Review:
5 Stars!
It takes a special gift, I think, to bring a genre alive to someone who usually doesn't find it exciting. Author Kelly Braffet accomplishes exactly that, in her fascinating debut fantasy THE UNWILLING. An adorable, richly imagined, lyrically imaged story, THE UNWILLING riveted me from the very beginning and maintained my attention throughout an admittedly long novel. I especially admired her use of multiple strong female characters.
Prologue
On
the third day of the convocation, two of the Slonimi scouts killed a
calf, and the herbalist’s boy wept because he’d watched the calf
being born and grown to love it. His
mother stroked his hair and
promised he would forget by the time the feast came, the following
night. He told her he would never forget. She said, “Just wait.”
He
spent all of the next day playing with the children from the other
caravan; three days before, they’d all been strangers, but Slonimi
children were used to making friends quickly. The group the boy and
his mother traveled with had come across the desert to the south, and
they found the cool air of the rocky plain a relief from the heat.
The others had come from the grassy plains farther west, and were
used to milder weather. While the adults traded news and maps and
equipment, the children ran wild. Only one boy, from the other
caravan, didn’t run or play: a pale boy, with fine features, who
followed by habit a few feet behind one of the older women from the
other caravan. “Derie’s apprentice,” the other children told
him, and shrugged, as if there was nothing more to say. The older
woman was the other group’s best Worker, with dark hair going to
grizzle and gimlet eyes. Every time she appeared the herbalist
suddenly remembered an herb her son needed to help her prepare, or
something in their wagon that needed cleaning. The boy was observant,
and clever, and it didn’t take him long to figure out that his
mother was trying to keep him away from the older woman: she, who had
always demanded he face everything head-on, who had no patience for
what she called squeamishness and megrims.
After
a hard day of play over the rocks and dry, grayish grass, the boy was
starving. A cold wind blew down over the rocky plain from the
never-melting snow that topped the high peaks of the Barriers to the
east; the bonfire was warm. The meat smelled good. The boy had not
forgotten the calf but when his mother brought him meat and roasted
potatoes and soft pan bread on a plate, he did not think of him.
Gerta—the head driver of the boy’s caravan—had spent the last
three days with the other head driver, poring over bloodline records
to figure out who between their two groups might be well matched for
breeding, and as soon as everybody had a plate of food in front of
them they announced the results. The adults and older teenagers
seemed to find this all fascinating. The herbalist’s boy was nine
years old and he didn’t understand the fuss. He knew how it went:
the matched pairs would travel together until a child was on the way,
and then most likely never see each other again. Sometimes they liked
each other, sometimes they didn’t. That, his mother had told him,
was what brandy was for.
The
Slonimi caravans kept to well-defined territories, and any time two
caravans met there was feasting and trading and music and matching,
but this was no ordinary meeting, and both sides knew it. After
everyone had eaten their fill, a few bottles were passed. Someone had
a set of pipes and someone else had a sitar, but after a song or two,
nobody wanted any more music. Gerta—who was older than the other
driver—stood up. She was tall and strong, with ropy, muscular
limbs. “Well,” she said, “let’s see them.”
In
the back, the herbalist slid an arm around her son. He squirmed under
the attention but bore it.
From
opposite sides of the fire, a young man and a young woman were
produced. The young man, Tobin, had been traveling with Gerta’s
people for years. He was smart but not unkind, but the herbalist’s
son thought him aloof. With good reason, maybe; Tobin’s power was
so strong that being near him made the hair on the back of the boy’s
neck stand up. Unlike all the other Workers—who were always
champing at the bit to get a chance to show off—Tobin was secretive
about his skills. He shared a wagon with Tash, Gerta’s best Worker,
even though the two men didn’t seem particularly friendly with each
other. More than once the boy had glimpsed their lantern burning late
into the night, long after the main fire was embers.
The
young woman had come across the plains with the others. The boy had
seen her a few times; she was small, round, and pleasant-enough
looking. She didn’t strike the boy as particularly remarkable. But
when she came forward, the other caravan’s best Worker—the woman
named Derie—came with her. Tash stood up when Tobin did, and when
they all stood in front of Gerta, the caravan driver looked from one
of them to the other. “Tash and Derie,” she said, “you’re
sure?”
“Already
decided, and by smarter heads than yours,” the gimlet-eyed woman
snapped.
Tash,
who wasn’t much of a talker, merely said, “Sure.”
Gerta
looked back at the couple. For couple they were; the boy could see
the strings tied round each wrist, to show they’d already been
matched. “Hard to believe,” she said. “But I know it’s true.
I can feel it down my spine. Quite a legacy you two carry; five
generations’ worth, ever since mad old Martin bound up the power in
the world. Five generations of working and planning and plotting and
hoping; that’s the legacy you two carry.” The corner of her mouth
twitched slightly. “No pressure.”
A
faint ripple of mirth ran through the listeners around the fire.
“Nothing to joke about, Gerta,” Derie said, lofty and hard, and
Gerta nodded.
“I
know it. They just seem so damn young, that’s all.” The driver
sighed and shook her head. “Well, it’s a momentous occasion.
We’ve come here to see the two of you off, and we send with you the
hopes of all the Slonimi, all the Workers of all of our lines, back
to the great John Slonim himself, whose plan this was. His blood runs
in both of you. It’s strong and good and when we put it up against
what’s left of Martin’s, we’re bound to prevail, and the world
will be free.”
“What’ll
we do with ourselves then, Gert?” someone called out from the
darkness, and this time the laughter was a full burst, loud and
relieved.
Gerta
smiled. “Teach the rest of humanity how to use the power, that’s
what we’ll do. Except you, Fausto. You can clean up after the
horses.”
More
laughter. Gerta let it run out, and then turned to the girl.
“Maia,”
she said, serious once more. “I know Derie’s been drilling this
into you since you were knee-high, but once you’re carrying, the
clock is ticking. Got to be inside, at the end.”
“I
know,” Maia said.
Gerta
scanned the crowd. “Caterina? Cat, where are you?”
Next
to the boy, the herbalist cleared her throat. “Here, Gerta.”
Gerta
found her, nodded, and turned back to Maia. “Our Cat’s the best
healer the Slonimi have. Go see her before you set out. If you’ve
caught already, she’ll know. If you haven’t, she’ll know how to
help.”
“It’s
only been three days,” Tobin said, sounding slighted.
“Nothing
against you, Tobe,” Gerta said. “Nature does what it will.
Sometimes it takes a while.”
“Not
this time,” Maia said calmly.
A
murmur ran through the crowd. Derie sat up bolt-straight, her lips
pressed together. “You think so?” Gerta said, matching Maia’s
tone—although nobody was calm, even the boy could feel the sudden
excited tension around the bonfire.
“I
know so,” Maia said, laying a hand on her stomach. “I can feel
her.”
The
tension exploded in a mighty cheer. Instantly, Tobin wiped the sulk
off his face and replaced it with pride. The boy leaned into his
mother and whispered, under the roar, “Isn’t it too soon to
tell?”
“For
most women, far too soon, by a good ten days. For Maia?” Caterina
sounded as if she were talking to herself, as much as to her son. The
boy felt her arm tighten around him. “If she says there’s a baby,
there’s a baby.”
After
that the adults got drunk. Maia and Tobin slipped away early.
Caterina knew a scout from the other group, a man named Sadao, and
watching the two of them dancing together, the boy decided to make
himself scarce. Tash would have an empty bunk, now that Tobin was
gone, and he never brought women home. He’d probably share. If not,
there would be a bed somewhere. There always was.
In
the morning, the boy found Caterina by the fire, only slightly
bleary, and brewing a kettle of strong-smelling tea. Her best
hangover cure, she told her son. He took out his notebook and asked
what was in it. Ginger, she told him, and willowbark, and a few other
things; he wrote them all down carefully. Labeled the page.
Caterina’s Hangover Cure.
Then
he looked up to find the old woman from the bonfire, Derie, listening
with shrewd, narrow eyes. Behind her hovered her apprentice, the pale
boy, who this morning had a bruised cheek. “Charles, go fetch my
satchel,” she said to him, and he scurried away. To Caterina, Derie
said, “Your boy’s conscientious.”
“He
learns quickly,” Caterina said, and maybe she just hadn’t had
enough hangover tea yet, but the boy thought she sounded wary.
“And
fair skinned,” Derie said. “Who’s his father?”
“Jasper
Arasgain.”
Derie
nodded. “Travels with Afia’s caravan, doesn’t he? Solid man.”
Caterina
shrugged. The boy had only met his father a few times. He knew
Caterina found Jasper boring.
“Healer’s
a good trade. Everywhere needs healers.” Derie paused. “A healer
could find his way in anywhere, I’d say. And with that skin—”
The
boy noticed Gerta nearby, listening. Her own skin was black as
obsidian. “Say what you’re thinking, Derie,” the driver said.
“Highfall,”
the old woman said, and immediately, Caterina said, “No.”
“It’d
be a great honor for him, Cat,” Gerta said. The boy thought he
detected a hint of reluctance in Gerta’s voice.
“Has
he done his first Work yet?” Derie said.
Caterina’s
lips pressed together. “Not yet.”
Charles,
the bruised boy, reappeared with Derie’s satchel.
“We’ll
soon change that,” the old woman said, taking the satchel without a
word and rooting through until she found a small leather case. Inside
was a small knife, silver-colored but without the sheen of real
silver.
The
boy noticed his own heartbeat, hard hollow thuds in his chest. He
glanced at his mother. She looked unhappy, her brow furrowed. But she
said nothing.
“Come
here, boy,” Derie said.
He
sneaked another look at his mother, who still said nothing, and went
to stand next to the woman. “Give me your arm,” she said, and he
did. She held his wrist with a hand that was both soft and hard at
the same time. Her eyes were the most terrifying thing he’d ever
seen.
“It’s
polite to ask permission before you do this,” she told him. “Not
always possible, but polite. I need to see what’s in you, so if you
say no, I’ll probably still cut you, but—do I have your
permission?”
Behind
Derie, Gerta nodded. The bruised boy watched curiously.
“Yes,”
the boy said.
“Good,”
Derie said. She made a quick, confident cut in the ball of her thumb,
made an identical cut in his small hand, quickly drew their two
sigils on her skin in the blood, and pressed the cuts together.
The
world unfolded. But unfolded was too neat a word, too tidy. This was
like when he’d gone wading in the western sea and been knocked off
his feet, snatched underwater, tossed in a maelstrom of sand and sun
and green water and foam—but this time it wasn’t merely sand and
sun and water and foam that swirled around him, it was everything.
All of existence, all that had ever been, all that would ever be. His
mother was there, bright and hot as the bonfire the night before—not
her face or her voice but the Caterina of her, her very essence
rendered into flame and warmth.
But
most of what he felt was Derie. Derie, immense and powerful and
fierce: Derie, reaching into him, unfolding him as surely as she’d
unfolded the world. And this was neat and tidy, methodical, almost
cold. She unpacked him like a trunk, explored him like a new village.
She sought out his secret corners and dark places. When he felt her
approval, he thrilled. When he felt her contempt, he trembled. And
everywhere she went she left a trace of herself behind like a scent,
like the chalk marks the Slonimi sometimes left for each other. Her
sigil was hard-edged, multi-cornered. It was everywhere. There was no
part of him where it wasn’t.
Then
it was over, and he was kneeling by the campfire, throwing up.
Caterina was next to him, making soothing noises as she wrapped a
cloth around his hand. He leaned against her, weak and grateful.
“It’s
all right, my love,” she whispered in his ear, and the nervousness
was gone. Now she sounded proud, and sad, and as if she might be
crying. “You did well.”
He
closed his eyes and saw, on the inside of his eyelids, the woman’s
hard, angular sigil, burning like a horse brand.
“Don’t
coddle him,” Derie said, and her voice reached through him, back
into the places inside him where she’d left her mark. Caterina’s
arm dropped away. He forced himself to open his eyes and stand up.
His entire body hurt. Derie was watching him, calculating
but—yes—pleased. “Well, boy,” she said. “You’ll never be
anyone’s best Worker, but you’re malleable, and you’ve got the
right look. There’s enough power in you to be of use, once you’re
taught to use it. You want to learn?”
“Yes,”
he said, without hesitating.
“Good,”
she said. “Then you’re my apprentice now, as much as your
mother’s. You’ll still learn herbs from your mother, so we’ll
join our wagon to your group. But don’t expect the kisses and
cuddles from me you get from her. For me, you’ll work hard and
you’ll learn hard and maybe someday you’ll be worthy of the
knowledge I’ll pass on to you. Say, Yes, Derie.”
“Yes,
Derie,” he said.
“You’ve
got a lot to learn,” she said. “Go with Charles. He’ll show you
where you sleep.”
He
hesitated, looked at his mother, because it hadn’t occurred to him
that he would be leaving her. Suddenly, swiftly, Derie kicked hard at
his leg. He yelped and jumped out of the way. Behind her he saw
Charles—he of the bruised face—wince, unsurprised but not
unsympathetic.
“Don’t
ever make me ask you anything twice,” she said.
“Yes,
Derie,” he said, and ran.
Excerpted
from The
Unwilling
by Kelly Braffet. Copyright ©
2020 by Kelly Braffet. Published by MIRA Books.
The Unwilling : A Novel
Kelly Braffet
On Sale Date: February 11, 2020
9780778309406, 0778309401
Hardcover
$27.99 USD, $33.50 CAD
Fiction / Fantasy / Epic
576 pages
About the Book:
For fans
of S.A. Chakraborty's City
of Brass,
Patrick Rothfuss' The
Kingkiller Chronicles,
and George RR Martin’s The
Game of Thrones, this
high concept medieval/high fantasy by Kelly Braffet is a deeply
immersive and penetrating tale of magic, faith and pride.
The
Unwilling
is the story of a young woman, born an orphan with a secret gift, who
grows up trapped, thinking of herself as an afterthought, but who
discovers that she does not have to be given power: she can take it.
An epic tale of greed and ambition, cruelty and love, the novel is
about bowing to traditions and burning them down.
For reasons
that nobody knows or seems willing to discuss, Judah the Foundling
was raised as siblings along with Gavin, the heir of Highfall, in the
great house beyond the wall, the seat of power at the center of Lord
Elban’s great empire. There is a mysterious--one might say
unnatural connection--between the two, and it is both the key to
Judah’s survival until this point, and now her possible undoing.
As Gavin
prepares for his long-arranged marriage to Eleanor of Tiernan, and
his brilliant but sickly younger brother Theron tries to avoid
becoming commander of the army, Judah is left to realize that she has
no actual power or position within the castle, in fact, no hope at
all of ever traveling beyond the wall. Lord Elban--a man as powerful
as he is cruel- has other plans for her, for all of them. She is a
pawn to him and he will stop at nothing to get what he wants.
Meanwhile,
outside the wall, in the starving, desperate city, a Magus, a healer
with a secret power unlike anything Highfall has seen in years is
newly arrived from the provinces. He, too, has plans for the empire,
and at the heart of those plans lies Judah. The girl who started off
with no name and no history will be forced to discover there’s more
to her story than she ever imagined.
About the Author:
Kelly Braffet is the author of
the novels Save Yourself, Last Seen Leaving and Josie & Jack. Her
writing has been published in The Fairy Tale Review, Post Road, and
several anthologies. She attended Sarah Lawrence College and received
her MFA in Creative Writing at Columbia University. She currently
lives in upstate New York with her husband, the author Owen King. A
lifelong reader of speculative fiction, the idea for The Unwilling
originally came to her in college; twenty years later, it’s her
first fantasy novel. Visit her at kellybraffet.com.
Social Links:
Facebook: @kellybraffetfiction
Twitter: @KellyBraffet
Buy Links:
