Awright.
I dunno if we've got any other compulsive re-readers in the house but I find that after a few, I know things so well that I don't really have to pay attention, which means my mind wanders and finds new and interesting things in the text. And that happened during this re-read, so I decided instead of doing one review for the whole book, I'd do reviews really digging into what's going on in 60 page segments.
Excited? No? Good.
Prologue in the Year 1045: They usually tell writers to avoid word repetition. Consider then the opening lines:
"In the hall of light, they reminded her of her destiny. There, all was light, a pulsing gold like the heart of a candle flame, filling eternity. The speakers were pillars of fire within the fiery light, and their words were sparks."
That's a lot of light. And I like it. I like the use of deliberate repetition to hammer home a point and here the point is that we are in a place that isn't reality as we know. It's a place of light, of flames, of vast forces greater than humanity. And as we shortly find out, this is a place where a human soul exists before birth. And as the quote right before the prologue says:
"Men see life going from a dark to a darkness. The gods see life as a death..."
The Secret Book of Cadwallon the Druid
One of the big fantasy elements here is reincarnation. If it wasn't obvious from the blurb, Kerr has made it super obvious in these opening pages. Proclamation of big themes is something that I think validates the use of prologues and if we've already got reincarnation, we're about to get one of the others:
"These spirits of wind had faces, and she realised that she too now had a face, because they were all human and far from the light. When they spoke to her of fleshy things, she remembered lust, the ecstasy of flesh pressed against flesh."
We'll see how it goes but trust me, lust comes up a lot, both on that page (5 times!) and in the book in general. Which is - ironically to some - something that's not always true of Fantasy. And I will say at this point that while I think Daggerspell is very much representative of its type and era, there are some elements about it that feel a bit off-piste as is true of all great fiction. The focus on lust is one of those elements. Also, when you compare this sense of earthly lust and flesh vs the world of pure light, you can see why the gods consider life as a death.
But now we cut away from this otherworldly scene to meet Nevyn, the shabby old herbman who treats the poor yet strides around like a young prince and whose gaze commands respect even from the noble born - a neat little bit of worldbuilding tossed in as an aside. He's also a 400 year old dweomerman (sorcerer). He's busy looking for herbs in Eldidd when he sees an omen related to the birth of the human we've just seen:
"Out in the meadow, two larks broke cover with a heartbreaking beauty of song that was a battle cry. Two males swept up, circling and chasing each other. Yet even as they fought, the female who was their prize rose from the grass and flew indifferently away."
I ask you to consider for a moment how many stories - books, movies, myths, in Fantasy and outside - end with a female as a male's prize. It is as the stars in the sky. And here's Katherine Kerr saying clearly on the third page of text: Fuck. That. Noise. Yes, the males' competition might have a "heartbreaking beauty" - there's no hate here - just that women aren't prizes.
It's an interesting decision to have two different scenes in a prologue - I've rarely seen anything like it. The contrast of writing styles is fun, but I'm not sure how much that adds. I think the real answer is the two scenes allowed Kerr to introduce the big elements and themes in a straight forwards way. You could call it an inelegant solution; you could say it is elegant to get so much done in so few words without it feeling forced.
And with that, lets progress to the first section.
Cerrgonney, 1052: "The young fool tells his master that he will suffer to gain the dweomer. Why is he a fool? Because the dweomer has made him pay and pay and pay again before he even stood on its doorstep..."
The Secret Book of Cadwallon the Druid
First up, all these place names and quotes really create a sense of depth and place. Second, these quotes do a fine job of setting the agenda. If the first was reincarnation and earthly corruption, then this one looks a bit like 'life is pain'. But it's more than that. It is a statement about the dweomer - the magic of Kerr's Deverry - and what it takes to get that. And it raises a question - in this context, what is suffering?
The first page of this section features Jill, a young girl fetching wood and having a fight with a gnome (spirit) over it, in order to fetch wood for the fire by which her mother lies very ill. Our first impression of Jill is part sadness and fear, but also steel:
"How is she?' Macyn said.
The priestess looked at him, then pointedly at Jill.
"You can say it,' Jill said. 'I know she's going to die."
The reason for this lies partly in her pride in her father - a great warrior to her, a Silver Dagger to others. Another part probably lies in her circumstances - even before her mother's death, she's an impoverished bastard already helping to work for her keep, which comes from the kindness of the tavernkeep Macyn. And here we see suffering very early; bereavement, poverty, an absent father. One of Kerr's strengths as a writer is the way in which she implants questions into the reader's mind - provokes desire about what they would see - then provides answers, sometimes quite subtly. Having provided the first set, the next questions are What's Going to Happen to Jill, and Who's This Cullyn (Jill's Father) anyway?
These answers come slow as Kerr shows us Jill's everyday life instead first - the Stasis point of a storytelling arc. It's a bit of a fakeout, because her mother's death feels like a Trigger point, but it works. The Stasis part of an opening can feel slow, but the death is an instant hook, and seeing how Jill mourns and adapts to life without her a natural reaction to that we readers want to see. And because we want that and the everyday life is incorporated, it doesn't feel slow. It's clever storytelling. Clever worldbuilding too, for we find out a lot about Deverry and its culture through Jill's eyes.
We also find out a bit about Cullyn too when the local lord asks who Jill's father is:
"Oh, not a doubt in the world, my lord," the ride said with an unpleasant grin. "Cullyn of Cerrmor, and no man would have dared to trifle with his wench."
...
"Well, no doubt a warrior's glory doesn't mean much to a little lass, but your da's the greatest swordsman in all Deverry, silver dagger or no."
Jill's childish surety that her father is a great warrior falls short of the truth; she is the daughter of Deverry's Muhammad 'I'm Hard' Bruce Lee. We also get a big dollop of theme here - the idea of Jill's mother being defined by being Cullyn's - and also cultural worldbuilding. The men of Deverry are a hard bunch, paying homage to Cullyn's reputation as a warrior and amused at the thought of anyone getting on the wrong end of it. This is the first point at which we see just how strong the vein of violence runs in the Deverry psyche.
The stasis continues. Jill has a moment of doubt over the realisation the local lord gave her charity, and wondering what would happen to Macyn (or Macco as she calls him, because real people use nicknames). She serves customers. Talks to her gnome (we learn the spirits are called the Wildfolk). We hear Cullyn has been fighting a war, and that all Silver Daggers are a bad lot - which is then followed by a small infodump that an editor might frown on today. Worked for me, but feels odd for Kerr to be so patient about building it up then just going boom. Then Jill dreams that Cullyn is coming - just in case there was any doubt she's the child of the prologue, marked for the Dweomer. And so he does.
Our first impression of Cullyn is as an emotional, honest, violent man - but then we do not see Cullyn until he's been told that Seryan (Jill's mother) is dead. 'My poor little lass!' Cullyn said. 'By the hells, what a rotten father you've got!' are his first words to Jill after picking her up. He loses control, weeping and bereft in public after Jill tells him that Seryan's last word was his name. And when the tavern's patrons are a little too close with their tight little smiles, he lays into them:
"None of you are even fit to be killed to pour blood into her grave."
Fantastic line.
And when it's all done, he takes Jill away from everything she's known onto the Long Road with her. Is this Cullyn doing the right thing? Is this treating her as a possession? It's hard to say. Is this the action of a loving, dedicated father, or of a jealous possessive one? It pleases and terrifies Jill. We've seen her realise the tenuousness of her situation - but is her situation with Cullyn any better? Shouldn't he settle down with her somewhere safe rather than being a mercenary? Or is he right to take care of her, him her closest flesh and blood, and to risk his life to earn the coin to pay for a decent life for her? Kerr never really answers these questions, just simply raises them and leaves them be. But it's the first time we're asked to consider where true love stops and controlling obsession starts.
The following pages in which Cullyn and Jill ride around Deverry are some of my favourite in the book and reveal so much about about the characters. We see them coping with the Long Road, dealing with the disdain Cullyn faces as a Silver Dagger, fighting a tavern brawl, Cullyn facing Jill's belief she can see the Wildfolk, riding a war and simply getting to know each other. They know each other well enough to love each other but are still very much strangers, unused and unfitted to the roles they find themselves in.
Cullyn is, by and large, a decent man and decent father. He makes sure Jill is safe and fed. He indulges her curiousity with candour except when she wants to see the direct results of his trade, which is a fairly reasonable stance with a seven year old. He can protect her. He can love her. He knows how to do these things. But when it comes to the things he can't do, he struggles. His impatience in cutting her hair short because 'cursed if I'll spend all my time combing it for you like a nursemaid' is this trait encapsulated in neat storyteller's shorthand. He also resorts to physical discipline a number of times. Why? It is tempting to simply say it is the action of a violent man. There's truth to that.
But it's not the whole truth because as we get to see on numerous occasions, Cullyn avoids killing when he can. When challenged in a tavern he doesn't back down from the confrontation, but everything is instigated and escalated by the other man. Cullyn contents himself with breaking the man's wrist and riding on to avoid trouble. When fighting the war - a very little one, seven versus five until he gets there - he seeks peaceful resolution, derides his employer's bloodthirsty attitude, and mourns the man he kills. Cullyn can control his violence. But not always with Jill.
So why? He is not constantly violent with her. He is apologetic and seeks to make her understand what he didn't want her to do afterwards. The three occasions we see her slap her are when she's talking to the Wildfolk, a habit that'd lead people to regard her as a witch; when she volunteers to ride as a messenger in a war, putting herself into danger; and when she runs forwards to see a man he's just killed, something nobody wants their child to see. The consistent pattern is him using it as a form of discipline when he's scared for her and in his fear, he doesn't have a better way of reaching out to her. Does this make it fine? To many today, no, although I wonder what Katherine Kerr herself makes of it. But in any case, I do not seek to excuse him. I seek to explain. The picture I see of Cullyn is a product of his violent environment, woefully underequipped for being the active parent, but trying as best he can.
The other thing that comes across from Cullyn in this portion of the book is his concept of honour. To him, it is hugely important - "Never dishonour yourself, Jill... dishonour sticks closer to you than blood on your hands." Yet when Jill praises him for being honourable and letting a lord's son lives, he corrects her and points out that was done solely for the ransom. To Cullyn, honour doesn't seem anything that important. Its dishonour - revealed to be the reason for why every man becomes a Silver Dagger, for only a dishonoured man would fight for pay - that matters. And that opinion in the mouth of the pragmatic Cullyn acts as a key piece of worldbuilding; dishonour will have big real life consequences in Deverry.
And what of Jill? She is full of curiosity, a bit naive but not slow in learning. She's not afraid to answer back most of the time, or to punch a snot-nosed boy who calls Silver Daggers scum. It is quickly clear there's a lot of her father in her - 'stubborn just like you and every bit as nasty when I wanted to be' is the posthumous judgment of Seryan as relayed by Jill to Cullyn. There's a lot of love for him, a lot of hero worship: "Da, you're splendid, and this is splendid, too. When I grow up, I'll be a silver dagger like you."
There's also fear. She loves her da, but she's also scared. Why wouldn't she be? He's been out of her life more than in for all his influence, and is a physically imposing man who makes his living through bloody violence and imposes discipline with a slap. This truly comes home when she sees the man Cullyn kill and realises who her da truly is.
"He was still her da, her handsome wonderful da, but she had just seen him kill a man. When he laid his hand on her shoulder, she flinched."
The hands that comb her hair kill men. Its the sort of thought most people would push aside, but she can't fully. Yet, having accepted that this is simply how Wyrd is in Deverry, she also comes to peace with this being Cullyn. He's all she has after all. And that night she has a dream where she sees the blood and dead rider all over again, and this time she watches and watches as the thick green grass grows over it. And the figure in her dream (a legendary woman warrior) smiles. This is Deverry. Blood and suffering are the order of the day. Yet neither Cullyn nor Jill fully accept it, even if they do not reject it.
There is a final coda to this section and that is back to Nevyn, the herbman of the prologue, riding along the road and despairing of ever finding the girl we know to be Jill. In his reverie he's about to ride into a warband - hard-edged fighting men like we've seen bickering and quarrelling all the way through Jill's narrative. Sure enough they shout for him to get off the road, but before he can comply they do that same thing. The reason for this is their lord - an eight year old child named Rhodry - has commanded them to do so. Rhodry is impossibly handsome, friendly and open, and with a very fine sense of honour as demonstrated by his decision that young men should cede the road to old men, regardless of rank. He is a young lord fit to have walked out of a fairytale. And sure enough, he's going back to his home in Eldidd (where Nevyn's story begins), and he's the reincarnated soul of someone who was part of Nevyn and Jill's tangled wyrd.
Honestly, this scene doesn't truly fit. It's a quick and well-written way to introduce Rhodry and segue into the first of the time jumps, but it is inelegant and feels forced to jump suddenly to this narrative at this moment. To me, it doesn't fit the cadence of the narrative. But that is a small gripe and as an introduction to Rhodry and a way to shed light on just how old and tired Nevyn is, it works.
Salient Points
I'm going to talk about Cullyn first, up to this point the most controversial character on page for most. I am, admittedly, a big fan of his. And something that I've only really recently realised to put into words is that for a character of his type - the veteran warrior - he is probably the most convincing to me in Fantasy outside of David Gemmell's books. He's wise, but not impossibly so. It is difficult to explain, but I think it's best to say is no matter how wise, how professional, it takes a certain amount of obstinate pride, numbed emotions, and capacity for hurting people to engage in violence regularly and willingly. And those things do not switch off when they're not wanted, even if a wise man can be a great deal more. Cullyn sells that.
That's not why I'm a big Cullyn fan though, although it helps. It's because he's honest, loves his daughter, and never stops trying to do the right thing. He sometimes gets very confused about it, because he's not perfect, but he tries to find his way there. We're all products of our environment and it leaves marks on us; people who try to overcome theirs, I like. Cullyn's one of them.
I'm a big Jill fan too. She's fun to read about and has so many enjoyable moments. She is, at this point, a lot less complicated than Cullyn, so I shan't go on too much, but what I really love is them together. They are a fantastic duo with so many character dynamics. It can be hard to make a character feel realistic when there's only really one person for them to interact with, but when done well it brings huge depth and life to a character. Kerr nails it. And she does it by a constant attention to what makes each of the characters brave and afraid, hopeful and heartbroken. There's little time wasted on minutiae here. It is bravura storytelling.
She is also quite the worldbuilder too. There's some flaws. A couple of awkward sections of omniscient infodump exist that surely wouldn't get past an agent today (but probably wouldn't actually affect anyone's enjoyment of a book). The use of the very Germanic-Nordic wyrd and dweomer in the otherwise completely Celtic milieu are bound to irritate a certain type of pedant and leave others a bit jarred from time to time. But Deverry's culture and societal norms are brought to life. I can't tell you all that much about what they wear, drink or eat (although some) but I know exactly how they act. And it makes sense, despite a level of violence and honour culture alien to most people in the modern western world. In fact, Deverry's one of the most macho cultures in Fantasy.
And the really neat trick - possibly the neatest of all - is that despite Kerr having clearly set this up so she can criticise the frequent carnage of such behaviour, as no point do I feel like it exists just to be slaughtered. It is given a full hearing and plenty of admiration - just ultimately, an exasperated judgement of "do grow up boys". Almost like the men of Deverry were two birds singing warcries of heartbreaking beauty, fighting over a prize that doesn't even exist for them and never should.
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