Overall 4.0 / 5.0 (recommended for fans of the series)
Gay Content 2.0 / 5.0 (three minor gay characters)
Gay Positivity 4.0 / 5.0

Welcome to The Canterbury Tales meets Star Trek: Voyager. The central story posits that aliens capture the Voyager command crew (with the exception of Captain Janeway and the Doctor – must be lonely on the Voyager bridge) while on an away mission. The aliens take the crew to a prison camp.

Through the process of planning their escape, Chakotay, Tuvok, Tom Paris, B’Elanna, Neelix, and even Kes tell their personal stories leading up to their involvement with the initial Voyager mission, before the ship got lost in the Delta Quadrant.

Quick note – the story is set after Kes’s departure from the ship, and shortly after Seven of Nine’s arrival.

The individual stories make for fascinating and illuminating reads. Taylor enjoys a clever and engaging writing style. It would be easy to lose momentum in a novel like this, but the author manages a brisk pace through a series of unique stories that range from moving to revealing to amusing. The individual stories certainly outshine the more prosaic and implausible imprisonment/escape plot.

A word of warning – these stories will probably hold little interest for anyone who doesn’t know the characters from the TV series.

The book includes three minor gay characters. George Mathers is Harry Kim’s roommate from Starfleet Academy. He has an unrequited crush on Harry, who responds to the situation with grace and compassion: “An immense wave of friendship, of caring and concern and, yes, of love, swept over Harry” (115). It’s mildly disappointing to see a gay character fall in love with an unavailable straight guy (I’d much rather see a successful gay romance), but I’m thrilled with both the inclusion and Harry’s response.

Meanwhile, Noah Mannick and Brad Harrison are part of the Voyager crew stranded in the alien prison camp. They have “only recently become a couple” (176). One frustrating aspect of their relationship: at one point Noah suffers from severe cramps, probably the result of contaminated drinking water. Then we never hear about him again.

So was Noah okay? Did he and Brad make it back to the ship? The novel doesn’t tell us either way. Unfortunately, Noah and Brad are very minor characters, present more to flesh out the situation and, perhaps, demonstrate some gay inclusiveness. To that end, once again, I am delighted to find them present in the novel. I just wish we had seen more of them.

On the whole, could she have done better by the gay characters? Sure: they could have enjoyed beefed up roles, with more compelling subplots of their own, or at least a bigger role to play in the overarching story, and positive endings. Nevertheless, I’m happy to find them at all. Star Trek: Voyager has been one of the least gay-inclusive iterations of the Star Trek franchise, so I’m glad that gay people are represented somewhere in the Voyager universe.

As an interesting side-note, fictional Star Trek novels are not usually considered canon, or official. But Jeri Taylor wrote Pathways (along with Mosaic, which details Captain Janeway’s personal back-story) to provide reference material for the show’s main characters. She specifically intended the books to be canon. We never see Noah or Brad on the show, but presumably they’re in there somewhere. IMDB.com does indicate a Crewman Noah Lessing (played by Rick Worthy).

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For more posts on all things gay in the Star Trek universe, check out my Gay Star Trek Main Page.

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Propsero lives in a veritable garden of Eden with his daughter Freia, but inwardly he seethes: his brother Avril took the crown that Prospero felt is rightfully his. The story begins with Prospero planting the seeds of a rebellion to seize the throne. Into the story wanders a powerful but strange sorcerer named Dewar with secret connections to both sides.

Hm. I’m actually making the book sound more interesting than it really is. I found the plot uninventive and formulaic, with the only surprises (most notably Dewar’s connection to Prospero’s interests) seeming contrived. The language didn’t help: Prospero and a few other characters speak something that I can only call pseudo-Shakespearean, which interrupted the flow and pace of the story.

But the real failing of the novel are the characters. I simply don’t care about any of them, and I dislike more than a few. But even those I dislike don’t engender enough passion for me to, at minimum, admire them as villains. In fact, I wonder if the clear lack of a villain hobbled the story. I suppose the author intended Avril the Emperor as the central antagonist; but he plays a relatively small role, mostly off-stage. Prospero is certainly no more likeable, but Willey can’t seem to decide if she wants to reader to root for, or against, Prospero.

At any rate, lacking a worthy adversary, perhaps protagonist Dewar never really has a chance to shine. As it is, Dewar is lackluster. It doesn’t help that he makes a couple of morally questionable choices. Additionally, the book is filled with all kinds of subtle inconsistencies. For example, Prospero supposedly loves his daughter dearly, but he’s consistently mean and demeaning to her. Now, if the story had centered around Freia escaping the yoke of a sexist, manipulative, controlling father bent on world domination – that might have been interesting.

Additionally, the introduction of the book is jarring – it focuses on Prince Josquin as though he’s the protagonist, but then he turns out to be a very minor character. The tone of the book is also inconsistent. The story mostly reads like high fantasy, a happy-go-lucky tale (which matches Dewar’s happy-go-lucky attitude) in a Medieval-esque setting with magical elements.

But then the story would dip into very dark territory, most notably with a couple of violent assaults on women. Dark fantasy can make for compelling reading if handled well (see George R. R. Martin for evidence), but Willey doesn’t seem to have the stomach for it – the story would diverge into a darker area, usually offstage, only to return to the high fantasy tone. The darker elements make for an uncomfortable fit into an otherwise lighter story.

The ending is also underwhelming and certainly poorly foreshadowed: a whole lot of buildup for not much payoff.

The story does contain some gay content in the person of Prince Josquin. The story opens with the Prince being ensorcelled by a mysterious, handsome man, and it’s made perfectly clear that the Prince is quite fond of the company of handsome men. Ahem. But then it’s revealed later that his dalliance with the mysterious stranger was perfectly chaste. Go figure.

Unfortunately, Prince Josquin is not terrible impressive. He has no personal agency; he goes where and does what others tell him. But then, he doesn’t seem to have any particular goals of his own, nor the strength of will to pursue any. The narrative also implies that he’s irresponsibly promiscuous, as when his uncle warns him against “fraternizing” with the soldiers. It’s also stated fairly explicitly that he’s borderline incompetent, especially in manly endeavors like war. In fact, I see similarities in Josquin’s relationship with his family and Freia’s relationship with her father. If Freia and Jos had been built up as characters more, it might have been interesting to see those relationships play out in tandem.

Overall, I’m not impressed. But I am frustrated. Despite all my criticisms, I see a lot of potential in this story. A tighter narrative, more elaborately contoured characters, different emphases, and I think “A Sorcerer and a Gentleman” might have made a fascinating read.

In the future, humanity encounters an alien race called the hwarhath. A superficially adversarial relationship develops; our two people do not declare war, but skirmishes, spying, and abducting enemy agents are common on both sides. The book opens with the initiation of diplomatic proceedings, at which it is discovered one of the human abductees, Nicholas Sanders, has been assisting the hwarhath for some twenty years. Military Intelligence attempts to kidnap Nicholas for questioning, using our protagonist Anna – who researches alien intelligence – to help them.

“Ring of Swords” makes for a fascinating, fast read. The prose is crisp and clean, unlittered by flowery language or needless subplots and secondary characters. The author has a story to tell, and she lets it unfold with a minimum of fuss or verbal excess (something that can’t be said for many fantasy novels, but which the sci-fi genre seems to do much better). The story recalls C. J. Cherryh’s Chanur series in its adept exploration of an alien culture dealing with humanity. The feminist bent of the story (and the heroine’s name) also made me think of L. E. Modesitt’s fantasy series, the Spellsong Cycle, whose protagonist Anna finds herself – through no fault of her own – in trying circumstances but manages not only to make the best of them, but to master them.

The novel definitely holds interest for the gay reader in that, as one minor character observes, “We have found an entire culture, maybe an entire species, that does not practice heterosexuality, except maybe…as a perversion” (61).

I found Arnason’s exploration of the sexual culture of the hwarhath fascinating: the separation between genders, the primacy of females over males, etc. I never really understood if homosexuality was practiced among the hwarhath because they were all inherently homosexual and always had been, and in their past had only endured heterosexual intercourse in order to procreate. Or if they were simply socially conditioned to engage in same-sex relationships because of the strict gender divide. Either way, I found the cultural norm she created very believable.

I can almost imagine a similar culture evolving somewhere on earth, under the right circumstances: women, for whatever reason, remain completely separate from men. Intercourse is allowed by the culture only under relatively rare and carefully controlled circumstances in order to procreate. Outside of that experience, men and women do not fraternize; so if they are to form intimate, romantic, and sexual relationships, it must be with members of the same sex.

That leads us to a fractious question, however. Can a person who is biologically heterosexual find true satisfaction in a homosexual relationship? Part of me thinks, why not? If the person is open-minded enough about the source that fulfills their sexual and emotional needs, what difference does the gender make?

But that’s a slippery slope into the argument that a gay person could find satisfaction and fulfillment in a heterosexual relationship, i.e., that a gay person could, for all intents and purposes, change. If only they were open-minded enough. And I have a much bigger problem with that proposition. It’s very close to saying that homosexuality is not real, but some kind of illusion or disordered sexual identity. It’s obvious that situational homosexuality exists here on earth, e.g., in all-male environments like prison or under specific circumstances like adolescent experimentation or gay-for-pay pornography. Those are very different scenarios from someone whose gayness is intrinsic and inborn.

At one point, we meet a hwarhath who is, gasp!, straight. And miserable about it! Apparently there’s no organized straight subculture among hwarhath like we find a gay subculture among humans. Nicholas has a very interesting response upon discovering this hwarhath’s heterosexuality: “I wanted to say, the universe is very large, and most of it is cold and dark and empty; it’s not a good idea to be too picky about who you are going to love” (191). I never understood if Nicholas was “really” gay; or “situationally” gay because he’s a human male with sexual needs who’s only ever exposed to other men who regularly practice same-sex relationships. I generally consider portrayals of the latter kind to be less gay positive, because it’s less affirming of a gay identity, but I also consider that point to be relatively minor. It can be an awfully fine line between “really” gay and “situationally” gay, as I phrase it.

I should note, the book makes clear that future humanity still does not consider homosexuality to be “normal” and implies that it’s less socially or morally acceptable. Nicholas is amused at one point in the novel by the idea of “a bunch of people sitting around on Earth, trying to decide what kind of homosexual pornography will present humanity in the best light” (235 – my favorite line in the novel).

Great characters, a compelling plot, crisp narrative, and thought-provoking themes make “Ring of Swords” a recommended read. Check it out!

As an aside, for a (non-science fiction) movie that re-imagines human culture as predominantly gay with a different take on the relationship between males and females for procreation, check out “Almost Normal” (2005).

Kress postulates a future in which parents can control their children’s genetic futures. Specifically, a genetic modification can be made in utero which would allow the person to never require sleep. The so-called Sleepless thus enjoy an additional eight hours every single day to study, practice their skills, or work. As a result, they are significantly more successful than Sleepers.

At first, Sleepers regard the Sleepless as curiosities, but as the Sleepless grow in number and influence, envy and fear rear their heads. Repressive laws begin dotting the legal landscape, and anti-Sleepless violence mounts. In time, many of the Sleepless withdraw to their own isolated community. The climactic moment of the novel brings with it the threat of war between Sleeper and Sleepless.

Kress has written a quintessential what-if novel. The strength of the story rests in its examination of how the unintended aftereffects (as opposed to side effects) of this genetic modification would play out in society over time. It’s a thoughtful, dialogue- and philosophy-heavy work, with a couple of clever twists that turns the story back from Sleeper-vs-Sleepless to Sleepless-vs-Sleepless to human-vs-human. The title derives from an extended metaphor played throughout the novel. On the whole, the plot is fairly straightforward, slowly building upon itself with successive events. No twist endings here.

The characters are the weakest link in the novel. With a couple of notable exceptions, they are more broadly-sketched caricatures than real people. It’s not that Kress doesn’t have the skill; she just doesn’t spend the time or delve into most of the characters’ lives enough for us to really get to know them. I wouldn’t mind so much if it were just the secondary characters, but even the novel’s antagonist seems one-dimensional. I wish we had seen more of her earlier in the book, so we would have a better idea of who she is and why she’s the person she’s become.

On the whole, an engaging and thought-provoking story. This is science fiction in the Jules Verne tradition. That is, it’s fiction today. Let’s re-read it again in a few decades and see if we can still say that.

For those who are interested: Regarding gay content, there’s virtually zilch. There is one mention of gay rights as part of a list of civil rights movements in history. No gay characters (not even B- or C-characters, which I personally thought was an interesting omission, considering the number of characters and treatment of the subject matter). I didn’t score the novel for its gay positivity because there wasn’t enough information. It’s as if gay people don’t exist in Kress’s future.

Summary

Set about ten years after “Magic’s Promise,” Vanyel is stretched thin as one of the few remaining Herald-Mages. The King’s failing health has also required Vanyel to serve as a stand-in for the monarch. However, a temporary solution to the King’s chronic pain is found in a young Bard trainee named Stefen, who has the peculiar magical talent of relieving pain with his music.

Stefen falls for Vanyel almost immediately and sets about trying to seduce the older man. Vanyel, although attracted to Stefen, resists the Bard’s advances, fearing that anyone with whom he’s close is at risk from his enemies.

Meanwhile, the threats against Valdemar are growing – to the south, in Karse, a Prophet-King has staged a coup and raised an army of anti-magic fanatics. And a mysterious threat from the north emerges in a serious assassination attempt against Vanyel’s parents – to which Vanyel falls prey.

Then this mysterious threat begins targeting the last remaining Herald-Mages.

Narrative

In some ways, this is the best book of the trilogy. In others, it’s the most disappointing.

I have stated in my reviews of “Magic’s Pawn” and “Magic’s Promise” that this trilogy is far more character-driven than plot-driven as a study into the life of Vanyel Ashekevron, the last Herald-Mage of Valdemar. That remains true in this novel as well.

Although it’s a fast-paced, action-filled adventure, the plot is relatively bare, linear, and undeveloped. It’s rather like a garden that hasn’t grown to maturity yet; there’s definitely plant life, but it lacks the verdant overgrowth of a garden cultivated over the years.

Concurrent with the bare plot comes a moral system that’s a little too pat. In this sense, the story is almost cartoonish. There’s very little moral ambiguity in the novel. We find interpersonal tensions over things like, will Vanyel’s parents accept him as a gay man, or will Vanyel take Stefen as a lover despite his concerns?

But the central conflicts are not only undercooked but overly simplified, and the confrontations between the good guys and bad guys are pretty much just that. A bad guy shows up, there’s a confrontation with the good guy, and then there’s the aftermath (as a rule in Lackey’s books, the good guys win, but usually at terrible personal cost).

Characters

I found Vanyel to be less likeable in this book than previous volumes. He was more arrogant, though not in an obvious “look at me, I’m so powerful” way. Rather, devotion to duty can grow into its own form of arrogance: “look, I’m needed to do all this good. I can’t think about you, or even my own needs, because I’m all about service to country and doing good in the world. See? Look at all the good I’m doing.” My belief is that everyone has his or her place in the scheme of things; and because we cannot predict the future, it is useless to second-guess the present. I grew weary of Vanyel’s moral superiority, soft-edged though it was, and of the assumption of a world that is clearly divided into unambiguous good and evil.

It’s dark fantasy, but without the plot or moral depth and breadth of a fantasy work like George R.R. Martin or Melanie Rawn. And then at the end, his character changes quite a bit – it’s quite ugly as he becomes obsessed with vengeance for the deaths of his fellow Herald-Mages, to the extent that he treats both Yfandes and Stefen with disregard and sometimes outright contempt.

Does it make sense within the context of the story that he might fall into that personality pattern. Absolutely! Should he have pursued Leareth, who has proven himself a terrible threat to the protectors of Valdemar, with all his resources? A resounding yes! In fact, it could have been a fascinating story thread. I’ve said repeatedly that this trilogy is more character study than action-adventure, and I would have enjoyed follow Vanyel’s mental and emotional healing from this obsessive, angry, raging, unhealthy mental state. It’s the why that matters – and why does matter in a moral universe. This thread could have turned into a powerful thematic subplot. But that’s not what happens. Vanyel does goes through a healing process wherein his obsession changes from lust for vengeance to pursuit of justice. Or so we’re told. This plot thread happens so quickly at the end of the book, it’s never really explored. It could have very interesting, but ultimately it was just disappointing.

It doesn’t help that Vanyel never has a good antagonist. He comes closest in this book because the reader senses Leareth’s presence in the story long before we ever meet him. But Leareth is still just a caricature. Because I’ve read more of Lackey’s books, I know there’s more to this character than meets the eye – he’s part of a story thread that spans virtually all her books – so there’s definitely the potential that more could have been made of him. As it is, he doesn’t even really need a name. She could have just called him Bad Guy. It should be noted that her description of him is fully and completely stereotypical for a fantasy villain. Nothing surprises or intrigues. Disappointing.

Stefen, by contrast, is one character where the simplicity worked in Lackey’s favor. She made a smart move with him, though: she gave him a backstory and then major page-time.

Overall

I recommend this book on the strength of its engaging characters and entertaining love story. Although it contains disappointing elements and retains many of the weaknesses of the previous two books – such as linear and undeveloped storylines, boring villains, etc – it also capitalizes on the strengths Lackey brings to the table, primarily fantastic characterization. It appears including a love story also makes a difference. That’s what “Magic’s Promise” lacked, and it’s definitely the least impressive of the three volumes, while Stefen’s and Vanyel’s burgeoning relationship was definitely the highlight of “Magic’s Price.”

The Gay

(** Major spoiler warning – The following section explains the gay positivity of the book, but necessarily contains information about the ending of the book. **)

Although the situation continues to improve over time, the preponderance of media images of gay folks continue to suggest if you’re gay then (1) you are bad, and/or (2) bad things will happen to you. The most serious forms of these clichés are the gay villain and the gay dies. I would add in the victimized gay as a close subset of the gay dies. All three of these serious negative images occur in this book.

The Victimized Gay

This gets much, much worse toward the end of the novel. In fact, what Vanyel suffers in the final portion of the book is just needlessly over the top. Particularly the sequence after Vanyel is kidnapped by brigands: I don’t understand why that was even included.

“The victimized gay” is the most serious and derogatory issue in this book. “The gay dies” and “the gay villain” are both there (and discussed below), but the book also contains elements which help to offset the negative impact of those cliches. Not so much with “the victimized gay.” From “Magic’s Pawn” until the last page of “Magic’s Price,” Vanyel has led a hard life filled with frustration, tragedy, and pain. And he’s put to the screws in an unparalleled way in “Magic’s Price.” Yes, it fits the context and nature of the story, but (1) did she have to go to such terrible lengths, and (2) the subliminal message is “gay life is bad; if you’re gay, bad things will happen to you.” If the fantasy genre produced more works where the gay characters led successful, productive, happy lives (it’d probably have to be in high fantasy or light fantasy sub-genres; no one leads successful, productive, happy lives in dark fantasy novels), I would not be so quick to point an accusing finger at books like these. But as it is, I find myself increasing exasperated at the cliché of the unhappy gay.

The Gay Dies

Vanyel sacrifices himself through a magical technique called Final Strike; he’s able to defeat the evil Leareth and Leareth’s army, but the assault takes his own life. This after a hard and unhappy life. Sure, this fits the context of the story and Lackey’s writing (she’s not kind to any of her heroes, and plenty of of the straight folks die tragically). It also makes for a great tear-jerker ending, and highlights the sheer heroism and self-sacrifice to which Vanyel has dedicated himself. This is a noble death, saving his country from otherwise certain doom. Plus, Vanyel returns as a ghost to continue guarding Valdemar; he wins a sort of eternal life. But “the gay dies” is still a stereotype, and it communicates on a visceral level that gay life does not end well. This kind of portrayal lacks balance (particularly in the fantasy genre); we find far more unhappy endings for gay folks than happily-ever-afters. And that’s really the crux of it. If we just look at the trilogy alone, it fits, and Lackey is not singling out the gay folks, which is notable and important. But I’m also considering Lackey’s works in relation to the canon of fantasy literature, and overall there’s a balance in the portrayals of straight folks lacking for gay characters. Recall that Tylendel also died, and at the very end of the book, Stefen joins Vanyel. By that point, Stefen is an old man, having lived a long life, and his death is relatively peaceful and easy. Nevertheless, every major gay character in her book thus dies.

The Gay Villain

It is never clearly established that Learest is gay, only intimated by his manner and approach toward Vanyel. He seems to want to seduce Vanyel to rule the world at his side, as if Darth Vader weren’t the Emperor’s protege but his lover. “The gay villain” is the most pernicious stereotype that occurs in the media because it contains the message “gay is bad.” Once again, it wouldn’t be as much of an issue if there were more balance in the portrayals, if we found as many good guys as bad guys. And again, just looking at The Last Herald-Mage Trilogy, the goodness of Vanyel more than offsets the badness of Leareth. But stepping back and considering a bigger picture, it becomes just one more image in an already mountainous pile of gay = bad.

The Gay Positive

Now, having said all that, I want to talk about the good stuff. I don’t want to paint of a picture of a book that’s so homophobic you might as well not bother. In fact, I wouldn’t call it homophobic at all but simply stereotypical and cliched in certain respects. The treatment is extremely sympathetic, and it’s important to note (as I did above) that everything that happens to and around Vanyel and Stefen fits the story’s context and Lackey’s style. That means she’s not singling out her gay characters for the bad stuff, and she’s done a wonderful thing simply by writing a mainstream, wide-release story that centers around a fantastic gay man.

The positive gay elements include:

• The Gay Hero. And I mean this literally: not only is Vanyel the protagonist, he’s also a heroic character, repeatedly working selflessly literally to save thousands of lives. I hesitate just shy of calling him a positive role model for gay readers because so much badness happens to and around him, but he is a character to look up to. (Full disclosure: when I first read these books as an adolescent, I totally wanted Vanyel to be my boyfriend.)
• The Powerful Gay. A common negative stereotype portrays gay men as weak, vulnerable, mincing little girly-men who easily fall prey to stronger characters. Not so with Vanyel. Not only is he an accomplished warrior and powerful Herald-Mage, he is the single most powerful Herald-Mage. His exploits are literally the stuff of legends. Bad guys beware!
• The Wise and/or Beneficial Gay. Vanyel helps people, even at great personal cost. In other words, not only is he not a villain, he’s not even indifferent or self-absorbed. Although he’s teased throughout all three books for being vain (based on his initial behavior in “Magic’s Pawn“), he is a very grounded character of substantial depth and selflessness. He’s the kind of friend you’d like to have in your life, always willing to lend his considerable powers and influence to help. And in fact, Vanyel’s not the only gay character who brings wisdom and helpfulness to the books. Moondance and Starwind, shamanistic mages from a Native American-esque society, offer great insight and helpfulness. They are powerful healers and teachers. Moondance, in particular, by recanting his personal tragedy when his family and village discovered he was gay, suggests that the tribulations gay people face also give them an opportunity to grow in compassion and wisdom. It’s like taking a negative and turning it into a positive, and it acknowledges that gay experience has the potential to benefit the world, even if the experience is tainted by negativity.
• Gay Pride / Self-Acceptance. Vanyel has made peace with himself by this book, and Stefen has no problem at all. He’s shaych and doesn’t care what anyone thinks. He’s going to sleep with, and form relationships with, whomever he damn pleases. Good for them!
• Gay Triumphs Over Anti-Gay. The major anti-gay force in the novels are Vanyel’s parents, who never quite accept him as a gay man. Even considering Vanyel’s power and heroism, they still, amazingly, feel shame about him. But Moondance helps them to see both the foolishness of that perspective as well as they pain they have caused Vanyel. Narratively, I think this subplot is a little too pat and easily resolved (after a lifetime of shame, his dad says, “Okay, I’m still not entirely uncomfortable with it, but I recognize that I have cause to be proud of you” and Vanyel is suddenly healed of all the negative emotion? Whatever). But thematically, it’s well-placed.
• Innovative Portrayal. It might sound strange for me to praise Lackey for writing an innovative portrayal after complaining at such length about the stereotypes she included. Nevertheless, I have to recognize that she wrote these books as a mainstream author at a time when homosexuality was virtually invisible in the fantasy genre, especially among wide-release works. I give her many kudos for writing these books to begin with.
• Gay Inclusive/Gay Friendly. On a related note to the “innovative portrayal,” the single most positive factor in the trilogy is the fact that it exists at all. I do not want to under-emphasize this. By this point (year 2007), simply including gay content is not sufficient to code it as positive. Hence all my criticisms about the gay content. Homosexuality is visible enough nowadays that simply including gay content isn’t an advance and doesn’t count as a positive. But Lackey didn’t write these books in 2007; she wrote them nearly 20 years ago, at a point in time when gay people were much more commonly defamed invisibility in the media. That is, ignoring gay people, pretending they don’t exist, or under-representing them, contributes to prejudice and negative stereotypes, and that was the case with the fantasy genre as a whole. Lackey broke through that curtain with a vengeance. Not only did she include gay characters, she made them the centerpiece of this trilogy! And further, she did not shy away from their relationships or identities as gay men. Wow. For all my criticisms, a big thank you to Mercedes Lackey!
• Gay Normative. Yes, yes, we find a lot of negative stereotypes and cliches in this book. A lot. And if she had written this book today, I’d be calling foul without belaboring the positive points. But as I mentioned above, she wrote this during a very different period. Lackey – a major fantasy author – initiated an important conversation by introducing a previously verboeten topic into the mainstream fantasy genre. The simple inclusion, and sympathetic treatment, introduced new readers to gay content and said, “Look, we all go through the same ups and downs. Is it really worth the prejudice?” Yeah, she contributed more negative images to the pile, which just feeds the visceral fire of prejudice and derogatory stereotypes, and that’s what I take issue with. But she also initiated the very conversation that might upend those stereotypes and preconceived ideas, and I commend her for that!

The entire series is called “The Spellsong War series” and actually lasts five books. However, the focus in the last two books shifts from the principal character of Lady Anna, the Soprano Sorceress, to another character, so I consider that to be a separate series set in the same world. Therefore, this review and analysis covers only the first three books.

The first book (”The Soprano Sorceress”) details Anna’s arrival in Erde and the discovery and evolution of her powers. Anna is a singer and teacher from the Earth whose life is slow falling apart. Her marriage has broken up, she’s struggling financially, and her oldest child (out of three) has recently died in a car accidence. She wants nothing more than to leave all the difficulties behind. Be careful what you wish for. In a parallel universe, in which magic is real but requires skilled singing to execute, a young man named Daffyd wants to summon a powerful sorceress to help him find revenge against a sorcerer.

His and Anna’s desires collide, and Anna finds herself pulled from the Earth to Erde. Immediately, she finds herself embroiled in a mess of national politics and at risk from an invasion of a Nazi-like nation of “Dark Monks.” Throughout the book, she does not know whom she can trust, and must use wit, guile, and her formidable powers as a sorceress to survive constant dangers.

As part of Anna’s efforts against the Dark Monks, she allies herself with yet another invader, the Prophet Behlem (a delightfully calculating and self-absorbed character) from Neserea, who then becomes her enemy. Finally, she must travel to Ebra to defeat the Dark Monks once and for all.

The second book (”The Spellsong War”) follows Anna’s adventures as the exalted Regent of Defalk, until the underage heir from the first book is old enough to inherit. Defalk is composed of 33 principalities, each ruled by a short-sighted and self-interested Lord, and Anna is forced to weather the internal politics of Defalk in order to survive.

One of the Lords in the south threatens to start a civil war, supported by Defalk’s neighbor to the south, the nation of Dumar. Dumar, meanwhile, is being supported and manipulated by the Sea-Priests of Sturinn, who are so evil they keep all their women in chains. This book emphasizes politics and Machiavellian maneuvering as much or more than the action.

The final book of the trilogy (”Darksong Rising”) has Lady Anna, still serving as Regent of Defalk, facing dangerous enemies simultaneously on several fronts. First, bickering with several of the 33 Lords of Defalk is causing instability in the already fragile nation. Meanwhile, she must travel back to Ebra to settle a dispute there before it explodes, involving Defalk, and then hurry to the opposite side of the country to face down the Prophet Behlem’s evil son, the young Rabyn. And all the while she must also deal with internal uprisings from several Lords of Defalk who violently resist her rule, as well as a dangerous darksinger seeking revenge. Whew!

Characters

Welcome to one of my favorite fantasy trilogies! The Lady Anna is a favorite character from fantasy literature – a smart, tough woman pulled from a life of obscurity and difficulty in the “real” world and thrust into a position of greatness in a fantasy realm filled with magic. She’s powerful, intelligent, thoughtful, and moral, and she becomes an enchanting conduit through which the reader can experience the world of Erde. I greatly enjoyed watching her stay one step ahead of her enemies and gradually progress from confused stranger in a strange land to, well, let’s say I was well pleased with the ending of each book and also the trilogy as a whole.

I do have one minor complaint about Anna, however: I had a tough time believing her reaction to her arrival in Erde. She seemed to take it all in stride. Given her character, I don’t think she’d descend into hysterics, but I would have expected more resistance and difficulty in adjusting.

The characters closest to Anna, such as Lord Jecks or Overcaptain Hanfor, have the most distinct and fully developed personalities, but even they are shadows compared to Anna, who’s really the only fully developed character in the series.

And other characters, even seemingly important ones, are even more roughly sketched, two-dimension caricatures. In fact, many of the characters in certain roles are fully interchangeable. Modesitt almost needn’t have bothered naming them. Instead of Lord Dannel and Lord Tybel, he might have said Defalkan Lord One and Defalkan Lord Two. Such is the case with most, though not all, of the lords.

Similarly, among the pages and soldiers, few stand out and most are interchangeable. One character might have a distinctive attribute, quirk, or behavior – like Skent the page smiles at Anna, while Birke the page seems fearful of her – but otherwise one is little different from the other. And often that one distinctive quality is emphasized over and over again, so it becomes the only feature strongly associated with the character. That may help the reader remember different characters over the course of the epic, but it creates a one-dimensional person.

On a closely related note, with virtually each character, what you see is what you get. A few more character-related surprises would have added a lot to the novels.

As far as villains go, Behlem is by far the most interesting and complex. Too bad he doesn’t last longer. All of the others are clichés and caricatures. Behlem’s son Rabyn is probably the next best villain because Modesitt builds him up over a series of chapters, but his behaviors are all caricatured and stereotyped. In other words, Modesitt comes across heavy-handed in painting Rabyn as evil and perverted, creating more cartoon villain than real person.

Other enemies are not given enough time to fully develop, so they too come across in broad strokes, without nuance, such as the scheming Cyndyth or Anientta. Cyndyth, for example, schemes because that’s just what she does. Her character is Scheming, Jealous Consort. We never know her well enough to understand why, what woundedness gives rise to her hatefulness, or what fearfulness contributes to her aggression.

Modesitt’s series recalls “The Dragon Prince” trilogy by Melanie Rawn. However, Rawn’s work eclipses Modesitt’s in one important respect: virtually every character in Rawn’s world is carefully sculpted to come as close to living and breathing as a character on the page can.

Plot and Narrative

The story moves at a crisp pace, following the sensible, likeable Anna through her constant travails. The prose flows easily, and Modesitt never succumbs to over-writing, that all-too-common writing disease in the fantasy genre. The plot blends political intrigue with battle and action, giving the books a sustained momentum. “The Spellsong War” moves more slowly than either the first or third book but is still engaging and easily readable. The story is linear, particularly since Modesitt presents few unexpected twists (either plot- or character-wise). With plot, as with character, what you see is largely what you get.

Modesitt also innovates on the use of magic in his fantasy universe. A sorceress like Anna performs magic through song. The more skilled the singer, and the better the orchestral accompaniment, the more powerful the magic. As a highly trained, professional singer, Anna is unusually powerful for a sorceress in the world of Erde. I found the equation of song and magic to be elegant and poetic.

The effect on Anna was also interesting, requiring substantial amounts of energy. Repeatedly after performing some magical feat, Anna would think to herself that her blood sugar must be very low, and she would need to eat. In fantasy video games, a magical character typically has something called Magic Points or Mana Points (MP). Each spell costs a certain number of MP. When the character runs out of MP, they can no longer cast spells until they recover their Magic Points. Although it may be called by many different names, the use of MP to limit magical characters in games has become convention, and has always struck me as an artificial limitation on those characters. I have never before thought of this scheme in terms of blood sugar, which makes a lot more sense. Kudos to Modesitt for his creativity.

However, all three books suffer from a serious structural weakness, which detracts from the flow and drama of the story. Modesitt presents two or three chapters focused on Anna, followed by a brief chapter depicting an antagonist from one of several foreign countries. The cycle then repeats. The brief antagonist chapters are painfully predictable, regardless of which country they cover. The antagonists follow the developments surrounding Anna and usually conclude with something threatening, like “We may need to do away with her.” The reader quickly learns, however, that these antagonists almost never actually do anything except watch and threaten.

Clearly, Modesitt is trying to deep the drama and increase tension, but these episodes become repetitive and contribute little to the story other than to distract from the main storyline. They are insufficient to develop worthy, interesting adversaries. I found myself skimming them, and only rarely did I think they were worth the time away from the real story. Note, however, the final book improves on the use of these interludes to effectively to build the plot against Anna, as well as the diabolical characters arrayed against her.

Despite the structural flaws, I found myself fascinated by watching Anna – a modern woman from the “real” world – deal with medieval politics and warfare. And even though the villains were clichéd, their selfishness, cruelty, and unfairness still made me bristle. I wanted Anna to put them in their place. If nothing else, the books successfully allow the reader the vicarious thrill of putting a bad guy in his place. Furthermore, the juxtaposition of modern sensibilities with medieval misogyny and brutality absorbed my attention and fueled one of the strongest aspects of the novel: theme.

The Themes

Many fantasies gloss over a thoughtful examination of the societies they contain. They emphasize instead plot and character, and if the readers want to find deeper meaning, they’ll have to piece it together themselves. Modesitt, however, uses the device of outsider-as-protagonist to probe more deeply into some social issues: gender politics (the dominant theme), appearance versus substance, force and violence versus peace and diplomacy, the generation gap, and the domino effect of most major decisions.

• Gender politics. Modesitt’s exploration of gender roles comprises the dominant theme of the series. The theme of youth and beauty adds nuance to this theme. Anna is nearly 50, the mother of three grown children, but around the middle of the first book a youth spell grants her the appearance of a young woman. “She’d been given youth, and beauty back, and power – and it was getting more and more evident that the price was high – higher than she could have dreamed” (The Soprano Sorceress, 396). Therefore, not only is our protagonist thrust into a sexist, medieval society, she also gives the appearance of being very young and beautiful. In other words, she’s not taken seriously on several levels, which adds to her struggle. In fact, its interesting to watch her deal with this. She’s a ruthless character; she kills a lot of people using her power. And yet she’s almost forced to; she offers her enemies multiple chances at peace, but they don’t take her seriously. She then exercises her power, and everyone (including Anna herself) is horrified at what she does. Sometimes the enemies keep pushing, forcing Anna to destroy them, simply because it would be “dishonorable” to surrender or give in to a woman. Many of her enemies arise, in fact, simply because she’s a woman. On the other hand, her gender grants her an outsider status. People give her greater leeway than they might a man
• Politics. The gender politics dovetails nicely with the ordinary, everyday, age old politics. As Anna describes it: “What a miserable situation – the worst of university politics combined with magic and medieval court intrigue “ (The Soprano Sorceress, 331). Much of the drama revolves around Anna dealing with the political maneuverings of the 33 Lords of Defalk that rule under her.
• The interconnectedness of events. In Modesitt’s world, as in the real world, every choice is a domino which necessarily has tangible repercussions. Anna constantly discovers how one choice leads to an unexpected, often dire consequence. Anna’s rise to power as the Regent of Defalk puts her in a position of being able to choose her own course, as well the course of her nation, and yet her increasing understanding of how her choices impact everyone else becomes its own limitation. And because of her power and stature, her choices affect far more people. The consequences, therefore, are far greater. “For the first time in her life, she could direct at least some of her own destiny. And yet she could not, not without considering the destinies of others, not being who she still was.” (The Soprano Sorceress, 657).
• The interconnectedness of people. It’s interesting to watch the characters native to Defalk. They’re all so provincial, in the sense that they don’t see anything outside of their individual sphere. Anna sees the big picture, but the scheming Lords of Defalk see only what’s good for them. Very often, what’s good for them would be terrible for Defalk. In fact, it’s obvious to the reader, and to Anna, that if they succeeded in displacing Anna, it would only be a matter of time before a neighboring power invaded and conquered Defalk. The same trend occurs on a smaller scale. Anna describes the young man Daffyd as “the condescending undergraduate who hadn’t figured out how much he didn’t know” (The Soprano Sorceress, 404). The same can be said of most characters in the series: they just don’t get it. It’s frustrating (and contributes a lot of drama to the story), but it’s also true to life. If anything, many of the conflicts that occur in our world are the result of the inability (or unwillingness) to see past our immediate surroundings, the almost willful refusal to see the big picture.

However, the reader must also face the downside to a careful presentation of theme and politics: the action slows down. Similarly, the emphasis on politics slows the action down. Someone who likes reading thoughtful, philosophical dialogue will enjoy reading Anna’s thoughts or her exchanges with her principal advisors. A reader who prefers a fast-paced action-adventure novel may get bored with many parts of this trilogy.

Also, Modesitt sometimes goes a little bit overboard. For example, he gets a little heavy-handed with the “men are bad” shtick. Anna’s reactions to killing also got old. Although they contributed to her humanity, and made me appreciate her as a character more, I wanted to slap her and say, “What choice do you have!”

The Gay

I have to admit, it irritates me when novels like this exclude any form of gay content. Modesitt has written a fantasy epic and populated his world with literally dozens and dozens of characters – lords, heirs, retainers, advisors, soldiers, pages, fosterlings, sorcerers, etc. And not a single one is gay? Admittedly, Modesitt focuses the emphasis so solidly on Anna that more peripheral characters are little more than their names, and the Erde’s sexist society would doubtless force any gay character deep into the closet since homophobia closely follows sexism. So I can’t fault Modesitt too strongly. And yet, I reiterate that his emphasis on gender politics as a theme opens the door to a consideration of these issues, so I’m still irritated by it.

It is hard to judge an author’s intentions regarding gay themes when there are none. Usually I try to give them the benefit of the doubt, and if there’s no gay content, I simply don’t score the novel for Gay Positivity. However, when the series has so many characters, and they are all presumably straight, I see both heterosexism (the automatic assumption of heterosexuality) and defamation by omission. For sheer reading experience, I very much enjoy these books. But I’m still going to score them down for Gay Positivity.

Overall

“The Soprano Sorceress” was a rousing good adventure, with smart thematic subtext, and features one of my favorite characters from fantasy literature. It’s definitely a winner with only minor structural problems.

“The Spellsong War” is more of the same, but it tends to get bogged down: the author emphasizes the politics of Anna’s situation, the theme (although interesting) is sometimes heavy-handed, and the book slows down when wading through the minutia. The second volume also inherits the structural problems of the first.

Finally, “Darksong Rising” combines the best aspects of the first and second books: a deep, intelligent thematic story with a nice balance of politics and action carried out by a large cast of interesting personalities. “Darksong Rising” is the darkest of the three, almost reminiscent of George R.R. Martin, but also the most powerful.

Overall Quality 3.0 / 5.0 (mildly recommended; on the good side of okay)
Gay Content 0.0 / 5.0

“The Princes in the Tower” by Alison Weir offers slightly above average entertainment value, but only just, and below average historical value.

A readable portrayal of the second half of the Wars of the Roses, beginning shortly before the reign of the much maligned Richard III and ending shortly after the his death and the seizure of the crown by Henry VII, founder of the Tudor dynasty. Weir has also written a fascinating and engrossing book about the first half of the Wars of the Roses called, appropriately enough, ‘The Wars of the Roses” (1995).

Unfortunately, “The Princes in the Tower” lacks quite the dramatic flair of that book. Nevertheless, her prose remains easily accessible to the lay person (probably her greatest strength as a history author), and she organizes her facts into a dramatic re-telling of the events, but the account tends to gloss over most of the players and frequently loses its momentum in dry quotations or arguments. From an entertainment standpoint, Weir offers a well-written and interesting read for history buffs but nevertheless succumbs occasionally to the dryness endemic to history texts.

Unfortunately, as a history, the book is not nearly as successful. I will give the author this much: she does a great job of culling and presenting the available facts, resources, and research. Her analysis of the information is clever, sensible, and thoughtful, and I learned much about this period of English history and the key players. But she undermines her own efforts by using the book as a platform to prove a point: that Richard III murdered the Princes in the Tower.

A little background. The first half of the Wars of the Roses ended when the House of York, in the person of Edward IV, seized and held onto the English throne. Unfortunately, Edward IV died young and unexpectedly, leaving a minor as his successor (Edward V). Meanwhile, the politicking of his scheming wife Elizabeth and his insecure sibling Richard, Duke of Gloucester, had created a zero-sum situation where one could only prosper if the other fell from power. Eventually, through careful strategy and judicious force (with a dash of brutality), Richard became Lord Protector and then King, and imprisoned the former King’s heir in the Tower of London, where he and his younger brother apparently died. But how? Did Richard murder them to secure his crown?

Weir knows the answer. Or thinks she does.

Honestly, she would have been better off writing a comprehensive volume of all the different theories and available facts in a truly objective fashion. She might have concluded with two or three chapters that spelled out her own theory, but otherwise left it to the reader to draw conclusions. Specifically, one theory states Richard III killed the princes. Another states that Henry VII did it. I would have appreciated more information about why some people conjecture Henry might have done it. Maybe the evidence is flimsy or unfounded, as Weir postulates. As it is, the reader pretty much just has to take her word for it.

Which leads us to the major flaw of her work. She makes many assumptions and then treats them like fact. Not only that, she builds further assumptions based on the assumptions she’s treating like fact, leading to a house-of-cards conclusion. It may well be that Richard III killed the Princes in the Tower, but Weir’s case for it is less than rock solid, and that undermines her claim that alternative theories fail to hold up to close scrutiny.

In fact, there’s probably insufficient surviving information for us ever to know the truth. Unless we find a secret manuscript written by Edward V on the night of his death where he says, “And I have intimations that King Richard plans to kill us. Wait! Oh no! Richard’s men are here to kill us! Aieeeee!” then the available information is simply inconclusive.

Overall, it’s an entertaining introduction to a tumultuous period of English history, but I suggest further reading before unilaterally accepting its arguments and conclusions.

Related Links:

Weir, Alison. “The Wars of the Roses” (1995)

Overall Quality 4.5 / 5.0 (highly recommended)
Gay Content 1.0 / 5.0 (a couple of mentions)

Weir understandably points out that the Wars of the Roses, a period of English civil strife between 1455 and 1487, can easily be separated into two phases. Her previous book, “The Princes in the Tower,” details the second phase of the conflict, wherein the House of Tudor struggled against the House of York. This volume serves as a prequel describing the first phase, York versus Lancaster.

The tale comprises scads of players and events, making for an extremely convoluted and complicated story. Weir does a great job, through easily readable prose written for a lay audience. Even so, there are so many names, places, dates, and events that it would require more than one reading for it to really sink in.

“The Wars of the Roses” begins with a section describing medieval England, and then traces the conflict from its origins in the unfortunate reign of Richard II (Edward III’s grandson). She continues through various monarchs: Henry IV, Henry V, Henry VI, and ultimately culminating with Edward IV’s final defeat of the House of Lancaster. She also offers a brief summary of the phase of the conflict that follows (with the reigns of Richard III and Henry VII).

The condensation of the civil war, even parsed into two phases, becomes a little misleading. For example, the rule of England goes back and forth repeatedly. Henry VI and Edward IV actually trade places a couple of times before Edward finally defeats Henry. Similarly, the power-mongering court factions who took advantage of the weak and easily led Henry VI also change. Even Edward IV, a much stronger personality than Henry, suffers from certain weaknesses unfortunately plied by power-grabbing noble families. In the book, this back-and-forth occurs every few pages. But for the people living through this time, it would have be months or even years (although sometimes just weeks) between changes.

Politics in England during this period was truly a zero-sum game, where one family gained power only at another’s expense. Hence rivalries developed (such as between the Nevilles and the Percies, two powerful families) and factions took root at court. Henry VI’s weakness of character opened the door for power struggles, but fundamentally the conflict began with a class of magnates (landed, high-ranking nobles) who craved power for power’s sake with complete disdain for each other and the common people. Henry VI’s marriage to the unscrupulous and scheming Margaret of Anjou simply exacerbated the problem because Margaret simply chose a faction and favored it.

I actually would have enjoyed just a bit more analysis about the political and social dynamics going on. For example, in the absence of a zero-sum game, factions have a harder time taking root, and often tend to take the form of providing different perspectives rather than seizing power. What is it about the conditions of life in England, and the circumstances of the English monarchy and nobility at that time, that contributed to the zero-sum game being not only existent but embraced by the various players? Are the political and popular dynamics of Lancastrian, Yorkist, and Tudor England categorically different from modern England or, by extension, the United States? Or maybe not…? I can see arguments both ways. Alas, such an analysis really exceeds the scope of Weir’s history, which is largely a dramatic retelling of the Wars of the Roses based on extensive primary and secondary sources.

I was intrigued to learn how much the magnates apparently considered popular opinion. It makes sense, in a way: they were constantly trying to raise armies, and of course it’s the common folk who make up the bulk of cannon fodder. The supposed “rich and powerful” were also constantly borrowing money to finance their campaigns. At the same time, it’s painfully obvious that the magnates regarded commoners with sheer disdain. Heck, they regarded EACH OTHER with contempt!

But then, it’s sometimes shocking how much medieval English culture diverges from our own. Consider the parentage of Henry VII: at the time of their marriage, his father Richard was 25 years old. His mother Margaret was only 12. She gave birth to Henry at age 13. I’ll leave the math to you. I won’t even mention the excessive interpersonal, interfamilial, and international violence of the age.

Hm. Maybe it’s not that dissimilar, after all.

The appendix provides several much needed genealogical tables. Unfortunately, the font is so small and unusual (it looks hand-written) that it borders on useless. Nevertheless, I found myself referring back to the genealogies multiple times throughout the reading to remember who was who.

I also would have appreciated some kind of glossary, index, or table matching names with titles. Many magnates could be referred to by first name, family name, title, and in some cases nickname. For the most part Weir did a good job of picking one name and sticking to it. For example, we have Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick, also called the Kingmaker. For the most part, Weir refers to him consistently as Warwick. Other times she would vary, and it could be very difficult to follow, especially considering how many Edwards, Richards, and Henrys show up.

On the whole, if you are a fan of English history, I readily recommend this highly readable and engaging retelling of the Wars of the Roses. Far from a dry history textbook, it succeeds in its aim to bring these characters and events to life.

Note, I did include a score for Gay Content thanks to a couple of mentions in the book. For instance, Weir mentions that Richard II had a couple of male “favorites,” who may well have been lovers. I debated whether to score the book for its Gay Positivity, considering how little content there is, but I can still comment on the nature of those comments. Weir herself is non-judgmental in her mentions, but the (possibly) gay figures involved are not exactly role models, and things never worked out well for them. So I would score the Gay Positivity fairly low. In other words, if a reader were looking for a gay role model or hero out of history, they wouldn’t find it here.