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Tigana par [Kay, Guy Gavriel]
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Tigana Format Kindle

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Longueur : 692 pages Word Wise: Activé Composition améliorée: Activé
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Description du produit



Both moons were high, dimming the light of all but the brightest stars. The campfires burned on either side of the river, stretching away into the night. Quietly flowing, the Deisa caught the moonlight and the orange of the nearer fires and cast them back in wavery, sinuous ripples. And all the lines of light led to his eyes, to where he was sitting on the riverbank, hands about his knees, thinking about dying and the life he’d lived.

There was a glory to the night, Saevar thought, breathing deeply of the mild summer air, smelling water and water flowers and grass, watching the reflection of blue moonlight and silver on the river, hearing the Deisa’s murmurous flow and the distant singing from around the fires. There was singing on the other side of the river too, he noted, listening to the enemy soldiers north of them. It was curiously hard to impute any absolute sense of evil to those harmonizing voices, or to hate them quite as blindly as being a soldier seemed to require. He wasn’t really a soldier, though, and he had never been good at hating.

He couldn’t actually see any figures moving in the grass across the river, but he could see the fires and it wasn’t hard to judge how many more of them lay north of the Deisa than there were here behind him, where his people waited for the dawn.

Almost certainly their last. He had no illusions; none of them did. Not since the battle at this same river five days ago. All they had was courage, and a leader whose defiant gallantry was almost matched by the two young sons who were here with him.

They were beautiful boys, both of them. Saevar regretted that he had never had the chance to sculpt either of them. The Prince he had done of course, many times. The Prince called him a friend. It could not be said, Saevar thought, that he had lived a useless or an empty life. He’d had his art, the joy of it and the spur, and had lived to see it praised by the great ones of his province, indeed of the whole peninsula.

And he’d known love, as well. He thought of his wife and then of his own two children. The daughter whose eyes had taught him part of the meaning of life on the day she’d been born fifteen years ago. And his son, too young by a year to have been allowed to come north to war. Saevar remembered the look on the boy’s face when they had parted. He supposed that much the same expression had been in his own eyes. He’d embraced both children, and then he’d held his wife for a long time, in silence; all the words had been spoken many times through all the years. Then he’d turned, quickly, so they would not see his tears, and mounted his horse, unwontedly awkward with a sword on his hip, and had ridden away with his Prince to war against those who had come upon them from over the sea.

He heard a light tread, behind him and to his left, from where the campfires were burning and voices were threading in song to the tune a syrenya played. He turned to the sound.

“Be careful,” he called softly. “Unless you want to trip over a sculptor.”

“Saevar?” an amused voice murmured. A voice he knew well.

“It is, my lord Prince,” he replied. “Can you remember a night so beautiful?”

Valentin walked over—there was more than enough light by which to see—and sank neatly down on the grass beside him. “Not readily,” he agreed. “Can you see? Vidomni’s waxing matches Ilarion’s wane. The two moons together would make one whole.”

“A strange whole that would be,” Saevar said.

“’Tis a strange night.”

“Is it? Is the night changed by what we do down here? We mortal men in our folly?”

“The way we see it is,” Valentin said softly, his quick mind engaged by the question. “The beauty we find is shaped, at least in part, by what we know the morning will bring.”

“What will it bring, my lord?” Saevar asked, before he could stop himself. Half hoping, he realized, as a child hopes, that his dark-haired Prince of grace and pride would have an answer yet to what lay waiting across the river. An answer to all those Ygrathen voices and all the Ygrathen fires burning north of them. An answer, most of all, to the terrible King of Ygrath and his sorcery, and the hatred that he at least would have no trouble summoning tomorrow.

Valentin was silent, looking out at the river. Overhead Saevar saw a star fall, angling across the sky west of them to plunge, most likely, into the wideness of the sea. He was regretting the question; this was no time to be putting a burden of false certitude upon the Prince.

Just as he was about to apologize, Valentin spoke, his voice measured and low, so as not to carry beyond their small circle of dark.

“I have been walking among the fires, and Corsin and Loredan have been doing the same, offering comfort and hope and such laughter as we can bring to ease men into sleep. There is not much else we can do.”

“They are good boys, both of them,” Saevar offered. “I was thinking that I’ve never sculpted either of them.”

“I’m sorry for that,” Valentin said. “If anything lasts for any length of time after us it will be art such as yours. Our books and music, Orsaria’s green and white tower in Avalle.” He paused, and returned to his original thought. “They are brave boys. They are also sixteen and nineteen, and if I could have I would have left them behind with their brother . . . and your son.”

It was one of the reasons Saevar loved him: that Valentin would remember his own boy, and think of him with the youngest prince, even now, at such a time as this.

To the east and a little behind them, away from the fires, a trialla suddenly began to sing and both men fell silent, listening to the silver of that sound. Saevar’s heart was suddenly full, he was afraid that he might shame himself with tears, that they would be mistaken for fear.

Valentin said, “But I haven’t answered your question, old friend. Truth seems easier here in the dark, away from the fires and all the need I have been seeing there. Saevar, I am so sorry, but the truth is that almost all of the morning’s blood will be ours, and I am afraid it will be all of ours. Forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” Saevar said quickly, and as firmly as he could. “This is not a war of your making, nor one you could avoid or undo. And besides, I may not be a soldier but I hope I am not a fool. It was an idle question: I can see the answer for myself, my lord. In the fires across the river.”

“And the sorcery,” Valentin added quietly. “More that, than the fires. We could beat back greater numbers, even weary and wounded as we are from last week’s battle. But Brandin’s magic is with them now. The lion has come himself, not the cub, and because the cub is dead there must be blood for the morning sun. Should I have surrendered last week? To the boy?”

Saevar turned to look at the Prince in the blended moonlight, disbelieving. He was speechless for a moment, then found his voice. “I would have gone home from that surrender,” he said, with resolution, “and walked into the Palace by the Sea, and smashed every sculpture I ever made of you.”

A second later he heard an odd sound. It took him a moment to realize that Valentin was laughing, because it wasn’t laughter like any Saevar had ever heard.

“Oh, my friend,” the Prince said, at length, “I think I knew you would say that. Oh, our pride. Our terrible pride. Will they remember that most about us, do you think, after we are gone?”

“Perhaps,” Saevar said. “But they will remember. The one thing we know with certainty is that they will remember us. Here in the peninsula, and in Ygrath, and Quileia, even west over the sea, in Barbadior and its Empire. We will leave a name.”

“And we leave our children,” Valentin said. “The younger ones. Sons and daughters who will remember us. Babes in arms our wives and grandfathers will teach when they grow up to know the story of the River Deisa, what happened here, and, even more—what we were in this province before the fall. Brandin of Ygrath can destroy us tomorrow, he can overrun our home, but he cannot take away our name, or the memory of what we have been.”

“He cannot,” Saevar echoed, feeling an odd, unexpected lift to his heart. “I am sure that you are right. We are not the last free generation. There will be ripples of tomorrow that run down all the years. Our children’s children will remember us, and will not lie tamely under the yoke.”

“And if any of them seem inclined to,” Valentin added in a different tone, “there will be the children or grandchildren of a certain sculptor who will smash their heads for them, of stone or otherwise.”

Saevar smiled in the darkness. He wanted to laugh, but it was not in him just then. “I hope so, my lord, if the goddesses and the god allow. Thank you. Thank you for saying that.”

“No thanks, Saevar. Not between us and not this night. The Triad guard and shelter you tomorrow, and after, and guard and shelter all that you have loved.”

Saevar swallowed. “You know you are a part of that, my lord. A part of what I have loved.”

Valentin did not reply. Only, after a moment, he leaned forward and kissed Saevar upon the brow. Then he held up a hand and the sculptor, his eyes blurring, raised his own hand and touched his Prince’s palm to palm in farewell. Valentin rose and was gone, a shadow in moonlight, back towards the fires of his army.

The singing seemed to have stopped, on both sides of the river. It was very late. Saevar knew he should be making his own way back and settling down for a few snatched hours of sleep. It was hard to leave though, to rise and surrender the perfect beauty of this last night. The river, the moons, the arch of stars, the fireflies and all the fires.

In the end he decided to stay there by the water. He sat alone in the summer darkness on the banks of the River Deisa, with his strong hands loosely clasped about his knees. He watched the two moons set and all the fires slowly die and he thought of his wife and children and the life’s work of his hands that would live after him, and the trialla sang for him all night long.



• 1 •

IN THE AUTUMN SEASON OF THE WINE, WORD WENT FORTH from among the cypresses and olives and the laden vines of his country estate that Sandre, Duke of Astibar, once ruler of that city and its province, had drawn the last bitter breath of his exile and age and died.

No servants of the Triad were by his side to speak their rituals at his end. Not the white-robed priests of Eanna, nor those of dark Morian of Portals, nor the priestesses of Adaon, the god.

There was no particular surprise in Astibar town when these tidings came with the word of the Duke’s passing. Exiled Sandre’s rage at the Triad and its clergy through the last eighteen years of his life was far from being a secret. And impiety had never been a thing from which Sandre d’Astibar, even in the days of his power, had shied away.

The city was overflowing with people from the outlying distrada and far beyond on the eve of the Festival of Vines. In the crowded taverns and khav rooms truths and lies about the Duke were traded back and forth like wool and spice by folk who had never seen his face and who would have once paled with justifiable terror at a summons to the Ducal court in Astibar.

All his days Duke Sandre had occasioned talk and speculation through the whole of the peninsula men called the Palm—and there was nothing to alter that fact at the time of his dying, for all that Alberico of Barbadior had come with an army from that Empire overseas and exiled Sandre into the distrada eighteen years before. When power is gone the memory of power lingers.

Perhaps because of this, and certainly because he tended to be cautious and circumspect in all his ways, Alberico, who held four of the nine provinces in an iron grip and was vying with Brandin of Ygrath for the ninth, acted with a precise regard for protocol.

By noon of the day the Duke died, a messenger from Alberico was seen to have ridden out by the eastern gate of the city. A messenger bearing the blue-silver banner of mourning and carrying, no one doubted, carefully chosen words of condolence to Sandre’s children and grandchildren now gathered at their broad estate seven miles beyond the walls.

In The Paelion, the khav room where the wittier sort were gathering that season, it was cynically observed that the Tyrant would have been more likely to send a company of his own Barbadian mercenaries—not just a single message-bearer—were the living Sandreni not such a feckless lot. Before the appreciative, eye-to-who-might-be-listening, ripple of amusement at that had quite died away, one itinerant musician—there were scores of them in Astibar that week—had offered to wager all he might earn in the three days to come, that from the Island of Chiara would arrive condolences in verse before the Festival was over.

“Too rich an opportunity,” the rash newcomer explained, cradling a steaming mug of khav laced with one of the dozen or so liqueurs that lined the shelves behind the bar of The Paelion. “Brandin will be incapable of letting slip a chance like this to remind Alberico—and the rest of us—that though the two of them have divided our peninsula the share of art and learning is quite tilted west towards Chiara. Mark my words—and wager who will—we’ll have a knottily rhymed verse from stout Doarde or some silly acrostic thing of Camena’s to puzzle out, with Sandre spelled six ways and backwards, before the music stops in Astibar three days from now.”

There was laughter, though again it was guarded, even on the eve of the Festival, when a long tradition that Alberico of Barbadior had circumspectly indulged allowed more license than elsewhere in the year. A few men with heads for figures did some rapid calculations of sailing-time and the chances of the autumn seas north of Senzio province and down through the Archipelago, and the musician found his wager quickly covered and recorded on the slate on the wall of The Paelion that existed for just such a purpose in a city prone to gambling.

But shortly after that all wagers and mocking chatter were forgotten. Someone in a steep cap with a curled feather flung open the doors of the khav room, shouted for attention, and when he had it reported that the Tyrant’s messenger had just been seen returning through the same eastern gate from which he had so lately sallied forth. That the messenger was riding at an appreciably greater speed than hitherto, and that, not three miles to his rear was the funerary procession of Duke Sandre d’Astibar being brought by his last request to lie a night and a day in state in the city he once had ruled.

Revue de presse

Praise for Tigana

"Boldly complex ..generously populated, intelligently articulated."--USA Today
"...a brilliant single-volume epic ... rich in intrigue and subtlety. Memorable characters and cultures add depth to a gracefully plotted story. Highly recommended."--Library Journal
"Thrilling, poignant ... Tigana is a name we won't forget."--Orlando Sentinel
"One of the best fantasy novels I have read." --Anne McCaffrey

Praise for the novels of Guy Gavriel Kay

“[Read] anything by Guy Gavriel Kay... His strengths are strong characters and fantastic set pieces.”--The New Yorker 
“History and fantasy rarely come together as gracefully or readably as they do in the novels of Guy Gavriel Kay.”--The Washington Post Book World
“Kay is a genius. I've read him all my life and am always inspired by his work.”--#1 New York Times bestselling author Brandon Sanderson 
"A storyteller on the grandest scale."--Time Magazine, Canada

Détails sur le produit

  • Format : Format Kindle
  • Taille du fichier : 6061 KB
  • Nombre de pages de l'édition imprimée : 692 pages
  • Editeur : Harper Voyager (10 février 2011)
  • Vendu par : Amazon Media EU S.à r.l.
  • Langue : Anglais
  • ASIN: B004L9MFG8
  • Synthèse vocale : Activée
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  • Word Wise: Activé
  • Lecteur d’écran : Pris en charge
  • Composition améliorée: Activé
  • Moyenne des commentaires client : 3.5 étoiles sur 5 4 commentaires client
  • Classement des meilleures ventes d'Amazon: n°106.030 dans la Boutique Kindle (Voir le Top 100 dans la Boutique Kindle)
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L'idée de fond, celle de la vengeance (en plat qui se mange glacé) et du sacrifice de toute une vie au nom d'un idéal, mais dans un but concret et avec une très longue et patiente organisation souterraine, est intéressante et très bien traitée. Les personnages sont passionnés sans fanatisme et ont tous une personnalité bien cernée, sans faute de ton (sauf pour Brandin dont la noblesse d'âme ne s'accorde pas à ses agissements - je ne parle pas ici du consommé glacé, mais de son usage décontracté de la torture, particulièrement atroce, mais qu'ont-ils ces auteurs de fantasy à se prélasser dans l'innommable ?).
Beaucoup de personnages sont traités dans ce livre, avec une balance de l'un à l'autre bien équilibrée (pas d'interruption agaçante à des moments dramatiques, par exemple). J'ai toutefois regretté (avec les points ci-dessous) la manie de l'auteur à commencer chaque chapitre par "il" ou "elle", plutôt que de préciser le nom. Il faut lire une bonne page à chaque fois pour savoir de qui l'on parle ; j'ai fini par scanner systématiquement chaque début de chapitre pour savoir de qui il s'agissait, avant de revenir au début...
Ce qui m'a le plus gênée, dans l'ensemble, c'est que je ne partage pas l'enthousiasme, (inépuisable et épuisant) de l'auteur pour son "monde" (géographie, coutumes, religion). Celui-ci décrit longuement à toute occasion, avec art et sans lourdeur, certes, mais sans justification non plus.
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Tigane, c'est de l'émotion pure, plus dramatique qu'un simple massacre, Kay met en scène la destruction lente de toute une culture. La province de Tigane de la péninsule de la Palme non seulement a été dévastée, ses monuments éradiqués mais le Roi-Sorcier Brandin, qui y a perdu son fils bien-aimé, en a aussi maudit le nom et le souvenir.

Seuls ceux nés à Tigane avant l'invasion sont capable d'entendre ce nom. Ce sont ces ceux-là qui constituent le coeur de l'ouvrage, leur blessure et leurs résolutions, une quinzaine d'année après l'évènement. Tels Alessan, l'héritier du trône de Tigane, inlassablement à la recherche des moyens de chasser Brandin et Alberico, l'autre sorcier à se tailler un empire dans la péninsule. Ou encore Dianora, qui a juré de venger sa famille en assassinant le tyran mais tourmenté par son amour pour lui.

Publié à l'origine en tant que Fantasy, Tigane relève en fait beaucoup plus de la littérature générale enrichie d'une magie plus subtile que celle qui parcoure habituellement ces titres. Ce sont les émotions, les émotions intimes fortes qui sont les vrais personnages de ce roman, en particulier lors d'un final propre à tirer une larme à n'importe quel lecteur. Mon Guy Gavriel Kay favori encore à ce jour, je regrette tellement qu'il ait abandonné tout fantastique dans ses romans suivants.
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In the Peninsula of the Palm, a land clasped between two tyrannic invaders, the sorcerers Brandin of Ygrath and Alberico of Barbadior, a small group of people struggle for the freedom of their land. And for that of its forgotten name, Tigana, which has been under a spell for over twenty years, since the day Prince Valentin of Tigana slew Brandin's son in battle.
Devin is a 19-year-old singer in Menico's travelling troupe. After performing at Sandre, the Duke of Astibar's funeral, he discreetely follows his companion the beautiful Catriana across the rooms of the palace. Hiding in a closet, they are about to witness a secret meeting: Sander's son is preparing a coup to overthrow Brandin. Devin's curiosity will soon have him caught up in these events.
Dianora is a young woman from Tigana. Taken as "tribute" to Brandin's harem in his colony on the island of Chiara, she becomes his favourite mistress so she can assassinate him and save her land from the enless vengeful slaughter. Instead, she'll slowly fall in love with the man.
Having read Guy Gavriel Kay's Fionavar Tapestry and not liked it much, I would never have read Tigana but for the unanimous praise I came across. And how wrong I would have been, what great reading pleasure I would have missed! For Tigana is a superbly written epic novel, with complex, not-one-dimensional, and finally extremely human characters. I would only reproach the few explicit sex scenes, which I found rather unpoetic. But without hesitation I'll now join my voice to the praise.
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J'ai lu très péniblement ce que tous les critiques de la fantasy considèrent comme un chef d'oeuvre, "Tigana", de Guy Gavriel Kay.

Tigana était une des neuf provinces indépendantes d'une péninsule faisant très nettement penser à l'Italie avant sa réunification finalement assez récente.
Tigana, c'est l'histoire d'un royaume qui a disparu des mémoires (tant son nom que son histoire et sa culture) par la magie d'un Roi-Magicien, fou de douleur après la mort de son fils lors d'une bataille contre la contrée de Tigana. Seuls ses anciens habitants (qui se sont exilés) se souviennent encore de son nom et de sa culture, mais s'ils prononcent son nom leurs interlocuteurs ne l'entendent pas. Tigana est vouée à disparaître inéluctablement quand tous ses habitants seront décédés.

L'histoire est donc celle du prince héritier exilé qui cherche à faire tomber de son trône le roi-magicien, et tant qu'à faire l'autre roi-magicien existant, l'un et l'autre cherchant à bâtir une hégémonie sur la péninsule et oppressant les peuples.

Cela commence comme un roman d'apprentissage, avec un chanteur, Delvin, qui rejoint une troupe de saltimbanques. Il s'aperçoit rapidement que la troupe lui cache des choses, et se retrouve engagé dans l'intrigue visant à faire renaître Tigana.
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Commentaires client les plus utiles sur (beta) (Peut contenir des commentaires issus du programme Early Reviewer Rewards) 4.2 étoiles sur 5 349 commentaires
3 internautes sur 3 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 Ten Stars! 18 juillet 2016
Par Avid Reader - Publié sur
Format: Format Kindle Achat vérifié
Tigana is Kay's best book to date, and that is saying a whole lot. This very gifted writer has crafted an intricate and compellingly believable fantasy world caught in the midst of a civil war to depose its evil wizard king, Brandin. I know that sounds like a familiar plot, but in Kay's master hands the story stands out and above from all the rest. The story is divided between focusing on the rebels and on Brandin and his household, and gradually the reader comes to be invested in both plot lines. Amazingly, Brandin is fleshed out as a sympathetic character without the usual plot devices; he's not the tormented soul, the misunderstood misfit or the charming scoundrel. He is quite capable of committing--and routinely does commit--horrific and evil acts. And yet, somehow Kay enables the reader to understand that Brandin is worthy of the love he receives. At the gripping climax, it is wrenching to choose which side should win. Imagine standing with Frodo at the Crack of Doom, hoping for Good to prevail, knowing Good should prevail, but simultaneously having gotten to know and understand Sauron so well that part of you hopes he might come out alright, too. Yes. It's that good.
1 internautes sur 1 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 Guy Gavriel Kay is my favorite author in the fantasy genre 2 septembre 2016
Par tina marie lunsford - Publié sur
Format: Format Kindle Achat vérifié
Guy Gavriel Kay is my favorite author in the fantasy genre, though his characters and worlds are so real to me that I don't like to classify them as fantasy. His books, in my opinion, defy classification. Tigana is a prime example of this.

Nothing is ever truly cut and dried in Mr. Kay's books. There are no "simple" happily ever afters. Life isn't like that, and so then why, in these wondrous worlds, should things be any different? No, there is love lost, as much as found. Good does triumph over evil, but oh, the scars; the price of redemption so steep.

No, I haven't "reviewed" this book, and I didn't intend to. A review gives too much of the story away, I think, and books by this author must be experienced. If you've read his books, you'll know what I mean. If you haven't, and wish to completely be immersed into another world, populated by incredible people who face the worst and best that could possibly be endured and overcome, then ANY of Guy Gavriel Kay's books are most highly recommended by me.
2 internautes sur 2 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 Slowly building 28 octobre 2013
Par Bernardi Francesco - Publié sur
Format: Format Kindle Achat vérifié
Fantasy as you have seldom read it.
Forget the gritty details of warfare as in Eriksson books. Forget awesome displays of magic.
This book will take your hand and guide you with care and tenderness of a world ripped apart by pride, violence, coldness, avidity and stupidity.
Magic does exist, but it is difficult to wield, and a selected few are able to do it.
The story itself is compassionate and tender, depicting the adventures of a handful of irreducible dreamers that wish to make right what was made wrong twenty years before.
But after so many years, to make something right may mean to bring sufferance of a new kind, among people who have grown within the new set if rules.
The sentiments aroused during the reading are powerful. The insight the author gives us about human soul make up for the loss of rash adventure and buckets of blood, making imperative our desire to witness the end (or beginning?) of Tigana.
You will enjoy it.
1 internautes sur 1 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 One That Will Stay With You 3 avril 2013
Par A Reader - Publié sur
Format: Broché Achat vérifié
Be forewarned and be prepared to fall in love. Be prepared to reach the heights and depths that is the very redoubtable sign of it.

That's how it is with all of Guy Gavriel Kay's books. Not just with a one or two characters but with many characters. Like in one of those good movies where a supporting character might even steal the spotlight just because the actor is somehow so real. Like a great director Kay directs our eye and feelings even more than he directs a scene. We find ourselves suddenly intimately involved with a supporting cast. Somehow each one is found worthy without great show of it. That's a creator's true gift.

Kay reveals and renders even the most mundane of "minor" characters with a poet's grace, noticing with a poet's eye (and tongue) the small details that elevate each of us to something of the respect if not dignity each (and each of us) deserves, honestly. And because it's so intimate we become vulnerable. Be prepared, if such can ever happen.

His main characters, all, exemplify mythic qualities (as do his novels), yet unlike mythic figures there's a humanity that makes even something like yearning seem noble. Be prepared that you will find yourselves great supporters of people you thought you might disdain and dislike; be prepared that you will hurt for them and cheer for them. As if you can ever warn someone - as if you could warn parents properly that they will feel anxiety and fear and great cheer.

Well, I tried. This is one of Kay's very best. Like the region for which the book is named, this mythic story and its characters will likely find its true named place inside you.
1 internautes sur 1 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 Good and Evil Intertwined 14 juillet 2012
Par Doctor Bob - Publié sur
Format: Broché Achat vérifié
I found the writing both wonderful and unnecessarily wordy at the same time. I found the characters wonderful and less than interesting at the same time. I found the book too long and too short at the same time. I found the plot compelling and unnecessarily complex at the same time. I found the outcome thrilling and unsatisfying at the same time.

In other words, I spent much of the book wondering why I was reading it, and much of it fascinated by what I was reading.

No one in this book, except Alberico, is presented as wholly good or wholly evil. It seems clear at the end that love, not hate, could have been the answer for all, yet it becomes the grief of the story. We see that when the right thing happens, it is not because some righteous cause or moral sense, it is because one person loves another. Even victory over evil, fueled by hate, has a price.

I don't remember being so happy and depressed by the ending of a book.

It's not Lord of the Rings which I have re-read a half dozen times over the years. It will sit on my shelf and cause me to think whenever I happen to pass my eyes past it's cover. I recommend reading it, it which is unlike any other fantasy novel I have read, but be warned that you will be conflicted by it from beginning until past the ending.
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