I didn't write a review for the second book. And it's not because it suffers from middle-child syndrome like so many second books in a trilogy. It's because <i>I could not put these books down</i>, and by the time I finished this book, it was too late.
And now I'm sitting here, trying to arrange my thoughts into some semblance of coherence. So, I'm not writing a review for this book, either. But for the series overall. So, here goes, and unfortunately, like Marith, I'm likely to make bad tea out of it.
<b>Empires of Dust</b> might be the most beautiful, fucked-up fairy tale I've ever read. When I say that, there is no judgement, no disgust. I mean that from a place of love.
A grand sweeping story of desperately broken people that somehow still manages to remain intimate, from Orhan and Darath, to Tobias and Landra, to ultimately Marith and Thalia, it evokes tones both melancholy and triumphant. I cannot really explain the ache these books pulls from your heart, or the visceral horror, or the vicarious triumph without knowing how you've lived.
Maybe that's a bit maudlin. Maybe it's a bit too on the edge of what might be considered pretentious claptrap. But, it is what it is. Reading these, I thought of the way Hamlet's father must have felt, the poison seeping into his ear. What can you do but hear?
Here, there are courts of beautiful nobles, gilded in silver and gold. There, the gore-drenched streets of a city broken by those nobles only a chapter ago whose descriptions wouldn't have been out of place in a tale about the court of the fae or Arthur and his knights, if they were in truth blood-soaked maniacal death cultists.
And at its core, a story about love and hate, and the little wrongs that grow into great ones. About choices we make, and whether we made those choices at all.
Desire and disgust and death and glory, if only for a brief moment.
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