thought, if I ever wear boy’s clothes again, I shall be sure they fit me loosely enough that I truly look like a male. (Pg. 450)

Waaaait a second here. Her breasts are full and strain against her tunic, but at the same time they’re scarcely rounded? Her legs are shapely, yet at the same time they’re boyish? She wants to be able to perhaps, just perhaps, pass off as a boy to the untrained eye, yet god forbid that she be unattractive even if it means the author contradicting herself?

Sounds like a terminal case of “I want to have it all” to me. In any case, Romilly examines the smallest of her midsummer baskets, and behold, it’s from Alderic. There’re fresh flowers and exotic fruit all the way from Nevarsin, which is no doubt quite far away. How they managed to stay fresh without cooling or any sort of preservation at all I have no idea, but then again I’m not allowed to be asking stupid questions, am I? Even the EVIL sellout to the patriarchy is wetting her panties in excitement over Romilly’s find:

“Romy, who do you think he is? He looks so romantic—do you think Dom Alderic is trying to court one of us? I would be happy indeed to be betrothed to him, he is so handsome and gallant, like the hero of some fairy-tale—” (Pg. 450)

Aha. I suppose Alderic is the GOOD suitor, because he is 1) poor, 2) handsome, 3) holds views that coincide with the author’s, and 4) allows Romilly to do whatever she wants. Stunning combination compared to the fat old ugly misogynistic leper.

Stop pulling my arms, please. Because all character empathy has gone out of the window, and every antagonist is a horrible failure at everything they do and have absolutely no redeeming qualities, and when combined with the fact that Romilly appears to be the sole arbitrator of morality in the prose, and she isn’t doing a very good job of it…

In any case, Romilly reluctantly lets Maliina dress her in finery, and they go down to the feast hall for the midsummer feast, where everyone else is also dressed in their best. Of course, Romilly gets to be seated next to Dom Garris, and like a true evil misogynistic bastard he keeps on making not-quite-veiled lecherous remarks to her throughout the whole bloody feast and entertainment, and of course Romilly detests him because…well, he’s a fat fuck, and in a fantasy novel we all know what that entails.

There’s more talk of politics, and the MacAran restates that he’s not going to get involved in any civil war between this ursurper dude and the so-called rightful king. Afterwards, everyone goes out to dance, and Romilly manages to catch up with one of her old friends, Darissa, who’s gotten married and has had children with another one on the way:

Romilly nodded. She was shocked at her friend, who had been so pretty and graceful but three years ago; now she had grown heavy-footed, her small breasts swollen and thick beneath the laces of her gown, her waist clumsy. In three years, Darissa had had two children and now she was bearing another already! (Pg. 454)

I think it really says something about Romilly that the greatest negative aspect about motherhood she can think of is that she’ll lose her fine figure. Not the increased responsibilities, not the possible health repercussions in such a low-tech setting, or even the stock feminist concern that she’ll be tied to home and hearth, but that she’ll lose her pretty pretty body.

Anyways, Darissa’s very enthusiastic and happy about being married and a mother, and outwardly Romilly smiles and agrees, but in her thoughts she repeatedly rubbishes Darissa and thinks her a fool for spoiling her lovely body with babies:

Romilly said in shock, “But need you have another so soon? I should think two in three years was enough—”

Darissa shrugged and smiled. (Pg. 454)

“I do not dislike Cinhil,” Romilly said, but inwardly she shrank away; three years from now, then, would she be like Darissa, grown fat and short of breath, her skin blotched and her body misshapen from breeding? (Pg. 455)

So Lord Scathfell thought to marry her to Cinhil this year, so she could be fat and swollen with baby after baby like Darissa? Not likely! (Page 456)

Again, it’s the same problem with Mallina: women who don’t subscribe to Romilly’s exact philosophies are branded stupid, cowardly or traitors to womankind. You have the freedom to ride your horses and fly your hawks even as you mistreat them, but don’t rubbish the choices other individuals make in life. It doesn’t help one bit either that this so-called “feminism” that Romilly exhibits is based on a “me, me, me” attitude. What does she hope to do for OTHER women? Well, apparently nothing.

Bah. Anyways, it’s her turn to go out and dance, and she dances with a few people, but most of all Alderic:

When it came Alderic’s turn she reached confidently for his hands; they were square, hard and warm, not the soft hands of a scholar at all, but calloused and strong like a swordsman’s. An unlikely monk, indeed, she thought, and put her mind to the intricacies of the dance. (Pg. 456)

OOH! OOH! HE’S MORE THAN HE LOOKS! HE IS SO OBVIOUSLY GOING TO GET HER! Three coppers says he’s the exiled rightful heir to the throne in the bargain. I mean, it couldn’t be, right? RIIIIIGHT? In any case, Alderic dances wonderfully, as if he would do anything else. After the dance, Romilly chats with him over sweet fruit juice, since she’s not allowed to drink in public:

“You are fond of hawking?”

“I am; the women of our family train sentry-birds. Have you ever flown one, dami—Romy?”

She shook her head. She had seen the great fierce birds, but said “I knew not that they could be tamed! Why, they can bring down a rabbithorn! I should think they were no great sport—”

“They are not flown for sport,” Alderic said, “but trained for war, or fire-watch; it is done with laran. A sentry-bird in flight can spy out intruders into a peaceful country, or bandits, or a forest-fire. But it is no task for sport, and in truth the birds are fierce, and not easy to handle. Yet I think you could do it, Romilly, if your laran was trained.” (Pg. 458)

Bets that she’s going to train her bird to do the exact same thing, anyone? Bets? Two coppers? Three coppers? Oh, come on, I know there’s pretty much no doubt at all that she’s going to master this crap effortlessly, but it would be nice to imagine that she didn’t, or at the very least, took some real time and effort into making it happen. But no, we all know her inherent genetic magic is strong, so our pathetic little hopes are quashed.

In any case, Alderic’s telling Romilly all about how wonderful the hawk-women are at his home, and how they can see further than anyone else with their birds. As if we needed any more conformation as to who Romilly is going to end up with eventually, eh? However, Romilly’s EVVVIL stepmother comes up and complains that Romilly hasn’t danced with Dom Garris yet. Of course, Romilly doesn’t want to, but the EVVVIL suitor himself comes up to her and asks her for a dance. Now Romilly is obligated to comply, but the bugger naturally dances horribly, has sweaty palms, and his breath smells of alcohol.

Good lord, will the author stop at NOTHING to try and force me to dislike this man? Of course, Darissa and some other young women notice how Romilly’s dancing with him, and giggle and twitter to her in an appropriately stupid fashion (or at least, to Romilly) that she’s made yet another sexual conquest.

…Wait, YET ANOTHER sexual conquest? So how many…so, despite her conflicting looks, with her figure managing to be both boyish and amazingly feminine and attractive at the same time, men are falling head over heels for her? How often has this happened?

Take the pain pills. Take the pain pills. The whole bottle, please. That’s much better. Muuuuch better. Darissa even mentions how the EVVVVIL Dom Garris tried to screw her, even when she was his sister-in-law. And I’m wondering why exactly this noble family hasn’t done something about him already—

—Oh wait, he’s just there as a caricature and to torment Romilly. Do such men exist in real life? Why, there’re all sorts in a world; I wouldn’t be surprised to find someone as depraved as that. But do I want them in my fiction? No. In any case, the dancing continues well past midnight, and Romilly tries to stay away from EVVVIL misogynistic leper suitor. However, it’s only a matter of time before he finds her and tries to force himself upon her:

He whirled her about till she was dizzy, and she was conscious that his hands were no longer decorously on her sleeve but that he was holding her somewhat closer than was comfortable, and when she tried self-consciously to squirm away from them he only chuckled and eased her closer still.

“No, now you cannot tell me you are so shy as that.” he said, and she could tell from the flushed look of his face and the slight slurring of his words that he had drunk overlong of the stronger wine at the high table, “Not when you run about with those lovely long legs showing in those breeches and your breasts showing through a tunic three sizes too small, you cannot play Lady Modesty with me now!” He pulled her close and his lips nuzzled her cheek, but she twisted indignantly away. (Pg. 461-462)

Of course, our dear friendly neighbourhood misogynistic suitor isn’t going to give up so easily, and continues trying to paw Romilly until she threatens to scream for her brother, upon which he makes an excuse of testing her virtue and making a hurried retreat.

You know, normally I would side with someone in Romilly’s position, but unfortunately, I just can’t seem to summon up my sympathy in this case. Really. She’s THAT unlikable. Anyway, she runs off crying to bed and hides under her sheets. What a stunning example of a strong woman…

Fortunately, for us, that ends the chapter. Which is good, because the birds are clearly bored:

Comment [13]

Chapter 5:

In our last chapter, Romilly had just narrowly escaped from an evil fat suitor who had almost molested her. The key word here is almost, since we know that even in feminist fantasy like this, nothing truly bad can happen to a Mary Sue as blatant as this one, but it has to be close enough so the author can make Romilly wangst and wring us for every drop of sympathy possible. Which in my case is absolutely none at all.

Anyways, it’s the morning after the Midsummer Festival, which is when Romilly’s evvvil misogynistic father holds his great warehouse sale of animals, mostly hawks, horses and hounds. Romilly’s governess gives her excuse from her lessons to go to this great warehouse sale because she’s so amazing at her studies that one day’s worth wouldn’t be missed, and she goes down into the courtyard where the great animal warehouse sale is being held. The first thing she sees is, of course, related to her:

Davin was displaying the flight to a lure of one of the best-trained hawks, a great bird in whose training Romilly had played no small part; she stood watching in excitement till Davin spotted her. (Pg. 464-465)

In any case, the people of Scathfell are in the courtyard with them, and Davin asks Romilly to help sell the birds to them. Cathal, Darissa’s husband, wants a large hawk so she can get out and have some exercise after the baby’s born. Romilly agrees and tries to push the sale, but the evvvvil patriatch of the Scathfells, Dom Gareth, is being a bastard:

He snorted. “The women of my household have no need to hunt for meat for the pot; it they fly hawks, they do so only to have a reason to take air and exercise. And the MacAran still lets a great girl like you hunt with a verrin hawk? Disgraceful!”

Romilly bit back the protest on her lip—Aldaran might not approve of women flying hawks, but perhaps other men were not so stuffy and narrow-minded as he was himself—realizing that a saucy answer would only alienate a valued neighbour and customer of her father’s. (Pg. 465-466)

Wait, whoever said he was not allowing Darissa to fly a hawk? Hell, he was only complaining that the hawk Romilly had picked out was too big. Look here, I can see the misogynistic undertones here and don’t approve of them, but as Lenka can attest, falconry is called a sport, and with good reason. Considering that Darissa was just described in the last chapter as fat, heavy-footed, clumsy and often short of breath, it’s not completely unreasonable that a more managable bird would be more suitable, if only because it would be lighter and she wouldn’t have to use as much strength in sticking out her arm.

But of course, the only reason anyone would disagree with Romilly is that they are misogynists, whether they know it or not. Not that the elder Gareth isn’t so—again, with the arm-twisting, but really, Romilly’s thoughts are revealing. Anyone who disagrees with her, even on how, not what, is to be done, is an evil stuffy misogynist. At least to her credit she does realise, just for that one moment, that she has obligations and responsibilities beyond her personal self, which is more than what I can say for the book so far.

In any case, she leaves the hawks and meets up with Alderic where the horses are being displayed. He mentions that he’d like to trade in his horse for a better one at the show, but he doesn’t have much money with him, and suggests that he could work for the MacAran for a while in order to pay off the difference. Romilly’s reaction?

She blinked in surprise—she had begun to be sure that he was, in fact, the Hastur prince in disguise, and here he was offering to hire himself, a paid worker, to the MacAran in return for a horse-trade! (Pg. 466)

Uh, what? It’s hardly surprising, is it? Alderic is poor and Irish. He wants a new horse, but cannot pay for one. The only honourable way to get one would be to work for it, wouldn’t it? I mean, it makes sense. What’s there to be surprised about?

Or was it just an excuse to have Romilly gaw and gape at him for no real reason?

Well, I’m sure we all can guess as to who our hidden prince is.

Right?

Riiiight?

Yeah.

In any case, Romilly takes Alderic about the horses, and with a single glance she’s able to tell everything about a horse, from their personalities to what work they’re suited for to what they like to eat and every single quirk about them. From one glance. I’m not too surprised, though, a Mary Sue often has this ability as well, only it’s usually applied to humans instead of animals. Some particularly outstanding examples:

“He is an ugly raw-boned brute, but if you look carefully about his gait, and the way he carries his tail, you will see that he is a fine strong horse, and spririted too. But he is no ride for a lady, nor for any soft-handed fellow who wants his horse to plod along at a gentle pace; he wants firm hands and good handling.” (Pg. 467)

“I give you my word, the horse is good tempered enough, but he wants firm handling,” she said, “I think perhaps he has a sense of humor—if a horse can laugh, I would swear I have seen him laugh at people who think they need only clamber on a horse and let him do all the work, and he had Darren off in two minutes; but my father can ride him without even a bridle, only a saddle and halter; because the MacAran knows how to make him, or any horse, behave.”

“Aye, and I am told you have the same gift,” he said. (Pg. 467)

Well, I suppose A Wizard Did It, so I can hardly complain. But it still leaves a bad taste in my mouth, and I’m sure it does in the mouths of the two crazy horse ladies on my f-list. There’s some lip-service about Romilly having worked in the stables ever since she was old enough to enter them, but I’m sure it takes time to know a single horse well, let alone all of them.

The conversation turns to Alderic’s family, and it’s soapbox time on Why Arranged Marriages Are Evil For Everyone:

“I have hardly had speech with my father half a dozen times since I was out of short dresses. My mother was wedded to him in a dynastic marriage, and there was little love to lose between them; I doubt they have said a civil word to one another since my sister was conceived, and now they dwell in separate houses and meet formally a few times a year, no more. My father is a kindly man, I suppose, but I think he cannot look on my face without seeing my mother’s features, and so he has always been ill at ease with me. Even as a babe I called him sir, and have hardly spoken with him since I was grown to man’s size.” (Pg. 468)

Again, I understand the whole anti-arranged marriage stance, and can mostly agree with it. There are bound to be maritial problems in such an arrangement. That being said, however, does not automatically doom it to failure. People pushed into such situations can work out their problems and differences, get to know each other and while it might not be really romantic love that’s pushed to us, still can be thought of as an accommodation.

And of course, keeping in mind the setting, I’d expect people such as Romilly to have expected to be put into an arranged marriage. They have priviliges, and with those priviliges come responsibilities—such as using such unions to seal political contracts and enhance goodwill. It’s not just about the people in the marriage in this case, it’s also about the people governed, and if a civil war breaks out just because a spoilt princess runs away from home to be with the pauper she loves…well, it’s all right that her family’s disgraced, thousands of people die in a stupid feud, probably leading to even more problems such as famine since people were called away from the fields to fight, and trade breakdowns and the likes…

But it’s all right in the end because the princess has tru wuv. Oh, and the pauper turns out to be the exiled prince of some faraway kingdom.

Let me just have some more of those pills, will you?

Anyways, Romilly works the rest of the day, helping the men on the sale fields with the horses, hawks and hounds, and of course outperforming them all. The day passes and evening comes, and Romilly goes back into the castle proper for her dinner with the family. This is when, of course, her evil misogynistic father explains that she’s to be married to Dom Garris:

“No fear of that,” said the MacAran, smiling, “other news I have too. Romilly, my dear, you know you are of an age to be married; I had not thought I would have such a good offer for you, but Dom Garris of Scathfell has asked me for your hand in marriage, and I have answered him; yes.”

Romilly felt as if an ice-cold hand was closing about her throat. (Pg. 470)

Of course, Romilly’s horrified. She thought she was going to be married off to Cinhil, but apparently he’s too young to be married off, and why marry the younger son when one can have the heir? Anyways, we get some of Romilly’s reactions:

“Father, I hate him,” she said, pleading, “please, don’t make me marry him!” (Pg. 470)

The MacAran gestures the younger girl to silence.

“Romy,” he said gravely, “Marriage is not a matter of whim. I have chosen a good young man for you—”

“So young is he not,” she flared, “he has buried three wives, and all of them have died in childbirth!” (Pg. 471)

She thought of Darissa, not much older than herself, swollen and shapeless with bearing children. Would she be like that, and would those children have been fathered by Dom Garris, with his whining voice and damp flabby hands? The thought made her flesh crawl. (Pg. 471)

“So while I thought you were having a sale of horses and hawks,” she said bitterly, “you were also making a sale of your daughters! Tell me, Father, did Dom Garris give a good price?”

She knew by the unlovely flush that spread over her father’s face that she had caught him on the raw. He said, “I’ll hear none of your impertinence, my pert young mistress!”

“I doubt it not,” she flung back at him, “you would rather trade in hawks and horses because they cannot talk back—and you can give them what fate you will!” (Pg. 471)

Uh, didn’t she do the same with her stupid bird? Force it into her idea of what it should be and hammer it into its fate? Just thinking. More complaining on Romilly’s part:

“Oh, Mother,” Romilly wailed, crumpling and throwing her head into Luciella’s lap, “do I have to marry that—that—” words almost failed her, but finally she came out with, “that great slug? He is like something with a dozen legs that crawled out from under a piece of rotten wood!” (Pg. 471)

But when she countered her father’s rage with the thought of the alternatve, confronting Dom Garris and the memory of lust in his eyes, she realised that she would rather that her father beat her every day for a year than that he should deliver her over to Dom Garris. Didn’t he know what the man was like? And then, with her heart sinking, she realized that the MacAran was a man and would never have seen hat (no error here, either. Copyeditor clearly not doing his or her job) side of Garris of Aldaran; that Dom Garris showed only to a woman he desired.

If he touches me, I will vomit, she thought, and then she knew that whatever her father’s anger, she must make a final appeal to him. (Pg. 472)

So Romilly goes out to find her father, and chances upon him in the stables directing the stablehands hither and tither. She presses him to reconsider, weeping and wailing all the while, and while her father appears to be reasonable and understanding he can’t go back on his word without ruining the carefully-built reputation of his whole ancestral line. Of course, this isn’t important to Romilly, but then he continues to explain that he and her mother know better than her at choosing a suitable husband and that she had never expressed her preference in men to him, so the situation’s her own fault. Romilly still doesn’t agree, but she knows that there’s nothing else she can do, and so she’s to be married off at harvest time, in about a season.

It’s still not over, though. It’s not long before a messenger comes to the castle with a gift:

“To the MacAran of Falconsward and to my affinanced wife Romilly, greeting from Gareth-Regis Aldaran at Scathfell. Your daughter informed me that she flies a verrin hawk, which is understandable in the daughter of the finest hawk-trainer in these hills, but it would be unseemly for the wife of Aldaran’s Heir. Therefore I take the liberty of sending her two fine ladybirds which will fittingly adorn the most beautiful wrist in all of Kilghard Hills, so that she need not fly a man’s hawk.” (Pg. 477)

Of course, Romilly’s all like “no one shall tear me from my beloved Preciosa! Rawr!”:

She made up her mind, firmly, whatever they said, she would never be argued or bullied into giving up Preciosa! The bond between them was too strong for that. (Pg. 478)

One thing I’d like to ask: Why was this book published? Yes, really, I mean it. Why the hell was it published in the state that it is now? I can excuse a poor story, but numerous spelling and grammatical errors in the final product I hold on paper before my hands—just what the hell were the author and copyeditor doing? Or was the great MZB so great and wonderful by that point that she had no need of this thing known as “editing” and “proofreading”?

Secondly, this so-called bond is hardly believable. Not just because of the time factor or the lack of adequate portrayal, but also because the relationship is completely one-sided and her so-called training has been all junk from the start, all the way from breaking the hawk with rotting meat, flying it with a lure made of string whirled about one’s head, and an inability to decide if the bird is even a hawk or falcon. It gets worse, though. Apparently, the great MZB thinks smaller hawks are stupider:

While she was first flying the little hawks—with a guilty thought that she was being disloyal to her beloved Preciosa—she reached out for contact, the strong bond between hawk and flyer. But the tiny birds gave only a faint sense of confusion, exhilration; there was no close emotion, no sense of rapport and union—the smaller hawks were too lowly organized to have the capacity for laran. She knew the cagebirds had no such abilities—she had once or twice tried to communicate with them—in fact, “the mind of a cagebird” was a byword for a stupid woman! Flying the small hawks was dull; she could watch them fly, and they were beautiful indeed, but there was none of the excitement, the sense of rapport and completion, she felt with Preciosa. She flew them dutifully every day for exercise, but it was always with relief that she hooded them again with the beautifully worked hoods and cast off Preciosa into the sky, climbing the sky with her in an ecstasy of flight and soaring freedom. (Pg. 478)

Lenka:

“there is so much wrong with that i cannot even begin to explain
excuse my French, but thats fucking retarded
i am really glad i did not get past the first few pages
i dont know what i would have done to the book
ill be right back, i need to step outside for a moment”

And as Lenka asked: “Why does this woman hate her gender so much?” Everything vaguely feminine in the traditional sense is rubbished completely and utterly, even the birds that they’re supposed to fly, and according to the novel the only way to have power or even intelligence is to be exactly like men—wear men’s clothing, act like men, fly the same birds they fly, do all their activities. The point is debatable, but this isn’t going to turn into one of those discussions. My point here is that the way the author is going about making her point just repulses me as a thinking reader, and frankly is self-defeating. Most soapboxes are, really.

In any case, preparations for the marriage go under way, and they are all so horribly misogynistic (did you expect otherwise?). Her evvvil father stops her ciphering lessons, whatever those are, and instead she’s to learn how to properly manage a household and all the servants in it and learn the jobs they do, so she can know whether they’ye putting their backs to it or being lazy bastards. Of course, there’re the obligatory lessons on how to raise a child, which Romilly explicitly mentions are pointless, since there’re more than enough nursemaids to take care of her future children while she does other things:

Romilly could not imagine why, if there were skilled nurses and midwives there, and Darissa with two—no, three children by now—she should have to know how to do all this herself, even before she had any children, but Luciella insisted that it was part of a young wife’s proper knowledge. (Pg. 479)

Yeah, tell that to the latchkey kids. Or the parents who wonder and regret that their children seem more attached to the maid than themselves.

More time passes, and one day Alderic comes up to Romilly and tells her that Preciosa is pining for her. Yes, really.

“But she does not fly well for me,” he told her one evening, “I think she is pining for you, Romilly.”

“And I am neglecting her,” Romilly said, with a pang of guilt. She had herself formed the tie with this wild thing; now she could not betray it. She resolved that tomorrow, no matter what duties Luciella laid on her, she would find some time for a ride, and to take out the hawk. (Pg. 480)

No. Not believing. Not enough time to justify development of relationship, and it basically ends up smacking of one of those poorly thought-out romance novels where the male and female leads bump into each other and fall into love at first sight. In short, I say:

But anyways, the next day she flies through her chores, and when she’s done she goes out to fly her stupid Preciosa. Well, it has to be pretty stupid, since all it does is follow Romilly’s orders like a mindless drone. In any case, her evvvvil father comes over with Darren and orders her to stop because it’s not ladylike (I am already so sick of this phrase and its iterations, but I guess we’ll be seeing a lot more of it before the day is out), and orders Darren to fly the bird instead. In any case, Romilly looks at her birds again, and what we get is a whole pile of fail:

Her eyes burning, Romilly turned aside to take up one of the tiny, useless hawks that had been Dom Garris’ gift. At that moment she hated them, the little half-brained, stupid things. Beautiful as they were, elegantly trapped, they were only ornaments, pretty meaningless jewels, not real hawks at all, no more than one of Rael’s carven toys! But it was not their fault, poor silly little things, that they were not Preciosa. Her heart yearned over Preciosa, perched unsteadily on Darren’s awkward wrist. (Pg. 482-483)

Because it’s so totally not a euphemism for women who’re involved in domestic matters, by choice or otherwise. Really. Just replace “hawk” with “woman” and see the results. Again, it’s the same message: “women who don’t follow my exact philosophy are stupid and useless, only there to look pretty!”

And I’d like you to go out and tell all the falconers who fly merlins and sparrowhawks. Go out and tell them how their birds are small, and as a result stupid, useless and not real birds of prey. I’m sure you can imagine their reaction, can’t you?

“TINY BIRDS ARE NOT USELESS PEOPLE WHO SAY THEY ARE ARE
lemme tell you, a sparrowhawk is a pretty tough little motherfucker that will END YOU the secnd it gets a neurotic tick – my mentor has a scar on his cheek and a piece of a fucking ear missing because his female spar decided she is not interested in what was on his fist and decided to go for his face instead – and not to mentioned this bird about the size of an average pigeon will bring down an ad
adult pheasant
HOW USELESS IS THAT I ASK
can you imagine how many times the pheasant outweighs the spar?
MANY
and dont get me started on merlins”

And finally, it’s very indicative of the sort of relationship Romilly has with those so-called animals she mind-bonds with—it’s all about what they can do for her and not the other way round. Frankly, I hate the “best friends forever” animal companion shit, only because it’s never that way. There’s only one instance of this trope that I’ve found satisfactory, and a cookie to whoever who can guess what it is.

In any case, Romilly urges her stupid bird to fly away because “one of us at least should be free”, and the bird does so obediently. What, you expected more of a mindless drone? Of course, EVIL MISOGYNISTIC FATHER is enraged, blames Darren for losing the hawk and starts whipping him with his riding crop. Romilly comes forward and claims responsibility, and there’s an argument and he beats her as well:

“It’s not Darren’s fault! I lost her, I let her go—I cannot be free, I must be chained inside a house and robbed of my hawk, you damned tyrant, but I will not have Preciosa chained too! I bade her go with me laran—with my laran—you have given Ruyven away with your tyranny, you have made Darren afraid of you, but I am not afraid of you, and at least you will never mistreat my hawk again, my hawk, mine—” and she burst into wild crying. Her father checked a moment as the first blow fell on her shoulders, but as he heard the flood of abuse, as the forbidden words Ryuven and laran fell on his ears, his face turned furious black, congested with wrath and he raised the riding-crop and struck her hard. He raised it again and again; Romilly shuddered with the pain, and shrieked at him, incoherently, harder than ever; her father slid from his horse and stood over her, beating her about the back and shoulders with the crop until finally Darren flung his arms around his father, shouting and yelling, and then another voice; Dom Alderic, restraining her father with his strong arms. (Pg. 484-485)

This is supposed to be a powerful scene. It’s supposed to be the turning point of a character. I think it says a lot that when he’s whipping her, all I can think of is:

2. Spoiled

“Second, you must be obsessed with your own rights and freedoms, have a sense of undeserved entitlement, and suffer from a disease called ‘I-can-do-whatever-the-f***-I-want-becau
se-I’m-convinced-that-there’re-absolutely-no-consequences-for-any-of-my-actions’.”

Whipping her makes him a tyrant? Oh, hypocritical much, when you were STARVING YOUR HAWK TO DEATH AND REPEATEDLY USING YOUR MIND MAGIC TO PSYCHO IT INTO LOVING YOU? WAS THAT IT? WHAT ARE YOU, THEN?

Ahem.

Anyways, Alderic manages to separate them, and Romilly runs all the way home, where she whines some more:

They blame me, Romilly thought, they all blame me because I was beaten…

And now there is no hope for me. Preciosa is gone. My father cares more to be on good terms with Aldaran than he cares for me. He will beat Darren ruthlessly into shape because Darren does not have my gifts, but he will not let me be what I am, nor Darren what he is; he cares nothing for what we are, but only for what he would have us be. (Pg. 486)

…Excuse me while I roll my eyes. In any case, it’s run-away-from-home-and-arranged-marriage time! Romilly wakes up in the middle of the night, when all the castle’s asleep—

—Wait a minute. I might never have truly liked Tad Williams’ Memory, Sorrow and Thorn, but one of the things he gets right is how a castle works. It’s a process, and never really sleeps. There’re always people around, given the sheer number of folks in one, and it’s very hard to slip around the main passages unnoticed. You’d at least imagine the MacAran would have sentries on guard.

Oh, and what happened to Romilly’s injuries? You know, the huge, bloody gashes on her back from her father’s whipping? Oh wait, since those’ve been milked for sympathy, they can now conveniently disappear. In any case, she sneaks into Ruyven’s room, pilfers some men’s clothes, her falconing glove and a dagger, and she cuts her hair:

At the last, before she slid her dagger into its sheath, she cut her hair short to the nape of her neck, and as she stole outside, thrust the braid deep into the midden, so they would not find it. She had locked Ryuven’s door again, and they would never think to look among his old clothes and count the shirts. She would carry her habit with her, so they would be looking for a girl with long hair in plain old clothes. (Pg. 487)

Ah, if only it were so easy as cutting your hair short and wearing men’s clothing. I must have been mistaken thinking all those ladies with short hair and t-shirts and jeans on campus were actually, y’know, women. Blarg.

Then she goes into the kitchens and gets completely perishable foods, fresh bread, grain cakes and fresh nuts. Not even a water bottle. I hope she dies of thirst and exposure. Goodness, even Nature Sue was better than that. Next stop is the stables, where she steals a nondescript horse and rides out in the night unstopped by anyone. Goodness, the MacAran is amazingly trusting to not have posted a single sentry in these uncertain times. Anyways, as she rides away, there’s one last thought:

But then the memory of Darren’s face as she gave him the hawk, of her father’s rage, of Ruyven’s set, despairing eyes the last time she had seen him, before he ran away from Nevarsin…No, Father will have us what he wishes, not what we are. The memory of Dom Garris handling her rudely at midsummer, the thought of how he would behave when she was turned over to him, his wife, his property to do with as he would—

She set her face like iron. Had there been anyone to see, at that moment, they would have marked; she was very like her father. She rode away from Falconsward without once looking back. (Pg. 488-489)

Retch

Chapter ends, and with it my pain.

Comment [15]

Chapter 6:

Before we begin this chapter proper, I’d like to reiterate something that while no doubt I’ve mentioned before, I’d still like to say again.

I LOATHE soapboxing, regardless of what the topic is. I don’t care whether you’re arguing for or against anything, be it racism, feminism, atheism, the benefits of religion, how we should save the planet, the moment an author gets on the soapboax, I start hating the book. It’s stupid, it’s insulting, and I’m not going to sit there while the author puts his or her position up on a big billboard and talks to me like a five-year-old. It warps the characters, it warps the story, it warps the setting just so that someone can get off on enlightening the world on how stupid we all are and how we should come into the light of the author.

I’m sorry, but if I wanted to join your crazy political sect, I’d have asked for a pamphlet, not a novel. Can the message be true? Why not? But does it need to be rammed down my throat, all the while having the author talk down to me? No. You want a message, fine, but let me make up my mind about it instead of giggling in the background and making all your stupid atheists or misogynsitic bastards or blatant white men narrow their shifty eyes and twirl their evil handlebar mustaches.

In any case, it’s been three days since Romilly ran away from home, and it’s snowing and there’s a storm brewing. Now would be a nice time for her to have died from thirst and exposure, abandoned by her horse which threw her off when it got hungry and thirsty and realised she wasn’t going to let it process its basic bodily functions, but unfortunately, that’s not the case. Still, she has enough of a brain to realise that she has to seek shelter, and off she goes on her mechano-horse. What? Of course it’s not a real horse! It doesn’t eat, it doesn’t drink, it doesn’t tire, and it doesn’t shit. So much for her talk-to-animals magic.

In any case, Romilly starts thinking while caught out in the middle of a storm without cover. Yes, really. It’s not really that unbelievable, considering that we’ve been asked to accept that her wounds from, y’know, her evil father thrashing her repeatedly with a whip are not to be mentioned again. So her plan is to head to the Towers where Ryuven is being trained in his magic, or she can head to Nevarsin on the way, winter there and then go on. But that’s not all! In the spirit of the story, though, we can’t pass five pages without another feminist diatribe:

Surely in Nevarsin she could seek to find work somewhere as a hawkmaster’s apprentice, or with some blacksmith or horsekeeper as a stableboy—for she had no intention of revealing herself as a girl. She had seldom been away from her own home, where even the kitchen-girls and washerwomen were treated kindly and properly supervised by Domna Luciella, but the very was they reacted to this treatment told her how rare it was, and one of the women, who had worked as a tavern wench for years, had told many stories of the treatment she was apt to receive. Romilly did not doubt her own ability to care for herself and to keep unwelcome hands off her; but even the lowest stable boy was paid more than any cook-woman or tavern maid, and Romilly had few skills to lift her above the lowest scullery-maid’s tasks. (Pg. 490-491)

Again, is it true? Debatable, there are different points of view and I’m not going to go into them. Does it impress me with the originality when there have been echoes from the 1950s pulp fantasy magazines all the way to the present time of the very same thoughts, repeated over and over ad nauseum? No.

In any case, it’s getting really cold, and there’s about half a page of description of how cold it is that the scenery’s changed. So she comes along a small homestead, and hoping to find shelter there, knocks on the door. An old woman bids her come in and stable her horse out back, which Romilly does, and the next two pages are spent on description of Romilly making herself comfortable, warming herself by the fire, cooking porridge for herself and the old woman, etc, etc, so I really won’t bother going into it. She goes to sleep, and when she wakes up there’s a loud banging at the door.

Apparently, it’s the old woman’s grandson, a young man by the name of Rory. He’s cordial at first, thanking Romilly for helping his granny and inviting her into their home. Of course, Romilly’s first attempt at disguising herself as a boy is perfect and neither Rory nor his grandma suspect that she might actually be a girl. And here I am, taking slow bite after bite out of my wonderfully delicious sandwich.

The first sign that all’s not right, though, is when Romilly says she has to tend to her horse:

“You have a horse?” A look almost of greed lighted Rory’s face. “I have always wanted a horse; but they are not for the likes of me! You must indeed have been brought up in a Great House.” (Pg. 497)

In any case, Romilly goes out to the stables, notices her panties are icky and realises she’s had her period and does something about it:

There was an old-fashioned outhouse inside the byre, and she went into it; as she was readjusting her clothing, she paused, dismayed, at the bloodstains lining her underwear; because of the storm she had lost track of the days. When I thought to pass myself off as a man, she said to herself wryly, I had forgotten certain very important points which I must remember. She had never thought it would be simple, to remember to pitch her voice at its deepest level and to remember to move with the free stride for which Luciella and her governess hd (no typo on my part here. ANOTHER spelling error.) always reproved her, but she had forgotten the inexorable rhythms of female biology which could have betrayed her more than any of this. (Pg. 497)

I’ll give the author credit; let it not be said I’m unfair. she’s put more thought into this matter than most do. However, it’s still not enough to convince me, especially since this is her first try. At the very least, people you’ve travelled with some time will notice you’ve never shaved or pissed with them, and it’ll be a struggle to remember to keep up appearances all the time, especially the walking. Don’t believe me? Go out and notice the difference between how men and women walk, in a variety of strides. “Free stride”? Old suspension of disbelief is empty, and the versimilitude bank’s hit the bottom of the barrel.

But hey, this is Romilly of the magical breasts that inflate and deflate at will.

Whatever the case, Romilly’s about to return to the homestead when she overhears the evvvil Rory and grandmama planning to dispose of her and loot the body:

Rory’s voice was sullen. “You know how long I have wished for a horse, and while I dwell here at the world’s end, I shall never have a better chance. If this is a runaway bastard from somewhere, he’ll never be missed. Why, did you see his cloak—in all my years I have never even had a chance at such a cloak, and the brooch in it alone would pay a healer to come all the way from Nevarsin to cure your joint-aches! As for your debt to him, well, he had lodging and fire the night—it was not all kindliness on his part. And I can cut his throat quick as a puff of wind, and he’ll never have the time to be afeared.” (Pg. 498)

You see, extrapolating the current trend of characterisation we have currently, the world of Darkover can be divided into two kinds of people:

1) The people who agree with Romilly’s beliefs and let her do what she wants, who are good and display every sort of virtue.
2) The people who don’t agree with Romilly’s beliefs and don’t let her do what she wants, who are evil, disfigured and stupid.

The latter category can be further subdivided into two parts:

1) Men, who are evil and oppressive for no good reason except they are men and that’s what men in Darkover do—form a whole bloody cult with an invisible overmind that stamps “oppress women” on absolutely everything they do, or
2) Women, who have been brainwashed or are just too evil or stupid to grasp the glory and enlightenment of Romilly’s beliefs.

1. Know-it-all.

“First, you must be convinced of your own self-importance, and you must be under the delusion that everyone else is an idiot except for you. It helps to be a college student, so you should all do just fine.”

2. Spoiled

“Second, you must be obsessed with your own rights and freedoms, have a sense of undeserved entitlement, and suffer from a disease called ‘I-can-do-whatever-the-f***-I-want-becau
se-I’m-convinced-that-there’re-absolutely-no-consequences-for-any-of-my-actions’.”

It would really be nice, not just in this novel but in the genre as a whole, to have more characters whose viewpoint differs from the protagonist’s, yet is not portrayed as fat, evil, or stupid. And maybe, just maybe, they might have a legitimate point. I can see why this doesn’t happen more often—lowest common denominator readers don’t like to be confused as to who to root for, and thus we get displays of black and white morality, but it would really be nice.

Just sayin’.

Anyways, Romilly’s terrified, and plans to collect her stuff and get the hell out at the earliest notice. Unfortunately (for her, not for me) Rory notices her as he’s sitting on a bench, and asks her to help him with his boots. Of course, he’s not very adept at hiding his dagger, and Romilly realises he’s planning to cut her throat while she bends over.

What does she do? Why, she bends over, pretends to help him, then when she has both hands on his boot, sends his knee crashing into his jaw so hard that he loses his teeth.

Yes, really:

Romilly acted without thought; she pushed hard on the leg with the boot, sending it up so that Rory’s knee slammed into his chin, with a loud crack. The bench went over backward, with Rory tangled in it, and she scrambled to her feet and ran for the door, snatching up her cloak as she ran. She fumbled at the latch-string, her heart pounding, hearing Rory curse and shout behind her. A quick glance told her; his mouth was bleeding, etiher the blow had knocked out a tooth or cut his lip. (Pg. 499)

Exercise in physical possibility:

-Sit down on a chair.
-Pretend there’s someone in front of you, and bend forward enough to be able to reach his or her imaginary neck with your imaginary knife.
-Now, lift your knee as high as you can until you feel the reflexive strain of the muscles which join your hip to your thigh. Pretty low, innit? It gets lower the further forward you bend.
-Figure out how low you actually need to bend before you can actually impact your chin with your knee with some force. Hint: it’s very low.
-Now take into account this is a slip of a girl dealing with a huge hulking brute.
-Laugh.

Sorry, suspension of disbelief’s rather strained. In any case, there’s a little struggle, and wallah! Rommily is gurl! How didz I not see dat cumming hyuk hyuk!

She was swiftly through the door and tried to thrust it shut with shoulder (this is not a typo on my part), but he wrestled it open behind her and then he was on her. She did not see the knife; perhaps he had dropped it, perhaps he meant to use only his huge hands closing around her throat; then his eyes widened as he saw the ripped tunic and he tore it all the way down.

“By the Burden! Tits like a very cow! A girl, huh?” He grabbed Romilly’s hand, which was clawing at his eyes, and held her immobile; then whirled her about and marched her back into the little kitchen.

“Hey, there! Granny! Look what I found, after all? Hell’s own waste to hurt her—haven’t I been after a wife these four years, and not a copper for a bride price, and now one comes to my very door!” (Pg. 499)

Uhh…all right. Not to mention the “getting back into the kitchen” bit. You know, I sort of wish Romilly HAD been a man. Then she’d have died there and then, and I wouldn’t have to sit through this crap. But no, she gets saved by virtue only of what’s on her chest and between her legs.

Death or forced servitude? Hard choice, really. Which do you think is the better one? Essentially Rory wants to force Romilly to be his wife, and tells her to go into the kitchen and make him a sammich:

He said, contented, “ I think we will suit well enough when we are used to each other; and we need only share a bed, a meal and a fireside, and we will be as lawful wedded as if Lord Storn himself had locked the catenas on our arms like gentlefolk! I will build up the fire in the inner room where there is a bed, and you can get about cooking a meal for us to share. There is flour in the sacks, and can you make a loaf with blackfruit? I do like a good fruity bread, and I’ve had nothing but nut-porridge for forty days and more!” (Pg. 500)

Essentially, Romilly is to cook, clean and take care of Granny. For the rest of her life. She isn’t very enthused by that, and resolves to escape at the first opportunity. Of course, we can’t have the amazing heroine sullied by the touch of a vile, disgusting and misogynistic MAN, so she uses the excuse of being on her period to not have to fuck Rory. Which, to tell the truth, is pretty clever and lucky of her. Oh well.

In any case, Rory leaves the room to get the bloody fire going, which leaves Romilly alone with Grandma. Grandma asks her name, Romilly gives a false one, and they have a chat which goes on to reveal that Grandma is a stupid and brainwashed sympathiser of the patriarchy:

“I—I—I will gladly wed your grandson—” and she thought the words would choke her.

“And well you should,” said the old woman, “He is a good kind man, and he will use you well and never beat you unless you really deserve it.”

Romilly gulped; at least that she would never have had to fear from Dom Garris. “B-but,” she said, pretending to be embarrassed, which was not difficult, “He will be angry with me if he tries to share my bed this night, for my-my cycles are on me, and I am bleeding…”

“Ah, well,” said the old lady, “You did well to tell me; men are funny that way, he might well have beaten you for it; my man used to thump me well if I did not tell him well before the time, so he could keep away or sleep with the dairy-maid—ah, yes, once I was well off, I had a dairy-maid and a cook-wench at one time, and now look at me. But with a woman’s care, I will grow better soon, and Rory will not have to cook porridge and bake bread, which is no work for a man. Look at what a fine man you are getting, he never scorned to wash and even turn his old Granny in her bed, or bring her food, or even empty my chamberpot.” (Pg. 501-502)

She thinks this life will make me well off; so long as I have a man for a husband, I need ask no better than to drudge about barn and byre and kitchen, waiting hand and foot on a bedridden old woman, so long as I have the name of wife. She shivered as she thought, perhaps some women would truly think themselves well off…” (Pg. 502)

Like a hawk on a block, chained, hooded and dumb, in exchange for being fed and cherished, guarded preciously as a prize possession…

Oh, Preciosa, and that was what I would have brought to you…she thought, and was fiercely glad she had freed the hawk. At least she would never be Darren’s possession. She could have kept it clear with her conscience to keep Preciosa herself—the hawk had returned to her of its own free will, out of love, after being allowed to fly free. She would never return to Darren. (Pg. 503)

A few stupidities I’d like to point out before we continue with the shithole that is this book. Number one: so Romilly doesn’t think her ability to affect and influence the minds of animals has anything to do with the fact that her stupid bird returned to her? Number two: I laugh and spit on this so-called “love” displayed by Romilly to her hawk, which as Lenka can attest to, was nothing of the sort. Number three: apparently, it’s all right that the bird returned to her to enslave itself, as it did it of its own free will. However, this doesn’t apply to women who choose “enslavement” of their own free will—no, they’ve been deluded, brainwashed, too stupid to fend for themselves, and Romilly rubbishes their choices.

The hypocrisy of it all.

And of course, “men are evil, marriage is an evil institution designed to trap and enslave women, blah blah”, and here I am chewing on my delicious sandwich and surfing the web for radfem philosophies. This crap continues for the next few pages, with Romilly musing through the whole proceedings about how unfair marriage is to women and so forth, and Grandma continues to be brainwashed and stupid:

“Let you sleep on the inside of the bed, my girl; do you think I don’t know you would run away if you could? You don’t know you are well off; but when you are Rory’s wife you will not wish to run away.” (Pg. 505)

Three days pass, and Romilly continues in her attempt to fool Rory and Grandma into believing she’s resigned to her fate. For some reason, we get a completely out-of-place soapbox on the wonders of contraception:

If she was ever to pass herself off as a boy—and she was more resolved than ever that she would not travel as a woman in these mountains—she must find some better way of concealing this personal necessity. She had heard gossip about the woman soldiers, the Sisterhood of the Sword, who were pledged never to wear women’s gowns nor to let their hair grow. She had never seen one, only heard gossip, but it was rumoured that they knew of a herb which would keep women from bleeding at their cycles, and she wished she knew their secret! She had learned something of herb-lore for doctoring animals, and she knew of herb-medicines which would bring a cow or bitch—or, for that matter— a woman into the fertile cycles, but none to suppress it, though there was a drug which would keep a bitch, briefly, from going into heat when it was convenient to breed her. Was that what they used? (Pg. 506)

The problem here is that the great MZB is trying too hard to push too much ground at once. Limyaael quote here:

“Make your peace with not expressing all the facets of your attitudes in one story. You may be writing feminist fantasy, but that doesn’t mean you’ll get to touch on abortion, lesbian rights, the destruction of the patriarchy, pornography, rape, battered wives, feminist publishing, feminist art, the intersection of race and sexism, and many, many other issues of the feminist movement both in the past and today. The only exception might be if you were actually writing about a feminist movement taking place in another world, and I’ve never seen that done. Usually, it’s just the heroine and one or two other female characters, or a small group like witches, struggling to improve their positions, not a whole group.

Bottom line: Don’t make the story a kitchen sink for all the facets of your beliefs. The more time you spend on preaching, the less time you spend on building a world and plot that will make people welcome your message instead of sniffing in disgust at it and going away. If you want to write about a heroine escaping an abusive relationship, then write about that, without having her somehow discover every feminist issue under the sun.”

It’s one of the problems of Touched by Venom . The author of THAT novel went over-the-top on every single thing she could think of to make it “deep” and “meaningful”, and thus we get feminism, homosexuality, bestiality, how religion is evil and the noble savages good, child abuse, drug usage, science!!! and a whole load of other shit which wasn’t seriously explored, but rather just used to preach the author’s views on said issues in a perfectly stupid manner, turning every single antagonist into a two-dimesional caricarture, and making me think of the alternate viewpoints that might have been.

Bets that we’ll get a rant on how abortion is good before we get to the end of the novel? Anyone?

It’s now the fourth day, and Rory desclares he wants to consummate their so-called marriage that night. We pore through three pages of waffling until Rory’s about to force himself on Romilly, and she pulls off the old kick-him-in-the-nuts-and-run-away schtick:

Romilly’s qualms were gone. She managed to draw away just a little, then shot out her foot in the hardest kick she had ever given. It landed directly on target, and Rory, with a howl of pain, rolled off the bed, shrieking with fury and outrage, his hands clutched spasmodically between his legs. (Pg. 509)

Been there, done that. Now what would be new and interesting would be if someone decided to kick a woman in the vulva, which supposedly is more painful than kicking a man in the testicles. I’ve seen youtube videos of such accidents in women’s sports, and the unfortunate victims didn’t look too comfortable. In any case, Romilly snatches up what she can and runs out to the stables and her horse, and gallops away into the night.

But not before we get this last bit:

No; she would seek the Tower, and training of her laran. She told herself, all the old tales of heroism and quests always begin with the hero having to overcome many trials. Now I am the hero—why is the hero always a man?—of my own quest, and I have passed the first trial. (Pg. 511)

All protagonists in all myths across all cultures are always male. This is a product of the Patriarchy™.

And I close the book and step away slowly. Chapter end.

Comment [10]

Chapter 7:

Well, yeah, technically it’s book two, chapter two, but I’m going to refer to it as chapter seven because I can’t be half-assed to do so and don’t have the respect required to actually bother. Anyways, in the last chapter, Romilly nearly got made into a domestic slave by an evil man and his equally evil and stupid grandmother, and she’s escaped on her horse. It’s bitterly cold and the road and plants are iced over, and she’s been pushing the horse. She stops to rest a bit and take stock, and this is what she’s got:

-Some bits and pieces of raw meat.
-The clothes on her back.
-A dagger.
-A few coins.
-And a few coarse grain cakes in the horse’s saddlebags.

There’s the problem of the horse. There’s no readily available water, no feed at all and she’s been working the horse at a gallop ever since she escaped from Rory? What does she do: why, she feeds the horse a coarse grain cake, and that’s enough to provide enough energy for the horse for the whole day:

In her saddle-pack she had still a few pieces of the dog-bread on which she could feed her horse; she got out one of them, and gave it to the horse… (Pg 513)

She rode all that day without setting eyes on a single person or a single dwelling. (Pg 513)

Amazing. Are those grain cakes the horse equivalent of Elven Lembas Bread? Because that’s what the fuck they seem to be doing. And the horse doesn’t seem to need water, either. Where’s your amazing telepathic bond with horses now? Why aren’t you dying of thirst like your horse? Oh wait, it only appears when convenient, and disappears when the author doesn’t want to be bogged down with little details like actually having to think about how the horses are going to have to, y’know, SURVIVE.

Mistreatment of horses makes Ellis sad:

But wait! That’s not all! Romilly takes out the raw meat and starts nomming on it. Her reasoning?

She shaved off a few thin slices of frozen rabbithorn and chewed on them; the meat was tough and unsavory, but she had been taught that anything a bird could eat, a human chould digest, and since the hawks were fed on such fare it would certainly not harm her, even if she really preferred cooked food. (Pg 513)

All I have to say to this is:

Really. This is so stupid, so…idiotic that I cannot wrap my head around it. If it’s safe for a bird, it’s safe for a human? Where did this shit come from? So all the doctors who’ve been telling us to store raw meat below cooked food in our fridges were wrong? I hope Romilly gets intestinal parasites or some vile disease from eating this shit. Maybe she should eat a rotting eyeball or two, since that’s no problem for a vulture.

A more simple and common example of a plant that does this is the Capsicum family; I.E. chillies, peppers, whatever you want to call them. Capsicum oil, the component that causes spiciness in foods, irritates mammal mucus membranes and tissues, yet has absolutely no effect on avians whatsoever. This is because of the plant’s intentions as to spreading its seeds—seeds which pass through a mammal’s digestive tract do not sprout, whereas those which pass through an avian’s do. But it’s a very simple and common example as to a compound which might be considered harmful to humans but not birds.

In short, the great and almighty MZB is talking shit. Anyways, Romilly travels for another three days, although I’m not sure how she actually comes across water when everything’s frozen and snow soaks up water like a sponge (which is why you don’t melt snow in a pan for water, since the pan will burn). She finds a few small, sour winter apples, but that’s about it. You know, by now both she and the horse should be starving, dehydrated and exhausted, and by rights the horse should have bolted from under her and run away, but no, we get a diatribe on how Tears Are Bad™, never mind if it’s the correct place for such a soapbox:

Women think tears will help them. I think men have the right idea when they say tears are womanish; yes, women cry and so they are helpless, but men act on their anger and so they are never without power, notwasting time or anger in tears…(Pg. 515)

Or they can cry and manipulate men into doing what they want. Look, the idea is to be proactive. But as I’ve said before, the problem with a lot of the so-called philosophy in here isn’t just one-sided and one-dimensional, it attacks the bloody effect instead of the cause, and does so by repeatedly hitting me on the head with a hammer and mashing the logical progression of events, which all stop so we can have a packaged lesson on the MZB brand of feminism.

Excuse me if I go off to one side and hurl.

In any case, it’s now day five and all Romilly’s got are some nuts and mushrooms. Nevermind WHERE the nuts and mushrooms came from, considering it was described as being so cold EVERYTHING FROZE OVER (by the way, how’s a horse going to suffer that without even a blanket?)…you know what? Why do I care? Really, why do I care about all this shit that’s torn out the bottom of the versimilitude barrel? What do I care any more?

Oh, I remember. Because it’s fun to make fun of bad writing.

In any case, Romilly’s hungry and despairing, but still she manages to come up with stupidity:

She went back to her horse and painstakingly saddled him again. At least the animal was fed. She said aloud, “I almost wish I could eat grass as you do, old fellow,” and was startled at the sound of her own voice. (Pg. 517)

Wait. So all those centuries people spent making hay in the summer for feed in the winter were pointless? That their livestock could have eaten frozen grass in the middle of winter instead? Golly gee, I never knew that! Seriously, you don’t have to be a crazy horse lady to know something’s rotten in the state of Denmark.

In any case, she’s weak and despairing when she hears a hawk call out in the sky. Oh no. It couldn’t be, could it? It couldn’t be! Of all the bullshit—

—IT IS.

The horse startled nervously away, and she pulled on the reains, speaking softly—and then dark pinions swooped across her vision. Without thought she thrust out her arm, felt the curel grip of talons, and fell blindly into the familiar rapport.

“Preciosa!” She was sobbing as she spoke the name. How, why the hawk had followed her through her wanderings, she would never know. The shrill cry of (what, exactly?) and the flapping wings roused her from her tears and she was aware that there was a good-sized bird, still warm, gripped in the bird’s claws. (Pg. 517)

Yeeeeeeeaaaaaahhhhh riiiiiiiggggghhhhttt. Ask not what Romilly can do for you, but what you can do for Romilly. And in this case it means catering to her every whim. This would never happen in a realistic falconry situation, a bird just giving up its kill like that, but Romilly is the center of the universe.

To that, I say:

So Romilly plucks and roasts the bird, not even bothering to gut it. At this time, I’m really hoping that was a carrion bird that stupid shit caught, so that she’ll die horribly from the heat-resistant toxins found in their guts. Most survival guides claim that even carrion birds are okay to eat, but they must be thoroughly gutted, washed and then boiled, the longer the better, in order to remove parasites. Against all evidence, we get this particularly obnoxious piece of shit:

She met the hawk’s eyes, and suddenly awareness leaped between hawk and girl, a strange, fierce emotion flooding her—not love as she knew it, but pure emotion, almost jealousy. She is not my hawk. I am her girl, Romilly thought, she has adopted me, not the other way round! (Pg. 518)

Sorry. You can state this until your face is blue, and I won’t give a shit until I see actual evidence of it in the prose instead of the stupid bird working its ass off to serve Romilly. It really reminds me of a certain author trying to cover his ass by claiming he intended for something else to happen—it doesn’t matter unless there’s evidence in the prose. What, I should believe this just because the author says so?

No siree Bob. Not buying your snake oil, go and peddle it somewhere else. Steven Brust and Vlad/Loiosh OTP still goes unchallenged at the best true depiction of an interspecies co-dependent and above all, equal relationship.

In any case, she’s nommed on the roast bird when she hears voices from over the hill. Apparently someone’s spotted her fire, and they’re moving in towards her small camp. Romilly hurriedly hides the horse (what, you thought it’d complain like a REAL horse might? At this point, you might as well have them say “vroom vroom!” as the riders approach, and they do.

There’re two men in the lead, and we get a block of description about them that I won’t bother to bring up unless it turns out to be important in the future, save the second dude has a bird riding with him. Following behind them are five or six riders on totally-not-horses-by-another name (the technical term is chervines, whatever the hell that is). In any case, the front two guys on horses approach Romilly’s camp and call out to her, saying they mean her no harm. Being a Sue in every sense of the word, Romilly senses this is true and her perceptions are identical to reality:

“You have saved us the trouble of making fire,” he said in his quiet, educated voice, “come and share it with us, no one will hurt you.”

And indeed Romilly felt no sense of menace from any of them. She led the horse from he concealed thicket and stood with her hand on the bridle.

“Well, lad, who are ye and whereaway bound?” asked the gaunt man, and his voice was kind. (Pg. 520)

I would like to introduce Romilly to a certain Mr. Reacher Gilt. Or even Moist Von Lipwig. Let’s see how her Sue-powers match up against such people. In any case, Romilly takes out the horse and tells a cock-and-bull story about being a falconer’s apprentice seeking her fortune. One of the two men expresses doubt, but the other corrects him:

“Did you steal the hawk? Or what is an apprentice doing with a bird—and where is she?”

Romilly raised her arm; Preciosa swooped down and caught her lifted forearm. She said fiercely, “she is mine; no other can claim her, for I trained her with my own hand.”

“I doubt you not,” said the aristocrat, “for in this wild, without even jesses, she could fly away if she would, and in that sense at least, you own her as much as anything human can own a wild thing.” (Pg. 521)

Convince me. Convince me now that these two have a so-called equal relationship. Convince me that the hawk adotped the girl. I’m waiting. I’m waiiiiiiitttiiiinnnggg.

No?

Anyways, these guys are Carlo and Orain, and Romilly claims she’s a guy called Rumal. And of course, they’ye COMPLETELY taken in by her disguise. They’ve lost their land because they refused to support the EVVVVVVVIIILLLL king, and thus are going to Nevarsin to raise an army against the EVVVVVIL usurper. Which we haven’t seen, or even have had any wind on how horrrrrbile he is and instead are expected to take the author’s word that he’s a horrible bastard:

“He assured he would have supporters enough by poison, rope or knife for all those who would not support him, and had enough lands to reward his followers, by murdering, or sending into exile, anyone who looked at him cross-eyed, and did not bend the knee fast enough.” (Pg. 521)

Oh, all those memories of Brom relating how EVUL Galbatorix is and how great and wonderful the dragon riders were are starting to worm their way out. Bad! Bad!

In any case, they’ve a bunch of birds. Which are sick, and no one knows how to treat them. How did they come across the birds in the first place?

Romilly said, “I have never seen birds of this kind.” Though she thought they looked more like kyorebni, the savage scavanger-birds of the high hills, than any proper hunting-bird of prey.

“Still, a bird is a bird,” said Carlo, “we got these from a well-wisher and we would take them as a gift to Carolin’s armies, in Nevarsin, but they are failing fast and may not live till we get there—we cannot make out what ails them, though some of us have trained and flown hawks—but none of us know how to treat them when they ail. Have you knowledge of their ills, Master Rumal?” (Pg. 522)

Romilly’s never seen the birds before. She doesn’t even know what fucking SPECIES they are, for goodness’ sake. By her own admission, she doesn’t know much about curing sick animals. What does she do?

Nevertheless she went up to the strange, fierce-looking birds, and held out her hand to the one Orain held, looking it into the eye and reaching out with that instinctive rapport. A dullness spread through her, a sickness and pain that made her want to retch. She pulled out of the rapport, feeling nauseated, and said, “what have you been feeding them?”

That was a good guess; she remembered Preciosa, sickened by insufficiently fresh food. (Pg. 523)

Think about all the reasons humans might feel like hurling, and then think about the way this diagnosis is made. And laugh. And laugh. And laugh.

To Quote “Why You Are Wrong” by Scott Adams:

“Inability to Understand That Some Things Have Multiple Causes

Example: The Beatles were popular for one reason only: They were good singers.”

Well, what’s wrong with the birds? According to MZB, Buetos can’t eat fresh meat:

“Only the best and freshest food,” said one of the men behind Orain, defensively, “I lived in a Great House where there were hawks kept, and knew them meat-eaters; when our hunting was poor, all of us went short to give the damned birds fresh meat, for all the good it did us,” he added, looking distressedly at the drooping bird on his saddleblock.

“Only fresh meat?” said Romilly, “there is your trouble, sir. Look at their beak and claws, and then look at my hawk’s. That’s a scavanger-bird, sir; she should be freed to hunt food for herself. She can’t tear apart fresh meat, her beak’s not strong enough, and if you’ve been carrying her on your saddle and not let her free, she’s not been able to peck gravel and stones for her crop. She feeds on half-rotted meat, and she must have fur or feathers too—the muscle meat alone, and skinned as well—wasn’t it?”

“We thought that was the way to do it,” said Orain, and Romilly shook her head. “If you must feed them on killed meat, leave feather and fur on it, and make sure she gets a chance to peck up stones and twigs and even a bit of green stuff now and then. These birds, though I am sure you’ve tried to feed them on the best, are starving because they can’t digest what you’ve given them.” (Pg. 523)

Lenka’s response, as she flies a Bueto (or more specifically, Bueto Bueto, or Common Buzzard). Warning, long:

“…
…
I am going to break something
HOW CAN YOU SAY THAT?!
HOW CAN YOU BE SO DENSE?!
GEEEZ!!!!
it would be better if you didnt
I am angry already and I dont want to get even more upset because then I would not be able to focus on my studies
although I think Danny would have more than a little to say on the matter
after he would rip MZBs face to shreds first, of course
Capsrage unleashed in 3…
..2…
…1…
THATS
JUST
RETARDED
THERE IS SO MUCH WRONG WITH THAT I CANNOT BEGIN TO EXPLAIN
GOOOOOOOD!!!!!!
HOW DENSE ARE YOU?!
FUCK
okay, calming down
a bit
1. why would a medieval – time falconer have a scavenger?
at the time, falconry was an incredible privilege and if you were a falconer, you would only get the best birds there were
i am not too sure about apprentices, my falconry history is not too good – I can research later if you want, I have the books
anyways
there was prestige and reputation with the station
how would a scavenger reflect that? 2. travelling falconers that is so fucking stupid you know why falconers were so respected and so well – off?
because the only place they really worked were courts of kings and nobles they always worked for SOMEBODY it was illegal to hunt on the land of the nobles, which, at the time, was all the fucking land, and if they caught you they would kill your bird AND you
falconers rarely actually owned the birds the birds belonged to whoever employed them they were just trainers and maintainers so that when a noble son decided to go hawking, the birds would be ready the nobles paid in VILLAGES for some of them, for fucks sakes would you just GIVE a bird like that to somebody? I mean, when it is not intended as a diplomatic move
but I guess thats why they only got to keep the scavengers
they sometimes actually do swallow rocks and many falconers encourage that helps their digestion but only small ones twigs – not on your life
and being a scavenger, like Danny, does not mean you can ONLY eat rotten meat. It means you have a high tolerance of toxins released during decomposition – the whole faster/slower digestion thing it does not mean you cannot eat anything else
it means you can handle more and that you are not that demanding when it comes to the freshness of your food
MZB YOU MORON!!!”

I think that about sums it up for Lenka’s part. So what are they going to do? Oh, look, just as conveniently as people who need a falconer to care for their birds turn up, there’s a rotting carcass conveniently nearby too:

“Zandru’s hells, it makes good sense, Orain,” said Dom Carlo, blinking. “I should have seen it…well, now we know. What can we do?”

Romilly thought about it, quickly. Preciosa had wheeled up into the sky, and hovered there; Romilly went quickly into rapport with the bird, seeing for a moment through her eyes; then said, “There is something dead in the thicket over there. I’m not familiar with your—what do you call them—sentry-birds; are they territorial, or will they feed together?” (Pg. 523)

So they go over, and lo and behold, there’s a carcass there. Romilly goes and with the help of some of the men, hacks it apart, and guess what? She’s right:

But the bird, under her light hands, seemed gentle and submissive. Poor hungry thing, Romilly thought, and lifted the heavy weight—it took all her strength—to set it on the ground beside the hacked carcass. With a scream, the bird plunged its beak into the carcass and tore hard, gulping down fur, pebbles, the smelly half-decomposed meat.

“You see?” said Romilly simply, and went to lift down the other bird. Orain came to help her, but the strange bird thrust angry beak (no, not a missing word on my part) at him, and he drew back, letting Romilly handle it. (Pg. 525)

Limyaael quote here:

“Let your characters make a fucking mistake. Related to point 1, but not the same, since that’s about characters, and this is (mostly) about plot.

The heroine makes a wild guess. She guesses that the hero loves her, or that she can defeat the Dark Lord with X device, or that she should follow the watchman when he slips away from camp. And, gasp, she’s right! The hero returns her feelings, the Dark Lord dies, she gets to overhear the watchman having a secret conversation and not just listen to him piss. This gets excused under the name of “intuition.”

Y’know what? Take your intuition and shove it back up your ass where it belongs. It doesn’t count if the heroine doesn’t ever make a wrong wild guess.

Yes, people make wild guesses in our world and have them turn out to be right. But you know why they seem so numerous and so wondrous? Because we remember them better than the guesses we get wrong, of course. Those are so common and, usually, so non-catastrophic that they pass out of our memories much more easily.

No perfect knowledge without the price of imperfect knowledge. That’s the first one, and probably the most common.

And no, by the way, I don’t buy it that the heroine will just “forget” about her wrong guesses and so the author doesn’t need to report on them. A novel is a constructed narrative of reality, and the author is making constant POV choices, and if lying to the reader about a plan that the heroine makes is considered Wrong, I do not see why in fuck’s name just “happening” to drop all her imperfect guesses from the narrative is Right.

Then there are the mistakes of perception—most often, who’s good and who’s evil. Most of the time, with teenage heroes, the ones they think are entirely trustworthy are, indeed, entirely trustworthy. Somehow, despite coming from an isolated backwater village and only now traveling in a wide variety of different political and social landscapes, they know all the wildernesses of the human heart.

Hi, Canon Mary Sue. When your character’s perceptions are identical to reality, there is no choice but to hack her apart and bury her at the crossroads.

Then there are factual mistakes, wherein the hero senses some “deeper truth” that no one has ever bothered to look for. Oh, yes, bloody ha-ha. A thousand years of historians and scholars and interested mages that authors represent in the background just never happened to be as intelligent and curious as this one teenager with a trowel and the ability to read dead languages. I don’t fucking think so. At the very least, make him follow a logical road to his conclusions, or get lucky. Representing him as more intelligent and superior than all the rest is just not on.

And, of course, you get all the possible mistakes of action, such as making a bad decision that causes one person, or even quite a lot of people, to die, or really putting themselves in harm’s way. That doesn’t happen, no matter how often it should. Fantasy heroes often appear to have a damned suicide wish, the way they’re always running off without protection and without any reason to think they’ll survive if they don’t take it along—or, really, they’re behaving like people who know they’ll survive until the end of the book.

Get your bloody deus ex machina out of the bloody story, author.”

Of course, she’s horrified to discover the birds don’t have names:

“What are the birds’ names?” she asked Orain. He grinned at her. “does anyone name uglies like these, as if they were a child’s cagebird or the old wife’s pet cow?”

“I do,” Romilly said, “you must give any animal with which you wish to work closely a name, so that he will read it in your mind and know it is of him—or her—that you speak, and to her you are directing your attention.”

“Is it so?” Orain asked, chuckling, “I suppose you could call them Ugly-mug One, Ugly-mug Two, and Ugly-mug Three!”

“By no means,” said Romilly with indignation. The bird on her fist fluttered restlessly, and she added, “birds are very sensitive! If you are ever to work with them, you must love them—” before the open derision in the men’s eyes she knew she was blushing, but went on nevertheless, “you must respect them, and care for them, and fell a real kindness for them. Do you think they do not know that you dislike them and are afraid of them?”

“And you don’t?” Dom Carlo asked. He sounded genuinely interested, and she turned to him with relief. (Pg. 526-527)

Dohohoho that slaps me on the knee. You? Kindness? Compared to how Lenka slaves over her birds? You? Respect? After all I’ve seen? You make me laugh. And of course, all unenlightened men are stupid and unfeeling. Yea, verily, they need women to teach them respect for animals and nature. Now where have I seen that before? Actually, a hundred billion places over.

Blaaargh.

So what does Romilly name the birds? Prudence, Temperance and Diligence. Oh, and did I mention that they all happen to be girls? Because god forbid that any of her birds be male. Because, well, it wouldn’t suit the “feminist” theme of the book, and we can’t have those nasty, ugly crude and above all masculine thoughts from the birds invading Romilly’s head, can we?

You’re really scraping the bottom of the suspension of disbelief barrel, MZB. But no, we get another Evil Misogynistic Bastard straight out of the box, because it’s impossible that Romilly actually have problems that are not related to what’s between her legs and on her chest:

She rode in the line of men, keeping rather nervously close to Orain and Dom Carlo—she did not like the way the man Alaric stared at her, and no doubt, like the villainous Rory, he coveted her horse. At least he did not know she was a female and so he did not covet her body; and she could protect her horse, at least while she had Dom Carlo’s protection.

Come to think of it, she hadn’t done such a bad job of protecting her body, at that. (Pg. 528)

“Preciosa,” jeered the man Alaric, coming to saddle Dom Carlo’s horse. “Like a weak girl naming her doll!”

“Don’t mock the lad,” Dom Carlo said gently, “till you can better his way with the birds, we need his skills. And you should take better care of your own beast—a chervine can be well-kept, even if he is not a horse. You should thank Rumal for finding the stone in Greywalker’s hoof!”

“Oh, an’ indeed I do,” said Alaric with a surly scowl, and turned away. Romilly watched with a faint frown of distaste. It seemed she already had an enemy among these men, which she had done nothing to deserve. (Pg. 531)

Why bother? I mean, seriously. Why am I bothering to sink so much time and effort into properly characterising Valise and Eshentobon when I can just set up a target dummy with a few tags, maybe “evil”, “beats children”, “misogynist”, “greedy” and have that suffice as an antagonist and gain wide acclaim for how innovative and wonderful my books are? Why do I even slave and agonise over how to reconcile them with the plot without being contrived when it seems it doesn’t matter at all in the long run?

Oh wait, I just remembered. I shouldn’t sink to their level.

In any case, the great MZB manages to contradict herself for the umpteenth time:

“A little,” Romilly said, trying desperately to muster her small knowledge of curing sick animals. (Pg. 522)

Versus:

After the meal they rested for a time, but Romilly busied herself with her knife, trimming and balancing proper perhes—the sentry-birds were, she could see, in cosiderable distress from the poorly-balanced saddle-blocks. She checked the knots in the jesses, too, and found that one of the birds had a festered place in its leg from too-tight knots, which she treated with cold water and a poultice of healing leaves. The other men were lying around in the clearing, enjoying the sun, but when Romilly came back from checking the birds, she saw that Dom Carlo was awake and watching her. Nevertheless she went on with her work. One of the men’s stag-ponies was poorly dehorned and the horn-bud trickling blood at the base; she trimmed it and scraped it clean, drying it with a bit of rag and packing it with absorbent moss, then went from stag-pony to stag-pony, checking one which had been limping, and picking, with her knife-point, a little stone from between the hoof-segments. (Pg. 528-529)

“Small knowledge” indeed.

To me, it really seems the only reason the men have been neglecting their animals is so that Romilly can come along and show how much more loving and caring for animals she is than these stupid brutes. And that, my friends, is frankly retarded. It’s a modern view that has nothing to do with the society that’s been set up. To quote Nate winchester:

“Now that’s just STUPID. Horses aren’t things that grow on trees but animals that take years to not only grow to be useful but also to train and we’re talking about a society where these animals are their livelihoods. Losing a horse would be economically devastating for them (not just because a well trained horse would be highly valuable if not irreplaceable). Seriously, go spend time around a farming family or community. They may not pamper an animal but you better believe they are very concerned about their health because if something happens to say… their ox, then they can’t plow the fields, leading to the family starving next year. Ancient people had a symbiotic relationship with domesticated beasts. They couldn’t just let something befall their livestock without suffering horribly.

A horse also needs to be “maintained” as well. (I never will forget the winter our horses got into the feed and dad had to get the vet out there immediately less they come down with colic.) Just as most people nowadays know at least some basics of their cars (even if they are not mechanics), you can bet those who used horses as a part of their livelihood knew them very well as well, it would have just been a part of their culture that they learned through osmosis at the very least. (I would even say that back then, even some noblewoman would have laughed heartily at these posts.)”

Were people in agarian societies occasionally cruel to their animals? Well, it’d be stupid to say all of them weren’t. But to have this kind of contrived neglect on this scale in a world where mistreating your animals would have serious consequences, so that Romilly can come in and show how amazing and wonderful she is—well, that’s just dumb.

Thankfully, the chapter ends about there, but not after Romilly overs Dom Carlo and Orain having a chat which makes so obvious that Carlo is the REAL KING. It’s nice to be mistaken, and I really hope I’m mistaken too on less inconsequential matters. Well, at least now I can have a nap.

Comment [7]

Chapter 8:

This chapter is forty pages long. I have neither the energy nor the patience to put up with so much stupid in one go, so I’m going to break this into two parts.

When we last left Romilly, she’d met Dom Carlo while blubbering along a mountain road, and gotten taken in to help care for the animals with them. Right of at the beginning of the chapter, we get an attack of the Designated Misogynistic Bastard. Oh, and now he’s a homophobe as well, it seems:

The one called Alaric, a heavy glowering man, roughly clad, was the one she feared most, but she could not avoid him completely, and in any case, he must have had some feeling for the sentry-birds, he had carried one of them on that crude perch before his saddle.

“Excuse me,” said Romilly politely, “but you must go out and kill something for the sentry-birds; if it is killed this morning, by night it will be beginning to decay, and be right for them to eat.”

“Oh, so,” snarled the man, “so after one night with our good leader you now think yourself free to give orders to men who’ve been with him this whole hungry year? Which of them had you, or did they take turns at you, little catamite?”

Shocked by the crudeness of the insult, Romilly recoiled, her face flaming. “You’ve no right to say that to me: Dom Carlo put me in charge of the birds and bade me see they were properly fed, and I obey the vai dom as you do yourself!”

“Aye, I may say so,” the man sneered, “maybe you’d like to put that pretty girl-face and those little ladylike hands to—” and the rest of the words were so foul that Romilly literally did not understand what he meant by them, and was perfectly sure she did not want to know. Clinging to what dignity she could—she honestly did not know how one of her brothers would have reacted to such foulness except, perhaps, by drawing a knife, and she was not big enough to fight on even terms with the giant Alaric—she said, “perhaps if the vai dom himself gives you his orders you will take them,” and moved away, clenching her teeth and her whole face tightly against the tears that threatened to explode through her taut mouth and eyes. Damn him. Damn him! I must not cry, I must not… (Pg. 534-535)

So what does Romilly do? Why, she goes over to Dom Carlo, and he quickly surmises the problem and goes off to punish Alaric. While she claims to not want trouble it’s as clear as day that Dom Carlo would obviously notice and shortly surmise the problem, and that if she’d really wanted to avoid trouble she’d have avoided Dom Carlo altogether.

So Romilly goes out and does all the supposedly amazing falconry stuff that she’s been doing in the last few chapters, mainly getting feathers and petting the birds on their bellies (as explained, pointless because it’s perfectly all right to pet birds on their bellies with your fingers) and flying them on lures made with bits of meat on string (again pointless, because it a) is for falcons, not hawks and b) the whole point of the dried-out-wings lure is to help the falcon rcognise prey and sharpen instincts). That, however, is not before we get this wonderful little piece of shite:

Oh, but her father was so wrong, then, so wrong, and she had been right, to insist on this precious and wonderful Gift with which she had been dowered; to ignore it, to misuse it, to play at it, untrained—oh, that was wrong, wrong! (Pg. 536)

It would be nice if I could have been receptive to this paper-thin call for young women to develop their talents. It’s a good principle. However, thanks to the execution and characterisation of the characters in the book, all I can think is of:

1. Know-it-all.

“First, you must be convinced of your own self-importance, and you must be under the delusion that everyone else is an idiot except for you. It helps to be a college student, so you should all do just fine.”

And a nice “all men are evil” diatribe:

Remembering Rory, Romilly wondered if there were any men anywhere, alive, who were motivated by anything other than malice and lust and hatred. She had through, in boy’s clothing, she would be safe at least from lust; but even here, among men, she found its ugly face. Her father? Her brothers? Alderic? Well, her father would have sold her to Dom Garris for his own convenience. Alderic and her brothers? She really did not know them at all, for they would not have shown their real face to a girl whom they considered a child. No doubt they too were all evil within. Setting her teeth grimly, Romilly put the saddle on her horse, and went about saddling the other horses for Orain and Dom Carlo. Her prescribed duties demanded only that she care for birds, but as things were now, she preferred the company of horses to the company of humankind! (Pg. 537)

If I may hazard a guess, I suppose that our dear author has not observed wild horses. Or any animals, because they do a hundred billion things that we humans would consider immoral. Anyways, I reiterate:

1. Know-it-all.

“First, you must be convinced of your own self-importance, and you must be under the delusion that everyone else is an idiot except for you. It helps to be a college student, so you should all do just fine.”

In any case, Dom Carlo goes up to Romilly and commends her for her wonderful care of the horses, and talks at length about them. In short, he likes horses, so he is good. They ride for one more day and camp for the night, and Alaric is even more TEH EBIL:

Orain gave orders to the men that they should groom and properly care for their riding-chervines. They obeyed sullenly, but they obeyed; Romilly heard one of them grumble, “while we have that damned hawk-boy with us, why can’t he care for the beasts? Ought to be his work, not ours!”

“Not likely, when Orain’s already made the brat his own pet,” Alaric grumbled. “Birds be damned—the wretch is with us for Orain’s convenience, not the birds! You think the Lord Carlo will deny his paxman and friend anything he wants?” (Pg. 539)

He does not like Romilly, so he is evil. Yes, that’s even if mitigating factors are added—as we will see later. It’s a matter much like Evil King in Bitterwood loving his son—one white spot against a sea of black does nothing, and frankly at that point a completely black picture and an ability to laugh it off as a caricature or shifty-eyed Disney villain would have been nice.

But of course, nothing can be easy for us.

However, Romilly begins sneezing the next day, and Dom Carlo notices this:

“I hope you have not taken cold, my boy.” (Pg 539)

Again, Romilly claims she doesn’t want to be a bother, but Dom Carlo will have none of it and brews up a tea from…you guessed it…HERBS:

She sneezed again, and Orain gestured to the pot still hanging over the fire, not yet emptied. He dipped up a ladleful of he hot brew and took some leaves from his pouch.

“An old wives’ rememdy for the cough that’s better than any healer’s brew. Drink it.,” he said, and watched while she gulped at the foul-tasting stuff. “Aye, it’s bitter as lost love, but it drives out the fever.”

Romilly grimaced at the acrid, musty-tasting stuff; it made her lush with inner heat, and left her mouth puckered with its intense astringency, but later that morning, she realized that she had not sneezed again, and that the dripping of her nose had abated. (Pg. 540)

Uh-huuuuh. Someone found a cure for the common cold! Call the patent office! Call it right now! In any case, Romilly strikes up a conversation with Orain, and learns why Alaric’s a Designated Misogynistic Bastard:

Alaric is bitter, aye—know you what was his crime? The crime for which he lost his lands, and was flung into Rakhal’s prison under sentence of losing a hand and his tongue?”

Romilly shuddered. “For such a sentence it must have been a great crime indeed!”

“Only before that cagavrezu Rakhal,” said Orain grimly, “his crime? His children shouted ‘long live King Carolin!’ as one of Rakhal’s greatest scoundrels passed by their village.” (Pg. 541)

So Alaric lost his wife and children, and that’s supposed to explain his douchebaggery. Which it frankly doesn’t. As I’ve said before, it’s not that uncommon for some authors to try and put on tiny blob of white against a sea of black or vice versa, and then try to claim their character is complex and well-developed when that explanation doesn’t usually even have any bearing on the decisions and actions of the character that wouldn’t have been there if the spot of white or black had been removed. It’s what’s commonly known as the “but Hitler was an artist!” syndrome. It doesn’t change the character’s actions, or his or her current or overall purpose in the sense of the story. It’s like making a character not be good at playing the ukelele and claiming that’s a valid character fault when the story has nothing to do with playing ukeleles.

So anyways, Romilly asks whether all of the Hastur Dynasty are bastards, but of course, the TURE KEENG is Good:

“By no means,” Orain said vehemently. “A better man than Carolin never trod this earth; his only fault is that he thought no evil toward those of his kin who were scoundrels, and was all too kind and forgiving toward—” his mouth stretched in what should have been a smile, “bastards with ambition.” (Pg. 542)

And long ago, the dragon riders were great and good and could do no wrong, until this evil and ambitious bastard…oh wait, where have I heard this before? Oh yes. In any case, they enter the city and seek refuse at the monastery’s guesthouse, where no women are allowed. What does Romilly have to think about this? Oh, wait, it’s a male-exclusive community, so it’s automatically Bad and has to be rubbished:

It would create a greater scandal if she now revealed her real sex. And she wondered why women were so strongly prohibited. Did the monks fear that if women were there they could not keep to their vows of renunciation? What good were their vows, if they could not resist women unless they never saw any? And why did they think women would care to tempt them anyhow? Looking at the lumpy little monk in the cowl, she thought, with something perilously near a giggle, that it would take more charity than even a saint, to overlook his ugliness long enough to try and tempt him! (Pg. 543)

By this logic, in order to study effectively, one should place oneself next to a rock band and if you can’t concentrate, that’s your lack of concentration speaking. And of course, all men save the enlgihtened ones who let Romilly do what she likes are really sex-crazed freaks who can only think with the head between their legs, and they’re all stupid and ugly anyways, so you wouldn’t want them.

If this book is to be believed, it’s impossible to raise up women without tearing down men. Which is bullshit.

In any case, we get another little drabble that just goes to show the true nature of the so-called amazing and loving relationship between Romilly and her bird:

She realized that she had lost contact with Preciosa before they entered the gates of Nevarsin; the climate here was too cold for a hawk…had Preciosa turned back to a more welcoming climate? The hawk could find no food in the city…there was carrion enough in the streets, she supposed from the smell, but no fresh living food for a hawk. She hoped Preciosa was safe…(Pg. 544)

What. The. Hell. It’s only been two or three days’ ride since her stupid bird brought her noms, and suddenly the climate’s turned too cold for her to handle? What is this, did they cross over some magical line and suddenly it’s all cold and wintery, like in World of Warcraft when you cross zones?

And it’s just so obvious that the bird vanishes when she doesn’t need it anymore. This doesn’t happen with Steven Zoltan Brust, because amazingly, Vlad actually cares about what happens to Loiosh, and not just the other way around. They come to compromises, not demands, and Vlad does his best to bring Loiosh everywhere he goes over the protests of the more humanoid, simply because it’s the right thing to do and he’s actually treating his familiar as an equal, rather than an emotional tampon or tacked on bonus power.

Blah.

Anyways, Romilly heads back to the birds, and a few children are hanging about her. One of them, a boy of about eleven, walks up and asks if he can watch the birds, and knows Romilly is a girl. Amazing! How can he see through her paper-thin disguise when everyone else is drunk and blind?

Why, he’s magic of course:

Would anyone? Romilly wondered, and then asked herself why the clear eyes of this child had seen what no one else could see. He answered the unspoken thought.

“I am trained to that as you are trained to handle hawks and other birds: So that, one day, I may serve my people in a Tower as a laranzu.” (Pg. 545)

Anyways, the boy’s also a member of the Royal Family, his father being a councillor to the EVVVIL KEENG. Romilly hurriedly realises she must shield her thoughts from the telepathic boy, and how does she do so? By introducing him to the birds, of course:

He held her, struggling to keep his small arm from trembling, and she handed him a feather.

“Stroke her breast with this. Never touch a bird with your hand; even if your hands are clean, it will damage their set of feathers,” she said, and he stroked the bird’s smooth breast with the feather, crooning to it softly. (Pg. 546)

I’ve already explained why the above is abject stupidity, and won’t go into it again. It’s just more proof that MZB hardly did any research about how REAL falconry works, and instead just went along with dribs, drabs and half-understandings. This is further proven when she gets the boy to feed them:

“I have mostly finished,” Romilly said, “but if you wish, you can mix this green stuff and gravel with their food. But if you touch the carrion, your hands, will stink when you go to choir.” (Pg 547)

Sigh

Anyways, she asks the boy what his name is, and even then we get a big punch in the face over how NOBLE and GOOD the REEL KING was, because he liked children and therefore must be good. I’ll admit to having used this before, albeit more subtly, but…ugh, I’ll let you see for yourself:

“I am called Caryl,” the boy said. “I was named for the man who was king when I was born, only Father says that Carolin is not a good name to have now. Carolin was king, but he abused his power, they said, and was a bad king, so his cousin Rakhal had to take the throne. But he was kind to me.”

In any case, after the boy’s gone, Romilly muses about why she should bother who sits on the throne, but thinks about how nice Alderic and Dom Carlo, who is TOTALLY NOT THE REAL KING, were to her, and that she should tell Dom Carlo so that maybe he can tell the REEL KING to stay away from this boy whose father is reputedly one of the EVIL KING’s biggest bastards around, and so off she goes. She can’t find Dom Carlo, but Orain’s around, and informs her that his boss is in meeting with the abbot and won’t be out for some time. So she tells him instead, and of course, Romilly is a Sue and that means that her perceptions are identical to reality:

“The boy is but twelve,” protested Romilly, “’ [sic] and seems a nice child; he spoke well of the king, and said he had always been kind—but he might know him—” (Pg. 548)

A triple quotation mark? What the—oh well, it’s not my place to question the GREAT MZB’s copyeditor, is it? Anyways, Orain agrees that this is an important development and he’ll inform Dom Carlo at once, because he is TOTALLY NOT THE REAL KING.

So, given this important danger to the king’s real identity while he is in hiding, what does Orain do? Ask for an interruption, given the serious nature of this threat? Wait outside the abbot’s door for him to come out, should he end the meeting early? Why, they go into the city to have a fun time, of course:

As if dismissing the thought deliberately, he bent and picked up the much-patched boots. “Take these into the city—and lest you get lost, I’ll come along and show you the way.” (Pg. 550)

So they go around the city, which fills up FIVE pages of filler. FIVE WHOLE PAGES OF FILLER. How the city looks, the sights, the smells, which would have been relevant if Romilly had actually interacted with anything, but no, it’s just there to look pretty. Romilly does NOTHING throughout these five pages, or at least, anything proactive; she just follows Orain around and listens to him monologue about the past and people. She has no wants or interests despite this being her first time in a big city, through the cobbler’s, through the landmarks of Nevarsin, through the inn he takes her to and teaches her to play darts in—it’s almost as if she’s a passive vehicle for—

—Wait a minute, what am I saying? She’s always been a passive vehicle, be it for the author’s soapboxings or gratituous descriptions of the setting. Why should I be surprised? In any case, they have dinner at the inn, and of course, they hear the locals talk. And because peasants are earthy and good, everyone knows that whatever they speak is the truth, and in this case there’s a lot of banter but it can be surmised as such:

1. The REEL KEENG is GOOD.
2. The EVUL KEENG is BAAD.
3. Caryl’s dad is BAAD.

And with that, I’ll end this half of the chapter, because I seriously don’t want to go on any further.

Comment [8]

Chapter 8, part the second.

When we last left Romilly, she had gone out about the town with Orain despite the fact that there was an immediate and life-threatening danger to the REEL KEENG. In any case, they’re in an inn having their dinner and listening to the locals express openly their amazing support for the REEL KEENG. Question. If the EVUL KING is so oppressive and evil and has spies everywhere that cause fear in the people, then why are they openly expressing themselves and getting away with it?

Anyways, Orain mentions to Romilly that it’s important to have popular support for the king in Nevarsin, but he does so for the wrong reason:

“Part of my reason for walking about town is to hear how the folk think—see how much support there is here for the king. If we’re to raise men for him here, it’s urgent there must be popular support so no one will betray us—a lot of things can be done in secret, but you can’t raise an army that way!” (Pg. 554)

Uh, what? You mean that just by walking around once, you can determine there’s not one snitch, spy or plain opportunist in the city? Are you absolutely sure? How about travellers? Merchants? People passing through and spreading news without malicious intent? Sooner or later, the EVUL KEENG is going to learn about what’s going on, especially if they have telepaths in this world. Betrayal has nothing to do with it.

Anyways, they finish their meal and doze off, although no one robs them or stabs them in the back and makes off with all their belongings. In any case, Orain shakes Romilly awake, and we get a monologue on how women like Romilly are so much superior, independent and free-spirited than other women. Oh, and of course, men are evil:

I like Orain. I would rather respect him, and if he knew I were a woman he would be like all the others…

As they climbed he leaned on her arm more and more heavily. Once he turned aside from her, and, unbuttoning his trousers, relieved himself against a house wall; Romilly was, not for the first time, grateful for her farm upbringing which had made this something she could accept unblushing—if she had been a housebred woman like Luciella or her younger sister, she could have been outraged a dozen times a day. But then, if she had been a housebred woman, she would probably never have thought to protest the marriage her father had arranged, and she could certainly never have been able to travel with so many men without somehow revealing herself. (Pg. 557)

Oh, really. Oh, REALLY. I’d be annoyed too if some other guy went and pissed against a wall randomly. It’s called decorum. And of course, it’s not because Romilly is so adept at disguising herself that everyone doesn’t realise what she is, it’s more that the author has struck everyone blind to that fact, much like the way she and her stupid bird have been thrown together—by authorial contrivance.

In any case, they get back to the monastery and go to bed…but wait, what about the danger to the king? Isn’t that supposed to be like, y’know, IMPORTANT, considering that Dom Carlo is TOTALLY NOT THE REAL KING? (And for real this time, since I read ahead). So we get a scene change, and there’s some description on Romilly’s life at the monastery with Dom Carlo’s merry band of men. Of course, with the worldly wisdom of a fifteen-year-old who’s just left her secluded country house for the first time in her life, she deduces that Caryl is Not Evil:

There was one sporano among the boys, with a sweet, flutelike voice; she strained her eyes to see the singer and realised at last that it was small Caryl, the son of Lyondri Hastur.

He wished King Carolin no ill. Romilly hoped that Orain had passed along his message to Dom Carlo and that he, somehow, had gotten word to the king, that Carolin had not come to the city. (Pg. 559)

She also goes out drinking with Orain a few more times, and is amazed that she doesn’t detest him. Of course, this is cue for another important lesson on why Marrying Is Evil and Oppressive:

Shyly, she began to wonder; if her father had chosen to marry her to one like Orain, would she have refused him? She thought not. But that was conflict too.

For then would I have stayed at home and been married, and never known this wonderful freedom of city and tavern, woods and fields, never have worked free and had money in my pockets, never really known that I had never been free, never flown a sentry-bird. (Pg. 559-560)

2. Spoiled

“Second, you must be obsessed with your own rights and freedoms, have a sense of undeserved entitlement, and suffer from a disease called ‘I-can-do-whatever-the-f***-I-want-becau
se-I’m-convinced-that-there’re-absolutely-no-consequences-for-any-of-my-actions’.”

Translation: I want to boot around without any responsibilities beyond myself. Of course, we all know that in pre-industrial society all the men were out having fun, and not toiling away in often hazardous occupations and rounded up by the rich and powerful to fight wars, and the women were chained to the kitchen endlessly making babies and sandwiches instead of contributing economically, so this whole “cottage industry” thing, which was the second biggest thing after subsistence agriculture, must have been run by genies. Invisible magical genies.

As usual, it’s a nice gesture if you look at it one way: go out, see the world. Another interpretation: evade responsbilities for as long as you can in any way possible. I don’t care which you want, what aggravates me is that it’s set against the backdrop of “Romilly is great, all those other women are dumb and stupid for getting married, being tied down and never knowing freedom! I am so superior to them, because mine is the only right way to live regardless of personal choice!” Change “women” to “religious people”, and you’ll understand why I hated Bitterwood so much. It’s grating on the nerves when every other page you turn the author is giggling and wetting his or her panties at how clever he or she is at preaching to the unwashed masses.

Guess what? I. Don’t. Fucking. Care. I don’t remember being asked to read a pamphlet, this wasn’t in the original agreement I had with the author when I picked up this book. I remember being asked to read a novel. Nevertheless, here’s another short dribble that makes me really wonder:

She was growing fond of the huge ugly birds; now they came to her hand for their food as readily as any sparrowhawk or child’s cagebird. Either her arm grew stronger or she was more used to it, for now she could hold them for a considerable time and not mind the weight. Their docility and the sweetness she felt when she went into rapport with men, made her think with regret of Preciosa; would she ever see the hawk again? (Pg. 560)

Sparrowhawks being as tame as cagebirds? Are you kidding me? Are you kidding me? Sparrowhawks and goshawks—essentially all accipiters—are the most batshit insane, foaming-at-the-beak-kill-everything birds of prey, and have absolutely no concept of their size when it comes to trying to kill something. It’s why I based the phoenix on an accipiter. And MZB thinks that they’re on the level of cagebirds? Really?

Dohoho that slaps both me and Lenka on the knee.

“awww isnt that cute, she thinks the deranged killing machine wants to cuddle Sparrowhawks are Accipiters aggressive as all hell these, by some falconers, are considered to be some of the hardest birds to train”

The second bit reminds me of that bit in Eragon where he worked off his so-called baby fat. But of course, being a farmer and manual labourer in the first place, why the hell would he have baby fat? It’s the same question here. We’re supposed to accept that Romilly has been running around the mews and stables since she was very young, yet only now she’s getting used to having a bird on her hand?

And of course, not to mention convenient disappearance of bird, only to return at some important point in time to save the day, I’m sure. Excuse me while I go take a break to reread Iorich by Steven Brust, which I bought just a couple of days ago.

…Aaaaah. Much better. In any case, some time passes and it’s almost midwinter-night, which is TOTALLY NOT CHRISTMAS. Romilly misses her family a little, which is a plus point in my book because it’s a suggestion she might actually care about someone other than herself and isn’t dictated to do so by the plot, but immediately quashes it with another quote:

…But then she remembered that in any case she would not have spent this holiday at her home, but at Scathfell as the wife of Dom Garris—and by now, no doubt, she would have been like Darissa, swollen and ugly with her first child! (Pg. 560-561)

Dear god, stop saying it. Once was bad enough, and I understood the message. Now I’m being talked down to like some sort of five-year-old who needs to be reminded that pregnancy is EVUL and BAD not because of the increased responsibilities, social implications, life-affecting decisions one has to make when one has a child, or anything of that sort, but because pregnant women are FAT and UGLY.

Hello? Hello? How shallow do you think young women reading your book are? Do you really think that the most pressing concern in their life is how amazing and wonderful they look? Really? Is that how you think of women who aren’t already on your side?

I shall not ask. I mean, this is the sort of mindset the phoenix would have, and I intentionally designed her to be a crazy bitch in every sense of the word.

Anyways, Romilly notices that Dom Carlo’s horse isn’t in the stable, and Orain notices her asking around and tells her not to say to others that Carlo’s gone, since it might mean the difference between life and death. Oh, and he promises Romilly a Midwinter present. Then we cut to Caryl bugging her about the birds, and she asks him why the cold doesn’t bother him. His answer?

“It is the first thing the monks teach us,” he said, “how to warm ourselves from within, by breathing; some of the older monks can bathe in the water of the well and then dry their clothes by their body heat when they put them on, but that seems a little more than I would want to try. I was cold for the first tenday before I learned it, but I have never suffered from the cold since then.” (Pg. 562)

By breathing? You can change your body temperature by breathing to a degree enough to keep out the snow and serve as a human dryer? Really? And your core temperature won’t go awry, leading to all sorts of chemical processes in your body going awry due to this happy thing known as protein denaturation and enzymatic failure? People really give too much credit to biofeedback.

This reminds me of the invisibibility powder from Bitterwood. Don’t assume Moore’s Law can be extrapolated infinitely, thank you very much, and it’s much the same case here. Anyways, Orain arrives on the scene, and Caryl recognises him. Happily, Romilly was 100% right about him being Not Evil and hence proving that her perceptions are identical to objective reality:

Orain flinched, and for a moment did not answer. Then he said, “I have come here for sanctuary, lad, since I am no longer welcome at the court where your father rules the king. Will you give the alarm, then?”

“Certainly not,” said the boy with dignity, “under the roof of Saint Valentine, even a condemned man must be safe, sir. All men are brothers who shelter here—this much the cristoforo have told me, Master Rumal, if you wish to go with your master, I will put the birds on their perches for you.”

“Thank you, but I can manage then,” said Romilly, and took Temperance on her fist; Caryl trailed her with the other bird on his two hands. He said in a whisper, “did you know he was one of Carolin’s men? They are really not safe here.” (Pg. 563)

I wish I could tell anyone’s true nature with a glance. It would be so nice. And of course, children can’t be nasty, spiteful or small-minded, despite all my experiences to the contrary when I was a child.

Oh well.

In any case, Romilly learns there’s even greater danger to the REEL KEENG, as the EVUL KING’S CHANCELLOR Caryl’s father is coming to town tomorrow, and he has majeek that can control the weather. Apparently, this is a Bad Thing, although used properly this guy could be a valuable man. But whatever. Apparently Caryl is sympathetic to the REEL KEENG’S cause, although why isn’t quite explained. As such, I’ll just put up Orain’s reaction:

Orain’s clenched fist drove into his other hand. “Damnation! And Zandru knows, he’s not one to observe sanctuary-law! If he sets eyes—” Orain fell silent. “Why did Dom Carlo have to go away at this time of all times—” he said at last. “I;ll luck dogs us! I’ll try and get a message to him—” (Pg. 564) [sic]

So what does Orain do, especially when it’s stated later that the EVIL CHANCELLOR knows at least several of the travelling party? Does he hurry back to the monastery, get matters in order? Does he shake the stableboy out of sleep and yell at him to get his best horse saddled for a messenger? No, what he does is have another drink with Romilly, then give her a midwinter present, THEN have a game of darts with her—

Excuse me while all sense of urgency goes out the window. Anyways, we discover that Romilly is suffering from Power Creep as Orain leaves her to talk with a strange mysterious man in the shadows:

A small voice in her mind said: No. Stay where you are. Act as if everything were normal. Since Romilly was not yet accustomed to the use of her own laran—and it was rare for her to be so much in touch with the feelings of any human, though she now took rapport with her birds for granted—she was not sure whether this were actually a message reaching her, or her own projected feelings, but she obeyed it. (Pg. 566)

Oh, great. This is little better than the dreaded “somehow” we’ve all come to fear. Maybe I’m reading too much into this, but oh well. Apparently Orain has received a message from this mysterious man, and they should hurry back to the monastery. So how should they cover their tracks?

With a traditional fantasy bar brawl, of course:

She nodded to let him know she understood. The next moment Orain shouted, “what in nine hells do you there, man, your big feet halfway over the line—I won’t play darts with a cheating bastard like that, not even at Midwinter—gifts I will make but not be cheated out of a drink or a silver bit!” (Pg. 567)

Uh, wasn’t the point of this meeting to be, I don’t know, discreet? Why take a stupid chance like that? Orain’s making himself stand out, and people are going to remember his face. Hell, what if whatever passed for the city watch came by and threw them both into the slammer? What happened to just sneaking out?

In any case, the bartender breaks up the brawl after a while, and orders Orain to pay compensation. All eyes are on him as he does so, and…you know what? I don’t care anymore. These people are behaving as if they know they have contractual plot immunity, so why should I even bother? Romilly and Orain make their escape out the door, and that ends the chapter.

Ugh.

Comment [9]

Chapter 9:

When we’d just left Romilly last chapter, she’d just left a bar brawl, and of course from that we know how horrible and oppressed her life has been because of what’s on her chest and between her legs, because playing darts, drinking and fighting are symbols of power carefully hoarded by men and totally not simply bad behaviour…uh…

Help! Help! I’m being oppressed by the evil Patriarchy™!

In any case, there’s some description of the midwinter celebration in Nevarsin, how wonderful the choir is and how everyone comes from afar to hear them sing. Romilly goes there to hear Caryl sing, and of course he does that wonderfully, which is another I AM TOTALLY NOT EVIL stamp right on his forehead. However, Dom Carlo’s still missing, and Orain’s worried about that matter. In any case, Romilly has a steaming hot dream involving her and him:

Still, she was uncomfortable at his touch, and pulled away as quickly as she could, remembering the dream she had had…in the dream he had held and caressed her as if she was the woman he did not know her to be…

She burrowed into the hay, still a little dizzied with the wine she had drunk, and after a time she slept. She dreamed, as she had dreamed before, that she was flying on the wings of a hawk or sentry-bird, that there was someone flying at her side, who spoke to her in Orain’s voice, and drowsily caressed her…she sank into the dream, never thinking to resist…(Pg. 571)

Okay, I am totally out of empathy for Romilly at the moment, so asking me to indulge in her sexual fantasies is a bit out of my reach for now. Anyways she’s awakened by Orain hammering at the stable door, demanding to know if Dom Carlo is in there with her. Of course, she doesn’t know what he means, and Orain’s exasperated when she says he’s not here.

The problem quickly becomes clear: Dom Carlo’s disappeared, and since he would never abandon his men Orain quickly surmises that the band has been betrayed and that he’s been taken. Immediate suspicion falls upon Caryl, who happens to be hanging around:

“That child of Lyondri’s—did he babble, do you think, to his playfellows? Lyondri’s son—like dog, like pup! I’d run the boy through with my skean and think the world a safer place lest the whelp grow up like his abominable father!” (Pg. 572)

Romilly’s all horrified when suddenly, she receives a telepathic message from whom but Dom Carlo! Why, you thought someone important wouldn’t have majeek?

It seemed suddenly as if Dom Carlo’s face swam in the air before her—but he was not there! Sill it seemed she could hear him saying to her, bring the birds, go trhough the monastery to the highest gate, to the secret pass above the hidden cells on the glaicer. (Pg. 572)

So Romilly bugs Orain about this, and Orain’s all gruff and skeptical. Dom Carlo, who is TOTALLY NOT THE REAL KING, appears to her again and tells her to tell Orain about a bloodied belt, and Orain’s finally believing of her, since it’s a code-word of some sort.

Maybe if they hadn’t wasted time, or hung around and made Orain’s face highly rememberable and recognisable in the bar, they might’ve gotten away with it. But oh well. In any case, they’re all packed and ready to go when Orain catches Caryl lingering around:

“Ah—it’s you, ye devil’s pup—”

Caryl cried out, a muffled squeak. “I won’t hurt you,” he said, gasping—Romilly could not see in the dark, but sensed, from the pain in the small voice, that Orain had grabbed him harshly. “No, I only—I meant to guide you on the secret path—I don’t want my father to find—find the vai dom—he will be angry, but—” (Pg. 574)

Of course, Romilly says he’s telling the truth, and as a Sue she is always right. The question here is why would Caryl do all this, over the father who by his own account hasn’t been too bad to him for his life? Oh wait, it’s because he’s been designated as Good, as most children are in traditional high fantasy, so bugger all realistic character motivation, he’s going to help these guys he’s known for a few weeks.

In any case, there’s some waffling for about a page as they pass through the dank dark secret passage of doom and despair, and here I have another Limyaael quote:

“No random secret passages just because. Secret passages that lead to the outside of the castle and were intended for escape or bringing in supplies during sieges at least make sense, even though I find them ridiculously overused. (What are the chances both that a spy would miss them and that the one or two people who always know where they are would survive the attack?) Passages that go between random rooms make no sense. Nor do passages that lead into libraries everyone knows about, or into attics where only junk is stored, or between bedrooms that could be reached by sneaking around in the open much more easily.

Think about it. It takes time and money to build secret passages, and most of them must have been built at the time the castle was constructed; surely someone would have noticed if, hundreds of years later, piles of rock were lying around in two bedrooms while a passage was built. (This is the problem I have with the “these two ancient people were lovers and built the passage between their rooms.” How, exactly?) They have to be fitted into the construction of the castle somehow, as well as kept secret. And that’s its own problem. Either the king murders the masons, or he pays them enough to shut up, or he constructs them himself—again, at enormous expense of time and money. They should have had a role to play, one that the readers can reason out even if they’re not exactly sure they’re right, and not just occur so that your character can escape when attacked in the library by Random Murderer #8.”

So lo and behold, Dom Carlo’s waiting for them on the other side of the passage. Everything’s happy and well, but the evvvvil Alaric gives Caryl a sock to the head, and the kid is knocked out:

“Are you mad, vai dom’yn?” he demanded, “Lyondri’s own son in our hands for hostage, and you’d let him free? With this whelp in our hands, we could bargain our way out of Rakhal’s very clutches, to say nothing of being secure against Lyondri Hastur!”

“And you would reward him like this for guiding us to safety?” Romilly cried in outrage, but Alaric’s face was hard and set. (Pg. 576)

So what’s to be done? Dom Carlo says they can’t leave the kid here, so they have to take him with them as far as the next safe haven. Conveniently, Romilly and her little band have gained the security of having the kid with them, without any of the moral culpability of kidnapping a kid, that so long as they don’t harm him, it’s fine?

Uh, no?

Remember all those diatribes we had on how so important freedom was to her stupid birds and women? Remember how she railed on about keeping things against their will, even when they were supposedly well-treated? Remember how she whined and bitched? Maybe if a certain someone was serious about all she’d said, she’d go back and put the kid where he belonged. But I guess kidnapping’s all right, so long as the good guys are doing it and it’s for the convenience of the Sue.

Don’t ask me, I don’t care anymore.

Anyways, they’re still not out of the woods. The whole area is home to banshee-birds, a species of large, carnivorous, flightless bird that is known to attack humans for noms and is known as such for its cry. Fair enough. The next four or five pages are spent with waffling through the bloody wilderness, Dom Carlo scolding Alaric for being EVIL and Caryl coming to and getting his own mount, and Dom Carlo telling him he’ll be sent back once they reach the next safe haven for teh rebels. Fine.

Then the banshee-birds start looking to them for noms. Alaric, being the designated evil and misogynistic bastard, wants to kill them:

As it died into silence, Alaric said, his hand on his dagger, “I have hunted banshees before this, vai dom, and slain them too.” (Pg. 582-583)

However, Dom Carlo, who is TOTALLY NOT THE REAL KING, has a better idea. He, Romilly and Caryl will LET THEIR POWERS COMBINE and persuade the birds not to attack them. So they do just that:

At first she was conscious only of tremendous pressures, a hunger so fierce that it cramped her belly, a restless cold driving toward warmth, that seemed like light and home and satisfaction, the touch of warmth driving inward and flooding her whole body with a hunger almost sexual, and she knew, with a tiny fragment that was stll Romilly, that she had reached the mind of the banshee. Poor hungy, cold thing…it is only seeking warmth and food, like the whole of creation…(Pg. 585)

And for a moment, in the great flooding awareness that she, and the horse she rode, and the child’s soft body in her arms, and the banshee’s wild hunger and seeking for warmth, were all one, a transcendent wave of joy spread through her, the red streaks of the rising sun filled her with heat and wonderful flooding happiness, Caryl’s warmth against her breast was an overflow of tenderness and love, and for a dangerous moment she through, even if the banshee takes me for its prey, I shall be even more one with the wonderful life-force. But I too want to live and rejoice in the sunlight. She had never known such happiness. She knew there were tears on his face, but it did not matter, she was part of everything that lived and had breath, part of the sun and the rocks, even the cold of the glaicer was somehow wonderful because it heightened her awareness of the heat of the rising sun. (Pg. 585-586)

Yes, my friends, Romilly now has the power of Heart. And I laugh and roll my eyes at this lovely romanticisation of nature. So the banshee-birds go away, and everyone’s happy and passes out noms, never mind that they’re supposedly being pursued:

He thrust dried meat, dried fruit, wafers of journey-bread at them. Romilly began to sink her teeth into the meat, and then somehow her gorge rose.

Once this was living, breathing flesh, how can I make it my prey? Or am I no better than the banshee. Once this dried flesh was the living breath of all my brothers. She gagged, thrust the meat from her and thrust a dried fruit into her mouth.

This too is the life of all things, but it had no breath and it does not sicken me with the consciousness of what once it was. The Bearer of Burdens created some life with no purpose but to give up its life that others might feed…and as she felt the sweetness of the fruit between her teeth, briefly, the ecstasy returned, that this fruit should give up its sweetness so that she might no longer hunger…

Caryl, too, was chewing ravenously at a hunk of the hard bread, but she noted that he, too, had put the meat away, though a piece had small sharp toothmarks in it. So he had shared her experience. Distantly, like something she might have dreamed a long time ago, she wondered how she could ever again eat meat.

Even when they made brief camp, with the sun high in the sky, to give grain to the horses and meat to the sentry-birds, she ate none of the dried meat, but only fruit and bread, and stirred some water into the dried porridge-powder, eating a bowlful. Yet, to her own surprise, it did not trouble her when the sentry-birds tore greedily at the somewhat gamy meat they carried for them; it was their nature, and they were as they were meant to be. (Pg. 586-587)

…

…

…

Oh hey, what’s this?

THESE IDEAS ARE NEW AND EXCITING AND I WOULD LIKE TO SUBSCRIBE TO YOUR NEWSLETTER.

The ethical vegans are everywhere. In my university declaring I am a terrible monster for eating meat and that it is unnatural, that I am destorying the earth, and worst of all, in my books. It’s stupid, it’s retarded, and I don’t need a highly new and original author rubbing it into my face that eating meat is somehow unnatural and that I am an unfeeling, uncaring jerk for choosing to do so, and that vegans are so much more morally superior to us.

And of course, god forbid that her new obsession actually have some repercussions for her, such as making her unable to care for the bloody birds. And no, eating meat is not unnatural, shut up, human physiology is that of an omnivore and by the way did you know that high sugar concentrations inhibit pepsin?

Lenka’s response?

O_O i am truly horrified but lol men “thrusting” things damn I read too much Aisling Gray but do you think a hawk moralizes about shit like that when she hunts? and by the way, PLANTS DO BREATHE YOU FAIL AT COMMON SENSE

So Romilly has the amazing power of HEART, and I resist the urge to throw up like a Happy Tree Friend at the sheer cheesiness of it all.

Bearer of Burdens! I did not ask this power. Please, please, help me use it, not for wrong purposes, but only to try and be one with life…confusedly, she added, ad I was, for a little while, this morning, when I knew that I was one with all that lived. As you must be, Holy one. Help me decide how to use this power wisely. And after a moment she added, in a whisper. For now I know I am a part of life…but such a small part! (Pg. 589)

Chapter end. I don’t care. La dee da, I don’t care!

Comment [5]

Chapter 10:

When we last left Romilly, she’d discovered that she had the power of Heart and was secretly Ma’ti in disguise. Well, it would have been slightly better if she HAD been Ma’ti, because then Captain Planet might be around. And hell, as horrible as Captain Planet was, at least that bugger would be better than her. At least Captain Planet can fly around.

So Romilly is angsting about the morality of using her amazing telepathic powers:

All the long road to Caer Donn, it continued to trouble her. When she hunted meat for the sentry-birds, she thought of her laran and feared to use the power for evil, so that she sometimes let game escape them and was roundly scolded by the men. She did use her awareness to seek out dead things in hill and forest which she could use to feed the birds—they had no further use for their bodies, surelt it could not be wrong to use a dead creature to feed a living one. She felt as if she wanted to close up her new skill where it would never be touched again, though she had to use it in handling the birds—surely it could not be wrong to show her fondness for them? Or was it, since she used it to keep them quiet for her own convenience? (Pg. 590)

Limyaael quote time:

“Angst is usually very quick, whether it’s in a fanfic or a professional piece of fiction. The author barely sets up the situation before flinging long sob stories at the reader. Or there are lots of vague hints, but the reader isn’t given a good enough reason to care about the situation and the protagonists before the wailing starts. This is partly because a lot of angsty stories make good use of “used furniture,” shopworn situations that supposedly don’t need explaining because the reader has seen them a thousand million times before.

However, that very lack of explanation is what turns the story into Diet Coke. I don’t care about a young girl who gets her teddy bear cut up unless you tell me what makes her different, and special, and just how much the teddy bear meant to her, and how its loss will affect her life. (Though in that case, it should be more than a teddy bear; see point 5). You have to make me see Lellsy Jones bawling beside her teddy bear, and sniffling, and wiping her nose, and plotting evil vengeance with meat hooks. If I just see a young girl—probably one who doesn’t even get red eyes when she weeps, and doesn’t “bawl,” but “sheds a single translucent tear”—I’m not going to feel any compassion at all. Yes, I might cry, if the writing is done well enough. The problem is that it doesn’t end there. You haven’t infected your reader with a sense of tragedy if you’ve made her cry. Any sappy movie can do that. Disney movies can do that. To win, you have to make your reader start wincing and feeling for that particular unique person, not just any young girl with her teddy bear in shreds.”

Bets on how long this will last after MZB’s squeezed it dry of any sympathy that might be wrung from the reader? Anyone? But of course, it’s wonderful LOOVE and BONDING that keeps her together with that stupid bird of hers. NEver mind that we haven’t seen it for goodness knows how many pages already. And of course, since Romilly is AWARE OF EVERY LIVING BEING, we get more of her stupid veganism:

And whenever she tried to eat fresh-killed game, it seemed that she could feel the life and the blood of the dead animal pounding through her mind, and she would gag and refuse to eat; she made her meals of porridge and fruit and bread, and was fiercely hungry in the bitter, aching cold of the mountain trails, but even when Dom Carlo commanded her to eat, she could not, and once when he stood over her until she reluctantly swallowed part of a haunch of the wild chervine they had killed for their meal, she felt such terrible revulsion that she went away and vomited it up again. (Pg. 591)

Let me get this straight first off: I don’t mind vegans or vegetarians. If you’re in it because of your religion, or because you believe that not eating meat is healthier for you, and you’re not constantly in my face shouting that I am a terrible person for not adhering to your subjective beliefs, that’s fine. I’m not going to bother you, either.

The problem I do have is with what I term “ethical vegans”, and even then, I don’t mind them if they keep to themselves. You see, this is a subjective matter, and I’m more than willing to respect people’s beliefs ON THE CAVEAT THAT they respect mine. If you believe it’s wrong to eat animals, fine, just respect my belief that it’s not wrong to do so.

Now with that being said, I despise this in my books.

The first and foremost reason is the huge hypocrisy involved, especially in feel-good hippie nature tracts such as what’s being featured now: plants are supposedly as much alive as animals, but it’s perfectly all right to eat plants but not animals? Why? The reasoning, such as in Eragon or this novel, is usually unexplained, completely arbitrary or just plain wrong, as in Romilly claiming that plants don’t respire, which is simply bullshit. Plants respire, respond to external stimuli, grow, reproduce and fulfil all the necessary requirements for something to be termed ‘alive’. If eating an animal is wrong, then eating a plant is, too.

Oh, wait, I know. It’s because plants are sufficiently alien and don’t have as direct responses to pain, and we can’t show people who feel rather than think disgusting pictures and scare them into believing eating animals is fine but plants are not. In short, this whole shit is based on feel-goodism.

Number two: Veganism is highly inappropriate in most traditional high fantasies, considering the low-tech setting. The high energy density of animal-derived foods as opposed to foilage or even fruit made it a valuable food, not counting the other important nutrients such as iron, which back then meat was an important source of due to the simple fact that people didn’t have supermarkets and they usually ate the same cereals and vegetables for years, not having access to the variety of foods and supplements mordern-day vegans prop up their diets with.

Of course, there are exceptions (Chinese buddhist monks being one famous example), but those were exceptions, rather than the norm. A vegan refusing noms would be thorougly despised for wasting good food. And of course, it’s somehow “unnatural” to eat meat. Of course. However did I not notice basic human physiology?

Number three: the repeated and amazingly stupid romanticisation of nature. This is very high on the list of annoyances I come across, especially since a huge number of authors seem to be doing this.

I like to call them Al Gores. With good intentions (maybe, just maybe) but woefully misinformed, or maybe they just couldn’t give two shits, and are looking the matter through the rosiest glasses they can find. Their words are fudged, full of magical thinking and feel-goodism, and sometimes outright LIES.

I won’t claim to be Mr. Woodsman living in the middle of the rainforest, but I have spent a reasonable amount of time camping out in there when I was in the armed forces. I’ve skinned and eaten a (nonvenomous) snake, drank its blood, picked leeches that managed to suck on me through my fatigues, and run away from an eustarine crocodile. I have almost bumped into a hornet’s nest, done the hornet drill, smoke grenades and all, and whacked my way through the undergrowth with a parang.

And the lesson I can impart to you is: Nature is AMORAL. That’s right, it doesn’t give a shit whether you live or die. If Nature were a mother, it’d be the kind that sat on her own children and forgot about them. I’m not saying that the rainforest is bad, or that we shouldn’t clean up trash and pollution, that’s just common sense. Nature is like a tiger: good at arm’s length where it can do its job without getting in your way, and not up close and in your dining room. The whole “oh, essence of life, nature is all interconnected and wonderful and be one with the earth” hokum that is everywhere, and especially here, is just that—feel-good bullshit written by authors who are safe and snug in their cocoons of technology, free to romanticise running with the wolves or whatever gets them off.

And the greatest irony is that the was those moronic nature haters (in this case, Alaric, who serves as our general-purpose target dummy) who are inbred meat-eating rednecks with big guns, buckteeth and go “hyuk” every other word they say? Yeah? Those guys are far, far more likely to be the ones who survive if civilisation were to collapse tomorrow, not the bloody hippies. You know why? Because they’ve actually developed skills that let them survive in the wilderness.

But what’s more important here is that the authors are teaching a lie. That’s right, I said it, A LIE, little more than feel-good snake oil. And that’s why I despite this author tract, I despite Avatar, and frankly, I despise all shitty anvilicious environmental messages.

Moving on, Dom Carlo notices something amiss with her, and Orain does too, coming up and asking her what’s the problem. In the traditional manner of angst-ridden heroes everywhere, she refuses to tell him:

“What’s ailing you, youngster? Anything I can do to help?”

She shook her head. She did not think anyone could help…she put her face in her hands, trying desperately to stifle a fit of sobs which must surely reveal her as a girl. But she was so tired, so tired, she could hardly keep back her tears… (Pg. 591-592)

Another Limyaael quote:

“The Idiot Plot vs. the character-driven plot. You know the Idiot Plot. It’s the one that only functions because all the characters in it behave like idiots.

This happens the most with villains, but it happens to angsty heroes, too. When it would make the most sense to listen to what someone else is telling him, the angsty hero chooses not to listen. And not because of some legitimate issue, like distrust of the person telling him the relevant bit of information; it comes because of his “inner turmoil” or something like that. Do spare me.

When two characters could solve their problem in two minutes by talking, the author will engage in furious hand-waving to make sure they never talk until the end of the book. The bad guy jumps in, the heroine runs away in one of those typical “I can take care of myself!” snits, aliens attack, whatever. Sometimes the characters never do talk at all, and angst is changed to sap, which is to joy as angst is to true tragedy.”

It is my firm belief that Romilly could simply solve her problems by talking with someone, but she doesn’t want to, because she’s “hurting too much” or some other shit on those lines. If she doesn’t want to talk to Orain, she might as well talk to Dom Carlo, because not only is he TOTALLY NOT THE REEL KEENG and therefore good, but also because he clearly has majeek too and can relate to her experiences. But no, she keeps quiet and angsts.

When she’s done angsting about having majeek, she goes on to angst about being of the female persuasion:

As she was pulling off her boots to sleep, she felt an ominous dull pain in the pit of her belly, and began secretly to count on her fingers; yes, it had been forty days since she had escaped from Rory’s cabin, she must once again conceal this peroidic nuisance! Damn this business of being a woman! (Pg. 592)

Cue a half-page of whining about how horrible periods are and how unfortunate she is to be a woman and have to deal with them, waah waah waah, and how wonderful men have it not to have to deal with having periods. I learnt in bio class that the average human menustral cycle is twenty-eight days, but Lenka assures me that forty days is not unheard of, and is fine so long as it’s regular. Fine, no problems with that. Maybe forty days in this world is the equivalent of an Earth month, I don’t know, and frankly, I don’t care.

So what does she do about it? Oh, she gets some moss to press against her naughty bits as makeshift sanitary pads:

She must think. She had no spare rags, or garments which could be made into them. There was a kind of thick moss, which grew liberally all through the higher elevations here as well as at Falconsward; she had seen it, but paid no attention—though she knew the poorer women, who had no rags to spare, used this moss for babies’ diapers, packing them in it, as well as for their monthly sanitary needs. Romilly’s fastidious soul felt a certain disgust, but it would be easier to bury moss in the snow than to wash out rage in this climate. Tomorrow she would find some of it; here in snow country it would, at least, not be covered with mud or dirt and need not be washed. What a nuisance it was, to be a woman! (Pg. 592-593)

Once again, “herbs” come to the rescue! Is there a problem in a fantasy novel that can’t be solved through the application of some plant or the other? I was hoping we might actually hoping that we might get on to the plot and something might happen, but Romilly continues to waffle in her thoughts, this time about Orain:

But Orain’s presence was comforting to her, and, she felt, to Caryl as well; he was gentle and fatherly, and she was not afraid of him. In fact, if it came to necessity, she did not doubt she could confide in Orain without real danger; he might be shocked at finding she was a girl in this rough country and climate, but he would not make that kind of trouble for her, any more than her own father or brothers. Somehow she knew, beyond all doubt, that he was not the kind of man ever to ravish or offer any offense to any woman. (Pg. 593)

The return of the dreaded infalliable Sue-sense, coupled with its evil henchman, the “somehow”. Because a teenager just learning to travel in the world knows all the wildernesses and dark corners of the human heart. Yeeeahhh riiiiighhhhttt. Finally, we get an explanation of why no one bothers to see her pee:

She went away to attend to her personal needs in private—she had been jeered at, a bit, for this, they said she was a ssqueamish as a woman, but she knew they only thought it was because she was a cristoforo; they were known to be prudish and modest about such things. (Pg. 593)

Fair enough.

On a side note, I note that Romilly’s so-called relationship with her amazing and wonderful bird is becoming pretty much nonexistent, which frankly is odd because in the initial chapters it was presented as being one of, if not the central theme of the novel. Just look at a good example: Taltos again. The series really right does a lot of things which are usually done wrong, and while Taltos’ relationship with Loiosh does become strained at times, they stick together through mutual compromise. The relationship and its ups and downs is an important contribution to the story, and when I re-read the numerous books I own in the series and come back to this piece of shit, I can’t help but be reminded how stupid this book is.

Alaric continues being our designated misogynist target dummy, randomly jeering at Orain about running a nursery for the kids and booing Romilly for suddenly turning vegan, and of course Dom Carlo comes up and rebukes him so Romilly doesn’t have to do anything at all:

“The less there is of meat for him, the more for the rest of us, man. Let him have such food as he likes best, and you do the same! If all men were alike, you would long since have been meat for the banshee; we owe it to him to let him have his way.” (Pg. 594)

Good, now pelase take your own advice and stop beating me about the head with all sorts of your nonsense. In any case, they ride a little more, and there’s some blabble on the royal family of this world, which I really, really don’t care about, thanks to the author having very effictively sunk all hope of me ever caring about the characters and by extension anything about the book. So they finally reach Caer Donn, and Caryl asks what’s going to happen to him. Alaric is being bitter about it, and you know what? Caryl uses the power of CHILDHOOD and INNOCENCE and LOVE and turns Alaric.

Yes, really.

Look, I’ll even transcribe the whole thing, so you can see how disgusting it is:

“Lord Orain, you—the vai dom pledged me I should be sent back to my father under a truce-flag. Will he honor that pledge? My father—” his voice broke, “my father must be wild with fear for me.”

“Good enough!” Alaric said harshly, “let him feel some o’what I feel, with my son and his mother dead—at your father’s hands—”

Caryl stared at him with eyes wide. Finally he said, “I did not recognize you, Master Alaric; now I recall you. You wrong my father, sir; he did not kill your son, he died of the bald fever; my own brother died that same summer, and the king’s healer-women tended them both as carefully. It was sad that your son died away from his father and mother, but on my honor, Alaric, my father had no hand in your son’s death.”

“And what of my poor wife, who flung herself from the window to death when she heard her son had died far away from her—”

“I did not know that,” Caryl said, and there were tears in his eyes, “my own mother was beside herself with grief when my brother died. I was afraid to be out of my mother’s sight for fear she would do herself some harm in her grief. I am sorry—oh, I am sorry, Master Alaric,” he said, and flung his arms around the man, “if my father had known this, I am sure he would not pursue you, nor blame you for your quarrel with him!”

Alaric swallowed; he stood without moving in the boy’s embrace and said, “god grant my own son would have defended me like that. I canna’ fault you for your loyalty to your father, my boy. I’ll help Lord Orain see ye get back safe to him.” (Pg. 595-596)

Uh, all right? Yet another Limyaael quote:

“Not everyone “wrong” can be “redeemed” by the love of a child. I’m so sick of this plotline that it gets a point all to itself. If you want to do a strong villain character turning back to the “light” or “goodness” or whatever the Fantasyland maniacs are calling it these days, please try something other than pairing him with a baby or young child and expecting that to change his mind.

Why is this stupid? First and foremost because it’s overworked, just like the genius-child idea. A lot of authors have done a lot with it. When writing it, an author’s mind tends to overflow with what she’s read before this, rather than concentrating on her character and the way that he might believably respond to this situation.”

In a more realistic situation, what usually happens when you’ve got someone who’s convinced him or herself that a delusion is real? (and we’re not even sure that Caryl’s not lying in this case)? Why, they’ll go a very long way indeed in order to cling onto their fantasy, much like Romilly is bloody well doing in this whole book, only the author is contriving every step of the way. In any case, the now-redeemed Alaric also mentions a branch of the Sisterhood of the Sword that’s conveniently located here in Caer Donn.

Whee.

So Dom Carlo leads the party to an inn named Sign of the Hawk, and there’re public baths in the city, powered by hot springs. So they all eat, and of course the men are crude and talk about going to a whorehouse after the baths, and since Romilly wants to bathe alone, she gets room service to send up a bath to Orain’s room, which she is sharing with him.

Apparently her disguise is so perfect that even the serving-girl is taken in:

One of the bath-women lingered, widening her eyes at Romilly and saying in a suggestive voice, “would you like me to stay and help you, young sir? Indeed, it would be a pleasure to wash your feet and scrub your back, and for half a silver bit I will stay as long as you like, and share your bed as well.”

Romilly had to struggle again to hide a smile; this was embarrassing. Was she such a handsome young man as that, or was the woman only looking for her silver bit? She shook her head and said, “I am tired with riding; I want to wash and sleep.” (Pg. 599)

No, it’s because the author has put blinders on everyone in this world, you idiot. And of course, men soliciting sex from her is evil and horrible because it’s a demonstration of EBIL patriarchal power, but of course women soliciting sex from her is cute and embarrassing because they’ve been forced by The Man into selling their bodies. So Romilly sends the serving-girl away, and we get one and a half pages of filler as Romilly washes herself and wonders about her own sexuality wih regards to Orain and Caryl, which I really, REALLY don’t want to go into. So she’s done with her bath and has gone to sleep, when Orain comes into the room and we get the first suggestion of a not-so-big-reveal:

“Ah, stay where you are, boy,” he said drowsily. “Bed’s big enough for two.” He had been drinking, she could tell, but he was not drunk. He reached out and ran his hand lightly across her hair. “So soft, you must ha’ had a nice bath too.” (Pg. 601)

Can you imagine what would have happened if any other man, EVIL SUITOR maybe, had done this? She’d probably be squealing like a stuck pig about how EVIL and MISOGYNISTIC said person was. So Orain goes to sleep, but wakes up shouting from a nightmare, and this ensues:

After a time, however, she was aware that Orain’s arm was around her, that he was gently drawing her to him.

She pulled away, frightened. He said in his gentlest voice, “ah, lad, don’t you know how I feel? You’re so like Carolin, when we were boys together—red hair—and so timid and shy, but so brave when there’s need—”

Romilly thought, shaking, but there’s no need for this, I am a woman—he does not know, but it’s all right, I will tell him it’s all right— she was trembling with embarrassment, shy, but the very real warmth and kindness she had felt for Orain made her feel, this was not at all as it had been when Dom Garris sought to paw her, nor when Rory thought to force himself on her—(Pg. 601-602)

To claim everything is 100% heteronormative is stupid. Claiming that homosexual love is somehow intrisically “better”, “more loving” or “kinder” just because it’s homosexual is just as RETARDED. Yes, I said it, it’s retarded. These days, authors get away with claiming that homosexuals are better/more empathic/have better dress sense/are more loving/what have you not because of who the people are, but because of their sexual orientation.

Oh wait, who did I remember saying “all heterosexual intercourse is rape”? Hmm…sorta escapes my mind…perhaps you guys could google it and remind me?

COULD Orain just be someone who happens to be homosexual and a nice person? Possibly, but the way this stupid novel is structured to drop as many soapboxes on the heads of the reader, I wouldn’t bet my food rationing coupons on it. So we see a pattern emerging—the bad guys are the evvvvvil traditionalist patriarchal heterosexual men, and the good homosexuals (the REEL KEENG included), women, and children on the other.

It’s a really simplistic and stupid way of looking at the world instead of considering people on an individual basis, but I suppose some people need it.

So Orain starts to forcibly undress Romilly (which is somehow still acceptable), realises she’s of the female persuasion, and immediately loses all sexual interest in her. Whoo yay. So being the kind and warm and loving bugger that he is, he asks Romilly to sit down and tell him all about it, and that ends the chapter.

Urrgh.

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Chapter 11:

In the last chapter, we learnt that homosexual men are cleaner, more kind and caring, and make better caregivers than heterosexual men. Oh, and that rape is perfectly fine and loving if it leads to homosexual sex. This is what the great MZB has taught us.

Sometimes I think the only way to get through this bloody book is to pretend I’m Blockhead’s Conscience, and I’m going to have to go through this stupid shit for the rest of my long and unfairly tortured life.

So it’s the next morning, and Orain’s taken Romilly to the “hotel” of the Sisterhood of the Sword, although I think and great and mighty MZB meast “hostel”. Conveniently, he has a cousin who’s a member of this…I don’t have a better word for it, but “organisation” will do just fine. Anyways, yeah, he has relatives there (must run in the family), and ushers Romilly into the front hall where he tells the guard on duty that he’s come to visit. So they get to wait in the main hall, and we get our first look at what these Sisters of the Sword, apparently the epitome of what young women should be, are like:

Two young women, wearing crimson tunics, their hair all tucked under red caps, went through the hallway arm in arm. They were obviously not what Romilly’s stepmother would have called ladies; one of them had great red hands like a milkmaid’s, and were wearing loose long trousers and boots. (Pg. 605)

Before we start on this excerpt, let’s just take a little quote from Wikipedia on the great MZB:

“During the 1950s she was introduced to the cultural and campaigning lesbian group the Daughters of Bilitis.”

Let’s just keep this in mind; I wouldn’t be surprised if we got a lecture on the wonders of lesbianism before the book’s out. I already have a sinking feeling from this first paragraph, but maybe I’m extrapolating our experience with Orain too far and jumping to conclusions. Still, note the fixation on the trappings of the so-called problem, as if the mere act of putting on pants and boots somehow makes you do a 180-degree turn and become a so-called independent, free-spirited woman.

Bah.

So Orain’s cousin comes out to see him, and she’s described as about forty or more, with short hair (duh) and slender and pretty (duh, considering…oh, never mind). So her name is Janni, and she’s barely gotten there when Orain starts praising Romilly out the wazoo:

“Don’t mock her, Janni, she traveled with us through the worst climate and country in the Hellers and not one of us, not even myself, knew her for a girl. She did her full share and cared for our sentry-bird, which I’d never known a woman could do. She brought them through alive and in good condition, and the horses too. I thought she was a capable lad, but it’s even more extraordinary that I thought. So I brought her to you—”

“Having no use for her once ye’ found she wasna’ one of your lads,” said Jandria, with an ironical grin. (Pg. 605-606)

An “ironical grin”? Wait, what? Does she even know what irony…no, let’s not go there. And wait, when did her name turn to Jandria? Maybe Orain was calling her by a pet name earlier on? Maybe? Maybe? In any case, Jandria asks Romilly why she ran away from home, and this is the vomit-inducing answer:

Her sharp tone put Romilly on the defensive. She said, “I left my home because my father took the hawk I trained myself, with my own hands, and gave it to my brother; and I thought that not fair. Also, I had no will to marry the Heir to Scathfell, who would have wanted me to sit indoors and embroider cushions and bear his ugly children!”

Jandria’s eyes were sharp on her. “Afraid of the marriage-bed and childbirth, hey?”

“No, that’s not it,” Romilly said sharply, “but I like horses and hounds and hawks and if I should ever marry—” she did not know she was going to say this until she said it, “I would want to marry a man who wants me as I am, not a pretty painted doll he can call wife without ever thinking what or who she is! And I would rather marry a man who does not think his manhood threatened if his wife can sit in a saddle and carry a hawk! But I would rather not marry at all, or not now. I want to travel, and to see the world, and to do things—” (Pg. 606)

Repeat after me:

WAAAH WAAAAH WAAAAAAAAAH.

1. Know-it-all.

“First, you must be convinced of your own self-importance, and you must be under the delusion that everyone else is an idiot except for you. It helps to be a college student, so you should all do just fine.”

2. Spoiled

“Second, you must be obsessed with your own rights and freedoms, have a sense of undeserved entitlement, and suffer from a disease called ‘I-can-do-whatever-the-f***-I-want-becau
se-I’m-convinced-that-there’re-absolutely-no-consequences-for-any-of-my-actions’.”

Now let’s take this particular whine to pieces:

— It’s hard to like Romilly when she’s clearly misrepresenting the situation between her and Darren. Here, her wording makes it seem as if her brother was evil, resented her having a hawk and got their father to make her hand it over—blah blah, evil conspiracy amongst men, blah blah.

— Earlier on, Romilly was clearly whining about how ugly and deformed Garris was and how she didn’t want to share his bed, and of course, how his other wives died in childbed. Liar.

— Next great MZB lesson for the day: the only reason why a man would deny you, a woman, anything is that they’re secretly afraid for their masculinity, god forbid that they might actually have a legitimate reason you don’t agree with.

— And of course, I’ve seen this echoed about stupid speshul heroines leading their stupid speshul lives and whining about how oppressive everything and everyone is. It’s really hard for me to give a shit about Romilly when she deceives, flat-out lies, and says nothing new or interesting at all.

But wait, there’s more. They talk about Orain:

“He liked me well enough till he found out I was a woman,” Romilly said, prickled again by that thought, and Janni laughed again and said, “that is what I mean. Now that he knows, he will never see anything about you except that you should be wearing skirts and sending out signs, so that he will not be led unwitting into trusting you. He let down his guard before you, I doubt not, thinking it safe, and now he will never forgive you for it—isn’t that it?” (Pg. 606-607)

Yes, yes. Men are evil and do not trust you because you do not have a penis. Yeah. Great. So Orain tells her that Caryl needs to be escorted back to Thendara (I have no idea where that is). Her reaction?

“No,” Jandrai [sic] said, “you certainly cannot; for all your head’s stuffed with old rubbish and ugly as sin, it adorns your shoulders better than it would adorn a pike outside Lyondri’s den!” (Pg. 607)

So she offers to take the child there for Orain as soon as the passes are open, and what really grates on me is that she keeps on mocking Orain with every sentence she directs at him. Maybe it’s meant to be taken as playful jibing between people familiar with each other, but even then EVERY SINGLE SENTENCE? I mean:

“And now you must go, kinsman—what of my reputation, if it is known I entertain a man here? Worse, what of yours, if it is found out you can speak civilly to a woman?” (Pg. 607)

Wait, what, so non-homosexual men cannot speak civilly to women? Wtf is this shit? And I won’t say what the first part of this escerpt signifies—figure it out for yourself. Bah.

And another important point—this is debatable, but E. E. Knight basically states that in order to avoid confusing the readers and preserve continuity as best as possible, it’s best that the authorative narrative refer to the same character using the same handle. Of course, this does not apply to characters. But it’s interesting to note here, we get flips in the authorative narrative between “Janni” “Jandria” and “Jandrai”. Ugh, especially that last one. Goodness, did this ever pass a copyeditor? I mean…how…oh, I forgot, the GREAT and MIGHTY author needs no pitiful copyeditor.

Anyways, Jandria shoos Orain away, closes the door behind him, then pulls Romilly aside and confirms without a doubt, if you still have any, that Orain is a homosexual:

After the door closed behind Orain, she said, “well, and what happened? Did he try to lure ye’ to bed, and recoil in unholy horror when he found out you were a woman?” (Pg. 608)

Essentially, Romilly defends Orain, then asks what she must do to be initiated into this Sisterhood. Jandria basically states a few rules:

-All rank from outside the Sisterhood must be shed.
-Do her share of work without question or complaint.
-While celibacy is encouraged, if she must have a lover it must be discreet.
-Oh, and she’s to “defend her sisters, in peace or war, should any man lay a hand on one who does not wish for it”.

Fine, fair enough, even that last bit. I’d have expected “protect the weak” or “uphold justice” or something more neutral for something along those lines, but fine. Can’t really complain, even though it grates me the wrong way, but then, this whole bloody book grates me the wrong way.

After that, Jandria can’t help but belittle Orain AGAIN:

“Did that dolt Orain remember to give you breakfast, or was he in so much of a hurry to hustle you away from the camp that he forgot that women get hungry too?” (Pg. 609)

This is supposed to be a positive role model? Belittling people without end? Whatever. So before Romilly goes gets her noms, Jandria explains what she’s to expect: Romilly can live with the Sisterhood for a year, for three more, and for life. Conveniently, the person who used to take care and train the horses has just died, so there’s a job opening for her. Oh, and her ears are to be pierced and she’s to wear earrings, identifying her as an initiate of the Sisterhood.

Fair enough, too. So we begin a few pages of standard fantasy training of the hero kind. Her living quarters are a dorm she shares with plenty of girls about her age, and she’s taught unarmed combat and swordsmanship, and while she’s not doing that, tends to the horses. But one day as spring is approaching, the REEL KEENG’s armies are marching through the streets, and Jandria decides it’s time to take Caryl back. Before that, though, we get an amysing typo:

“Let’s go inside and finish our work—I have seen horses enough before this and a king is am an like other men, Hastur or no.” (Pg. 612)

Copyeditor, copyeditor, wherefore art thou? So in an exchange that takes pretty much a page for no perceptible reason save filler, Jandria tells Caryl that she’ll take him back if he doesn’t try to escape, and of course Caryl agrees. Of course, Romilly gets to come along too, so we get a scene change where they saddle up the next morning and ride out with a small escort of Sisters who’re supposed to be delivering horses to the armies in the south.

So they stop in the evening to make camp, and Caryl has this to say:

“This is nice,” said Caryl admiringly, “men never make a camp as comfortable as this.”

Janni chuckled. “There is no reason they should not,” she said. “They are as good at cookery and hunting as we women are, and they would tell you so if you asked them; but maybe they think it unmanly to seek for comfort in the field, and enjoy hard living because it makes them feel tough and strong. As for me, I have no love for sleeping in the rain, and I am not ashamed to admit I like to be comfortable.” (Pg. 615)

Uh, what? First off, campcraft is hardly just cooking and hunting, and there might be a hundred different reasons why someone might be wanting to put up with a tent made out of two ponchos strung on a line instead of a foldable or even one with poles and stakes, such as being lightweight. But of course, the only possible reason someone with a dongle would want to rough it would be because they’re worried about their masculinity. Every single man’s motivation boils down to that.

Oh, and by the way, where did her accent vanish to? Oh wait, someone probably got bored of writing it, eh?

Hell, I suppose this book must be threatening my masculinity and that’s why I’m rubbishing it, instead of the fact that it’s simple trash that deserves to be given to a falcon chick to play with.

Anyways, one of the women gets out a flute and they sing mountain ballads, and then it’s time to sleep and Romilly goes to put Caryl to bed. Oh, wait, MZB’s trying to cover her ass by making some of the Sisters dumb and moronic:

Lauria said, grumbling, “let the boy wait on himself, Romy! Janni, why should one of our sisters wait on this young man, who is our prisoner? We’re no subjects or servants to the Hastur-kind!” (Pg. 615)

“Still, the Sisterhood are no slaves to one of these men,” grumbled Lauria, “I wonder at you, Janni, that for money you’d take a commission to escort some boy-child through the mountains—” (Pg. 615)

“Oh, a cristoforo,” sneered one of the younger women, “do you recite the Creed of Chastity before you sleep, then, Romy?” (Pg. 616)

“Are we to have a male in our tent to sleep with us?” the girl who had protested asked angrily, “this is a tent for women.” (Pg. 616)

To which Jandria has a supposedly witty retort:

“Then I hope you will never have the bad taste to bear a son instead of a daughter,” said Janni lightly, “or will you, out of principle, refuse to feed a male at your breast? Go to sleep, Mhari; the child can sleep between me and Romilly, and we’ll guard your virtue.”

I won’t detail the other stupidities, because the whole page and the next is filled with them, so I’ll just comment. This, essentially, is as bad as Alaric. MZB is clearly trying to cover her ass by pointing at them and saying “hey, I don’t condone these obvious and extremely unsubtle misandrist women, I must be a smart and moderate person!” the problem is that she’s made her attitude towards certain issues (if you have to ask what, you clearly haven’t been reading the sporks) very clear through her representation of the characters and events so far, so you’re not fooling anyone. And frankly, it doesn’t say very much for her ability at characterisation if all the bad guys are stupid caricatures. Like, EVERYONE, from Romilly’s father to Garris to Rory to Alaric to these bitches.

So what does Romilly think of all this?

Their very voices grated on her, and it seemed to her sometimes that in spite of their skill with sword and horsemanship, they were far too much like her sister Mallina, silly and narrow-minded. Only Janni seemed free of the pettiness she had always found in women. but was that only because Janni was like Orain and so less like a woman? (Pg. 619)

HANDS OFF OUR FEMINISM YOU STUPID BREEDER WOMEN YOULL MESS IT UP. LET THE GREAT AND ENLIGHTENED ONES WHO ARE KIND AND CARING LEAD THE WAY, YOU SHOULD BE GLAD YOU CAN FOLLOW.

Reality check, please.

“Only 20% of lesbians had relationships that involved cohabitation for more than 3 years. Also, this study found that only 23% of lesbians reported positive relationships with their mothers as compared with 85% of heterosexual women. Source: M. T. Saghir and E. Robins, “ Male and female Homosexuality; A Comprehensive Investigation,” ( Baltimore: Williams Wilkins, 1973), p.57, table 4:14.p. 226, table 12.11.”

“A report by the National Coalition of Anti-Violence Programs indicates that of 3,327 domestic violence cases self-reported among homosexuals in 12 U.S. cities in 1997, about half involved lesbian, bisexual and transgender women. “ The fact is, gay men and lesbians are more likely to be injured by an intimate partner than a stranger,” said Susan Holt, program coordinator for domestic violence services at the L.A. Gay and Lesbian Center. Holt said that studies suggest that between 25% to 33% of all gay male and lesbian relationships involve abuse. Source: Rhonda Smith, “ Lesbians affected by domestic violence, reports says,” The Washington Blade, 16 October 1998.”

“Professor Lori B. Gishick, a professor of sociology and women’s studies at Warren Wilson College in North Carolina, has worked for about 10 years in battered women’s organizations and has run a support group specifically for abused lesbians. The “myth that women are not violent,” is persistent and contributes to a denial of woman-to-woman sexual violence, not only among the general population but also among lesbians, says Girhick. “ We want to believe that our relationships are safe, that we have equality, and that we have ideal communities. But it’s not true.” The estimated incidence of domestic abuse in gay and lesbian relationships is one out of three. Girshick says a large number of her respondents, as children and adults, had also been sexually abused, and that the memories of these previous traumas often complicated their reaction to being assaulted by women. According to Grishick, many of these women read books about woman-to-woman sexual violence; they went into therapy; they volunteered at rape crisis centers. For people who are part of a small lesbian community, the social implications of speaking out against their abuser can be terrifying. Girshick reports that some women did become ostracized when they told others. “ I’ve heard stories of individuals who say ‘ My friends turned against me and protected her.’” There are only a handful of groups for women battered by other women in the country. Source: R. Morgan Griffin, “ Breaking the Silence: Sociologist Studies Woman-to-Woman Sexual Violence,” GayHealth.com; May 10, 2000.”

That’s right, homosexuals are more kind and caring and generally all-round BETTER than YOU ugly breeders. The point that I’m getting at here is that like any so-called “protected” group, homosexuals are HUMANS too. There are good and bad homosexuals, just as there are good and bad people, and it is important to judge people on an individual basis, like I’ve been saying all this while. In using her power as an author in the author-reader relationship to blow her stupid little trumpet of homosexual superiority, MZB has not only warped her story, but she’s done so to tell a bloody LIE.

As if my opinion of her couldn’t go any lower. Oh wait, yes it can. So they ride five more days and are out of the mountains, and GUESS WHO’S BACK?

But that night, as they were making camp—the days were lengthening now perceptibly, it was still light when they had eaten supper—she had again the sharp sense that she was being watched, as if she were some small animal, prey huddling before the sharp eyes of a hovering hawk—she scanned the darkening sky, but could see nothing. Then, incredulous, a familiar sense of wildness, flight, contact, rapport—hardly knowing what she did, Romilly thrust up her hand, felt the familiar rush of wings, the grip of talons.

“Preciosa!” she sobbed aloud, feeling the claws close on her bare wrist. She opened her eyes to look at the bluish-black sheen of wings, the sharp eyes, and the old sense of closeness enveloped her. Against all hope, beyond belief, Preciosa had somehow marked her when she came out of the glacier country, had trailed her even through these unfamiliar hills and plains.

She was in good condition, sleek and trim and well-fed. Of course. There was better hunting on these plains than even in the Kilghard Hills where she was fledged. Wordless satisfaction flowed between them for a long space as she sat motionless, the hawk on her hand. (Pg. 619-620)

I think that pretty much sums up what I think of this shit. La dee da, appearing just when convenient, and still every bit as loving and wonderful after a whole winter away from her, as if nothing had happened. Oh, and conveniently slim and healthy, never mind the whole fact that falconers have to feed their birds carefully and watch their weight to keep them in proper flying condition. When Lenka feeds Danny a pigeon, his weight shoots up and he doesn’t go flying for two days. But don’t tell anyone that, because they might actually bother doing research! Come to think of it, this reminds me of a particularly aggravating scene from a certain Knaak the Hack’s Day of the Dragon :

He rubbed the gryphon’s leonine mane. “But a good beast you are, and deserving of water and food!”

“I saw a stream nearby,” Vereesa offered. “It may have fish in it, too.”

“Then he’ll find it if he wants it.” Falstad removed the bridle and other gear from his mount. “And find it on his own.” He patted the gryphon on the rump and the beast leapt into the air, suddenly once more energetic now that his burdens had been taken from him.

“Is that wise?”

“My dear elven lady, fish don’t necessarily make a meal for one like him! Best to let him hunt on his own for something proper. He’ll come back when he’s satiated, and if anyone sees him…well, even Khaz Modan has some wild gryphons left.” When she did not look reassured, Falstad added, “He’ll only be gone for a short time. Just long enough for us to put together a meal for ourselves.” (Day of the Dragon, some bloody page I can’t be bothered with right now)

The attitude here, my friends, is exactly what sums up this so-called relationship between Romilly and her stupid bird. And look at it! It’s nothing but a bloody painted toy, there to lend powers to her and look pretty on her fucking arm! The very thing she’s been bitching about the whole book! I mean, even the other Sisters are agape and amazed at her fucking bird’s arrival:

“Well, will you look at that!” the voice of one of the girls broke through the mutual absorption, “where did the hawk come from? She is bewitched!” (Pg. 620)

Mhari demanded, “is it your own hawk—the one you trained?” and Janni said in a quet voice, “you told me your father took her from you, and gave her to your brother—”

With an effort, Romilly controlled her voice. she said, “I think Darren found out that Preciosa was not my father’s to give.” She looked up through her tears to the tree branch where Preciosa sat, motionless as a painted hawk on a painted tree, and again the thread of rapport touched her mind. Here, among strange women in a strange country, with all she had ever known behind her and past the border of a strange river, as she looked at the hawk and felt the familiar touch on her mind, she knew that she was no longer alone. (Pg. 620)

Remember: ask not what Romilly can do for you, but what you can do for Romilly. Liar, whiny brat and general-purpose Mary-Sue.

That’s enough for me. Goodnight.

Comment [6]

Chapter 12:

When we last left Romilly, she’d gone on a field trip to bring Caryl back as promised, and they’re puttering on their horses through some plains known as the Plains of Valeron. Although it’s barely spring, everything’s already green and fertile, with the crops already blooming in the fields and whatnot. Romilly strikes up another rather boring conversation with Caryl, where she learns that he was sent up to Nevarsin to avoid the fighting in the lowlands. Of course, this is a perfect time for us to get a soapbox on the horrors of war:

It now seemed, to her hypersensitive consciousness, bestrewn with the black of blood under the crimson sun, all dark, the very ground crying out with the slaughter of innocents and the horrors of armies treading the crops into the soil from which they sprung. She shuddered, and abruptly the whole scene winked out and Romilly knew she had been sharing the child’s consciousness. (Pg. 622)

You know, I wonder why more Sues don’t have their speshul powers pose more problems or activate at inconvenient times. Fire mages don’t accidentally set things on fire with actual consequences, turning people into donkeys is actually viewed as a danger instead of something cute to be laughed at, and telepaths don’t go batshit insane from hearing everyone’s thoughts all the time. Oh wait, that was a stupid question. They wouldn’t be Sues otherwise; the whole point of them is to learn what they need to do when they need it, sometimes for no reason at all. Why should I not be surprised her powers randomly activate so as to lead into a page of psuedophilosophical musings?

A small side note on the backstory of this setting:

“During the early years of space exploration and colonization, Earth-based humans on their way to a new colony planet crash-land on Darkover, a planet which circles a red giant. They are unable to repair their ship and can not re-establish contact with Earth. The ethnic background of the colonists was mostly Celtic and Spanish, and this mix is reflected in the resultant blended culture(s). To increase the available gene pool and maximize the chances of colonial survival, the colonists intermarried extensively and produced as many children with as many different partners as possible. Psychic and psionic abilities were introduced through mutation, external stimulants, and/or interbreeding with the native chieri of the planet.”

All right. So this is just totally SCIENCE, like McCaffrey and Maxey. At the very least, to her credit, I haven’t seen the great MZB sitting in the background, shitting and giggling about how she’s pulled a fast one over the readers, how everything is totally SCIENCE and how superior technology is. Which is good, because I’m pretty much about to have my head explode as it is already.

This will become important soon.

Anyways, we get pages upon pages of philosophical musings while they ride, in which the great MZB teaches us about the following:

-The reason people need gods is because they want solace from the horrors of the world. (Pg. 622)
-Falconry cannot be taught, it “comes from the heart”. (Pg. 623)
-More moping about her majeek. (Pg. 623)

There’s some more use of the Animal Companion as an emotional tampon:

She could not endure the sorrow in Caryl’s small face. She at least was a woman grown and could bear her own burden, but he was a child and should not have to. She broke in upon him, gently, asking, “shall I call Preciosa from the sky to ride with you? I think she is lonely—” and as she whistled to the hawk, and set her upon Caryl’s saddle she was rewarded by seeing the unchildlike weight disappear from the childish face, so that he was only a boy again, gleefully watching a hawk fly to his hand. (Pg. 623)

(Breathes into paper bag) Steven Brust, Steven Brust, Steven Brust. There, better.

So it’s three days later after the wonderful and great philosophical musings of Romilly, and we come across a village that’s TOTALLY NOT RADIOACTIVE:

Dread silence lay over the village, and now Romilly could see a faint greenish flickering as if the houses were bathed in some dreadful miasma, an almost intangible fog of doom. The lay, pulsing faintly greenish, and she knew suddenly that when night fell the street and houses would glow with an uncanny luminescence in the dark. (Pg. 625)

Apparently, this is the work of “bonewater-dust”, which is totally not radioactive. Which raises the question of where bonewater-dust comes from, how it is extracted, and how the payload is delivered to the target considering that these people have currently NO knowledge of the workings of radiation whatsoever, and have no lead-lined suits. Or how this dust got to be dangerously radioactive, since no one knows how to do nuclear fission and considering how old a planet should be and that it supports native life, most of the more radioactive substances initially present should have decayed into more stable elements a long time ago.

Could someone familiar with the setting try explaining this to me?

And no, most radioactive items DON’T glow green in order to tell everyone that they are radioactive, even at high intensities, AND if it’s strong enough for to be glowing so strongly and they’re within sight of the bloody village, Romilly and company should have been inhaling radioactive particles carried by the weather long before they even saw the bloody village. The main reason why radiation is so dangerous is less of what it does to you and more of the fact that you don’t know it’s happened to you until symptoms appear, and by then it’s too late. Think of Chernobyl and how far the cloud dispersed—I’m not sure if it scales down by the same amount, but fuck, they should already be suffering from radiation poisoning.

So in short, this is just here for MZB to wail and whine through Jandria’s mouth about the horrors of nuclear war, in a soapbox that is highly inappropriate considering the current tone of the setting as introduced thus far and in as contrived a manner as possible.

God, do I NEED someone to tell me that nuclear war is bad? That’s like someone saying fire is hot or water is wet. As if I didn’t need more confirmation, we get more crap:

“Should she eat of game tainted by that stuff of war, she would die, but not soon enough to save her great suffering; and should we eat of it, we too might lose hair and teeth if no worse. The taint of the foul stuff lingers long in all the country round, and spreads in the bodies of predators and harmless beasts who wander through the blighted countryside. (Pg. 626)

Considering you were close enough to see that crap without any protective material…the halving thickness of air is 150 meters. At 800 metres a man is a small dot in the distance, so given the level of detail of description of the village, my estimate of their location from the village is…what, 300 metres, for Romilly to have noticed so much about the village? The whole description is about a page long.

What, why aren’t they bloody well melting already? I’m sure 1/4 of the dose of radiation enough to turn the whole village dead should be enough exposure to cause serious problems, and note that they probably had even more exposure as they approached. Whatever the case, it should be damn well more than losing a bit of hair and just shrugging it off:

“Evanda be praised,” she said, “who has guarded her maidens. I found some loose hair this morning when I combed my hair, but I am growing old and must look to falling hair as a woman’s lot in age. Still I could not help fearing that we had not ridden wide enough round that cursed site. What madman will destroy the very land of his own vassals? Oh, yes, I have ridden to war, I can see burning a croft—though I like it not to kill the humble folk because of the wars of the great and mighty—but a croft, burned, can be rebuilt, and crops trampled down can be grown again when the land is at peace. But to destroy the very land so no crops will grow for a generation? Perhaps I am too squeamish for a warrior,” she said, and fell for a moment into silence. (Pg. 627)

Hello, humans have been doing that for centuries before the discovery of radiation. It’s called SALTING THE EARTH. You don’t need radiation to do that, just salt. Much more cost-effective. But nooo, it’s not as scary as radiation, and it wouldn’t have let the great and wonderful MZB lecture us on the horrors of nuclear war.

Unsurprisingly, Romilly is completely unaffected by the radiation:

“Any sign of loosening teeth, falling hair?”

Romilly bared her teeth in a smile, then raised her hand and tugged graphically at her short hair. “Not a bit of it, Janni,” she said, and the woman breathed a sigh of relief. (Pg. 627)

Yes, folks. She’s so much of a Sue that even RADIATION finds her repulsive. Furthermore, the stupid bird isn’t allowed to nom, which makes sense:

And so for two days Romilly carried Preciosa on her saddle, and, though she had sword to herself that she could never again confine her freed bird, she yielded to fear at last and tied jesses about her legs. (Pg. 626)

Please note: jesses are not meant to prevent a bird from flying away. Lenka states that they’re used to manage the bird, especially while training, and with hawks (not falcons, where you raise your hand and wait for it to fly off on its own), the jesses can be used to “throw” a bird towards a target, to make taking off easier on the bird and give it a bit of a head start. Even wikipedia has this to say:

“Their intent is more to prevent the risk of the bird deciding to chase something it shouldn’t, and less to keep the bird from getting away, as falconry birds are routinely (and as part of the sport) set free – the bond between bird and falconer serves as a much better leash than any leather or rope ever will; however, it is not always desirable that a bird be able to take flight at its own whim, and both on the glove and on the perch, jesses help ensure this.”

Of course, EVERYONE knows that jesses are horrible symbols of oppression. And of course, Romilly “oppresses” her bird for it’s own good and that’s perfectly fine, but when other people “oppress” her…

Yeah.

As I’ve pointed out before, the GREAT and WONDERFUL MZB is simply trying to soapbox about far too many bloody things in the space of one book. So far we’ve had her trying to blend feminism, homosexuality, veganism, animal rights, anti-war, anti-nuclear sentiments into a slurry.

I’m sure you’ve all used a blender before. I’m sure you’ve all tried putting all sorts of stuff into a blender, starting it, and seeing what comes out. And the more stuff you put in, the less likely that the flavours are going to mix well and you’re going to come out with something edible, let alone appetising.

It’s the same principle here. MZB is trying to cram so much shit into one book that it effectively ruins the story, much like Touched by Venom. Feminism alone is hard to do well, since it’s been treaded and retreaded to death by the genre already, even by 1982 standards. So many things thrown together—well, you get a shitstorm like what this book is.

In any case, Romilly notices that Jandria’s looking a little worried, and asks why. She replies that it’s because she and Caryl’s father used to be lovers, and that she doesn’t want to get too near to him for fear that he’ll have his revenge on her for spurning him. Since none of the other women are high-bred and know of proper manners, the task falls upon Romilly to deliver Caryl in person:

Jandria’s heavy sigh was audible. “Something you know of courtly ways and the manners of a Great House,” she said. “I feel traitor to the Sisterhood to say as much, having sworn to leave rank behind me forever. Mhari, Reba, Shaya—all of them are good women, but they know no more than the clumsy manners of their fathers’ crofts, and I cannot send them on a mission of diplomacy.” (Pg 628)

What? Romilly? Diplomacy? Since the beginning of the book, she’s been as bloody undiplomatic as possible, whining, crying, and generally acting like a spoilt brat with the attitude of “it’s my way or the highway”. Diplomacy? What is she going to do, scream and whine at the EVVVVIL COUNCILLOR?

So Romilly takes Caryl to Hali, and we get some description of the streets, which were totally made by SCIENCE. Before that, though, another typo:

“—for the last few days he ha [sic] been wearing bits and pieces…” (Pg. 629)

And now for the SCIENCE:

Hali was an unwalled city, with broad streets which were uncannily smooth under foot; at her puzzled look, Caryl smiled and told her they had been laid down by matrix technology, without the work of human hands. At her skeptical glance he insisted, “it’s true, Romy! Father showed me, once, how it can be done, laying the stones with the great matrix lattices under ten or twelve leroni or learanzu’in. One day I will be a sorcerer as well and work among the relays and screens!” (Pg. 631)

All right, fine. There’s more description of the city, and of the clothing the people wear and the likes, essentially about a page of filler. Now notice that everyone is staring at Romilly. Why? Because they think Romilly’s royalty:

One or two of the people in the streets paused to stare at the blazing red head of the boy, and the slender, trousered earringed young woman who rode at his side in the scarlet of the Sisterhood and the old-fashioned mountain-cut cloak of fur and homespun. Caryl said under his breath, “they recognize me. And they think you, too, one of the Hastur-kind because of your red hair. Father may think so too. You must be one of our own, Romilly, with red hair, and laran too…” (Pg. 632)

PILLS HERE

P-P-P-P-PILLS HERE

GRABBING PILLS

GRABBING PILLS

PILLS HERE

GONNA GRAB EVERYTHING I CAN

PIIIILLLLLSSSS HEEEERRRREEEE

Ugh. So they go (or rather, in the words of the book, “roe”, although I think someone meant “rode”) through the streets of the city and reach the Great House that is Caryl’s home. There’s a guardsman there, and he’s appropriately misogynistic:

Romilly felt the man’s eyes travel up and down across her, from the feather in her knitted cap to the boots on her trouser legs. (Pg. 633)

So Romilly wants to get away, but Caryl asks her to come in and meet his dad, the EVVVVIL COUNCILLOR. So there’s little choice but to let herself be ushered into the Great House, whereupon she meets the EVVVVIL COUNCILLOR:

A tall, slightly-built man rose from the depths of an armchair, where he had been holding a small harp on his knee; set it down, bending forward, then turned to Caryl and took both his hands. (Pg. 633-634)

Fair enough. Lyondri and Caryl talk for a bit about what’s happened to the latter, then Romilly realises that she’s subconsciously reading his mind Just Because:

I should keep this woman hostage; she may know something of Orain’s whereabouts, and where Orain is, Carolin cannot be far. (Pg. 634)

However, Caryl’s been listening in on the telepathic conversation and pleads and whines for Romilly. EVVVVIL CHANCELLOR relents, and instead grills Romilly on Orain’s whereabouts. Romilly realises that she can’t lie to Lyondri because he is a telepath like her, and tries to obfuscate without outright telling a lie—which doesn’t make much sense either, because if he can detect lies there’s no reason why he shouldn’t be able to detect deception and press further. She tries to listen in on his thoughts further:

I have made promises I could not keep…I knew not what manner of man I served, that I have become Rakhal’s hangman and hard hand…and with shock, Romilly realised that she was actually receiving this thin trickle of thoughts from the man before her. (Pg. 635)

It isn’t long, though, before EVVVIL CHANCELLOR realises that she’s listening in and clamps down hard. He then asks what she wants as a reward, and Romilly remembers what Jandria’s said to her and asks for medical supplies for the Sisterhood, which he agrees to. Furthermore, since Caryl’s taken a fancy to her, he offers her a place in his house, which supposedly isn’t strange since he has Sisters in his employ.

What do you think Romilly does?

She wanted nothing more to get away. Much as she liked Caryl, she mad never met anyone who terrified her as this dry, harsh man with the cold laughter and hooded eyes. (Pg. 636)

Because as we know, Romilly has never misjudged anyone or anything. So she makes an excuse, the audience is over, and she hurriedly leaves the room, which ends the chapter.

Ugh.

Comment [20]

Chapter 13:

When we last left our…the proper words to articulate what she makes me think of just escape me, so I won’t say anything. This chapter is about twenty-five pages long, so I’m splitting this into two parts. Primarily for my comvenience, so that I won’t have to put up with too much of this shit in one go, but…bah, I’m just dragging this out, aren’t I?

So Romilly has escaped from the EVVVVIL CHANCELLOR and has made her way back to base camp with the goodies, and of course, she’s done things magnificently. Why, you expected anything different?

“Thank you, chiya. I sent you on a difficult and dangerous mission, where I had no right at all to send you, and you carried it off as well as any diplomatic courier could have done. Perhaps I should find work better suited to you than working with the dumb beasts.” (Pg. 638)

No. Just…NO. On a side note, observe how the great MZB insists on telling us how great and wonderful Romilly is through the mouths of her other characters, against all evidence to the contrary in her actions. This is made even worse when at least half of her “accomplishments” are obviously contrived, or she had no need to work for them at all.

In any case, Romilly’s just settled down when she’s informed by one of the other women that she’s to leave that night with Jandria. Why?

Jandria said, “what Lyondri said to you, Romy, was a message; he knows that I am here; no doubt he had you followed to see where the Sisterhood’s hostel was located outside the walls of Hali. (B-b-but wasn’t it just bloody mentioned in the last chapter that Hali didn’t have any walls? The fuck?) Simply by being here, I endanger the Sisterhood, who have taken no part in this war; (weren’t they marching with the REEL KEENG’S armies?) but I am kin to Orain through me, might think I know more of Orain’s plans—or Carolin’s—then I really do. I must heave here at once, so that if Rakhals men under Lyondri come here to seek me, they can say truthfully, and maintain, even if they should be questioned by a leronis who can read their thoughts, that they have no knowledge of where I have gone, or where Carolin’s man, or Orain, may be gathered. And I am taking you with me, for fear Lyondri might try to lay hands on you, too.” (Pg. 639-640)

Uh, the fuck? If she knew that she were putting not just herself, but countless other people in danger just by going close to Hali, then why the FUCK would she go in the first place? A promise made? Come on, she could have dispatched someone trusted to bring Caryl back—even Romilly herself—and that would have been the end of the matter. But of course, we can’t let LOGIC and SENSIBILITY get in the way of a poorly-contrived method of bringing Romilly to another place to begin another plot arc, and so they ride off into the night.

They ride until the next morning, have some breakfast, and while they’re washing up Romilly asks Jandria about the EVVVIL KEENG:

“I cannot speak of him fairly; my hate blinds me. But where Carolin loves honor above all things, and then he loves learning, and he loves his people, Rakhal loves only the taste of power. He is like a mountain-cat that has had a taste of blood.” (Pg 643)

Aaaand yet again I’m reminded of Galbatorix. We’re TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY pages into this book, and we’ve still to see Rakhal…well, do anything that might convince me as a reader that he’s actually an antagonist. Galbatorix had his baby-on-a-pike, and antis have picked over his supposed atroicities as the result of miscommunication, overzealous underlings and a hundred other reasons that don’t involve Galby being personally evil, as is what happens when one person has a huge centralised empire. Back there, the whole radioactive village was supposed to have the same effect as Galby’s baby-on-a-pike, and it did—it proved absolutely nothing at all about Rakhal. All we have are the Good Guys’ ™ word for it that he is EVVVVIL, much like Brom and the Varden keep on telling Eragon that Galby is EVVVVIL.

It’s actually a surprisingly fitting analogy. Who’s to say like the Varden and the elves, Carolin’s army and the Sisterhood who sides with him aren’t terrorists? Who’s to say like Galby, Rakhal isn’t trying to keep the peace? We’re told time and time again about how evvvvvil he is, but like Galby’s case, it’s highly unconvincing.

Pah. The prose only gets worse from here, as Romilly thinks about her relationship with her stupid bird:

She and I are one; she has joined her life to mind. Romilly was dimly aware that this must be something like marriage, indissoluble, a tie which went deep into the other’s body and spirit. She had no such tie for instance with her present horse, though he had carried her faithfully and she wished him well and thought often of his welfare.

The horse is my friend. Preciosa is something else, something like a lover. (Pg. 644)

I won’t repeat all the reasons as to why I think this is completely and utterly stupid, so this will have to suffice:

DAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!!!!!!

Ahem.

Afterwards, the GREAT and MIGHTY MZB shows her utter ignorance of how hawks hunt:

But there was no lack of hunting. Sometimes, before sunset, drowsing in her saddle, Romilly would feel something of her fly free with the hawk, stoop down and feel, sharing with PReciosa, the startle of the victim, the quick killing stroke and the burst of fresh blood in her own veins…yet every time it came freshly to her as a new experience, uniquely satisfying. (Pg. 645)

All I have to say is:

LIES.

Lenka has explained to me at length how hawks (and not falcons) hunt, complete with visual aids, which I unfortunately cannot reproduce here:

All spelling mistakes preserved.

“Goshawk attacking a hare, reaching from the back. Similarly to the Harris, lower, the gos grabs the hare from behind and reaches forward with the other foot…

…Like this…

…And then grabs the hare’s head, paralysing it.

More experienced goshawks, like this female, choose a different approach—dropping in from up and behind, which is harder because in order to get into this particular position, the bird has to move much faster or maintain its speed for much longer, which means more work.

Grabbing the hare is, believe it or not, actually the easy part. The hunt gets hard afterwards. The hawk has to be able to maintain a strong hold on the tossing and struggling prey until it dies, or the potential food will throw them off and run away. That is why their feet are so strong.”

Hawks do NOT use their beaks to kill, there is no “quick killing stroke” and essentially MZB has fucked up everything and proves that she knows nothing about falconry. But hey, this is the woman who thinks radiation REALLY GLOWS GREEN.

So what do we do now? Why, we randomly kill off Romilly’s horse in order to give her plenty of fresh-angst fodder:

Once, she thought it was the sixth day of their journey, she was flying in mind with the hawk when her horse stepped into a mudrabbit-burrow and stumbled, fell; lay thrashing and screaming, and Romilly, thrown clear of the stirrups, lay gasping, bruised and jarred to the bone…Romilly, shocked by the horse’s screams, went to kneel by is [sic] side. His eyes were red, his mouth flecked with the foam of agony, and, quickly sliding into rapport with him, she felt the tearing pain in her own leg, and saw the bare, white shattered bone protruding through the skin. There was nothing to be done; weeping with horror and grief, she fumbled at her belt for her knife and swiftly found where the great artery was under the flesh; she thrust with one fast, deep stroke. (Pg. 645-646)

So Romilly angsts. Why, does she blame her own carelessness? No, she blames her laran for “making her do it.”

Jandria did not have laran enough to understand, and there was no reason to burden her with all Romilly’s own feelings of guilt, the rage at her own Gift which had tempted her to forget the horse beneath her in straining for the hawk above. (Pg. 646)

What is she, twelve? “The devil made me do it!” “My Gift made me do it!” Way to shift responsibility onto something else, asshole. And what does Jandria do? Why, whitewash away her guilt, of course:

Jandria sighed. “I was not reproaching you, chiya; it is ill fortune, that is all. For here we are shy of a horse in the deepest part of the hills, and I had hoped we could reach Serrais by tomorrow’s nightfall.” (Pg. 646)

I mean, what’s the point of this? Does it even hinder their progression? Apparently not:

“You can ride one of the pack chervines; they cannot travel at the speed of your horse, but we can put both the packs on the back of the other.” (Pg. 646-647)

Oh wait, I remember. It’s an excuse for Romilly to whine and snivel and angst:

So Jandria does not trust me. Well enough; it seems I am not trustworthy…certainly my poor horse did not find me so…(Pg. 646)

Romilly was staring at the dead horse. Insects were already beginning to move in the clotted blood around the smashed leg. “Can’t we bury him?”

Jandria shook her head. “No time, no tools. Leave him to feed the wild things.” At Romilly’s look of shock she said gently, “dear child, I know what your horse meant to you—”

No you don’t, Romilly thought fiercely, you never could. (Pg. 647)

In her mind, aching, accusing, was the memory of the sentry-birds for whom she had spied out carrion. Now her horse would fall prey to the kyorebni, and perhaps that was as it should be, but she felt she could not bear to see it, knowing her own carelessness had cost the faithful creature his life.

As if for comfort she looked into the sky, but Preciosa was nowhere in sight.

Perhaps she too has left me…(Pg. 647)

No, she hasn’t left you. She’s only disappeared because it was inconvenient for her to be around, so she vanished like a good telcom. Tht aside, why does this whole scene piss me off so?

Firstly, the GREAT and MIGHTY MZB is trying to use a stock situation. The horse isn’t that particular horse, hell, it wan’t even mentioned before this chapter. There’s no relationship, no reader identification, and it’s used in much the same way that prefab furniture is used: you get the kit, you assemble the pieces, and it (supposedly) does what it’s supposed to do. The problem with a stock setup is that you get a stock result: Romilly isn’t crying for her horse, she’s crying for stock horse #45490 and readers are expected to bring in their feelings of, say, losing a pet and substitute those for what Romilly is feeling. I don’t care about a young woman who gets her horse killed unless you tell me what makes her different, and special, and just how much the horse meant to her, and how its loss will affect her life. To win, you have to make me as the reader start wincing and feeling for that particular unique person, not just any young woman with a dead horse.

Next, it’s horribly clear that Romilly’s concern for the horse only extends as far as MZB can wring sympathy out of it. Look at how quickly the focus of the prose changes from the horse to Romilly and then fixates on her. As was mentioned above, there was hardly any setup, and the biggest damning factor is that like Preciosa, the horse is forgotten once its usefulness is outlived. You can’t tell me that Romilly cares so much for her horse that she promptly forgets it next scene, and never ever thinks of it again. Oh, and she gets a BETTER horse later on, so it’s all fine.

Ugh.

Moving on, they reach Serrain at nightfall. The next two pages are mostly filler, involving more of Romilly whining about how heavy the burden of her laran is…

Wait, let me just pause this damn thing for a moment. Heavy burden? I mean, what? What harm has this magic of hers caused? (Science fiction calls it PSI, mental energy or some variant thereof, Fantasy calls it magic. By the Duck Rule, both are the same.) Well, I can’t remember any fucking terrible thing that her magic has caused; everything that’s happened directly as a result of it has been positive, and I’m not counting the last scene—THAT was her own fucking carelessness, and she blames her magic for it, absolving herself of personal responsibility.

She gets to read minds, affect people’s emotions, telepathy, animal empathy. People think she’s bloody royalty. She’s never lost control of her magic.

WHAT THE FUCK IS HER BURDEN?

It’s amazing how annoying unwarranted whining can get, especially when it’s repeated every. Single. Fucking. Chance. Romilly. Gets. Lenka loses control of the phoenix in her and commits mass murder, burns down a natural treasure and eradicates the livelihood of a town and surrounding countryside—because the phoenix couldn’t accept the idea that a few flowers could be prettier than her. THAT’S a problem. That’s worth a little crying, self-doubt and soul-searching. I’m not saying that everything needs to be overblown and deadly to be worth a little sobbing, but Romilly has faced absolutely NO consequences for anything she’s ever done. Be it running away from an arranged marriage, randomly entering people’s homes and joining up with random travellers, she’s never made a wrong decision, trusted the wrong person, had her magic spin out of control, suffered true pain or humiliation.

Give me one fucking shred of proof of her “burden”. Just one true burden, instead of unwarranted whining and angsting.

Gah. Where were we?

Oh yes. The next two pages are pretty much filler. Romilly whining, description of Serrais and the Sisterhood hostel, of which the only vaguely interesting bit is that the Sisterhood is being gathered here for some reason. Anyways, they get their animals stabled and go eat. Romilly wanders off and strikes up a conversation with a woman named Betta. Fair enough, we get more filler. Apparently the Sisterhood is on the REEL KEENG’s side, which makes me privately wonder what is going to be the deal with the Sisters in the EVVVIL CHANCELLOR’s employ. But fine enough. What’s important about this conversation is this last bit:

“Oh I am sure that for the Lady Jandria they can find a bed somewhere,” Betta said. Are [sic] you her lover?”

Romilly was too tired and confused even to know for certain what Betta meant. “No, no, certainly not.” Although, she supposed, the question was reasonable. Why would a woman seek the life of a Swordswoman, when could just as well marry? There had been a time or two, since she had come among the Sisterhood, when she had begun to wonder if her constant rejection of the idea of marriage meant that at heart she was a lover of women. She felt no particular revulsion at the thought, but no particular attraction to it either. Fond as she had grown of Jandria during these days, it would never have occured to her to seek her out as she had sought Orain. But now her attention had been forcibly drawn to the subject, she wondered again. Is this why I have never really wanted a man, and even with Orain, it was a matter of liking and kindness, not any real desire? (Pg.651)

Make of that what you will. Romilly’s a little puzzled over the fact that the Sisters at the hostel seemed to know they were coming, and surprise surprise, Jandria has MAJEEK too! Long-distance telepathy, in this case:

It seemed to Romilly that every day she learned something new about Jandria. So she had laran too? Laran of that curious kind which could link to send messages over the trackless miles? (Pg. 652)

So Romilly settles into life at this new hostel, which is unsurprisingly much like life in the previous hostel; she trains horses and is trained in combat. So her idea of training horses is to get two dozen horses and an equal amount of women on a lunge-line in a paddock, and to have the women lead the horses in circles over and over again.

If Ms. Nilles or Ms. Bendiksby would be nice enough to comment on this “training”, I would be delighted. Anyways, we get this little gem of hypocrisy:

She decided to give each horse into the charge of the woman who had exercised it today; it was easier if they formed a close tie with the horse.

“For then the animal will trust you,” she told them, “and will do things to please you. But it cannot be a one-way connection,” she warned, “even as the horse loves and trusts you, you must love him—or, if it is a mare, love her—and be completely trustworthy, so that the horse can read in your mind that you love; you cannot pretend, for he will read a lie in moments. You must be open to the horse’s feelings, too. Another thing—” she gestured to the short training-whips which were in their hands, “you can snap the whips if you like, to get their attention. But if you hit any horse enough to mark it, you are no trainer; if I see a whip in serious use, you can go and practice your swordplay instead!” (Pg. 654)

Ahem. Again:

BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Oh, really? What happened to the little bitch who starved her stupid bird and fed it rotting meat to break it? What happened to the whole diatribe about training animals for their own good? Oh god, stop it, it’s killing me! I can hardly see for all the tears in my eyes!

So the stupid, straight and emotionally stunted women complain about not being able to beat their animals into submission, but grudgingly go along with what Romilly says. It is here that Romilly notices a lone horse, and promptly forgets her angst at the death of her previous horse so that she can get a new one in the most disgusting way possible:

As she moved through the box, one horse backed up against the wooden rails and began kicking; Romilly noticed the wide rolling eyes, the lips drawn back over the teeth.

“Come out and away from that one, Romilly, he’s a killed—we are thinking of returning him to the Army, who can turn him out to pasture for stud; no one will be able to ride that one—he’s too old for breaking to saddle!” Tina called it anxiously, but Romilly, lost and intent, shook her head.

He is frightened almost to death, no more. But he won’t hurt me.

“Bring me a lead-rope and a bridle, Tina. No, you needn’t come into the box if you are afraid, just hand it to my across the rails,” she said. Tina handed it through, her face pale with apprehension, but Romilly, rope in hand, had her eyes only on the black horse.

Well, you beauty, you, do you think we can make friends, then?

The horse backed away nervously, but he had stopped kicking. What fool put him into this crowded box, anyhow? Softly, softly, Blackie, I won’t hurt you; do you want to go out in the sunshine? She formed a clear image of what she meant to do, and the horse, snorting uneasily, let him pull her [sic] head down and slip bridle and lead-rope ver it. She heard Tina catch her breath, amazed, but she was so deeply entwined now with the horse that she had no thought to spare for the woman.

“Open the gate,” she said abstractedly [sic], keeping close contact with the mind of the stallion. “That’s wide enough. Come along now, you beautiful black thing…see, if you handle them right, no horse is vicious; they are only afraid, and don’t know what’s expected of them.” (Pg. 655)

Excuse me.

That’s all I can take for now. Good day.

Comment [14]

Chapter 13, part 2:

When we last left Romilly, she’d just managed to calm to perfection a crazy human-killing horse that no one else could. And I sip at my wonderful cup of rage, and take just a little solace that I have to bear this burden alone rather than subject the rest of humanity to the raw prose. Well, not exactly, but you know what I mean.

So everyone is amazed at how she’s managed to control that huge stallion, and a certain someone proves she knows nothing about animals:

“But you have laran,” said one of the watchers, grudgingly, “we don’t; how can we do what you do?”

“Laran or no,” Romilly said, “if your whole body and every thought in it is still with fear, do you expect the horse not to know it, to smell it on you, even? Act as if you trusted the animal, talk to him, make a clear picture in your mind of what you want to do—who knows, they may have some kind of laran of their own. And above all, let him know absolutely that you won’t hurt him. He will see and feel it in every movement you make, every breath, if you are afraid of him or if you wish him ill.” (Pg. 656)

Now, this isn’t completely wrong. Anyone who works with animals knows the importance of treating them well and with respect. But to suggest that doing so is a certain way to win their affection is just dumb. Animals are animals. They don’t see things the same way humans do. And there are some animals that, no matter how well you treat them or how empathic you are to them, will still be evil buggers.

Like plenty of accipiters, one of which took a piece out of her trainer’s ear because she felt like it. The point I’m making here is that the view of animals as portrayed in this book is a highly romanticised one, more attributable to the Al Gores of the world than anything else. Like all the other instances of soapboxing, this is just irritating, and doubly so when it’s a half-truth at best. To quote my resident Crazy Horse Lady:

“MZB is totally clueless. Horses don’t “smell” fear”. They interpret body language, which is the basis of natural horsemanship (of any name, whether Parelli or DUH) training. It takes time with horses, like any animal, to “read” their body language, much less learn the feel and timing of proper training. Even if you gain the respect of an aggressive stallion (and most are to some degree, which is why we geld them), like any horse, it takes more than one session to make that a habit.”

Anyways, Romilly leads the horse away from the other women, never mind that she’s supposed to be conducting this…I suppose you could call it horse-training session. Great responsibility there. So there’s some description of this big black stallion which I won’t go into, because even as a guy I can imagine the stereotypical horse which, according to popular culture, plenty of young women dream of riding. Well, unless it’s a cute little pony, but I think I’ve made my point. This description goes on for about one page, whereupon it’s unarmed self-defense lessons for Romilly.

Although I can think up a half-dozen reasons why knowledge of unarmed combat might be necessary, MZB sucks out Romilly’s wits so that she has to ask. The answer, of course, takes up a whole page, so I’m going to leave out the soapboxing about how men are evil, rutting beasts and women are seen as property to be chained and imprisoned in their homes, and just get to the reason that Romilly needs to know how to protect herself if she’s sexually assaulted. Because that’s the only reason one might need to know unarmed combat. Ok, fair enough. What’s slightly creepy is this:

“When you are life-pledged to the sisterhood, like myself, you will wear this.” She laid her hand on the dagger at her throat. “I am pledged to kill rather than let myself be taken by force; to kill the man if I can, myself if I cannot.” (Pg. 658)

To quote a reader from the LJ:

“Actually, my jaw dropped as I read the quote you posted. That is ridiculous.

To me, it’s like implying “If a man touches you, you have no reason to live.”

THIS IS NOT AT ALL EMPOWERING TO WOMEN. It’s giving the rapist the ULTIMATE power over you—your fucking life is at stake, now, not just your god damned dignity! It’s TELLING the girl “Your sexuality is SO FUCKING IMPORTANT AND VIRTUOUS, it’s better that you kill yourself than live as a soiled flower.” How ironic that this was meant to be empowering—what a joke. Everything sexist out there will tell you that a woman’s virginity, purity, sexuality pretty much equates to her worth as a person. How sad that MZB couldn’t see the Unfortunate Implications of her own writing. Just… facepalm

What would be more empowering is “if he lays his hand on you, then it’s your responsibility to hunt him down and cut his gnards off.” I think that would be better punishment to the fuck than letting him die. But really, it should be “If someone rapes you, NONE OF IT IS YOUR FAULT. It’s him, NOT YOU. You should NOT be punished for something HE did.” I’m not even an uber-feminist and this is making me mad.

Now, I’m completely ignoring the idea that a woman may kill herself after being sexually assaulted because of emotional reasons, because that is NOT what the text is saying. It’s saying it’s her duty to kill herself before she lets a man touch her. Unbelievable.”

So the Sister in charge of the training notes that Romilly’s still unsteady, so what does she do? Oh, she just organises special sessions for Romilly, because she’s just that special in the midst of so many other women. Oh, and that Romilly gets amazingly good at it not in a matter of years, months, or even weeks, but DAYS.

Take that, all you folks who trained in martial arts for years. So long as you have majeek, you can become proficient in mere days:

She began to realize, then and in the days that followed, that when she faced another woman in these sessions, she could read, by following tiny body and eye movements, precisely what the other was going to do, and take advantage of it. (Pg. 659)

But of course, that’s hardly surprising, considering that she’s gotten all amazingly buff in the course of a year:

A year ago her father had betrothed her to Dom Garris. What changes there had been in a year! Romilly knew she had grown taller—she had had to put all the clothes she had worn when she came here, into the box of castoffs, and find others which came nearer to fitting her. Her shoulders were broader, and because of the continuous practice at swordplay and her work with the horses, her muscles in upper arms and legs [sic] were hard and bulging. How Mallina would jeer at her, how her stepmother would deplore it—you do not look like a lady, Romilly. well, Romilly silently answered her stepmother’s imagined voice, I am not a lady but a Swordswoman. (Pg. 659-660)

Oh, wow, wow, it’s the standard “protagonist of bildungsroman matures physically, so s/he must be growing smart and worldly too” scene. And of course, they all get amazingly buff in equally amazingly short periods of time. Not that they shouldn’t have been already, given a low-tech setting, so this doesn’t make much sense.

“Women don’t gain bulging muscles from riding. Not even the hard work of dressage riding will develop muscles to the degree described in the passage you quoted. if anything, it will strengthen the muscles, but that does not equate body building, and burn fat so the legs slim down, not get bulky with muscle.”

Let’s just chalk this up to another ability that our idiot hasn’t even worked to earn, shall we? And no, I don’t consider the author telling me that she has to be enough, thank you very much.

So Romilly works with this stallion every day, although exactly how is never mentioned, and she names him Sunstar and intends to make the horse fit for the king to ride. Fair enough. There’s some more angsting over how her family might react to what she’s become in the year since she’s left them, and how her father will react to her “independence” and “strength”. All right, whatever. More filler following the changing of the seasons from winter to spring, and one day there’s a big commotion outside the Sisterhood’s hostel. Apparently the REEL KEENG’s army has come to camp outside here. Supposedly, there is only seven days’ ride between Romilly’s currently location and the EVIL CHANCELLOR’s seat of power.

How have they managed to come this far? I mean, you don’t just walk into Mordor with your army—or at least, not without stopping at the gates first. Anyways, they’re here, and headed towards the Plains of Valeron to battle the armies of the EVVVVIL KEENG. Blargh. Romilly asks the Sister who’s told her this whether she’s for or against the REEL KEENG, and this is the reply:

“A partisian of Carolin? I am,” the woman said vehemently, “Rakhal drove my father from his small-holding in the Venza Hills and gave his lands to a paxman of that greedy devil Lyondri Hastur! Mother died soon after we left our lands, and Father is with Carolin’s army—I shall ride out tomorrow, if Clea will give me leave, and try to find my father, and ask if he has word of my brothers, who fled when we were driven from our lands. I am here with the Sisterhood because my brothers were with the armies and could no longer make a home for me; they would have found a man for me to marry, but the man they chose was one Lyondri and his master Rakhal had left in peace, and I would not marry any man who sat snug in his home while my father was exiled!” (Pg. 661)

The intent of this paragraph is clear: enforce the idea that EVVVIL KEENG is EVVIL. The problem here is that, well, frankly it doesn’t. Again, it’s a Galbatorix situation—the words come from the people most likely to twist the truth and have a thoroughly unfair view of EVVVIL KEENG. Furthermore, there’s always an alternative explanation—after all, EVIL KEENG cannot be personally around everywhere, and as The Dark Griffin and The Griffin’s Flight prove, overzealous subordinates acting out of or interpreting orders too liberally can be a big problem for their superior’s reputation.

So what would I take as a suitable token that EVIL KEENG is EVVVIL? Well, someone coming across orders with the king’s seal on them to commit atrocities, or something that proved beyond reasonable doubt that the EVVIL KEENG was the idealogue that led to these actions, and most importantly, coming from either physical evidence or a neutral party. But frankly, I don’t like the idea of EVIL KEENGS in the first place, simply because all too often they’re underdeveloped paper tigers that do nothing whatsoever and sit on their bums waiting for the dashing hero or plucky heroine to come and topple them.

Another point of interest—yes, it’s a point of interest because it’s not really a complaint, but something interesting—is that the last part of the quote reminds me of the Order of the White Feather, which began in Britan in the First World War and essentially used women to coerce men into joining the army and throwing their lives away, simply by giving them a white feather and hence accusing them of cowardice. Let’s just say it was very, very successful and makes you wonder.

Anyways, Romilly is about to head back inside the hostel when who should appear but Jandria! She says that she’s been instructed to take Romilly to the REEL KEENG’s camp, since she is apparently the only person who can handle sentry-birds well, never mind that a huge army with enough resources to take on the EVIL KEENG’s apparently can’t seem to find a competent falconer.

Pitiful excuse much?

So Jandria compliments Romilly on how well the horses are doing, and Romilly has this to say:

“It is how I train them; I win their love and trust and they do my will.” (Pg. 663)

All right. You do that. You keep on saying that. And a whole generation of hippies are going to try and release the birds at the Royal Gardens in Prague, and Lenka gets a free laugh when they turn around and attack the hippies. So Romilly goes and washes up and prepares to leave, but before that we get a totally-not-lesbian moment:

“But not outside the hostel,” Jandria said severely, and suddenly Romilly saw herself through Janni’a [sic] eyes, her hair tangled and with bits of straw in it, her loose tunic unfastened because it was hot and sweaty, showing the curve of her breasts. She had put on a patched and too-tight pair of old breeches she had found in the box of castoffs which the Sisterhood kept for working about the house. She flushed and giggled. (Pg. 663)

All right, I’ve had a whole day at the library sifting through urban fantasies for one that 1) I haven’t read already and 2) aren’t crappy paranormal romances, so this is enough for me. Goodnight.

Comment [12]

Chapter 14:

Well, this is a short chapter, so maybe we’ll get a little less pain this time.

When we last left Romilly, she was being escorted to the REEL KEENG’s camp by Jandria. So they arrive and there’s some description of the camp, complete with a half-page devoted to nothing but a Sister giving a group of unshaven men lessons in unarmed combat and repeatedly trouncing them. This is of note, when you consider that the king’s tent and cookhouse are only given one short sentence each.

In any case, Jandria approaches the center of the camp with Romilly in tow and asks for Orain. So Orain comes along, and there’s some chatter between the three of them, which basically amounts to:

-They have a magician/psioncist (depending on your choice of phlebotinum) to handle the birds, but still need Romilly to train him.
-More whining about the horrors of nuclear war, which the REEL KEENG is obviously against and will only use if used against him.
-And of course, she’s reintroduced to the birds, which none but she and Orain can handle, and of course, she makes no secret about the fact that she taught him everything he knows…

So…ugh. I don’t want to think about it any more. No one can handle the horse except Romilly! No one can handle the bird expect Romilly! She’s just THAT special!

Argleblargh. So she goes and meets the magician who’s supposed to be handling the birds, and who is it but HER OWN BROTHER? WOW! I mean, what were the chances?

“Ruyven! Oh, I should have known, when they said it was a laranzu from Tramontana—Ruyven, don’t you know me?”

She was laughing and crying at once, and Ruyven stared down at her, his mouth hanging open.

“Romy,” he said at last. “Sister, you are the last person in the world I would have expected to see here!” (Pg. 667)

Fine, we already have so many coincidences, what’s another one to the list? Then of course, everyone is there so they can reinforce how great and amazing Romilly is:

“So; [sic] you know these birds? So far I have seen none but Lord Orain who could handle them…”

“I taught him what he knows of sentry-birds,” Romilly said, and went to the perches, holding out her hand; with her free hand she jerked the knot loose, and Prudence made a quick little hop to sit on her wrist. (Pg. 668)

Oh, but the pain continues:

And that made her think, with sudden pain, of Preciosa. She had had no sight of the hawk since they came into this drylands country. But then, Preciosa had left her before they came to the glaciers, and rejoined her again when she had returned to the green hills. It might be that Preciosa would return to her, some day… (Pg. 668-669)

Oh, who are you kidding? Of course she’ll turn up when it’s convenient for her to do so and not get in the way, because that’s what animal companions do. Everyone in this story, be they human or animal, are defined solely by the way they relate to Romilly, and I find that absolutely disgusting. One person judging the morality and worth of the whole world. Whoo-ee.

So the morning passes by and it’s time for lunch. Romilly has lunch with the other Sisters in the camp, and then goes Orain to see about the terms of her stay with the REEL KEENG’s camp. Her brother is talking to Orain about the birds, and introduces her to Orain, but Romilly states that they already know each other. Ruyven and Orain then finish up their conversation, and apparently not paying attention to Romilly is a huge crime, as when they’re done with the conversation Orain tries to speak with Romilly, but she’s all pissed:

He looked down at her, and for a moment there was a trace of the old warmth in his voice, “will you fly them for Carolin, then, my girl?”

So when he wants something from me, he can be halfway civil, even to a woman? Anger made her voice cold. She said, “As for that, vai dom, you must ask my superiors in the Sisterhood; I am apprentice [sic], and my will does not rule what I may do.”

“Oh, I think Jandria will not make trouble about that,” Orain said, smiling. “The sisterhood will lend you to us, I have no doubt at all.”

Romilly bowed without answering. But she thought, no if I have anything to say about it. (Pg. 670)

Ruyven is no longer the brother I knew; we can be friendly now but the old closeness is gone forever. I had hoped he would understand me, the conflicts that drove me from Falconsward—they are like his own. Once he could see me simply as Romilly, not as his little sister. Now—now all he sees is that I have become a Swordswoman, hawkmistress…no more than that.

Even when I lost Falconsward, father, mother, home—I thought that when I again met with Ruyven we would be as we were when we were children. Now Ruyven too is forever gone from me. (Pg. 671)

Yes, my friends. Such huge judgements—all because they didn’t drop whatever they were doing at the moment and fawn over her. I can see where the GREAT and MIGHTY MZB is trying to come from—that they should have been consulting Romilly about the birds, since she was the most experienced of them all, but of course, she’s a WOMAN and is being oppressed by THE EVIL PATRIARCHY ILLUMINATI, which all men are a part of. Well, damnit, I want my patriarchy illuminati card, and free dental while I’m at it. Oppressing women is hard work, you know.

Let’s have a similar scenario:

You are working on a project team for your company. One day, you drop in unannounced to your manager’s office on business, but he is speaking to another member of your project team about her thoughts on how the project is going on. As someone who’s worked on the project for longer, you think you have a better idea of the project’s progress, but the manager asks you to take a seat to one side and wait for them to be done.

Would you think this is a mortal insult to you, and that by extent he hates you because you’re a member of , and so hates all members of said group? Now, can you see how ridiculous this is? Romilly expects her brother and Orain to drop everything they’re doing to pay attention to her, but is completely blind to the demand that she’s making of them—that they drop their conversation to pay attention to her. It’s rude and presumptious at best. What we have here, too, is a fundemental attribution error—that Ruyven and Orain ignore her because they look down on women, and not because of a train of thought that should be finished before moving on, or that it’s just rude to butt in on someone else’s conversation. The fact that Romilly makes such a harsh judgement after one perceived slight only strengthens my belief that she’s just acting like a spoiled twat.

But hey, she’s the ultimate moral arbitrator of the world and can do no wrong.

Urgh.

After this, Romilly goes back to the Sisterhood hostel and buggers out with the horses, and repeats this for several days. We get two pages of completely pointless, urple prose which can be summarised as such:

“Romilly and the horses are one and with love and whatnot shit.” Let’s see some of the worst examples:

Touch after touch, a hug around a sleek neck or a stroking of a velvety nose, and each moment of rapport building her awareness high, higher yet, till she was dizzied with it, with the sense of racing in the sun, the awareness of running at full stretch on four legs, not two, the mastery of the burden of the rider with its own delight, and somewhere at the back of her mind Romilly felt as if each of these beasts bearing its rider knew something on the inward rightness of the Bearer of Burdens who, said in the writings of the sainted Valentine, bore alone the weight of the world. She was each horse in turn, knowing its rebellions, its discipline and submission, the sense of working in perfect unity with what was allotted to it. (Pg. 672)

She did not know whether she climbed into the saddle or accepted the grateful weight on her own back. Part of her was sunk joyously into her own body awareness, but that was all swallowed up in the larger consciousness of striding free, racing with the wind…so balanced, so fused into the horse that for a long time she was hardly aware of which was herself, which Sunstar. Yet for all the blurring she felt she had never been so precisely and wholly herself, flooded with a kind of reality she had never known. The heat of the sun, sweat streaming down her flanks, her exquisite leaning to balance from above the weight she felt from below, from within. Time seemed divided into infinitesimal fragments, to each of which she gave its true weight, with no thought of past or future, all fathered up into the absolute present. (Pg. 673)

As you can imagine, I gave this pile of trash one glance and skipped over it. Of course, we can’t let this go unnoticed, so someone comes along to praise her:

“How beautiful he is—is that the black stallion they told me about? Is he too fierce, will they have to turn him out to stud again?” Then alerted by something in Romilly’s face, she asked, “You—you’ve been riding him?”

“He is as gentle as a child,” said Romilly absently. “He loves me, but a child could ride him now.” (Pg. 673)

Unfortunately, one day she’s told by one of the sisters to gather her things, and she’s to go out because she’s to be travelling with the REEL KEENG’s camp. So she realises she has to hand Sunstar over to the REEL KEENG, and it’s all very sad, but it’s not, because this relation was hardly really developed.

The contact between them needed no words; it meant nothing to Sunstar, who knew nothing of kings, and Romilly knew that while he might, and probably would, come to love and trust Carolin, no other would ever ride Sunstar with that same sense of close oneness with the horse. Suddenly, she felt sorry for Carolin. The beautiful black stallion might be his. But she, Romilly, would always own him in both their hearts. (pg. 675)

Blargh. Bye.

Comment [5]

Chapter 15:

When we last left Romilly, she was being mortally offended by the idea that she might not be the center of the universe. Ruyven’s minding the sentry-birds, and tells Romilly that Orain wants the birds to be ready to fly and spy on the EVVVIL KEENG’s armies. Romilly essentially, has a skulking fit:

Orain had admired her and trusted her, and when he knew her a woman, all that went into discard and she was just another nonentity, another woman, perhaps a danger to him. But that was Orain’s problem and not hers; she had done nothing to deserve being ruthlessly cast out of his affections like that.

And he is the loser by it. Not I. (Pg. 677)

So…because he doesn’t love you, he looks down on all women and every single possible slight must be fixated upon. All right. Whatever. I don’t remember Romilly being all women in the world, but then again, I must not be able to grasp the amazing wonderfulness that is MZB. But wait! There’s still more:

She said steadily, “I value Orain’s gifts better than you know; I travelled with him and worked close to him for many moons. I do not think he should look down on me simply because I am a woman; I have shown I can do my work as well and skillfully as any man.” (Pg 677)

Ok. All right. I’d rather have this shown, but since someone is determined to tell me things instead of showing me them and making me loathe instead of like Romilly, I’ll just roll with the punches. So Romilly and Ruyven have a small discussion about their lives, followed by a small argument on how good and noble the REEL KEENG must be if he lets women be oppressed:

Why is Ruyven the king’s hawkmaster and I regarded only as his helper? I am a professional Swordswoman and it is I who have the greater skill. Ruyven would rather be in his Tower, and this work is life to me. He says himself that in the Tower woman are allowed to hold high offices, yet it never seems to occur to him that I, his little sister, should be treated with that kind of fairness. Carolin’s armies, then, are ruled by the old notion that a man must always do any work better than the most skilled of women? (Pg. 678)

Nom nom nom, om nom. I won’t deny it; this whole chapter is essentially about Romilly complaining that she’s a special snowflake and how people aren’t treating her with the respect she deserves. Not that they aren’t treating other women with the respect they deserve, because that’d involve her caring about other people and as we know, she is the center of the universe and people who don’t bow to her are horrible and evil and those who do are good, as when she’s taken to meet the REEL KEENG, who’s hooded and cloaked in the traditional fantasy fashion of people who’re trying to be inconspicuous.

And who who should King Carolin turn out to be but Dom Carlo? Wow, I never saw that coming! What a great plot twist! So Romilly presents Sunstar to him, and he sings her praises up and down:

He said to Romilly, “I thank you, and the Sisterhood, for this magnificent gift, and for your loyalty to me. Both are precious to me, believe me. And I have heard too, that you are to continue with your handling of the sentry-birds whose lives you saved when we met with you on the trail to Nevarsin. I shall not forget, my—” he hesistated a moment, smiled and said, “Swordswoman. Thank you—thank you all.” (Pg. 679-680)

And so because he personally praises Romilly, he’s Good:

Sunstar, then, does not go to a brutal or insensitive man, but to one who will reckon him at his true worth. (Pg. 680)

All right, miss judge of the whole world. There’s some more whining about how she can’t talk or relate to people anymore, and we get this comment:

I am closer to that horse than to anything human; closer than I have ever been to anything human. (Pg. 681)

I have a really hard time buying them when MZB basically Fails Animal Care Forever. How am I supposed to believe that she knows the ins and outs of a horse’s mind when she can’t even get horse/bird care and training down right? Then again, suspension of belief went out of the window a long time ago, and…ugh.

But that’s STILL not enough. It’s time to sleep, and Romilly wants to sleep amongst the men to be close to the birds. Jandria reminds her of the Sisterhood’s rules when outside hostels, and Romilly argues with her. Yes, a new initiate argues with her mistress over the EVILS OF SEXUAL SEGREGATION, and GETS AWAY WITH IT because SHE’S JUST THAT SPECIAL.

“I should sleep here with the birds,” Romilly said with a shrug. “No hawkmaster goes out of earshot of his trained birds—I will roll myself in my cloak, I need no tent.”

“But you cannot sleep amongst the men,” said Jandria, “it is not even to be thought of.”

“The king’s hawkmaster is my own brother born,” said Romilly, impatient now, “are you saying that he is likely to damage my virtue? Surely the presence of my older brother is protection enough!”

Jandria said with a touch of sharpness, “you know the rules for Swordswomen outside of their hostels! We cannot tell everyone in the army that he is your brother, and if it becomes known than oath-bound Swordswoman has slept alone in the tent with a man.”

“Their minds must be like the sewers of Tendara,” said Romilly angrily. “I am to leave my birds because of the dirty minds of some soldiers I do not even know?”

“I am sorry, I did not make the rules and I cannot unmake them,” said Jandria, “but you are sworn to obey them.” (Pg. 681)

So Romilly’s “fuming with wrath”, but obeys.

Oh, wait. Then what about everything that happens in Falconsward? I don’t remember the idiot being there all the time—oh wait, that was an excuse to argue, wasn’t it? And educate us on the evils of sexual segregation? But of course, Romilly’s convenience is more important than the reputation of the entire fucking Sisterhood, isn’t it?

She’s more important than whole organisations. She’s so special that a king who can amass a massive army apparently has to be dependent on a sixteen-year-old to fly his birds, and she does it better than anyone not because she’s studied hard and trained rigorously for years, but because of something she was born with. She’s so deserving of praise that anyone who doesn’t praise her is misogynistic because apparently she is representative of all women, and that no one can possibly dislike her because she’s a self-centered twat with an overinflated ego the size of a planet. No. The only reason anyone might dislike Romilly is because they are misogynists. Romilly is the ultimate ideal of a woman; any woman who begs to differ is a brainwashed pawn of the evil patriarchal regime.

Self-harm is not the answer here, folks. Self-harm is not the answer here. So Romilly skulks back to the hostel, and there’s a huge long stretch of whining:

And then she thought, resentfully, that she had been more free when she travelled in men’s clothes through the Hellers with Orain and Carlo—Carolin—and their little band of exiles. She had worked along with the men, had walked alone in the city, drunk in taverns. Now her movements were restrained to what the rules of the Sisterhood thought suitable to avoid trouble or gossip. Even as a free Swordswoman, she was not free.

Still grumbling a little, she made ready for bed. It struck her again; even these free women, how petty their lives seemed! Jandria she loved, and she could speak freely with Jandria without stopping to censor her thoughts; but even Jandria was trammeled by the question of, what would the men in the army think, if the Swordswoman were not bound by their rules to be proper and ladylike as any marriageable maiden in the Hellers? Clea, too, she respected and genuinely liked, but still she had few friends in the Sisterhood. Yet when I came among them, I though [sic] I had found, at last, freedom to be myself and still let it be known that I was a woman, not the pretense of male disguise.

I do not want to be a man among men, and hide what I am. But I do not care much for the society of women—not even Swordswomen—either. Why can I never be contented, wherever I am? (Pg. 682)

1. Know-it-all.

“First, you must be convinced of your own self-importance, and you must be under the delusion that everyone else is an idiot except for you. It helps to be a college student, so you should all do just fine.”

2. Spoiled

“Second, you must be obsessed with your own rights and freedoms, have a sense of undeserved entitlement, and suffer from a disease called ‘I-can-do-whatever-the-f***-I-want-becau
se-I’m-convinced-that-there’re-absolutely-no-consequences-for-any-of-my-actions’.”

3. Despises authority

“And lastly, you must fancy yourself a rebel who stands against all forms of authority, and thinks that the government, corporations, and ‘the man’ are responsible for all the woes in the world, which of course isn’t very rebellious at all; it’s what every other twenty-something moron who thinks that he’s an individual with an original thought believes.”

…What the fuck. Is the bitch ever going to stop whining? What else does she want? What MORE does she want?

Because the problem is always with other people, not with her. Because it’s not that she’s a bitch, it’s because other people are close-minded and misogynistic. Because it’s not that she’s a shallow, self-centered person with an entitlement complex, it’s because the patriarchy is out to get her. Because it’s not that she gave her word to obey the Sisterhood’s rules and wants to disregard them now, it’s because even the lesbian group is close-minded because they care about how others might see them in a society of y’know, PEOPLE.

Maybe if Romilly stopped being such a stuck-up whiny shit who refuses to count her blessings, I’d like her marginally more. Not likely, though. So she wakes up the next day, and goes to check on the birds. There’s a young officer by the birds, and apparently he’s there to look for his cousin, Lady Maura, who’s donated most of the birds to Carolin’s cause.

So Romilly takes her anger out on him. The reason? He calls her “Hawkmaster” instead of “Hawkmistress”. And that makes Romilly go apeshit all over him because he’s an “arrogant lowland lordlet”, and he just sits there and takes it until Ruyven comes on the scene. So Romilly’s still fuming as Ruyven calms down the situation, but explodes again when he asks her nicely to wake up the Lady Maura and tell her than her cousin’s here:

“Romy, you are ready for riding? Awaken the Lady Maura that a kinsman seeks her?”

His offhand assumption of authority nettled Romilly; so for this arrogant lowland lordlet, she was to become errand-girl to some plains lady? “It’s not that easy,” she snapped, “the birds must be fed, and I’m nae servant to the lady; if ye’ want her fetched and carried for, me lord, ye’ can even do it yerself.” She realized with horror that her strong mountain accent was back in her speech when her year in the plains had almost smoothed it away. Well, she was a mountain girl, let him make of it what he wanted. She was a Swordswoman and no lowlander to bow and scrape before the Hali’imyn! Ruyven looked scandalized, but before he could speak a soft voice said: (Pg. 684-685)

So essentially the Lady Maura’s been woken from her tent, and the issue of Romilly being a rude bitch to an officer for no reason is whitewashed away. Oh, and she didn’t have an accent, even when she was speaking all the way at the start of the book. Why one now? Oh wait, it’s just another convenient way to give her more angst, and vanish when not needed. Hurrah hurrah.

So the next two or three pages are about introducing the Lady Mauria. Essentially, she sends away her cousin, telling him that she’ll be ready within the hour. So the introduction is essentially:

-She’s from one of the Towers and deals with birds.
-She learns of Romilly’s laran and is shocked that it’s so strong without even being trained.

And that is…pretty much it. The rest is just filler. So Lady Maura goes out and feeds the birds, and Romilly has this to say:

“So she is not some soft-handed lady who wishes to be waited on hand and foot,” Romilly said, grudgingly approving. (Pg. 687)

What? She needs your approval? She’s a trained sorceress of considerable power, and you’re just whiny sixteen-year old bitch who thinks that you know the wildernesses of the human heart well enough to be able to judge people correctly with a single glance. What the F—- makes you think she even gives TWO SHITS what you think of her or whether you give her your approval? Do you really think that highly of yourself Romilly? Really, are you so arrogant to think that the only right way for a woman to live is as you do?

Fuck. I can’t take any more of this. I’m going to bed, and damn right I am going to have nightmares.

Comment [7]

Chapter 15, Part the second:

When we last left Romilly, she was being a prick to the world in general and had gotten away with insulting pretty much every single important figure in the REEL KEENG’s army, with the exception of the REEL KEENG himself. So she’s met this powerful sorceress from the Tower’s named Lady Maura, and they’re currently riding out with a detachment of men from the army to the battlefield so they can use their so-called sentry-birds to spy on the EVIL KEENG’s armies.

Whoo, yay.

So they’re on their way there, and Romilly strikes up a conversation is the Lady Maura. Essentially, filler aside she learns that Lady Maura has the same kind of hawk that she has, only it’s not with her at the moment, and there’s some whining about how she hasn’t seen Preciosa in a year now and that the stupid bird must be free and happy and all that other shit. Oh, no worries, the stupid bird will turn up. But the conversation turns to whether Romilly’s had any proper training as to her magic, and it’s here that her arrogance really shines through:

“Why did you never go to a Tower for training, Romilly? Surely you have laran enough—”

“If you know Ruyven, and how he had to come there,” said Romilly, “then you will know already why I did not.”

“Yet you left your home, and quarreled with your kin,” said Maura, quietly insistent, “after that, I should think you would have come at once—”

And so I had intended, Romilly thought. But I made my way on my own, and now have no need of the training the leronis told me I must have. I know more of my own laran than any stranger. She fell into a stubborn silence, and Lady Maura forbore to question her further. (Pg. 688)

““The beginning of wisdom is the statement ‘I do not know.’ The person who cannot make that statement is one who will never learn anything.”—Thrall.

That’s right, folks. A sixteen-year-old a little more than a year out in the world believes a whole community of magicians who have practised, studied and researched magic for generations have nothing to teach her, that she surpasses them all. Good lord, is her sense of self-importance, really that great? Then again, judging from the previous half of this chapter, why am I not surprised?

So they ride for a few more days, and reach the edges of the battlefield where the big clash between the REEL KEENG and the EVIL KEENG is going to happen. Maura is about to unleash the sentry birds to do their spying, but Romilly states that she doesn’t know how to use them for war. What we get is this reaction:

Maura looked startled, but quickly covered it, and Romilly was amazed; she is being polite to me? (Pg 689)

I think I’ll let this speak for itself, because thinking of the implications just sends my brain into terrible, terrible pain. So Maura explains how to see through the eyes of the birds while they’re in flight, and that raises the question: doesn’t the EVIL KEENG have his own magicians, EVVVIL CHANCELLOR aside? We haven’t seen the EVIL KEENG or his army or the real threat that he poses that isn’t in retaliation for the movements made by the REEL KEENG and his agents, so how is he threatening again? The EVIL KEENG doesn’t have power or magic, he doesn’t show his face, and he’s utterly failed to do anything at all, let alone harm any of the characters. How is he even an antagonist?

Don’t ask. Anyways, Romilly gets it perfectly on the first try—what, did you expect anything else? So she links with the birds, and the REEL KEENG links with her, and they go out with the bird, not that anyone actually spots it or tries to shoot it down:

…There the shores of Mirin Lake, and beyond that, Neskaya to the north, at the edge of the Kilghard Hills. And there…ah, Gods, another circle of blackness, not from the scar of forest-fire, but where Rakhal’s men have rained clingfire from the sky from their infernal flying machines! My people and they burn and die beneath Rakhal’s fires when it was given to me and I swore with my hand in the fires of Hali that I would protect them against all pillage and rapine while they were loyal to me, and for that loyalty they burn…

…Rakhal, as Aldones lives, I shall burn that hand from you with which you have sown disaster and death on my people…and Lyondri I shall hang like a common criminal for he has forfeited the right to a noble death; the life he now lives as Rakhal’s sower of death and suffering is more ignoble than death at the hands of the common hangman…(Pg. 690)

Consider me educated on the horrors of clingfire, which is so totally not napalm and the random flying machines which we’ve never seen or heard of before up until now. Gee, I wonder why they’ve never been seen before, or why the EVIL KEENG doesn’t use them to get around. MY point still stands. EVIL KEENG and EVIL CHANCELLOR still haven’t done anything that can’t be explained beyond reasonable doubt as attempting to suppress dangerous renegades. The GREAT and MIGHTY MZB is attempting to strong-arm me without proof into disliking EVIL KEENG and EVIL CHANCELLOR, and utterly failing because THEY HAVEN’T DONE ANYTHING CONCLUSIVELY EVIL AND EVERYONE WHO CLAIMS THEY ARE HAVE A STAKE IN SAYING THEY ARE.

So they’ve spied out the EVIL KEENG’s armies, and Romilly is so exhausted she blacks out. We get a typical “I need no man” scene, starring Maura’s cousin:

Ranald Ridenow came and said, “lean on me, if you wish, Sowrdswoman,” but she straightened herself proudly.

“Thank you, I can walk,” she said. (Pg. 691)

So…you’ve just fainted, are about to do so again, and won’t accept his help because you want to appear strong and non-reliant on anyone with a penis. All right, go ahead and do that if you want; I don’t care anymore. At what point is pride cut off and knowing when to accept needed help crucial? I don’t know about your line, but I know where I’m drawing mine.

Ugh.

Anyways, she goes to bed, and a completely trippy dream where she’s a bird and flies around, and there’s some random angsting. You know, your standard fantasy nightmare. And of course, Lady Maura, whom she’s sharing a tent with, wakes her up and says she’s been having something called threshold sickness, but Romilly pushes her away and says she’s fine, although she’s clearly not.

Incoming Limyaael quote:

“Sometimes it seems as if most fantasy characters who’ve undergone a trauma suffer nightmares, mainly as an excuse for more drama (waking pale and shaking, not sleeping well, giving the other characters an excuse to worry, etc.) However, there are several problems with always doing this.

a) There are other consequences to trauma than nightmares, to which much less attention is ever paid. Probably because they wouldn’t be dramatic and might actually inconvenience the character.

b) It becomes more pointless dream drama when the characters refuse to talk about their nightmares, even when they’re obviously having them.

c) Too many fantasy authors lack the ability to write something truly frightening, so the nightmares sound silly and incapable of inspiring such terror when described.

d) It’s too easy a way to show character suffering. Rather than have an outside observer note subtle signs of inner struggle, or even narrate it through the sufferer’s thoughts, the author goes the cheap and obvious route. And then, too often, she fails to follow through even on that. Sleep loss never incapacitates the character. The shadow of the nightmares, or the shadow of whatever caused them, goes unmentioned whenever the author wants the character to do something else. The character never has to spend any time reassuring himself that such dreams aren’t real or shiver in terror, the way that ordinary people do when they wake from ordinary nightmares.

Just as ordinary dreams shouldn’t be used as a substitute for getting information to your character, nightmares shouldn’t be used as an excuse to avoid actually making a character suffer.”

Yep. And of course, Lady Maura, being Good, lets Romilly do what she wants although she knows better:

After a moment Maura sighed and put out the lantern, and Romilly picked up a fragment of her thought [sic], stubborn, but I should not intrude, she is no child, perhaps her brother… (Pg. 693)

She IS a child. She’s been fucking behaving like one for the whole of the book, bitching, screaming, whining and generally trying to feed her overinflated sense of self-entitlement without thought as to the needs and wants of other people. If that isn’t childishness, I don’t know what it is.

Oh wait, she’s grown physically and has TEH BULGING MUSCLES now, so she’s obviously so mature. And I laugh. And laugh. And laugh. So they wake up the next day and prepare to ride out again, and before the cahpter ends we get this piece of filth:

I should not let them pamper me. I do not want Ruyven, nor Orain, nor Carolin himself, to think that because I am a woman I must be favoured. Orain will respect me if I am as competent as man…(Pg. 694)

Oh really? Oh REALLY? What about all the times she sought praise from them, and threw tantrums that they weren’t respecting her capabilities when they didn’t lavishly praise her? What about not accepting help that she clearly needs, and making others worry about her like that? Not favoured? Not favoured? Give me a fucking break.

And as for Orain? Why, Romilly lied to him about her identity. Even when she knew that he was becoming interested in her and that he didn’t quite swing her way, she kept up the deception to the very end. Does she care about how Orain must have felt back then? Does she even spare a thought for others? No, it’s all about her. How does she expect Orain to harbour no bad feelings for her when she’s done all of this to him?

No, she’s not at fault; by the very fucking laws of this twisted universe Romilly can NEVER be at fault. It’s because Orain is a bloody misogynist, that’s why he hates her.

Fuck you, MZB. Fuck you very much. And to think I actually attempted to submit something to Sword and Sorceress. If this is the sort of stuff that they’re accepting there because of her legacy, then fuck it, I don’t want to have anything to do with such trash.

Comment [9]

The witches of Eileanan:

***

“Her father threw back his head and roared again, and the mirror was filled with the unsavoury sight of his tongue and tusks. “So be it,” he said at last. “Each time we have struggled to regain what is rightfully ours, the dragons have set their will against us. I am displeased, though, daughter.” He spat the note out with contempt and, indeed, for him to remind her of her lowly status was to insult her. To him and his kind, daughters were mere pawns in the games of power they all played so relentlessly. If times were hard, it was the girl babies who were drowned so there would be more food for the boys. If a female child survived to adulthood, she had no control over her future, being mated to whatever male her father or brother favoured at the time. Manliness was proved by displays of brutality and strength, and the dviding up of food, space and women decided by manliness.”

***

“Curse your feminine mysteries. Curse your sleek, sly ways. That I should have to leave such matters in the hands of fools and weaklings! That the proud children of Jor should have fallen so low to depend on a imbecilic half-breed woman!”

***

Dragonknight:

***

“She glanced away, then down. Bardon decided she was younger than he’d first thought. Probably a little younger than his friend Kale. But where Dragon Keeper Kale Allerion had a determined expression about her eyes and in the tilt of her chin, this fair maiden resembled a lost kitten. splashes of dark purple blood covered the front of her homespun dress, looking incongruous on someone who radiated such innocence.”

***

A small smile slipped into place on the gentle tumanhofer’s face. “There are words, but I hear them in my thoughts, not with my ears. I hear voices a lot. It used to scare me when I was little, but someone told me about Wulder, and from then on, I could tell which voices were good and which were bad. I learned to shield myself from the bad voices.”

“For true? What did the bad voices say?”

Sittiponder laughed. “Do you know that hadly anyone ever asks me what the good voices say?”

Ahnek rolled his eyes. “Well, what do the good voices say?”

“They tell me secrets of the universe.”

“Secrets?”

Sittiponder nodded.

***

After an hour, the meech dragon began translating the pages with much less difficulty than his instructor. Bardon laughed at his friend’s ability to grasp the nuances of a language to quickly, but the mapmaker stared open-mouthed. He slammed his mouth shut, furrowed his brow in a fierce frown, and shook his finger at the meech.

“What’s this? Were you lying to me?” demanded the enraged tumanhofer.

“No,” Bardon leaned forward from where he sat watching the two. “He has always learned at a phenomenal rate. Didn’t the meech you encountered in Punipmate exhibit incredible mental abilities?”

***

Bardon exchanged glances with Regidor as the will-traveled tumanhofer talked of various cultures and their similarities.

“Don’t be so alarmed, Bardon. He can still be of use to us even if his beliefs are tarnished.”

The coin is cold in my hand. Paladin said to shun those people who did not have a heart for our quest.

Regidor’s eyes returned to the pleasant tableau of an afternoon tea. “What are you going to do. Put him on a dragon and send him back to Wittoom?”

Perhaps. We needed Bromptotterpindosset to translate the diary. Now you can do that.

“Yes, but the diary belongs to the mapmaker. If he goes back, the diary and his maps go with him.”

***

The mapmaker sat at ease, clearly a man accustomed to sitting at the tables of refined citizens. He held the others’ attention with a story of a deity popular among the Ataradari, a tribe on one of the smaller southern continents. This Ataradarian character of folklore rewarded cleverness and beauty from his powerful seat of authority on a mountaintop.

Bardon twisted his lips. Even a child learning the rudiments of the Tomes knows cleverness and beauty are temporal achievements and have nothing to do with lasting contentment.

***

Bardon took a couple of deep breaths and went on. “When people are confronted with an outside enemy, they band together for mutual protection. a physical threat unifies.”

“Correct,” said Regidor.

“But ideas, contrary concepts, shades of differing opinions, theories, these things shatter commonality.”

“I agree,” said Regidor. “A quiss rises up out of the mist, and one knows one must kill or be killed. A man says over a pint of ale at the tavern that he believes Wulder is one form of universal fable, and who contradict him? No one. Yet his words are belittling the truth, wounding the strength of our convictions.”

***

He stood and moved toward Kale. When he was face to face with her, he looked her in the eye and spoke in a strong, gentle voice. “you can move your feet now.”

Her eyes widened, and she inhaled sharply. Without hesistation, she moved into his arms.

“How did you do that? Was it wizardry?”

“What held you was a suggestion, only a suggestion. I merely spoke the truth.”

“How did you know?”

He pulled her close to him and hugged her while his eyes roamed around the room, taking in the area from this vantage point. He spoke while he sized up the strategic elements of the layout. “My studies have covered physical, mental and spiritual laws. Yours have focused on the physical elements of Wulder’s world. You can alter things you understand. You can change water into ice. You can form cloth and then change the cloth. But your training has not introduced you fully to the spiritual realm. In the spiritual there are truth and lies. And truth is the stronger of the two.”

***

Touched by Venom:

***

Right away, I noticed their erections. Truth, I’d been looking for them, as had Waisi and Kobo’s twins, Rutvia and Makvia. All four of us poked each other and tittered. Behind us, Mother yanked on Waisi’s and the twins’ braids with her strong potter’s hands. She even yanked on my own scabby bristle, causing instant tears. We paid heed. Unwise while in the presence of so much masculinity to mock the phallus.

A venom cock, they’re called. I’d heard the words grunted respectfully among the pottery clan men. I’d also heard the words mentioned by women wearing a carefully blank expression cultivated to hide opinion. Understand, women do not revere the venom cock as men do. They see it for what it is: an uncontrollable reaction to an impending event, and a slightly foolish reaction at that.

***

There’s something about a full-figured adolescent girl using a whip that has always attracted Malacarite men.

***

Hey-o, was he handsome! He was the perfect result of Archipelagic and Malacrite breeding, broad shouldered, skin the colour of aged ivory, eyes the colour of rich, wet loam. His beauty made me acutely aware of my sorry state and my nonexistent hips and breasts.

Our eyes met as he approached our tent.

My gaze lingered overlong on him, I did not drop my eyes as I should have. I couldn’t; his beauty held me in its thrall.

Still swinging his oily instruments, still droning stanzas, he came toward me.

He moved with an easy confidence; he knew the power of his looks, and that reminded me of Waisi. Indeed, he was exactly the type of self-assured, attractive young man that would have cast eyes at Waisi while at market, and she at him. But here he was, looking at me, and as he continued to step over the prone sick and pick his way round refuse, a flush started up my cheeks and my heart beat faster.

He stood before me. He continued to regard me, and up close, I could see his look was not what he would have directed at Waisi, not at all. There was too much poise and amusement in his mien, and I knew, in my secret heart, that he was merely diverting himself, momentarily, from his tedious task of purifying soiled ground.
But I didn’t care.

I was thrilled by the stir of emotions his attention evoked. His eyes direct upon mine stirred some small animal within me, a creature that not only sought food and light, but seemed, in fact, ravemous. No man had looked at me that way before, in jest or otherwise, and yet here stood the most beautiful young man I’d ever laid eyes on, his whole attention focused solely upon me.

He smiled; my heart nearly burst with joy, and a peculiar heat bloomed near my bladder.

“You’re beautiful,” I whispered, not realizing till the words left me lips that I would speak.

He smiled twitched. He lifted a foot. Dropped it gently down on my closest leg. Stroked.

I held my breath, was lost in the sensation of his skin gliding over mine and the magnificence of his eyes.

“Like that?” he murmured.

I could not speak, felt faint, would have done anything that he asked of me, instantly.

A bead of his sweat fell slow-slow through the air and landed on my cheek. I touched it with a finger, brought the finger to my lips. Savoured the briny taste.

His look altered somewhat, darkened briefly, and his foot fell still on my leg, and I knew, I knew, that for that moment I held him in a thrall much the way Waisi usually entranced men. exhilaration swooped through me; I felt desirable and female and canny with seduction for the first time in my life.

***

Hands nudged my thighs apart. I tried to lift my head to see. The hand on my forehead pressed down firmly.

Confusion flooded me, spiraling rapidly into panic, and equally as swiftly the hands about me tightened and my ankles were grasped and my loincloth was tugged off. I bucked and turned and cried out; the grindstone squealed back. The crouched onais pinned me down by kneeling on my elbows and ankles, which hurt, and something cold and wet was slapped over my sex. Thick, it was, like aloe jelly, and it clung obscenely to me, a strange, invading beast smeared over my crotch and leaking cold against my anus.

Anyways, we learn that the stuff is diluted dragon venom, which is an analgesic and hallucinogen. Zarq starts having happy fun illusions which end when the nuns start cutting out her clitoris:

A shocking pain in my sex, a blinding white tug. The cloud and the millstone song vanished.

Burning pain radiated from my groin up into my belly and down deep into my thighs, a nauseating, engulfing never-ending pain that threatened to split my head apart, and it didn’t end, it increased, and someone was wailing, a breathless ongoing scream.

***

From the kneeled women, Boj-est rose to her feet. She did it not as an arthritic crone, but with the fluid grace of a bayen lady. Whatever had been in the goblet had imparted a measure of youth and strength to her limbs.

She stepped onto the cloak and into its center, her feet sinking into glossy fur. As the kneeling onais continued their intoxicating hum, Boj-est stripped.

Her old hemp tunic fell away from her body and slithered to the fur as if made of silk. She wore no bark-cloth leggings, must have shucked them prior to all this, and she stood there magnificently naked.

I say magnificently, for that was what she looked. No hunchbacked, cavern-chested, scrawny-limbed crone did I see, but instead an empyreal creature, her naked breasts full and taut, her belly softly rounded, her hips lush, and her buttocks high and ripe. What magics were these, to transform her so?

I should have felt fear, but I could not. the music held me in its thrall, was a fire in my heart, a spice on my lips, a yearning on my tongue. I felt swollen and languid and full of growing want.

Boj-est raised her knees in a child-birthing position. The onais who knelt about her leaned forward, still droning their intoxicating Djimbi chant. They reached out and ran hands lightly over her glorious body. Palms caressed her stomach, fingers trailed over her tip bones, down her thighs, disappeared into her dark cleft.

My nipples hardened; heat pulsed into my groin.

Lutche fought the muzzle pole hooked in his nare. His dessicated wings fluttered, fanning Nnp-trn, who held him still.

Boj-est panted and moaned.

“Now, oh, now,” she gasped.

Abruptly, the women pulled back. Nnp-trn unhooked Lutche. The dragon lunged forward, great arrowed snout diving between Boj-est’s legs.

I closed my eyes against the terrible sight but could not escape the inebriating Djimbi chants or Boj-est’s esctatic gasps, and desire bloomed within me, climbed higher and higher and so deliciously higher—

Boj-est cried out.

Her cry rang around the rotunda, sent a flurry of bats chattering into the night. My eyes snapped open and I found myself panting, sweat slicked, my trembling hands between my thighs.

***

Bitterwood:

***

“This is how Bant Bitterwood learned that hate could change the world.

This is how Bant Bitterwood found God.”

***

Jandra’s heart fluttered at Bodiel’s beauty.

***

“Humans these days are worthless,” Albekizan said, addressing the High Biologian. “In my youth the humans had more spirit. They were always finding sharp rocks to wield as weapons, or hiding in tiny caves. I remember how one doubled back and hid within the palace for two days before being captured. Now, the slaves run blindly, leaving a trail of excretement any fool could follow. Why can’t we find good prey anymore, Metron?”

***

“He’s Bitterwood,” said Albekizan. “The predator. He’s no mere human.”

***

“Still, I am not blind to the possibility that other humans assist Bitterwood,” Albekizan said. That’s why I’ve called you here. We are going to devise a way to remove the stench of humans from my kingdom forever. I’ve tolerated their kind far too long. They breed like rats. Their dung-encrusted villages spread disease. They create nuisance by leeching off dragons as beggars and thieves.”

Metron broke the silence by clearing his throat, then asked, “all humans, sire?”

“Every last one.”

“From what area?”

“From the world.”

***

More to come from all the others I’ve suffered through.

Comment [7]

Chapter 16:

Before you ask, I’ll answer: there are about sixty-three pages before we reach the end of this book. Sixty-three pages left, and there’s been no sign of the antagonist, nor what he wants beyond “I want to rule the world!” Nor has he come on stage.

Well. In our last section Romilly took the birds to spy on the EVIL KEENG, and they’re waiting for the main body of the REEL KEENG’s army to arrive. Fair enough. We get some filler on Romlly being able to reach the stupid horse she’s named Sunstar even at this distance, and we get even more whining:

And I have no friend, no lover, I am alone, alone as any monk in his solitary cell in the ice caves of Nevarsin…and wondered what she was thinking about, for even now her mind was filled with the awareness of the great stallion racing in the sun, and Carolin with him, riding… (Pg. 697)

About the only thing that might save this stupid stretch of boredom was if that stupid horse suddenly got frisky and it got passed on to Romilly, who then proceeded to hump a mare. But then, that’s just my disgusting mind and terrible loathing of Romilly speaking. Once the two pages of filler are done, who should arrive but the REEL KEENG! Of course, the first person he goes to see is Romilly, because she’s that special, and again, lavishly praises her for her efforts in scouting out the EVIL KEENG’s armies. Then we get this:

Carolin said, looking at them sadly, “still, I swore to protect my people, even if I must protect them from the Hastur kin who are unmindful of that oath. I wish you couold know how little I want Rakhal’s throne, or how gladly I would cede it to him if only he would treat my people as a king must, respecting them and protecting them…” {pg. 698-699)

UH, BUT HE HASN’T DONE ANYTHING WRONG. Yes, really. He hasn’t. Everything we’ve seen EVIL KEENG and his minions do, from taking away people’s homes to the nuclear bombing to napalm bombing has been in retaliation to the REEL KEENG doing shit. As I said, it’s a Galbatorix situation. Maybe if the REEL KEENG ceded now, everything would be just peachy keen. We’re only told that he’s this evil, unjust ruler, and that’s only be the most biased sources possible. We were in Hali, and the people there seemed fed and content. Goddamn, at least even in the shittiest fantasy the peasants are complaining about taxes, and there’s none of that whining here. NOT EVEN TAXES.

How…why…this book makes my brain hurt. So Romilly, notices Sunstar, and goes to meet the bugger, and of course he loves her. Why? Because we’ve been told all along that she’s had a wonderful relationship with this horse, not that we’ve ever seen it developed or anything, but apparantly the GREAT and MIGHTY MZB seems to feel that if she tells us something it’s as good as true.

“Indeed, I think he is missing you,” Carolin said, and she went to Sunstar, where Carolin had flung his reins around a rail when he dismounted, and flung her arms around the horse.

You are a king’s mount but still you are mine, she said, not in words, and felt Sunstar in her mind, reaching out, mine, love, together, sunlight/sunstar/ always together in the world… (Pg. 699)

I think there’s enough cheese to go around, and oh look, it’s hippie trash flavour. Great for chewing up and spitting out again, although not so much for swallowing. That’s barely over when Ruyven goes up and asks her what’s going on:

“What ails you, Romy? Are you sick?”

She said brusquely, “no,” and went to the birds. (Pg. 699)

Way to be an asshole to someone who was only concerned for you. Oh well, we all know that SHE NEEDS NO MAN to care for her, and is strong and independent and mature, although having exhibited none of these things, but of course since she wears pants and the great MZB tells us she is then she is, innit?

Anyways, she buggers around and manages to eavesdrop on Maura, Ranald and Orain. They’re making small talk, and it’s rather pointless save rather ugly quote:

Ranald said, “I am willing to try. And perhaps Mistress Romilly would be willing to school me. Though like all Swordswomen she is arrogant and harsh of tongue—” and Maura’s merry laughter, saying he was not used to Women who did not regard him, a Ridenow lord, as a special creation for their delight.

“Oh, come, Maura, I am not all that much of a womaniser, but if women were made by the Goddess Evanda for the delight of men, why should I refuse the Lady of Light her due by failing to worship Her in her creation, the loveliness of women?” (Pg. 700)

Urk. Ugh. Fine. So it’s some time later, and Romilly is approached by Ranald, for he wants to help with the birds, too. Her reaction?

She did not like the way he looked at her. It reminded her all too much of Dom Garris, or even Rory, as if he had physically fingered her young breasts with rude hands; she was painfully aware of his look—I have never felt this way before—and of the open desire in it. But he had done nothing, said nothing, how could she make any objection to it? She drew her cloak about her as if she was cold, and gestured him toward the birds. (Pg. 700)

Before she can lambast him, though, he apologises profusely for even daring to look at her the wrong way. More blahs, more filler, Maura comments how this place is a wasteland now because of war but Romilly can only think of how beautiful the fields are with the grasses and flowers now that the evil earth-raping humans have gone from the area, blah blah…

Oh, and did I mention that stupid horse gets horny, and as a result she does as well?

There were no more words, but Sunstar, and Romilly with him, sensed an outflow, an outpouring of emotion that made him restless, made him prance until Carolin chided him with a tug on the reins, and in Romilly’s mind were flooding images of sleek flanks and satiny bodies, of swift running in moonlight, which made her rub her head as if she were feverish, with unfamiliar sensations flooding her whole body, so that she retreated abruptly into herself, away from the great stallion’s unfamiliar emotions and touch.

What has come over me, that i am so filled with emotion, that I laugh and cry without a word spoken of a touch? (Pg 703)

I shall not ask, and it’s frankly better if I don’t get an answer at all. Anyways, Ruyven tells her they’re camping for the night, and we get another instance of her being Just That Special to get away with insubordination:

It was Orain who brought her the word, riding through the mass of men and horses and equipment flowing along the road, calling out, “where are you off to, Romilly? The vai dom has requested you to attend him!”

“I know,” said Romilly, and went on toward the king, leaving Orain staring and surprised behind her. (Pg 703-704)

I don’t know. I really don’t know. How is it possible to hate this little stuck-up bitch any more? Oh, wait, I can. Just wait a little while longer. We learn that the REEL KEENG wants the magicians here to cast an illusion about the army so they’re invisibibibible. Fair enough. What’s not fair is that Maura brings up the matter of Romilly’s magic again, that she should really get it properly trained because it might be dangerous to herself and those around her.

Romilly’s response?

She said, even more stiffly, “The people of MacAran have been animal trainers, working with birds and horses and dogs, since time unknown; and not all of them have been supervised by the Towers either.” A trace of the mountain accent crept back in her speech, as if the echo of her father’s voice, saying, “the Hali’imyn would have it that a man’s own mind must be ruled over by their leronyn and their Towers!” (Pg. 704)

Why, does she get a bitchslap for her impudence? Does the REEL KING chide her for whining at someone far more experienced and trained than her? No, instead Maura grovels and kowtows to her, happily allowing Romilly to escape the logical consequences of her actions yet again. But noooo. The bitch’s still not appeased:

It annoyed Romilly—Maura was not so much older than she was herself, why did she think she was needed to straighten out Romilly’s laran?

I was left on my own with it, and now when I need it no longer they are eager to offer help! I was not offered help when my father would have sold me to Dom Garris, and there was none to help me when I would have been raped by Rory, or when I made an idiot of myself forcing my way into Orain’s bed. I have won these battles alone and unhelped, what makes them think I need their damned condescension now? (Pg. 705)

What. The. Fuck.

I mean, really, what the fuck. None of these events had anything to do with her magic, and the were absolutely no magicians around, or even if they were, what could they have done? Why is she blaming the magicians for her lot in life? Does she imagine they should have personally rushed to her aid every time she was in trouble, with all their powers? The magicians of the world dropping everything for a sixteen-year-old? I mean, what the fuck? This is the greatest entitlement complex I have ever seen, and she not only gets away with it scot free, but the reader is expected to not only empathise, but side with this whiny shit of a bitch?

How the hell did this woman not just get published, but her works are considered classics of the genre? How? The? Fuck? It makes no sense, even if we consider the reading trends of the 1970s.

I’ll sum up the next five pages, because they’re mostly filler. Romilly is invited to join the Sisters in their mess hall, but refuses? Why? Because she’s “too weary and raw-edged for the chatter, the nose and giggling of the young women of the Sisterhood.” So what does she do? Oh, join the men, of course. Because she’s just that special and the men have more fun, although I’m not sure how lots of drinking and singing somehow automatically equates to more fun, but it’s more proof that the evvvvil men are witholding fun from women, and that heterosexual women are too dumb and stupid to come up with anything fun on their own and the only way to have fun is do it like men. We get some songs, and since I’m not good at poetry or songs I’ll reserve judgement.

Anyways, Romilly strikes a conversation with Maura’s cousin, and gets pretty drunk in the process. After the fun and games are over, Ranald takes her to his tent and we get this rather nauseating…THING that reminds me of the worst of Touched by Venom:

Sunstar, too, seemed flooded with the restlessness of the four moons and their light…now she was linked deep in rapport with the stallion…this was not new to her, she had sensed this before, in begone summers, but never with the full strength of her awakened laran, her suddenly wakeful body…the scent of the grass, the flooding of life through her veins till she was all one great aching tension…sweet scents with a tang of what seemed to shared and doubled senses a tang of musk and summer flowers and something she did not even recognize, so deeply was it part of herself, profoundly sexual, sweeping away barriers of thought and understanding…at one and the same time she was one with the great stallion in rut, and she was Romilly, frightened, fighting to break out of the rapport which she hadm before this, shared so unthinking, it was too much for her now, she could not contain it, she was bursting with the pressure of the raw, animal sexuality under the stimulating light of the moons…she felt her own body twisting and turning as she fought to escape, hardly knowing what it was she dreaded, but if it should happen she ws terrified, she would not bear it she would be drawn in forever and never get back to her own body what body she had no idea it was too much unendurable…PASSION, TERROR, RUT…NO, NO…(Pg. 710-711)

So when she comes to her senses she’s fucked Ranald. Whee. At least McCaffrey was nice enough to skim it over when her dragon riders had sex. Here?

Lenka Pelakova is not amused.

But of course it’s all right, because she’s the one who wanted it:

She kissed him thankfully, astonished and delighted. It had happened so naturally, it now seemed so sweet and right to here. A random thought, as she floated off into sleep, touched her mind at the edge of the laughter.

It would never have been like this with Dom Garris! I was perfectly right not to marry him. (Pg. 712)

Uh, animalistic lust versus animalistic lust. I fail to see the difference here. Oh wait, that’s right. One is a caricature designed to serve Romilly’s purposes in the plot, and the other is a caricature designed to serve Romilly’s purposes in the plot…wait, that’s not it either. Oh, wait, one has MAJEEK, and the other doesn’t. Oh, and one is hot and sexy, while the other one is a fat fuck with clammy hands. Oh, and this one is sanctioned by Romilly, while the other isn’t.

Ultimate moral arbitrator, remember? Be still my vomit, as we end this chapter.

Comment [13]

Chapter 17:

In the last chapter, Romilly was being an arrogant prick to everyone in the world and getting away with it, because she’s just that special. And she just fucked a hot guy. So she’s back with the horses, facing her super-speshul stallion, and she feels no uneasiness about what happened last night. Guess why?

bq Maura told me, about something else; horses have neither memory nor imagination. That is why I can pick up where I left off. (Pg 713)

Oh-kay. Horses have no memory? Are you sure? Then what’s the point of training? How would her super-speshul stallion remember and love her?

Is this woman just talking crap out of her ass to whitewash away any sense of unease Romilly might have? That she might be afraid to go back ot her super-speshul stallion, and we can’t have that, so we cook up a bowl of shit to excuse her. All right. So she goes and joins the Sisters, and they’re awash with gossip about how the REEL KEENG is in love with Maura. Of course, Romilly is all too aware of the fact that she’s fucked Ranald for no other reason than animalistic lust (or at least, I can only hope), and tries to whitewash her guilt and hypocrisy away AGAIN by excusing it away as love:

No, she would not speak of Ranald. They would not understand at all.

She knew that she had not disgraced her earring, nor brought the Sisterhood into contempt. Her oath bound her to nothing more; and at least she had not sold herself to that elderly lecher Dom Garris in return for riches and the prospering of her father’s horse-trade with Scathfell! (Pg. 715)

So you’re allowed to fuck around because it’s love, but other people aren’t. What part of reputation does she not understand? It shouldn’t be the case, but unfortunately most of the time it’s not what really happens that matters, it’s what people think that happens. Why not just not spread your legs in the first place and avoid all this justifying away? I mean, what’s good for the gander is good for the goose—if men can be told to keep it in their pants, I don’t see why it’s not acceptable the other way around.

So it’s time to fly the birds again to spy on the EVIL KEENG’s armies. Fair enough. All goes well at first, but Romilly fucks up and steers her birds too close. They’re spotted, and the EVIL KEENG’s men promptly shoot them down:

Diligence! She had flown her bird deliberately into the danger of those arrows, over-riding the bird’s own sense of caution, its instinct to fly high and away from danger. Guilt and grief fought within her for dominance. (Pg. 717)

So, is it her fault? Does she blame herself for fucking up? Does she do some soul-searching?

NO! It’s the REEL KEENG’s fault for sending the animals to war! It’s HIS fault for making her do all these horrible things that got the birdies killed! It’s never her fault! That’s the number one rule of the universe!

He drew a long breath. “They are away from the soldiers’ [sic] I sent them high up, out of range….I am sorry, Romy; you loved her—”

“And she loved life!” she flung at him wildly, “and died because of you and Carolin—ah, I hate you all, all you men and kings and your damned wars, none of them are worth a feather in her wing-tip—” and she dropped her head in her hands and broke into passionate crying. (Pg. 717)

And that is supposed to be the excuse for all! Romilly felt fury surging within her. They play with the lives of the wild things and hold themselves harmless, saying it is war…I question not their right to kill themselves and one another, but what does an innocent bird know or care of one king over another? (Pg. 718)

I doubt it not. Folk who would kill an innocent bird for some king’s claim, why should they stop at killing people too? (Pg. 718)

She thought, resentfully, that if what they taught in the Towers would teach her to be complacent about the deaths of innocent beasts who had no part in men and their wars, she was glad she had not had it! (Pg. 719)

Romilly’s first emotional reaction, was, the birds at least have done Rakhal no harm, who cannot men fight their battles without endangering the innocent? (Pg. 720)

Repeat after me:

WAAH WAAH WAAH.

She’s the one who drove the birds to their deaths because she was a fucking idiot, and suddenly it’s the REEL KEENG and the magicians who are to blame for this happening. So the EVIL KEENG’s armies are approaching with their evil totally-not-napalm with a cavalry charge, although why someone would drop napalm into an area they intend to charge into, especially since this is a plain and if a wildfire catches, will probably burn up everyone? Don’t know. Don’t care. Don’t ask me. Oh wait, probably to show how evil EVIL KEENG is. So there’re men burning all around, and the REEL KEENG goes to counter-charge against the EVIL KEENG’s armies. So there’s a big stock fantasy battle, and it pretty much seems to be a draw between the sides for now.

So it’s after the battle, and the living are asked to go out and bury the dead. Romilly, too, is assigned to help, but whines and moans for pages about how horrible war is and how horrible and evil we humans are for making animals go to war for us, and how we are evil beings for subjugating animals…

…Oh, like she did with a certain bird?

So the other Sisters come and berate her for not helping bury the dead, but Romilly whines and wails some more and Jandria comes over and scols the Sisters for badgering someone in obvious mental anguish…like anyone who just comes out of a battlefield will be quite right in their mind.

Oh, and Clea dies, but the relationship was never built, nor was she fleshed out as a character, so I can only surmise that her purpose in dying was to give Romilly more angst-fodder. Hell, the chapter even ends with her weeping and wailing:

“Clea’s dead. And my horses, all my horses…and the birds…” she wept.

Jandria held and rocked her. “I know, dead. I know,” she whispered, “it’s all right, cry for them in you must, cry, we are all here with you.” And Romilly thought, in dull amazement, she is crying too.

And she did not know what that should seem strange to her. (Pg. 724)

Well, you know what makes sense? Because I don’t! Instead of making her sympathetic and vulnerable, this crying makes her look even more a whiny prick, thanks to all the whining and self-centeredness she’s shown throughout the whole bloody book. Because there’s no setup, the whole weeping and wailing falls flat on its face.

Thank goodness this was a short chapter.

Comment [7]

Chapter 18:

So it’s the morning after the battle, and Romilly has just woken up. Immediately, she launches into a psuedo-philosophical musing over how meaningless Clea’s death was because she got caught up in a war that was none of her making, and how EVVVVIL EVIL KEENG and EVIL CHANCELLOR are:

And yet, troubled, she remembered how she had met with Lyondri Hastur. Lyondri’s cruelties were many, while Carolin at least seemed to feel that it was his duty to serve and protect those who lived in the lands he had been born to reign over.

Carolin is like a horse…with her love of Sunstar and of the other horses, it never occurred to Romilly that she was being offensive to the king…while Rakhal and Lyondri are like banshees who prey on the living. (Pg. 724)

…Wut. We’ve even seen EVIL CHANCELLOR, and he actually seemed like a pretty decent guy. Romilly is behaving just like Eragon in this aspect—she has no views or thoughts of her own when it comes to EVIL KEENG, and blindly aceepts what everyone else tells her, which is completely incongruous with the rest of her supposed personality.

Oh, wait, there’s more:

Lyondri did not wish—she knew this from her brief contact with him—to be only Rakhal’s executioner. Tell Jandria, he had said, that I am not the monster she thinks me. Yet, he believed that this was his only road to power, and therefore he was as guilty as Rakhal. (Pg. 726)

Wait, when did she surmise that that was the way EVIL CHANCELLOR thought? I don’t remember him thinking “this is the only way to power.” Again, I want to stress that we’ve never seen EVIL KING or EVIL CHANCELLOR do or directly order anything evil to be done; everything’s been second-hand. And what was that comparing banshee-birds to EVIL KING and EVIL CHANCELLOR to prove how evil they are? But I thought she had a bloody One-With-Nature moment back there with them early on in the novel! It’s almost as if Romilly has been constructed out of sheer necessity and behaves in order to keep the plot going and the readers arm-twisted—

—Oh. RIGHT. Stupid me. It’s just like claiming that horses have no memory.

So she’s tending to her last bloody bird when who should appear out of nowhere but Alderic! Why, does he explain why he’s here? Apparently not, for the first thing he does is to explain to Romilly all that’s been going on at her home ever since she left in one gigantic infodump. I’m going to summarise pages upon pages and just say that both Romilly’s father and the evil fat suitor Dom Garris were so overawed by her act of running away from home that they did a 180-degree turn and became open-minded, non-misogynistic and Dom Garris was eventually married to Mallina, and he’s now a great guy. Oh, and Alderic isn’t the REEL KEENG’s son. Instead, he’s Orain’s son.

And Romilly is shocked that so many people could have changed just because she ran away from home and wonders if she was wrong about them.

She could not imagine how anyone could tolerate that man, but Mallina had always been something of a fool, perhaps they deserved one another. “Anyhow, Mallina would be the kind of docile and obedient wife that Garris wanted.” (Pg 728)

Does it change anything? Unfortunately, no. Let’s draw an example from a book I once read. The antagonist was an Evil Queen, and started out pretty okay. Unfortunately, this antagonist’s behaviour rapidly deteroiated into mass stupidity on the levels worthy of bad comic book villians, making me grit my teeth. Fair enough. Then at the end, it was revealed that she wasn’t a human at all, but rather an Evil Tree, and somehow (according to the author interviews later on) this was supposed to be hugely original and inventive—therefore making the Evil Queen an interesting character.

Uh, no. That’s missing the point. At the end of the day, we follow the Duck Rule: if it looks like a duck, sounds like a duck, feels like a duck and acts like a duck in every way, then for all intents and purposes it IS a duck. It might be pod-duck from outer space, but there’s no practical difference.

The same goes for here. Romilly wondering if she’d been wrong about all these people doesn’t do jack squat for the story or her characterisation. Maybe if she wondered that BEFORE she’d run off, or maybe if she’d to suffer any consequences because of her fuck-ups, or actually go and reconcile with these people, it’d actually be interesting. Here? It’s just a throwaway line tacked onto a huge paragraph of how awesome she is for making all these small-minded, misogynist bastards change.

Nothing’s changed from the story, and thus it might as well never have been mentioned. What makes this about-turn even worse is that it comes out of the blue; there’s been no perceptible character development or change in Romilly whatsoever. She started out as a whiny brat, and she’s still a whiny brat. So much for bildungsroman. But to get back to the point, the whole about-turn feels tacked-on, as if the editor (if there was even one, because the typos in this book are seriously horrendous) said: “all right, let’s not rock the boat too much, you need to appease your more moderate audience” and hence this got tacked on in the second last chapter. It doesn’t feel natural at all, much like an insincere apology.

Bah.

Anyways, moving on, we get this from her:

She did not look at him. There had been a time, indeed, when she had thought she would she would willingly have married this man. But so much had happened to her in the year since then. She had desired Orain himself, even though he had not wanted her. And Ranald…what had happened with Ranald was not the sort of thing which led to a marriage, nor would a Drylands lord be likely to marry a mountain Swordswoman; indeed, she did not think she would marry him if he asked, and there was no reason he should. Their bodies had accepted one another joyfully, but that was under unusual conditions; she would have accepted any man she supposed, who had come to her and offered surcease from what was so tumultous within her. But apart from that, they knew little of one another. And if Alderic knew she was not the virtuous maiden she had been a [sic] Falconsward, would he even want her? (Pg. 730)

You know, it’s interesting that Lenka pointed this out to me a little while ago. Part of feminism is supposed to be that you’re not supposed to let what men—or hell, other people—think affect your life. That you shouldn’t be seeking other people’s approval or let their beliefs dictate how you live your life. Yet she keeps on going to everyone, seeking praise from them and lambasting them when they don’t give it to her, and here this is quite a direct contradiction to the whole lot: so what if she isn’t a virgin? Why does she care what Alderic thinks?

Blow hot or blow cold, please.

So Alderic goes to see Orain, and it’s announced that the REEL KEENG’s armies are going to march on the EVIL KEENG’s. So they do so, and something happens:

Rakhal’s armies seemed shrunken in size, and off to the north she saw another body of men and horses. Were they they coming to Rakhal’s aid, now that the first battle had thinned his ranks? No; for they were riding away from Rakhal’s main army as swiftly as they could. And Carolin’s thoughts were jubiliant.

Rakhal’s men are deserting him,now they know what he is…they have no more stomach I for this kind of warfare…(Pg. 733)

Uh, so why are they deserting now? It’s not as if this is the first time the EVIL KEENG’s minions have been using this shit. They should have known about it a long time ago. Why the sudden decision to go now? So EVIL KEENG’s armies are entrenched upon a hill, and they can’t fight it because they have an easily defended position.

So, what do they do? Why, summon up a mighty illusion to scatter the army, of course. Incoming mighty quote of fail:

Horsemen were drawn up at the perimeter of his army, surrounding foot-soldiers and bowmen, and at the center, a number of great wagons, with the acrid smell she knew now to be the chemical small of clingfire. They ringed the brow of the little hill completely while they took their stand there, it would be impossible to breach their defenses.

But that is precisely what we must do, it was Alderic’s thought, and he rode the company of two dozen men, headed by the small band of leronyn, breakneck toward the hill; suddenly stopped them.

Now!

And suddenly it seemed to Romilly that a great cloud of dust and fire moved on the hill, with a racing and a pounding of hooves, and cries…what soldiers are these? And then she knew that she had seen these men, the men who had deserted Rakhal and were riding away…it was like a great mirror, as if the image of his separate army were thrown straight at Rakhal’s men…for a little they held firm, while a cloud of arrows came flying down toward the close-clustered band of soldiers and leronyn at the foot of the hill…but they were shooting short, at the image of the racing soldiers…

join with us! In the name of the Gods, everyone who has laran, join with us to hold this image…on and on the racing cloud of dust, in which Romilly could now see indistinct shapes, horses’ heads like great grey skulls, the burning visages of skeletons, glowing with devil-fire inside the hidden cloud of dust and sorcery… (Pg. 735)

And of course it works. EVIL KEENG’s men are scared shitless of the illusion and break ranks. Of course, we don’t know what the EVIL KEENG’s own magicians were doing—maybe they were having a couple of cold ones in the back, I don’t know. So the REEL KEENG’s men charge in and slaughter them all without very much effort.

The only thing I can say to this is a very long quote from the learned Mr. Zornhau:

“Strangely enough, most non-crap armies expect to be attacked in their camp and guard against it with piquets, stockades and divers spiky things. They also expect poisoned wells, hay carts crammed with bloodthirsty partisans, ambushes in defiles – which is why they have scouts – and pit traps and caltrops lacing fields which look suitable for a cavalry charge.

And – in hand-to-hand combat – throwing dust, if you can find enough of it, in my face might blind me for a moment if you’re lucky, but while you’re fumbling with dirt, I’m cutting off your head. Just throwing yourself at me “unexpectedly” isn’t unexpected at all. Whack! Thud. You are now looking up at your own headless corpse and wondering why you can move your lips but not talk.

The only convincing workarounds are the ones that the characters have to… well.. work for, and then live with the consequences. In other words, solutions work which are part of the plot, rather than something the author pulled out of their posterior.

You can get into a castle by carefully infiltrating the workforce. You can kill an adept warrior by stalking him for ages, then finally shooting him in the back. Your peasants can overcome a field army by lulling it into a false sense of security over several months, welcoming the soldiers into their homes, then – on the signal – falling on all those homesick young – not individually evil – men in their sleep.

And, that’s the thing. If you – the novelist – cheat, then you’re saying victory is easy, doesn’t have consequences, doesn’t leave a nasty taste in your mouth.

You’re saying that the world’s victims deserve their fate, since if they would just have faith, they could throw off their shackles, overcome even the most hardened death squads.

You’re also saying that those people who, with grim purpose, liberate themselves or others, have needlessly got their hands dirty: “You can’t build a civil society on a bloody revolution.”

If so, you are feeding a culture of entitlement and magical thinking. “Have faith, and it will be so.”

In short, you are a liar.

But, I’ll be fair. If you care to dispute this before the God of Battles, let’s you and me try your righteous indignation and bravery against my seven-years training with longswords.

Are you feeling plucky, ploughboy?”

The equivalent should go for this. But of course, cheap tricks work because the author deems it so, and not because of any logic or effort on the part of the characters. So there’s all the death and whatnot going all about Romilly, not that she’s had any part in helping in the book’s climax, or what passes off for a climax. So…she’s only there to be eyes on the scene, and…guh. The climax of the book is supposed to be great. It’s supposed to make you feel tnse, and the characters, especially the main one, should be involved, doing things, and adding to the tension…

…So what does Romilly do? Why,get knocked out, of course.

And then another man reared up with a lightning-flash of steel, she felt Carolin slip back in the saddle and fall, and in that moment Romilly felt sharp shearing pain as the sword sliced though neck and throat and heart, and blood and life spurted away…

She never felt herself strike the ground. (Pg. 737)

To quote How To Write A Best-Selling Fantasy Novel:

“8. Skip the hard parts.

Despite the need to keep the book long, some bits are just too hard to write. A thousand mile journey by foot is long, but easy to write. Battles on the other hand, are hard because there’s a lot going on and you probably require some knowledge of military strategy. So if you’re writing a battle scene and it’s just getting too hard, simply have the hero suffer a wound and lapse into unconsciousness: e.g.

“… then suddenly his head exploded and a mist enveloped him and he felt himself falling into an ethereal tangible blackness. Badcolds’s sword, still swinging through the air, seemed caught, imprisoned in time. The sound of the battle was suddenly a long way away but just as he closed his eyes and the black cloud engulfed him he thought he heard someone crying from the grassy knoll, “The Toasters are coming. The Toasters are coming.”

Voile. Next thing our hero wakes on a white alabaster slab in the Healing Room where the Pure Maiden Warrior (see “Characters” below) tells him that the battle is over and, Guess what? They won! Result: you’ve saved 50 pages of intricate military description.”

Puts on sunglasses YEEEEAAAAAAHHHH!

Now if only I had a speedboat with which to get away from all this. So it’s night-time when she comes to. The big battle’s over, and of course, the REEL KEENG has won. What’s the first thing she does?

Sunstar! She reached out atuomatically for his mind, found—

Found nothingness! Only a great sense of vacancy, emptiness where he had been. Wildly she looked around and saw, lying not far away the stallions body, his head nearly severed, and the man he had killed lying beneath his great bulk. The rain had washed the blood clear so that there was only a great gaping wound in his neck from which the blood had soaked into the ground all around him. Sunstar, sunstar—dead, dead, dead! She reached out again, dazed, to nothingness. Sunstar, whose life she had shared so long…

And whom she had betrayed by leading him to death in a war between two kings…neither of them is worth a lock of his black mane…ah, Sunstar…and I died with you…Romilly felt so empty and cold she was not sure that she was still alive. (Pg 737)

So what does she do? Why, run away from the REEL KEENG’s camp and live in the wilderness for days, of course. That’s the only rational thing to do, innit? Commence a whole nine pages of whining and bitching about how humans are evil exploiters of animals and how we all deserve to die, and WAAH WAAH WAAH.

For your convenience, I’ve picked out the worst quotes:

Sunstar is dead. And I trained him with my own hands for this war, betrayed him into the hands of the one who would ride him into this slaughter, and the noble horse never faltered, but bore Carolin to this place and to his death. I would have done better to kill him myself when he ran joyously around our green paddock behind the hostel of the Sisterhood. then he would never have know [sic] fire and fear and a sword through his heart. (Pg. 738)

And then Romilly was overcome with rage and grief. They would take her back to themselves, reclaim her as a warrior-woman. She had fled from the company of men, come among the Sisterhood, and what had they done? Set her to training horses, not for their own sake of for the service of men, but to be slaughtered, slaughtered senselessly in this strife of men who could not keep their quarrels to themselves alone but involved the innocent birds and horses in their wars and killings…

And I am to go back to that? No, no, never! (Pg. 738)

I will serve no more, not as soldier nor Swordswoman nor leronis. From henceforth I shall serve no man nor woman. (Pg. 739)

It didn not seem to matter. Sunstar was dead. Carolin and Orain had gone she knew not where, nor did it matter, Orain wanted nothing of her…she was a woman. Carolin, like the Sisterhood, sought only to have her use her laran to betray other innocent beasts to the slaughter! Ruyven…Ruyven cared little for her, her was like a monk from the accursed Tower where they learned devilry like clingfire…

There is no human who shall mean anything to me now. (Pg. 739)

At the edge of the forest, she slid from her horse, and set him free.

“Go, my brother,” she whispered, “and serve no man or woman, for they will only lead you to death. Live free in the wild and go your own way.” (Pg. 739)

Or more likely, die a painful and horrible death as most animals let loose by PETA do, unable to fend for themselves in the wild.

All I shall say is:

WAAH WAAH WAAAAAAAAH.

So Romilly enters the forest, and what follows is the most, bullshitting, laughable romanticisation of nature that could only have come from someone who has NEVER had to truly rough it:

Late in the day she nearly stumbled into a small stream, and cupping her hands, drank deeply of the clear sweet water, then laid herself down in a patch of sunlight that came between the leaves and let the sun dry the reminaing damp from her clothes. (Pg. 740)

How quiet it was within the woods! There could certainly be no human dewlling nearby, or nothing could have been so peaceful, the wild things so untroubled and unafraid. (Pg. 740)

She was thirsty, but there was no stream nearby; she licked the dew from the low leaves of the tree over her head. On a fallen log she found a few old woody mushrooms, and ate them, then found some dried berries hanging to a stem and ate them too. After a little while, as she wandered lazily through the wood, she saw the green flags of a root she knew to be edible, grubbed it up with a stick, rubbed off the dirt on the edge of her tunic, and chewed it slowly. (Pg. 740-741)

Or rather, suffered severe dirrahea and vomiting from eating bad food and water, and died of dehydration.

A day or two later she realised that she had lost shows and stockings, she did not remember where, that her feet were already hardening to the dirt and pebbles of the forest floor. (Pg. 741)

Or rather, they were cutting into the soles of her feet until they bled, and turned infectious. And she died in great pain. You don’t just go from “shoes” to “no shoes” all of a sudden and expect nothing bad to happen.

Dear fucking god. I want everyone who thinks wilderness survival is as easy as that to be dropped into a nice location with only the clothes on their backs and see how well they survive.

How about some tropical rainforest?

Or some saltwater mangroves?

Let’s see them last more than, say, four days. I had my full battle order, and two weeks was a PITA. Damn hippies.

So she moves from the forest to the plains, and one night she’s suddenly attacked by a big cat! And the cat’s about to kill her and end this bloody story for good, when guess who turns up to save her?

It couldn’t be…could it?

IT FUCKING IS.

Then, as the cat sprung again, a fury of wings lashed down, and the hawk’s claws raked at the eyes of the great cat, beating wings flapping around the cat’s muzzle.

Preciosa! She has come to fight for me!

Romilly rolled free, springing up and climbing into a nearby tree. Preciosa hovered, just out of reach of the deadly claws, flapping and striking with beak and talons, until the cat, snarling softly, turned her back and vanished into the long grasses where her cubs were hideen. Her breath catching in her throat, Romilly slid down the tree and ran as far as she could in the opposite direct direction, Preciosa close behind her; she ehard the sound of the wings and the little shrilling sound of the hawk. When she was out of range, she stopped, turned, thrust out her fist, in a gesture so familiar she did not even make it consciously.

“Preciosa!” she cried, and as the hawk’s talons closed, gently, on her arm, she remembered everything, and began to cry.

“Oh, Preciosa, you came for me!” (Pg. 745)

…

…

…

PILLS PILLS PILLS PILLS PILLS PILLS PILLS PILLS PILLS PILLS PILLS PILLS PILLS PILLS PILLS

Urrrrgggggghhhhh. Once this is over, though, she hears voices in her mind. Seems like the Good Guys are looking for her, because the EVIL CHANCELLOR has kidnapped Orain and is holding him hostage in Hali. And Romilly…well, they need her do something about it. So badly, that every single one of the REEL KEENG’s men who can be spared is out looking for her.

Yeah, she’s just that special.

BLLLAARRRGGGGHHHH oh god chapter end.

Comment [17]

Chapter 19:

When we last left Romilly, she had received a message that she needs to get to Hali to save Orain. So what does she do? Well, she needs a horse! Thankfully, she’s near a village, and so it’s perfectly fine to steal one of the farmers’ horse because she’s so wonderful and speshul:

“I have been through the war and worse,” she said. She had dwelt among animals so long she had forgotten the need of money. She searched the deep pockets of tunic and breeches and found a few coins forgotten she [sic] spilled them out before him.

“Take these as earnest,” she said, not counting them, “I swear I will send the rest when I reach a hostel of the Sisterhood, and twice as many if you will find me a pair of boots and some food.”

He hesitated. “I will need thirty silver bits or a copper royal,” he said, “and another as token that you will return the horse here—”

Her eyes glittered with rage. She did not even know why she was in such need of haste, but she was sought for at Hali. “In Carolin’s name,” she said, “I can take your horse if I must—”

She signalled to the nearest horse; he looked fast, a great rangy roan. A touch of her laran and he came swiftly to her, bowed his neck in submission. His owner shouted with anger an came to lay his hand on the horse’s lead-rope but the horse edged nervously away, and lashed out, kicking; circled, and came back to rub Romilly’s head with his shoulder.

“Leronis…” he whispered, his eyes widened, staring.

“That and more,” said Romilly tartly. (Pg. 747-748)

(Insert GLaDOS Anger Core noises here)

You know, in Steven Brust’s Taltos the Assassin series, the people of that world have a saying: “No matter how skilled the wizard, a knife between the shoulder blades will seriously cramp his style.” That’s what I want to do to this dumb bitch right here. How…why…there’s just so much wrong with this that…ugh.

Firstly, she’s been out living like an animal for merely less than a month and has forgotten all about money. Uh-huh. Then it’s perfectly fine to mind-rape a horse into loving you over its former owner who by no means has mistreated it, when she was whining about it…what, one chapter ago? Oh, and nearly killing or severely injuring the guy by making the horse kick out at him; then again, if she’s taking their beast of burden right now and never happens to return it, she might as well be condemning them to death. When you consider this, the farmer asking her for a token is perfectly reasonable. She’s taking away their means to their livelihood; “no” would have been the expected answer.

But no, HOW DARE HE DOUBT THE WORD OF THE GREAT ROMILLY! It’s perfectly fine to terrorise villagers into giving her what she wants, because it’s for a very good cause. As opposed to the EVIL KEENG, who terrorises villagers into giving him what he wants, because…

You see where I’m going here? Of course, the farmer’s wife bursts out and grovels before Romilly like a proper peasant should:

A young woman stood watching, twisting her long apron. At last she whispered, “my mother’s sister is of the Sisterhood, mestra. She has told me that the Sisterhood will always pay debts incurred by one of them, for the honor of them all. Let her have the horse, my husband, and—” (Pg. 748)

HONOUR? HONOUR? WHAT FUCKING HONOUR? Romilly didn’t give two shits about the Sisterhood’s reputation and honour when it clashed with what she wanted to do. Why is she now leveraging on it when she hasn’t contributed anything to said honour? She doesn’t deserve to fucking to, hell, she even tore off her own fucking earring, but—agh—it fucking hurts when I even try to think about it.

What next? The farmer’s wife rushes to attend to Romilly’s every need, giving her all their stuff from boots to food to shit.

“They were my son’s,” she said, in a whisper, “Rakhal’s men came through the village and one of them killed him, cut him down like a dog, when they seized our plow-beast and slaughtered it for their supper, and he asked them for some payment. Carolin’s men have done nothing like this.” (Pg. 748)

No, she’s just terrorised you lot into submission, intends to take away your means of livelihood without any more proof of recompense than her word, and implicitly threatened to kill or maim one of you lot should he not comply.

And a Limyaael quote:

“Don’t make one army “good” and one army “evil.” If you look at history, one conquering army is as likely as another to loot, burn, enslave, kill, and rape. Unless your hero somehow managed to conquer his kingdom with a hundred people- or fifty, even better- whom he could keep an eye on at all times, it would make no sense for the “evil” army to be the only one making the peasants wish they hadn’t been born peasants. It’s particularly silly to insist that everyone in the good army is a shining paragon of virtue if the hero has hired mercenaries. Mercenaries get paid, sure, but they’re probably in there at least as much for whatever they can carry off in the battle- victims included.”

GOLLY GEE THATS SO WONDERFUL. Of course, in a stupid, stuck-up attempt to arm-twist us against the farmer, he becomes randomly misogynist:

In a flash she was on the horse’s back, even while the man cried, “No lady can ride that horse—he is my fiercest—”

“I am no lady but a Swordswoman,” she said, and suddenly a new facet of her laran made itself clear to her; she reached out, as she had done to the mountain cat, and he backed away before her, staring, submissive. (Pg. 748)

Great, so she’s mind-raped him into submission just because he was being inconvenient. And so she makes off with the farmers’ horse while “The woman stammered out directions, while the man stood silent, goggling at her.” Gee whiz. wonder if she’s left him an idiot for life. That would be lovely on her CV: “Mind-raped someone and left him witless because he annoyed me.” Oh wait, he was MISOGYNIST, so it’s all right.

Oh, and even at the end she’s randomly sprouting new abilities. Wow-ee.

So she rides to Hali, where there’s an encampment of Sisters outside, and everyone’s amazed her appearance because she’s Just That Special:

“She made her way through the staring army, hearing one of the Swordswomen call her name in amazement.” (Pg. 749)

So Jandria come out to greet her, and everyone from the REEL KEENG to Alderic’s overjoyed that she’s alive. But even then, we don’t stop with the annoyance:

Jandria cut her a slice of meat and bread, but Romilly laid the meat aside—she knew she would never taste it again—and ate the bread, slowly. (Pg. 750)

So EVIL KEENG and EVIL CHANCELLOR have barricaded themselves within Hali, and want REEL KEENG to surrender or else they’ll kill Orain, who was taken hotage during the battle. How is never explained. Very convenient. So essentially, we spend the next three pages of filler stating that REEL KEENG will throw everything he has at Hali by tomorrow if no solution is found.

So what does Romilly do?

HOW CONVENIENTLY, every single guard along the walls of Hali is an animal:

“How many men watch the city walls?”

“I do not know; but they have sentry-birds all along the wall, and fierce dogs, so that if anyone tries to sneak into the city by breaking the side gates—we tried that once—the birds and the dogs set up such a racket that every one of Rakhal’s men is wakened and rallies to that spot,” he said despondently. (Pg. 754)

So her plan is to use her magic to sneak in and quiet the animals. How brings me terrible, terrible, pain, but I’ll get to that later. No, instead we get this:

“Alone? You, a girl—” Carolin began, then shook his head. “You have proved again and again that you are more than a girl, Swordswoman,” he said quietly. (Pg. 754)

Oh god.

Ahahahaha.

Ahahahahahahaha.

AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!!!!

Proven? Through what? Whining? Being a bitch to everyone? Using magic that she never bothered to improve, a inborn talent that she never needed to sweat to train, to work to improve? Why is she more than a whiny brat? WHY??????

No answer.

And you’re telling me that no one in a whole army has thought of using magic to silence the birds? Even when we have someone like Lady Maura around, who has shown she can handle animals with equal ease? Are you fucking kidding me? Are you fucking kidding me? This is like a scene where the plucky young adventurer manages to beat whole universities full of doddery old wizards who’ve been working all their lives at unravelling the mysteries of the ancient prophecy, just because he’s SO MUCH BETTAH.

Pain. Pain. Pain.

So night falls and it’s time for her to go, and the REEL KEENG comes to wish her well, offering her anything that she desires if she succeeds in rescuing Orain. What does she say to that?

She smiled at the thought; why should she wish to do that? She said, speaking as if her were the Dom Carlo she had first known, “Uncle, I will do what I can for Orain because he was kind to me beyond all duty when he thought me only a runaway hawkmaster’s apprentice. Do you not think a swordswoman and a MacAran will risk herself as well for honor as from greed?” (Pg. 756)

Honour? When have you cared about honour? Was it when you ran away from home, soiling the honour of your family? Was it when you didn’t give two shits about the honour of the Sisterhood because it conflicted with your own selfish desires? Was it when you mind-raped someone and took his means of livelihood without a token of recompense because he annoyed you? Is that honour? Is that being mindful of the needs and wants of others?

What a shitty little bitch. So how does she sneak into the city?

Why, she just walks up the the fucking side gate and goes in. Yes, really. The last stronghold of the EVIL KEENG, encircled by his enemies. LOGICALLY, there’d be a constant watch in every section of the city. Guards would swarming the walls and streets, alert for trouble. But no. FUCKING NO. All she has to do is to quiet a dog and a few birds, and she’s in. The gate’s not even LOCKED, let alone BARRED or hell, why she should even be able to move the fucking thing in the first place, considering how heavy city gates are.

So what does she do? She casts a spell over the whole city. That’s right, the whole goddamned city and makes EVERYONE sleep. That’s right, every. Fucking. One. Even EVIL KEENG AND EVIL CHANCELLOR, supposedly EVIL KEENG’s most powerful and trained magician. I…I don’t have the strength or tenacity to copy out whole pages of complete, utter fail, so you’ll just have to take my word for it.

Romilly skips through the street of Hali unopposed and reaches EVIL CHANCELLOR’s house, where Orain is being held. I’ll just make this quick. Caryl is somehow awake, and begs Romilly to let him defect to the REEL KEENG’s side. They rescue Orain, who is being held prisoner, and of course Romilly smakes a snide remark on how the torturer’s mind must have been like an animal’s, or else she couldn’t have made him sleep so soundly. So they all escape from the bloody fucking city and reach the REEL KEENG, who is overjoyed and says that EVIL KEENG and EVIL CHANCELLOR will be defeated soon, and we end with this quote:

Carolin laughed and said, “do as you wish, hawkmistress. You have been faithful to me, and to those I love. And when you have done your duty to your laran and to your parents and to the one who would marry you, I shall expect you to come back to us in Hali.” He turned and took Maura’s hand, saying, “I pledged to you that we would celebrate our next Midsummer-festival in Hali, did I not? And the next moon will see us at Midsummer. If it will please you, Lady—I had thought to make the hawkmistress’ marriage at the same time as her Queen’s. But we can wait for that.” He laughed aloud and said, “I am not so much of a tyrant as that. But one day, Romilly, you will be hawkmistress to the reigning king as you were in exile.” (Pg. 763)

Oh. Yeah. Wow. What happened to EVIL KING and EVIL CHANCELLOR? No conclusion. They’re just throwaways. hell, we didn’t even see EVIL KEENG at all. At least even Eragon will probably meet and kill Galby in the end. Here? Well, she’s more than happy to leave them hanging in limbo.

What a stupid, useless book.

What a fucking waste of the paper it was printed on.

And with that, Hawkmistress!—yes, with the fucking exclaimation mark—is done, and good riddance to bad rubbish.

Comment [18]

Author’s Caveat: The following is highly opinionated. Consume at your own risk. All sentiments expressed in the following article should not be taken as a substitute for your own critical and logical thinking, and remember that anything can work if you can justify it. If you read works to reinforce and not challenge your viewpoints, fine. Turn back now.

Another small note—I’m going on a small hiatus (heck, I already have been), as Morally Ambiguous is making the query rounds and within ten days and eight queries, has garnered two requests for partials from agents. No, it’s not an offer of representation, but it’s a damn sight better than my last attempt considering the nature of the industry hoop-jumping, and I’m going to be a bit busy with everything. Someone else can play Devil’s Advocate for a little bit; it’s a fun game if you’ve got a thick hide.

Now let’s get on with the article proper. Some months ago, I got into a screaming match with a relative of a friend. The point of contention was the fact that a certain book (speculative fiction) didn’t adhere to the feminist ideals (tending to the extreme spectrum) she believed in, and hence she deemed the book was bad. Not that she didn’t like it—that would have been understandable, but that the book was badly-written, which to me is another barrel of monkeys altogether. Of course, I didn’t agree with that, the analogy in my mind being that of a professor failing a student in, say, computing because said student’s political beliefs didn’t match his or hers, and so said screaming match ensued.

The outcome of said screaming match isn’t really important, but what was important was that it got me thinking about how issues are presented in speculative fiction. I don’t know about you, but I don’t read fiction to be enlightened about the wonderful benefits of being a vegan, why members of group X are so much more enlightened than group Y, or why the author’s way of looking at the world is so highly superior to all the silly little Philistines squirming in the muck beneath his or her ivory tower with their silly little superstitions. Yes, it’s a free world and you’re entitled to your opinions. That’s why you have these strange things known as “pamphlets” or “articles”, where at least people know what they’re getting when they listen to your diatribe.

Much like this one, really.

But back to the point. I read fiction to be entertained, and I believe most other people do, too. Again, if your definition of “entertained” is “having your beliefs propped up to the detriment of everything else”, turn back—I won’t deny that there are one-trick-pony books specifically aimed at niche audiences which make members of a certain group snigger at caricatures of members of another group. But if it isn’t, read on.

It’s been said that one of the greatest powers of speculative fiction is its ability to hold up a mirror to the real world and safely explore Issues that, in another genre, would be too prickly to explore. (And sometimes not even then. When I was querying one of my previous stories, one agent liked it, but was worried about the symbolism of using black-scaled and gold-scaled critters in a ethnic conflict). An author can safely explore and discuss Issues within a created world that is Definitely Not Our World, happily sidestepping the problem of religious/ethnic/whatever groups getting all annoyed, because dwarves in long robes have absolutely nothing to do with religious fundamentalists in real life, and elves versus dwarves obviously isn’t a thinly-veiled euphemism for real-life racial conflicts. And that’s perfectly fine. It really is a bonus when in addition to having a good story, you can find a theme behind it that bolsters the story. Note the italics in the last bit of that sentence. Unless it’s a parody, a caricature or you have some other justification, it’s important to have the story and the Issues you’re discussing work together to create an entertaining picture for the reader.

But if you’re trying to seriously discuss an Issue, or even trying to convince readers to come to your side with the strength of your side of the argument, then I believe you have a duty, no, an obligation, to present both sides of the Issue in a fair and balanced manner, and then let the reader to decide for him or herself which way to lean. Part of this, of course, stems from the fact that people like me (and quite possibly like you, if you’re reading this article) don’t like to be told what to think, and if they realise they’re being manipulated by the author emotionally or mentally, tend to go the other way out of sheer contrariness. The other part, which is more important, is that when an Issue gets out of hand and trumps the story through the author using his or her writing as a soapbox, it tends to warp the latter in ways that quite often prove non-entertaining. The third, is that if an author is trying to hold up a mirror to real-life Issues, it doesn’t do justice to the point in hand to present a warped or oversimplified view of matters. Racial tensions aren’t as simple as “group X is bad, group Y are victims”. Religion isn’t as simple as “hurr hurr, those people who believe in an invisible man in the sky are dumb” or “hurr hurr, those people who deny the existence of God are angry people who can’t see his glory”. Environmental issues aren’t as simple as “evil capitalism rapes the planet”. Because, you know, people who hold opposing views from you aren’t necessarily stupid, ignorant or evil (which is more than I can say for some people). When this sort of stuff happens, it simply undermines the author’s position—that he or she can’t seriously discuss Issues fairly, or that his or her stand isn’t strong enough to be discussed without only showing the worst facets of the opposing viewpoint while showing only the best facets of his or her viewpoint.

Why, no, I don’t like Atlas Shrugged. How could you tell?

In any case, here we’ll be exploring two good examples of how Issues are managed and explored in the course of speculative fiction, and the same number of bad ones. Most of these will be from memory, so I won’t have exact quotes, but the points are still valid.

Firstly, we’ll be visiting Ursula K. LeGuin’s Changing Planes, a collection of short stories centred about the concept of different dimensions, each one exploring a different real-world theme. In one particular short story, Ms. LeGuin introduces us to a race of winged people who can fly magnificently, with the caveat that their wings may suddenly fail without explanation or warning, and that it is utterly impossible to predict when said failure might happen. (By the by, she does a magnificent job of extrapolating how the mere addition of flight and wings onto humans would change their physical, mental, spiritual and social worlds, but that’s sort of beside the point I’m trying to make here.) As a result, two groups of thought have emerged in said race: those who use their wings, and those who don’t. The former thinks of the latter as dull and boring, and the latter thinks of the former as being plain crazy to risk their lives in such a manner.

The Issue being discussed in the short story is whether one should live a vibrant and dangerous life, living on the edge, as one would put it, or whether one should live a stable, yet rather mundane life. Ms. LeGuin simply presents both sides of the argument, showing that there are merits and demerits to each point of view, and leaves it up to the reader as to whether they want to side with the flyers or non-flyers. She shows each side’s reasoning, doesn’t pooh-pooh any belief or turn them into caricatures and doesn’t try to force-feed her views to anyone.

This is how an Issue should be handled, if you’re trying to take it seriously. Let’s move on to another good example: George R. R. Martin’s Manna from Heaven, a short story from Tuf Voyaging, a collection of short stories about the titular character (Tuf), an eccentric merchant who gains control of a biosuperweapon starship and goes around the galaxy selling his genetic engineering services.

In the short story, Tuf is called back to a certain planet facing an overpopulation problem (due to the predominance of a religion that encourages completely uncontrolled procreation. And it seems to be everyone, so it‘s not a feminist issue.), said requester being the president of the planet. The planet’s neighbours have grown tired of its attempts to export its population problem, and are threatening war, so Tuf has been requested to genetically engineer a new, hyper productive food crop for the planet and its farming asteroids. He does just this, but secretly adds in another component to genetically engineered plant—ninety-nine percent of people who come into contact with the plant’s pollen will be forcibly sterilized.

The conflict arises when the president catches wind of the plant’s hidden property, and confronts Tuf about it. While she is in the controlled-procreation minority on her planet, the president refuses to arbitrarily take away her peoples’ reproductive rights, argues that a forced solution will change no one’s mindsets, and questions Tuf as to who he is to make such a decision for everyone. Tuf replies that thanks to his biosuperweapon, for all intents and purposes he is a god, that the people of the planet have had long enough to change their ways. Finally, he threatens to destroy the planet and its neighbours if his solution isn’t accepted.

The Issue here is clear: should a higher authority have the right to strip others of their rights, even if it is ostensibly for the greater good? The president of the planet has a valid point. Tuf has a valid point (in that the planet’s self-destructive behaviour has to be stopped). Even when the short story ends with the president knuckling under Tuf’s threats of eradication, the moral ambiguity of Tuf’s position is made clear to the reader; he isn’t given a free pass for having the “correct” views. Ultimately, the decision lies once again with the reader as to whether to side with Tuf, or the president.

This is how it should be done. This is how it should be explored. You’re free to rant on your soapbox, but don’t try to disguise it as entertaining fiction when it’s not, and you’re actively hurting not only your story, but your message as well. Go write a pamphlet.

For bad examples, we’ll be looking at two examples from opposing sides of the same Issue: religion. Firstly, we’ll be looking at Donita K. Paul’s Dragonknight, supposedly one of the better books in the Christian fantasy subgenre. Even when we keep in mind the fact that it’s Christian fantasy and supposed to promote Christian values, the book keeps on tripping over itself in its attempts to drop anvilicious messages on the reader’s head. Of course everyone who believes in Wulder (God) is pretty and wise and strong and clean and oh, can learn languages in an hour, and has amazing magic. Compare this to the unbelievers, who are all dirty, smelly, greedy and have no sense of duty, or even the local strawman atheist, who has no argument against the existence of gods besides “I say so!”

Let’s not mention the fact that the Wulder-worshippers are all hypocrites. And bigots. And their methods of debate involve shouting down dissenters, badmouthing people behind their backs and refusal to even listen to an opposing viewpoint. And the continued implications that not just atheists, but unbelievers are all egoistic, angry on the inside, stupid, misguided, that they know full well Go—I mean, Wulder’s glory and are just refusing to admit it, or are secretly servants of Pretender (Satan). And that the strawman atheist’s conversion had jack squat to do with the truth and meaning within Wulder’s teachings, but a poorly-placed bet he didn’t even mean at the time. Characters are objectively rewarded for having the “correct” views, and punished by the author for having the “wrong” ones.

For those who’ve read the book, a greater discussion on how Dragonknight portrays Christians and Christianity in a negative fashion in its zeal to weight the Issue can be found here.

I don’t claim to be able to read people’s minds, but I’m quite sure that the purpose of Christian fantasy is not only to entertain Christian readers, but also reinforce Christian teachings and values as well as help introduce or clarify said teachings and values to non-Christians, not flatly contradict them. Even if you were using your book as a soapbox, when one’s methods of dealing with Issues starts to contradict and destroy the message you’re trying to get across, something’s very rotten in the state of Denmark.

Compare this to Hezekiah, whom we’ve taken a quick look at in the prologue of Bitterwood. He’s an amalgamation and caricature of the worst of Christian nutters, and struck me as incredibly cheesy right from the start. His reaction to Bitterwood’s panic that Recanna might be dead later in the book is simply “oh well, all the better, one less distraction from God’s work”. Have you seen any Christian behaving like that? For that matter, have you seen any atheist behave like what was described above in Dragonknight? Yes, there are the Fred Phelpses of our world, but most sane Christians don’t even want to be associated with that sort of person, and I’d like to believe the same goes for other stances around Issues.

If we look at the Issue alone, it really begs the question: How strong can your argument be if you have to reduce your opponents to idiots and caricatures? How can I trust you to take an Issue seriously when you apparently can’t believe that anyone on the other side of the fence might have something of a brain? What does it reflect on people from your belief group when you demonise your opponents?

Then there’s all kinds of spillover, like the antagonist competency clause, idiotic antagonists, the plot and characters being twisted and contrived to the point of absurdity just to support the author’s stance on the Issue, and all sorts of toxic repugnance that I won’t even begin to go into. Why should character A be rewarded or punished by the author purely for his or her stances on an Issue?

I can understand if you’re trying to appeal to an audience by trying to reinforce their beliefs (although it probably won’t work on moderates). I can understand if you’re going for humour value in a parody or satire. If you can make them work without being non-entertaining, all the more power to you. But don’t try to disguise your little ramble as a fair and balanced viewpoint or god forbid, an argument for your side, because you’ll just be chopping yourself down that way.

But it is possible to be completely impartial, for an author to divest his or her beliefs from his or her works? Perhaps not, because at some level (conscious or otherwise) what we write is influenced by what we believe in. Still, to take the issue of religion, there’s no reason why a good atheist author shouldn’t be able to write a godless world or one where they are daily aspects of life without polarising them, or authoritatively praising/punishing one or the other in the narrative. The same goes for authors who adhere to theistic beliefs (I’m not going to use religion, since religion doesn’t necessarily need to have a god). The good examples I’ve given have shown that clearly enough.

Even then, it’s perfectly possible for an author’s beliefs and experiences to creep into his or her story, and still not utterly ruin it. In Steven Brust’s Teckla and Phoenix, the main character’s (Vladimir Taltos) drifting away, and eventual separation from his wife, Cawti, was supposedly influenced by Mr. Brust’s real-life breakup with his wife at the time, who (I’m not sure about this second part. Correct me if I’m wrong) may or may not have been involved in political activism the same way Cawti eventually gets caught up in in the novels and eventually drives them apart. There’re no contrivances—Taltos and Cawti married after a whirlwind romance, and skipped the whole “getting to know you” thing, so it wasn’t really surprising when their marriage failed. Later, Taltos visits the revolutionaries Cawti’s joined various times, and learns something about their philosophy about overthrowing the Dragaeran Empire, which although magically guarantees civilisation, oppresses the lower classes. As an Easterner himself, he agrees they have a point, but still disagrees with their methods, which usually get large numbers of people pointlessly slaughtered) and most of their goals (which could be, from a certain point of view, seen as terrorism). Neither Cawti not the revolutionaries aren’t depicted as stupid, misguided or evil just because they hold different views from (presumably) the author. Most importantly, when I read the books the prose is structured in such a way that Taltos’ stances on the Issues discussed are conceivably his and not the author using him as a mouthpiece—if I hadn’t looked up Steven Brusts’ biography on the internet I wouldn’t have any leads to guess about said influences.

That’s about it.

Comment [40]

Again, the standard caveat, blah blah, opinionated, blah blah, should not substitute for any of your own logical and critical thinking, blah blah, make up your own mind, blah blah, note the context of speculative genre fiction, blah blah, etc., etc., so on and so forth.

This is going to be a little disjointed, since I have to sort my thoughts on the topic. It’s sort of hard to put this into words.

Good. Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, today we’re going to be discussing the Antagonist Competency Clause. I’ve mentioned this clause once or twice before in my earlier articles, and in this article I’ll be expounding on its significance in the course of your work.

We’ve all been exposed to the stereotypical Dark Lords (and occasionally, Dread Ladies) in speculative fiction, right up from the time we were watching children’s cartoons. (My particular case was the Red Wizard Ommadon.) We’ve tolerated them for various reasons: perhaps we didn’t know better, or knew they were bad but the show was a guilty pleasure for us all. Perhaps there was a point being made, an Issue being addressed, or the trope was subverted in one way or another. Perhaps the Dark Lord was cast in a more sympathetic light, or was being played for humour. Perhaps they were just right for the medium, or we were just content to grab at whatever scraps mainstream culture threw our way.

We’ve gritted our teeth at them, laughed at their stupidities, thrown books across the room at particularly silly actions on their part. Which brings us to the Antagonist Competency Clause:

The antagonist will not be stupid or cheesy. He or she will exploit every possible advantage within his or her reach, and will utilise them to maximum effect.

In a particularly long piece of e-drama in one of my dissections, a certain commentator stated that it was not necessary for characters to behave in a logical or intelligent manner in order to achieve an entertaining story. This is, of course, true, for a given value of ‘truth’. We do know of complete idiots like Dr. Evil, Dr. Drakken and The Amoeba Boys who are antagonists, and yet, horrendously cheesy and ineffective at anything they do. The difference here is not only in the medium, where novels and other prose are often expected to be more ‘serious’ than visual media such as films and cartoons, but the contract between author and reader is completely different from ye olde typical fantasy story.

In the above three examples, the audience is perfectly aware that the antagonist is supposed to be inept, that said inadequacy is being played for laughs, and that the characters, in one way or another, are parodying the stereotypical antagonist to be found in their genres. (Interestingly, in such cases more often than not the conflict is not provided by the incompetent antagonist him or herself) Compare this with most Dark Lords, who are supposed to be credible threats to the protagonists and very clearly not intended to be laugh fodder.

I’m sure you can think up more examples where the Antagonist Competency Clause can be circumvented, but I hope I’ve made my point clear. The author’s intentions are clearly conveyed to the reader, and in the above examples they aren’t betrayed, whereas in the case of, say Galbatorix, they are. The latter case makes up enough of fantasy works that I can make a generalisation about them, so there. If you want to be a complete ass about things, then yes. Anything can be justified, anything can be explained away, and all of these so-called rules and guidelines have exceptions to them. Happy now?

Now, let’s go into why the Antagonist Competency Clause is important.

Firstly, tension. All stories can be summed up as one or more premises and complications. Eragon—Premise: dragon rider fights for justice. Complication: Evil Empire. Twilight—Premise: young woman and vampire fall in love. Complications: the supposedly dangerous nature of vampires and the evil vampires/werewolves. Hmm…a good example…_Maskerade_—Premise: A third witch is needed to replace Magrat. Complication: Agnes Nitt has run away to the Ankh-Morpork Opera House, where strange events are afoot. Your antagonist will be, at the very least, part of your complication, and therefore integral to your story. If your antagonist is weak, your story is weak, and we can all agree that that is a Bad Thing™.

Of course, I’ll know that at the end of the day, your antagonist will be overcome one way or the other. That being said, I’d like the believe that he, she, or it might just manage to win the struggle. It’s like taking candy from a baby. If one side is so incompetent as to be walked over by the other, all tension drains from the story, and it ends up feeling flat. There’s no point staking, say, the fate of the world, if there’s no chance of it actually being lost. No one likes foregone conclusions for their main conflicts.

Next, we’ll be moving onto the point of earned victories. If the Antagonist Competency Clause is not followed, then the protagonist has not earned his victory. Instead, it was handed to him by the author, (the flip side of this, of course, is the antagonists being punished) and the strings attached to the author’s fingers making the characters dance like puppets are very, very obvious.

That’s not the main problem with the earned victory issue, though. What is is that as a result deeper themes you may have had are undermined or invalidated, so your story is devoid of, for lack of a better word to describe it (although there’s probably some literary term for it), Truth.

Take for example the recent book I began dissecting, Bitterwood. While there were various “serious” themes in the book, such as racial tensions, atheism, genocide, blah blah blah, the sheer cheesiness and stupidity of the antagonists crumples any chance of any of the themes being taken seriously. As one commentator mentioned: “I don’t think they’re being taken seriously.” Hezekiah is a caricature of Christians. Sensible people know that most Christians are normal, well-adjusted people. Similarly, Albekizan and his underlings have been confirmed by the author to be blubbering incompetents with the most irrational of motivations. Religion and racial tensions aren’t as simple as that. As a result, the reader is hard-pressed to create a link between the Issue as we know it, and the Issue as is presented in the novel, with the simple result that any arguments or prompts to deeper thought fall flat on their face.

Another way to look at the “Truth” issue is to consider what happens, say, if you want resourcefulness and ingenuity to prevail, à la McGyver. So Vendevorex escapes capture by a group of idiotic and uncoordinated guards WHO ACTUALLY SUPPOSEDLY KILL EACH OTHER IN THEIR ATTEMPT TO CAPTURE HIM, which stretches neither his resourcefulness nor ingenuity to its convincing limits, resulting in an unearned victory. Not only are you shooting yourself in the foot with regards to your message, but you’re implying a whole lot of other crap—that military/police training is worth shit, that setting up guards is a waste of time, that experience, experiment, and systematic endeavour is pointless in the face of a few tricks.

Wow.

And it’s this lack of “Truth” that makes the story feel thin, and the lessons fallacious and potentially dangerous, such as “religious people are religious because they are dumb” (which may not have been the message that was intended, but I damn well got that vibe from Hezekiah).

Next comes the worldbuilding aspect. Antagonist incompetence can seriously hinder with the believability of the worldbuilding, which can then easily seep into other aspects of said worldbuilding. The most common question here is “if the Dark Lord is an idiot, how did he become a Dark Lord and start repressing the people?” I raised the question when we first saw Albekizan, and I still raise it. And remember the whole “oh, I based the whole dragon succession on that of lions” issue? (Despite the fact that the male of a pride doesn’t have to do much else besides, eat, sleep, drive off other males, and have sex. I think running a country is more than that.) Supposedly, that method of succession was supposed to produce competent rulers, and the prose claimed it had. Well, it didn’t, and broke a large hole into the believability of the worldbuilding.

I won’t deny it—I would have been a LOT more forgiving on the geography and the “it’s really SCIENCE!” if the antagonists had been convincingly presented.

Finally, Perhaps the most important (and succinct) point I want to make here is that if the antagonist is stupid, we stop believing in him or her. When we stop believing in him or her, suspension of disbelief flies out of the window, and we are thrown out of the story. In short, we don’t have verisimilitude . Perhaps that was the word I was looking for, and which summarises the whole bloody article. The Antagonist Competency Clause promotes verisimilitude.

Comment [24]

Standard caveat: think for yourself, blah blah, other people’s ideas no substitute for your own thought, etc., etc., important to understand that at some point generalisations must be made or else we’d never be able to have any sort of meaningful discussion, so on and so forth.

Now for the non-standard caveat. Firstly, I understand this particular topic may be a little more pointed than most, given the more sensitive nature of what I’m going to be discussing here, but I don’t care. You’re welcome to your opinions, and I’ll respect that, but I’d like the favour to be reciprocated. Secondly, the question might arise: since I do not happen to be of the female persuasion, what gives me the right to comment on femininity? To which I shall invoke Ebert’s Law, as well as the numerous times various women in my life have told me to “be a man”, to which I replied with the above, replacing femininity with masculinity.

In any case, let’s begin.

You may know that I currently have partials of Morally Ambiguous out with agents. Of course, there’s an essential editing and vetting process that goes before that, especially given the way I write, and part of this process is getting input from other people, either with the whole thing or through little snippets which can stand alone. One of the problems a certain person had with a certain scene was that it was (or at least, said person claimed) rabidly misogynistic: in it, Nodammo cooks an omelette and through the tomatoes used in the cooking, divines where the person who sold them is.

The problem? Apparently I am a rabid misogynist for having Nodammo cook in a kitchen. I won’t even go into the stock phrase which was used in the reader’s concerns, save that she was, at the time, wearing boots and still a virgin. I can see where the concern is coming from (and mostly laughing at it), but the problem was that said reader was focusing on the trappings of what s/he perceived to be the problem and mistaking it for the problem itself.

In any case, it got me thinking on associated matters, and below are the somewhat disjointed results. I’ll do my best to work out some sort of correlation between each point, but cannot guarantee flow.

1. Random misogyny is boring.

I think the above four words sum up this point very well. Like random racism, random misogyny is stupid, often very illogical, and very, very, boring. Like messages about racism, most messages about gender equality are the kind that don’t need to be heard in a speculative fiction novel—as I’ve covered before in my article on Issues, I’m not here to read your poorly-disguised pamphlet, and these messages have been repeated in the genre over and over again ad nauseum; it’s a made-up world, you can try something different. And like random racism, random misogyny is rarely explored in the depth that an important Issue requires—more often than not, it’s just used to identify who the antagonists are.

And that’s annoying. Given the prevalence of modern western morals, it’s an uphill task to make any randomly misogynistic character relatable, and most authors don’t even bother trying, happily chucking the (almost invariably male) character into a convenient antagonist slot. It’s a knee-jerk, like killing children, spearing babies and eating puppies are. The reader doesn’t need to think, all he or she needs to see is that the character doesn’t live up to our standards of gender equality and blam! Instant evil.

What makes it even more mind-boggling is when a) there’s no social/cultural precedent for said random misogyny and/or b) one is dealing with a species that doesn’t have much in the way of sexual dimorphism. At this point, it’s clear that the author is warping his or her conworld just for the sake of making an Issue.

Ye gods, I don’t have a problem with discussing your gender equality in your novel, but at least try to make it logical, vaguely new, reasonable, and deep enough.

2. The more things change, the more they stay the same.

Once upon a time, there was this thing known as the fantasy genre, and it was rather well-dominated by muscled hunks saving helpless damsels in distress. Some people looked at it and said, “That isn’t right,” so they made some changes. So in the end, the ladies got some quite literal breast plates, swords of their own, and went out to kick ass…

…and get into trouble, requiring saving from muscled hunks. The trend’s continued into a lot of urban fantasy with female protagonists—which is one of the reasons why I don’t read very much UF these days, or at least, those not from my trusted authors list. All the men are magical private detectives with tortured pasts and are shunned by their magical fellows, and all the women are kick-ass ladies in supposedly dangerous relationships with strangely attractive men with extra big helpings of sexual tension, and get into situations from which they need to be saved by said dangerous manly-men. Of course, that’s a generalisation, but read enough of the big-name urban fantasy authors in the genre and a trend starts to emerge.

Talia Gryphon, Kelley Armstrong, Anita Blake, Patricia Briggs, etc., etc., I’m looking at you.

I don’t claim to be a psychologist, but there’s definitely a winning formula in such books; otherwise why do they continue to be written? Popular doesn’t necessarily mean good, though, and I was discussing this phenomenon with a friend some time back. She had this to say:

“I don’t know. Whenever I see this sort of relationship, if it’s a male character, I feel as if the female character’s being a reward for him. If it’s a female character, I feel as if I’m supposed to imagine myself in her place, which might work for some other people but doesn’t work for me. Either way, the results aren’t savoury.”

What I’m getting at is that if you want your female characters to be different, you have to make more than a few cosmetic changes—a simple role reversal, for example, isn’t going to be enough by a long shot. Which brings us to the next point:

3. The trappings aren’t the problem. They aren’t the solution, either.

Like I’ve mentioned above, Nodammo cooking isn’t a sign of her suddenly turning into a helpless damsel in distress. Nor is her choosing to wear a dress. It strikes me whenever I open a book and see the Mary-Sue character insist on wearing trousers, toting swords around and doing other activities commonly regarded (by modern-day western standards, of course) as masculine, that the author’s put the cart before the horse—these are the results of attitudes in the society the story is taking place in, and not the causes in and of themselves. So the princess insists on wearing riding trousers. Amazing. It isn’t going to do one whit to help the status of women in her society. Ditto for going hunting with the king. They do jack shit for the general status of women in her society, and instead is all about her, her, her.

It’d be nice to see more protagonists extend his or her concern of Issues beyond him or herself on a wider scale—but then, social movements just aren’t as exciting as big battles with the Dark Lord, and after the Dark Lord’s defeated everyone suddenly becomes non-racist/non-sexist/vegans/whatever. In short, just because someone decides to wear a dress doesn’t mean she’s being horribly repressed and that even if she claims to be doing it willingly, she hasn’t been brainwashed by the Evil Patriarchal System Which Is Responsible For All The Woes In The World.

Conversely, it’s possible to have all the trappings and still be shafted into the worst of roles. For those who have had the misfortune to have Richard A. Knaak’s Day of the Dragon or his other Warcraft novels inflicted upon them, you may happen to remember a certain Vereesa Windrunner. She goes through all the motions, beating up random drunk who leers at her and tries to cop a feel, la la la, being an experienced ranger (who fails to act like one at all), dab hand with a bow, la la la, hates the main protagonist (Rhonin) on sight, bickers, wears trousers, so on and so forth. Certainly has all the trappings. (Un)fortunately, she never goes beyond being Rhonin’s Designated Love Interest, has almost every single aspect about her centred about Rhonin, and in the later books is mostly forgotten about and relegated to popping out his babies (despite the fact that elves supposedly don’t breed very well. Wow, even Rhonin’s dick is amazingly powerful, hurrah hurrah).

The same could be said for Inheritance’s Arya—despite supposedly having all the trappings, she doesn’t have a role beyond being Eragon’s love interest. Arya isn’t expanded upon in any meaningful way or as a character in her own stead—she’s just an extension of Eragon.

Which is why I am so snide in Morally Ambiguous about the whole Ye Olde Warrior Princess schtick, which still seems more to me like eye candy for nerds. The problem back then with female characters in the genre, I believe, lay twofold: one, that they were too passive, and two, they were defined only in terms of other (male) characters. As Terry Goodkind proves, one can give a female character earth-shattering power and still stumble into the same stupid problems. You can make a Mary-Sue a princess, the most powerful magician in the world, the only female member of the ancient order sword to protect the world, an amazingly skilled kung-fu fighter—when it comes down to it, it doesn’t matter. Cure the disease, not the symptoms.

4. Your worth isn’t measured by what’s between your legs. And it works both ways, dear.

You see, I consider myself an meritocratic egalitarian. That means that I 1) do my best not to put people below one another and 2) do my best not to put people above one another. Most people get number one right, especially for “victim groups”, since it’s been drilled into their heads by society. However, most people don’t get number two right.

If you’ve read Lynn Flewelling, you’ll know what I mean. No thank you, history has shown that all war won’t come to an end if you do a simple role-reversal (Catherine the Great, Queen Elizabeth I, Margaret Thatcher, etc., etc., etc.), I don’t believe that a matriarchal society is inherently better than a patriarchal one, or that someone is better suited for the throne because said person happens to have a pair of lady-lumps and a port instead of a dongle.

I’m not buying that women as a group are somehow inherently superior to men, that they’re supposedly more in tune with nature, empathic, non-violent, spiritual, kind, have “natural” healing magic, so on and so forth. (Apparently, one of the reasons I’ve been given by a novel was that they give birth. Would someone at least try to explain this to me?) Then of course, the camera swings to the ugly, brutish, stupid men with their magics that scorch the earth and render it barren and lifeless, and the stereotypical fertility goddess weeps in despair…

Yeah, you get the point. Most readers are smart enough to call out the stupidity in automatically placing things perceived as masculine over things perceived as feminine, as in Robert Newcomb’s The Fifth Sorceress. However, in my experience the reverse is more often than not happily accepted, with equally sexist stereotyping of both genders given a pass.

It’s stupid, and it’s very likely that whatever message which the author is trying to pass across is going to fall flat on the discerning reader. One particularly virulent example is Karen Miller’s The Riven Kingdom: the Sue princess of a main character spends an enormous amount of time whining about her station, how she doesn’t need men to control her life, the fact that the evil noblemen and thinly-veiled Christian church are out to get her to marry for the kingdom’s stability, all the usual whining nonsense echoed by a thousand Sue princesses in a thousand other trashy fantasy novels. You’d think she’d know something about gender equality as we know it. Oh, and she’s going to be a good ruler, because she’s a queen.

Guess what she does when she gets to her supposed true love and proposes? States explicitly that she never intends him to have any political power, that his role is to be the father of her children, and that he’s not even going to have the traditional title of king—he can damn well be Queen Consort or something on those lines.

Can you imagine the shitstorm if the genders were reversed? Still, apparently it’s all happy and condoned by the author, because the one true love goes and agrees to it anyway, sticks with it, and from what I’ve heard of the next book becomes a nasty evil man because he wants some sort of political influence. Hurrah hurrah, and I fling the book across the room. Doesn’t help either that despite supposedly having so many amazing traits, she never displays any of them.

Valorising people for their genitals is stupid—_both ways._

5. Rape: Overrated and underrated.

As I’ve stated above, rape is actually a very common literary device when it comes to female characters, be it main protagonists, supporting protagonists or extras. (Good ones, of course, with a capital G.) The Dark Lord or his evil henchmen rape the poor heroine, instant sympathy for heroine and plot device, perhaps with a big helping of tragedy and angst thrown in for good measure. Or maybe a side character gets raped giving the protagonist a perfect chance to go out and defend her honour, or a little silent empathy. Evil father/uncle/male authority figure raped character when she was a girl, that why she ran away from home. Need an excuse to be a “fiercely independent” (a.k.a. neurotic) lesbian warrior princess? Rape!

Judging by the accounts of (confirmed) victims which I’ve read and compared to the way the Issue is handled in a lot of fantasy, the effects of rape are simply understated and too easily dealt with. To be fair, though, that’s the case with a lot of traumatic events in the genre—there are plenty of sociopathic heroes who watch as their quaint little village gets razed to the ground, angst about it for a few pages and then happily go on their way as if nothing had happened. Then again, the reverse does happen: if someone goes on to become a neurotic lesbian warrior princess who distrusts all men just because she got raped once, I’d suspect she has deeper issues than that.

What I’m getting at is a repeat of something I said in point number one: that the Issue of rape simply isn’t dealt with in a manner that does it justice. By all means, have it if you must, but at least put some effort into making it worth something more than a plot device.

6. Oh, wait, it’s the most terrible thing in the world, and your life is one big suck.

This is it, the last point I’m going to be making. Yes, it’s all very nice and well that you want to use your female character to discuss Issues pertaining to her. Fine. Very often, when the matter of sexism is brought up in fantasy, the way the author states it (or at least the way I perceive the prose) is that it’s supposed to be the most horrible thing ever. Fine. The problem is that sometimes this tends to skew priorities out of order.

Going back to the example of The Riven Kingdom, the Sue-princess is pretty much obsessed with being queen of the kingdom she’s ostensibly trying to save, so much so that the bitching is pretty much non-stop, with apparently no other reason than to feed her ego. Nope, not going to settle for second place and manipulate the sad little man who’s pretty much in the palm of your hand to do as you want. No, must be number one. Fine. The problem is that in doing so, she gives a fuck-all to the stability of the kingdom she’s heir to. Fuck the noblemen and the thinly-veiled Christian church, fuck possibly igniting a civil war, fuck foreign relations with the neighbours, fuck the peasantry, fuck it all, I must be fucking top of the heap because I deserve it for the bits between my legs. At this point, the author, who has been trying to convince me that Sue-princess really cares about her kingdom and its people, falls flat on its face—it’s clear she’s throwing them to the sharks to feed her giant ego. (Personally, I wonder why so many royal Sues have been shocked when they’ve been told by their parents they’ve been punted off in an arranged marriage. They’d probably have been expecting it from the very beginning.)

Compare this to Lois McMaster Bujold’s The Curse of Chalion, where the princess in a similar situation goes over a list of potential suitors, does a bit of math as to which is the most advantageous choice for her country, and makes the choice.

The Riven Kingdom might have a point, but it’s buried under heaps of the main character’s apparent narcissism, whereas I believe the latter example is the far more mature, responsible and truly looking out for the people. It’s, again, a problem of mistaking the trappings for the actual thing.

Even more laughable is when a heroine encounters the evil drunk leering men ubiquitous to every fantasy tavern, and the author leaves us with the impression that the evil drunk leering men are so horrible and evil they’re the worst thing ever while the author expect us to feel that way for the sake of making an Issue, conveniently forgetting the Dark Lord looming on the horizon. In short, priorities are being misplaced for the sake of an Issue.

Conclusion:

I don’t know about you, but all this fuss is annoying. I suppose it’s partly because the author often wants to make Issues out of the whole thing. Whatever happened to writing characters as people who just happen to be male, female, rich, poor, black, white, green, and their oddities just that, instead of supposedly being a stand-in for a whole social group?

Comment [41]

On Telepathic Companions

Standard Caveat: What I say may be highly opinionated, blah blah, everything can possibly be done so long as you can justify it, blah blah, think for yourself, blah blah, so on and so forth. Now that that’s out of the way, we can get down to some sort of work.

You’ve seen them. The cute animals who follow the protagonist around and talk like this into each others’ heads. The poor schlobb who gets assigned the task of fetching the cell keys which have been placed conveniently just out of reach of the hero, but within reach of the telepathic companion. The bit players who come on-screen, slavishly pander to the hero’s every whim, and then disappear when not needed like so many horses which vanish without a trace once the protagonists enter a town.

Yeah, them.

Done well, they can add life to a story and be as complex and individual a character as any other human. Sadly, almost all of the time they’re little more than satellite characters set to revolve around a particular idiot with the remote control. It’s very sad sometimes, because there’s so much wasted potential.

Since we’re all familiar with a certain individual and his flying blue disco ball, I suppose I’ll have to draw a number of examples from there, although good examples will have to come from somewhere else.

1. I’m not an animal, I’m really a human with some special powers and a very good disguise.

Once, I read a Far Side strip where a scientist invented a helmet that allowed him to talk to dogs. Interestingly enough, all they had to say was “yipe! Yipe! Yipe!” It was a cute cartoon, but it highlights a main problem of a lot of fantasy: the tendency to over-anthropomorphise animals, which again boils down to the general anthrocentricity of fantasy because, well, writers are human and think in human ways and forms. The language barrier between the scientist and the dogs had been removed, but still, the dogs couldn’t form words or ideas recognisable by the scientist. Which would make sense, even if we consider only how a dog’s senses work and how it perceives the world, compared to how humans perceive the world.

This I find interesting, because a lot of telepathic companions—be they wolves, horses, dragons, living rocks. They all seem to perceive the world the same way humans do, are intelligent enough to express their thoughts clearly in ways perfectly understandable by their human—well, I wouldn’t say companion. Perhaps “handler” would be more appropriate for most cases—and oddly enough, appear to adhere to the hero’s values and morals, which conveniently happen to coincide with modern western morals and values.

Uh, yeah. The so-called animal companions don’t have animalistic instincts, behaviours, or desires. Animals have intelligence, yes, but quantity notwithstanding, which is ofen explained away as being augmented thanks to the telepathic bond—do they think the way we do? Perceive events the way we do? Even more egregious is the way animals adopt human morals in the snap of a finger—when wild animals, even charismatic species, clearly don’t.

Rabbits eat their own young when starving; killer whales eat them even when not starving. Alpha females in wolf packs will harass lower-ranked females when they do in heat to prevent them from breeding. Bottle-nosed dolphins, those cute little guys in the aquarium which jump through hoops? They’re one of nature’s greatest misogynists—out in the wild, dolphin pods herd their females by ramming them with their beaks hard enough to cause serious injury. Roving gangs of males often kidnap females from other pods, kill any calves she may have to make her more receptive to mating, then proceed to gang-rape the abductee into submission before herding her into their pod.

And you ask me why I burst out laughing in the train while reading The Dolphins of Pern?

The point I’m making here is that if you want an animal companion, make it an animal companion, otherwise, just make the character a hominid sidekick with special powers. It’s a subset of the “physical affects the mental, social and spiritual” guideline I like to tote around.

2. If you’re going to make me sentient and intelligent enough to comprehend my worth as an individual and I am under no compulsion, I would like to be treated as an individual, too.

Which is one of the greatest annoyances which stems from telepathic companions in general. It’s a subset of the problem of satellite characters, characters who orbit around another character and are only defined in terms of their relationship with said character. A good indicator of this is when someone is referred as a possessive of someone else—for example, “Crono’s mom”. This is usually a-okay for very minor characters such as the random barmaid in scene #472A, because their appearances are so brief that it’s possible for me as a reader to give the author reasonable doubt and believe that they have their own inner lives separate from the character in question. However, with larger bit players (such as telepathic companions) who stick throughout a larger portion of the story, the verisimilitude quickly breaks down.

We’ll take an example from our favourite series to derive schadenfreude from—_Inheritance_. In the series, we are explicitly told that Eragon(er)’s relationship with Saphira is supposedly one of equals, yet throughout the series the relationship is clearly an unequal one, up to the point where it is explicitly stated by the author that Saphira’s concerns all revolve around Eragon and she is treated like a pet, up to and including Eragon throwing scraps of chicken for her to scrabble for—all for his own amusement. The few times she actually disagrees with him are either inconsequential in terms of the overall plot (meaning the disagreement could have been taken out, and it wouldn’t have required what little plot there was to change). She has absolutely no personality beyond what is required by the current scene.
Which is annoying. Even Pernese dragons, which are explicitly stated to be in an unequal relationship with their riders, have more of a personality than that (although admittedly, not much, especially as the series wore on).

Of course, this can always be justified—perhaps the telepathic companion’s species in the wild is a social animal, and needs to follow a clearly defined leader or alpha (although in this particular case, it would be interesting to see what happens when the reverse occurs. I’ve seen dogs which clearly thought they were the alpha of the household).

But most of the time, telepathic companions which are presented as possessing human intelligence, human emotions, human behaviour and human morals are treated as anything but human consistently by the actual human characters. This, of course, is made even more laughable if and when there is an Issue regarding discrimination being discussed anywhere in the novel.

People and creatures with enough intelligence and a sense of self-worth aren’t going to take being treated like a dumb animal lying down. Even the D&D 3.5 Draconomicon explicitly states that even if dragonets accept a member of another species as a mentor and parent figure, mistreatment almost always results in it running away at the first opportunity or attacking the mentor figure, directly or indirectly.

3. Only charismatic animals exist.

Do I even need to state this? Think back to the times when you’ve seen obnoxious animals talking into people’s heads. Cool dragons. Pretty white horses. Wolves. Dolphins. Lions and dogs and the occasional cat. Eagles, falcons, and other birds of prey. All of them, mythological or real, creatures that have a good reputation with western ideas. No one wants a buzzard, or a grey parrot, or a donkey, or any sort of insect. Because, you see, they aren’t cool enough to be made as a statement of one’s fashion sense and power.

Which boils down to the problem stated in point two—that telepathic companions aren’t treated as individuals even in supposedly equal relationships, but rather, extensions of another character. Because if you have a carrion bird (which actually is a vital part of many ecosystems) you are automatically an evil subhuman who lives as a parasite on sicety and benefits from others’ misfortune…

Yeah. I think you get my point.

4. All take and no give—why am I even with you in the first place?

Let’s start this point off with a lovely quote from Richard A. Knaak’s Warcraft novel Day of the Dragon, a book which is in my opinion, like all of Knaak’s other work, a steaming, festering pile of vomit. In the below excerpt, Falstad (a Wildhammer dwarf) has just pushed his gryphon to its limits following Neltharion, lost the bugger anyways, and they’re setting down to rest:

He rubbed the gryphon’s leonine mane. “But a good beast you are, and deserving of water and food!”

“I saw a stream nearby,” Vereesa offered. “It may have fish in it, too.”
“Then he’ll find it if he wants it.” Falstad removed the bridle and other gear from his mount. “And find it on his own.” He patted the gryphon on the rump and the beast leapt into the air, suddenly once more energetic now that his burdens had been taken from him.

“Is that wise?”

“My dear elven lady, fish don’t necessarily make a meal for one like him! Best to let him hunt on his own for something proper. He’ll come back when he’s satiated, and if anyone sees him…well, even Khaz Modan has some wild gryphons left.” When she did not look reassured, Falstad added, “He’ll only be gone for a short time. Just long enough for us to put together a meal for ourselves.”

And of course, my reaction on my LJ:

Ha. Ahahaha. Very funny. Very funny. And here, friends, is a cut-and-dried example of what NOT to do to any animal companions your characters may have; getting rid of them when you don’t need them. To address Opifex’s concerns—Warcraft gryphons may not have human-level intelligence to the point of sentience, but they’re portrayed as damn smart, being able to memorise long flight paths, extricate themselves from sticky situations and definitely have their own emotions.

But that’s not really the point I was trying to make. The Wildhammer dwarves are supposed to love and respect their gryphons, animals or not. If you own World of Warcraft, go to Aerie Peak as Alliance, do some of the quests there, and actually read the damn quest text—it shows how much the Wildhammer dwarves care for and respect their gryphon companions. To have Falstad treat his gryphon like…well…a damn plot device goes against previous characterisation of the Wildhamer dwarves’ culture. Then again, why am I surprised? Someone here has a lovely habit of mangling the lore, either out of wanting to make his own self-insert characters look good, or out of sheer laziness.

That aside, I wouldn’t even bloody do that even if it was just an animal. How many, say, horse owners wouldn’t lead their animals to drink and perhaps find a good grazing spot for them? Which dog or cat owner tells their pet “All right, great job slaving away for me, now go outside and get your own dinner”? Even if the gryphons are just animals, caring for your pet’s basic needs is one of the owner’s most important responsibilities, and this is just sick.

Why, I don’t like Rhonin, and encourage everyone I know who still plays to /spit at him every chance they get. Infantile? Perhaps, but damn, does it feel good. Back to the point, though—half the time the telepathic companions don’t even have half a reason to stick with people who neglect and mistreat them, and suffer stupid and crippling disabilities such as dying when the human dies. Like Eragon, who provides pretty much no practical benefit to Saphira. It’s annoying. At least try to come up with a reason, or flat-out admit that the relationship is parasitic.

Conclusion:

The problem telepathic companions isn’t a simple one—it has roots in the general anthrocentrism of fantasy, the problem of satellite characters, of putting things in merely because they are cool—I won’t deny that I have very high standards in this regard, if only because I’m a cynical, disillusioned bastard about this. The easiest solution is to treat the telepathic companion like any other character and raise him, her or it (depending on your preference) to the same level as anyone else, especially if the so-called bond is supposed to be the story’s gimmick.

To be honest, the only telepathic companion I’ve found who lives up to my standards is Loiosh, Taltos’ familiar in Steven Brust’s Taltos the Assassin novel series. Loiosh is the only, the ONLY Animal Companion in a supposedly equal relationship who:

*Has snarked at the human in a clever manner.

*Has shown lasting unhappiness at some of the decisions the human has made, and done something about it.

*Has said “no” to an outrageous demand made by the human.

*Has demanded time off for his honeymoon and to spend with his mate.

*Has actually had “thank you” said to it often by the human, and has had the human apologize to him for slights offered/being ignored/ being snapped at.

*Is a major player in the series as a whole, instead of being relegated to sidekick status or shoved out of view when not needed.

Ye gods, whenever I reread the books and compare them to some other “humans and his/her X” novels, it’s hard to wonder why is it so hard to treat characters as characters.

Comment [25]

Because I haven’t said much for some time, here’s something.

I don’t plan.

Yes, really. I don’t plan when I write, not the tiniest bit. I don’t write outlines, I don’t draw maps. I have only a few nebulous ideas of what is going to happen next, like “Nodammo goes and does some stuff to undermine Company’s presence in Murkywood Elf Reservations”. When I start a chapter, I have no idea what’s going to happen in the next chapter—I just take the ball and run as far as possible, making new stuff up on the spot as and when necessary.

And amazingly enough, it works. Oh, the finished product might be a little rougher around the edges than someone with an outline (and I will put emphasis on the word might) but the first draft of anything is crap anyway, and there’s nothing a little reworking can’t fix.

The main benefit to this method of writing is its sheer adaptability to sudden changes, and it works well for the particular sub-genre I write in. I can change even important plot points at a whim to something better without needing to go through the whole outline and altering everything after the point I wish to change. The story isn’t, and should never, be fixed in stone when it’s demanding something better and someone is just ramming the predetermined sequence of events to fit how the workings have turned out just because the outline says so. The characters are allowed to behave naturally without fear of derailing the plot, because there are no rails at all. To extend the metaphor, the rails might need a little straightening out after the initial route from beginning to end has been drawn, but again, that’s an acceptable price for not having the rails pass through a tree, doing nothing about it, and hoping the passengers won’t notice.

But seriously. How many of those notes of yours are you going to use? When does housekeeping turn into vacuuming the cat? Of course, there’s no clear line, and in more serious fantasy the line tends towards more planning. Do I need to know the exact distance between Fairbanks and Murkywood Elf Reservations? Not really; it’s as long as is needed to get the events in. Same for Murkywood Gryphon Towers and Murkywood Elf Reservations. All I need to know is that there’s a day’s walk between them. I have no worldbuilding notes, no maps, no charts, and everything I need to know can be stored in my head. If I need to cross-refer, I have a copy of my own writing backed up in several different places.

That being said, it is important to keep consistency, as per the guideline of Magic A is Magic A—which is why I do cross-refer for events which have happened in the previous book. I’m not going to be forgetting in a hurry that Brommus has burn scars. But the sheer level of stuff I see sometimes in other people’s worldbuilding reminds me of people trying anything to get out of actual writing—are we going to get a blow-by-blow account of the Xx’ander What’chamacallit’s fighting style? Who cares, really? Are you going to record every punch, every kick in excruciating detail in the prose—or is it going to be reasonably vague?

An important difference in telling stories in prose and a more visual media—say, television—is that in a novel, the reader is allowed to use his or her imagination to visualise a personal version of what’s going on, while in television, everything is already defined for the recipient and all s/he has to do is receive (which is why I believe it’s called the idiot box). Why would you want to take that away?

I’m not against some sort of planning. The reason I’m posting this is that I’m reading someone else’s worldbuilding notes, and it really, really reeks to me that s/he’s gone far, far into cat vacuuming territory, using the need for more and more planning to excuse putting off the actual writing—which is the thing all that plotting is supposed to serve. It’s thoroughly puzzling. You have to stop at some time.

Comment [14]

Now there’s a word you don’t see every day, but still manage to experience on a daily basis whenever you read a book, watch a television drama, or listen to a “so I was walking along and minding my own business” story from one of your friends—essentially, whenever you have a story being told.

Here’s the definition from Wikipedia, since I’m too tired to go around rephrasing it and this isn’t a thesis paper anyways:

“Verisimilitude has its roots in both the Platonic and Aristotelian dramatic theory of mimesis, the imitation or representation of nature. For a piece of art to hold significance or persuasion for an audience, according to Plato and Aristotle, it must have grounding in reality. This idea laid the foundation for the evolution of mimesis into verisimilitude in the Middle Ages particularly in Italian heroic poetry. During this time more attention was invested in pinning down fiction with theory. This shift manifested itself in increased focus on unity in heroic poetry. No matter how fictionalized the language of a poem might be, through verisimilitude, poets had the ability to present their works in a way that could still be believed in the real world. Verisimilitude at this time also became connected to another Aristotelian dramatic principle, decorum: the realistic union of style and subject. Poetic language of characters in a work of fiction as a result had to be appropriate in terms of the age, gender or race of the character.

This classical notion of verisimilitude focused on the role of the reader in his/her engagement in the fictional work of art. The goal of the novel therefore, as it became a more popular form of Verisimilitude, was to instruct and offer a pleasurable experience to the reader. The fictional novel had to facilitate the reader’s willingness to suspend his or her disbelief, a phrase used originally by Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

Verisimilitude became the means to accomplish this mindset. To promote the willing suspension of disbelief, a fictional text needed to have credibility. Anything physically possible in the worldview of the reader or humanity’s experience was defined as credible. Through verisimilitude then, the reader was able to glean truth even in fiction because it would reflect realistic aspects of human life.”

To get the “too long, didn’t read” version: the way people and events are structured are going to have to be believable, or else people are going to call shenanigans on your work. This is doubly important while writing speculative fiction—despite the fact that you’re making stuff up, you can’t ask readers to eat any sort of shit you want to throw at them. People still need to be able to be able to relate to what’s going on and believe in it; verisimilitude controls willing suspension of disbelief, which then can be further diversified into the various Rules you’ve heard of: The Rule of Cool, Rule of Awesome, Rule of Funny, Rule of Romantic etc, etc. These basically take credits from the “verisimilitude bank” you’ve built up during the course of telling the tale, and uses them to ask the reader to go “all right, fine, I can accept this without thinking about it too much.”

I briefly touched upon this in “On the Antagonist Competency Clause”, so those who’ve read that, bear with me. Speculative fiction is heavily reliant on the willing suspension of disbelief to make things work. If you lose that, your entire work comes crashing down on your head. When a romance or mystery comes crashing down to to lack of suspension of disbelief, at least the world doesn’t go down with it, too.

Another important thing to remember are the reader’s guesses at your intentions—what you want to do with the work. A serious novel is going to get different treatment than a satirical novel, which is going to have a lot less silliness than a satirical or clearly silly comic, and all of these are going to have to meet different requirements and standards for what might be considered an “acceptable” level of verisimilitude.

Long-time readers of this journal may remember the little tiff I had in May over the BFT3King of Bitterwood. (I still get a laugh out of his “If you don’t like it, don’t read it!” response. Reminds me of a LOT of fanfic writers, expect maybe this one’s got better sentence structure.) I’ll be using it as the example here, since it’s the one freshest in people’s minds—but pretty much any book I’ve ever BFT3Ked has serious verisimilitude problems anyway. All of the exchanges are still archived on the II articles, so if you think I’m misrepresenting anything, go over there and have a gander.

Evil King is evil Because. He has surrounded himself with idiots, and his so-called kingdom isn’t crumbling. The whole succession system doesn’t make sense AT ALL (based on lions, you say? Lions don’t have to rule, manage taxes, do politics, have good people relations, have a culture, etc, etc, etc) Incompetent guards? That’s essentially saying that education and training is pointless. That systematic human (or alternatively, sentient) endeavour is pointless, to borrow a phrase from Mr. Zornhau. The reasons for racism and racial relations between the humans and so-called dragons is the flimsiest and stupidest, and the evil racists go about spewing crap that all the readers know is Really Bad—

—And then he goes on to claim he’s dealing with “serious issues” like religion, racism and genocide.

Yes. Really.

Excuse me? I call BULLSHIT. Eugenists and their like have been charismatic enough to make their views widely appealing to even the people of today, much less the people of the early twentieth century. Watch some old videos on youtube of Hitler when he gives speeches about the Jews, watch the people cheer for him. His beliefs of women—put them in the home and kitchen where they belong, and still if you look at some of the later 1939 speeches—the women are CHEERING HIM ON and packing the speech venues despite him stripping them of their rights. What I’m getting at here is that people are going to draw parallels between what happens in the story and what they know in real life, even if you’re writing speculative ficition. And if what they know and what you write doesn’t quite match up, they’re going to call shenanigans on it.

And then Bad Things happen. Really Bad Things. Readers start questioning details they would have handwaved away otherwise; the Rules, such as the Rule of Cool (which the author indirectly claimed to have used by saying he set up the novel to have as many cool fight scenes as possible) cease working anymore. People start questioning how your invisibibility powder works (after some careful thinking, unless the properties of photons are overhauled, I’m still not buying it), the flight mechanics of your dragons, the reasonablility of your conworld, the plausibility of being able to stick your hand into water to make it overcome its vapour pressure at that temperature and turn into steam—

The cracks appear, and they keep on widening over and over again until your entire narrative crumbles into a pile of disgusting rubble. To put it succinctly, Bitterwood heavily overdraws on the verisimilitude bank, and refuses to pay up, demanding greater and greater loans to accommodate the characters’ and conworld’s increasing stupidity.

It doesn’t help that the author is constantly behind the scenes on his little soapbox of snide atheism, warping the narrative and pointing and giggling at certain part of the text while saying “Look! it’s really SCIENCE! NOT MAGIC! NOT MAGIC AT ALL!” and “Ha ha! Religion is bad! Ha! Ha!” (IIRC, he went on to say that he felt he was “betraying the atheist community by writing a novel with fantastical elements”, or something on those lines.) The point is, by doing this he’s altering the reader’s expectations of the book to “hard” science fiction, as opposed to fantasy or even “soft” science fiction like most space operas which handwave away things like the Force and dilithium crystals and Warp Drive. (Oh, Anne McCaffrey, I remember the good times before you came up with AIVAS and that disgusting triple-helix DNA and tried explaining it all away as SCIENCE)

I really, really want to borrow a copy of Hogfather from the library so I can copy out Death’s little speech on needing to believe the little lies so that we can work our way up to the big ones. Fellow Pratchett fans, you know what I’m talking about.

But now the readers are expecting hard science fiction and a serious examination of possibilities stemming from today’s frontiers of science, and instead they get hazy explanations, if any. (Nanomachines. Oh, yeah. SF’s version of “a wizard did it”.) Plop goes the versimilitude.

Compare this to Dr. McNinja . The first important thing to note is that a) it’s in a visual format (comic) and that it clearly makes the statement right at the outset (with a gorilla as a receptionist and a disease that makes people vomit maple syrup and turn into giant lumberjacks filled with rage at trees) that it’s not to be taken seriously. The entire comic runs on the Rule of Cool, and this particular April Fool’s Day strip summarises the comic’s spirit:

Point made, and hopefully, point taken. The reader’s expectations of the comic, the storyline, and all that happens within from human jetpacks powered by farts to drugs that turn normal people into ninjas to the suggestion that mountain dew is really a cheap imitation of a powerful and addictive drink that is sold by a mysterious train car manned by people in 18th-century dress, are changed appropriately—and with it, the (specific) requirements for versimilitude. It’s important to note that people still can somewhat relate to the characters, that the antagonists are reasonably sane despite having moon bases and are a credible threat, that people can BELIEVE in what’s happening in the world of the comic.

As Dr. McNinja proves, you don’t NEED to stick to scientific fact and reality to get verisimilitude, but when you trap yourself in that particular cage and try to cry foul—sucks to be you.

And that’s that.

Comment [10]