A Coalition of Lions
Feb. 9th, 2011 12:29![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
starladyWein, Elizabeth E. A Coalition of Lions. New York: Firebird Books, 2003.
oyceter commented to me that these books remind her quite a lot of Megan Whalen Turner's Eugenides books, and I unequivocally agree; consider that a recommendation. That is just about all the reaction--and praise--that I can in good conscience leave outside of a spoiler cut.
This book, the sequel to A Winter Prince, which I liked very much, takes a complete 90º turn from its predecessor and finds Princess Goewin fleeing Britain for the dubious sanctuary of the allied empire of Aksum, in present-day Ethiopia. I appreciated that Wein started with the "rocks fall, everyone dies" development rather than leaving it for the end, but it did make for a bit of a wrenching beginning.
What's front and center as always, though, is the characters and their profound struggles not only to know who they are but to know what they must do and who they are in the places they find themselves. Goewin is a sympathetic narrator, and I like that, as before with Medraut, it takes the reader a while to figure out that she isn't entirely reliable, or rather, that we're so completely wrapped up in her perspective that we can't see when she's wrong, or misjudging those around her, or even really that everything she does is shadowed by wrenching grief. This book also introduces the incredible Telemakos, the son of Medraut and his Aksumite lover Turunesh, and--what can I say? He entrances Goewin instantly, and the reader along with her; he steals every scene and draws every eye, and not merely because, being Medraut's son, he has hair the color of palest fire, and eyes as blue as the sky. He reminds me a bit of Darryl from Diane Duane's Young Wizards books, actually, not because of his skin color, but because both Telemakos and Darryl fairly blaze with a ferocious innocence, an innocence that isn't fully innocent. It's hard to describe; like Carl tells Nina in A Wizard Alone, it's a virtue, it's a form of strength.
In a world aligned properly Goewin would of course be able to take up her father's crown and throne as high queen of Britain, and while she doesn't let her gender define her, she's quietly realistic about the constraints it places on her, and on the limits of what she can do to work around it or to turn it to her advantage. Wein's portrayal of Aksum is similarly nuanced and sympathetic, and her characters achingly real. I can't wait for the next book, The Sunbird.
oyceter commented to me that these books remind her quite a lot of Megan Whalen Turner's Eugenides books, and I unequivocally agree; consider that a recommendation. That is just about all the reaction--and praise--that I can in good conscience leave outside of a spoiler cut. This book, the sequel to A Winter Prince, which I liked very much, takes a complete 90º turn from its predecessor and finds Princess Goewin fleeing Britain for the dubious sanctuary of the allied empire of Aksum, in present-day Ethiopia. I appreciated that Wein started with the "rocks fall, everyone dies" development rather than leaving it for the end, but it did make for a bit of a wrenching beginning.
What's front and center as always, though, is the characters and their profound struggles not only to know who they are but to know what they must do and who they are in the places they find themselves. Goewin is a sympathetic narrator, and I like that, as before with Medraut, it takes the reader a while to figure out that she isn't entirely reliable, or rather, that we're so completely wrapped up in her perspective that we can't see when she's wrong, or misjudging those around her, or even really that everything she does is shadowed by wrenching grief. This book also introduces the incredible Telemakos, the son of Medraut and his Aksumite lover Turunesh, and--what can I say? He entrances Goewin instantly, and the reader along with her; he steals every scene and draws every eye, and not merely because, being Medraut's son, he has hair the color of palest fire, and eyes as blue as the sky. He reminds me a bit of Darryl from Diane Duane's Young Wizards books, actually, not because of his skin color, but because both Telemakos and Darryl fairly blaze with a ferocious innocence, an innocence that isn't fully innocent. It's hard to describe; like Carl tells Nina in A Wizard Alone, it's a virtue, it's a form of strength.
In a world aligned properly Goewin would of course be able to take up her father's crown and throne as high queen of Britain, and while she doesn't let her gender define her, she's quietly realistic about the constraints it places on her, and on the limits of what she can do to work around it or to turn it to her advantage. Wein's portrayal of Aksum is similarly nuanced and sympathetic, and her characters achingly real. I can't wait for the next book, The Sunbird.
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(no subject)
Date: 2011-02-09 22:13 (UTC)Also, Elizabeth Wein has two short stories set in the same world: "No Human Hands to Touch," which is about Medraut and Morgause's backstory, published in Sirens (ed. Ellen Datlow); and "Fire," which I haven't yet read, which is in Writers of the Future IX. And now that I am stalking her Wiki page, I want to know if "The Ethiopian Knight" has anything to do with the Telemakos cycle!
(no subject)
Date: 2011-02-09 22:32 (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2011-02-09 23:14 (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2011-02-09 23:16 (UTC)And yeah, they really are a lot like MTW's books, which makes me happy.
(no subject)
Date: 2011-02-10 22:06 (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2011-02-09 23:30 (UTC)I like your point about Goewin's sympathetic unreliability as a narrator; I was struck by the fact that she doesn't let herself get openly bogged down in grief, which is useful in preventing the book from being unable to struggle out from under the devastation of the opening. But of course her grief and anger are there bubbling up from within all the while.
And I love Goewin's rage at the ways her gender constrains her--her realism and her rage about it work together in interesting ways. And yes, "ferocious innocence" is a great descriptor of Telemakos. I found him compelling and believable as both a character and a child.
The Sunbird is probably my favorite of the sequence, though it's very hard to pick.
(no subject)
Date: 2011-02-10 06:05 (UTC)I like the way Goewin's not dwelling on her grief is counterpointed with Medraut's inability or unwillingness to heal from his own wounds. Both their reactions seem realistic to me, though I think one like Medraut's is less common in fiction.