On Michael Sanders II

He was a point of stillness in a maelstrom. To find him in a whirling, busy crowd, you had only to look for the one anchored to the earth like a steadfast pillar. When he smiled, and stretched out his hand, it was to the quiet ones, the displaced ones, the rejected ones. He helped us up and brought us into his place of peace.

He was a point of stillness in a maelstrom. To find him in a whirling, busy crowd, you had only to look for the one anchored to the earth like a steadfast pillar. When he smiled, and stretched out his hand, it was to the quiet ones, the displaced ones, the rejected ones. He helped us up and brought us into his place of peace.

We conversed for hours, me and him and others, well into the night. Puns, jokes, silly things. Measuring out minutes with his warm voice, so that it felt like no time passed at all. He made us feel welcomed, accepted. Capable of facing the storm again when we stepped back out into the world. His wave and murmured “good luck” were enough to get us by for a while, until someday when it would be time to come back.

On Destiny Perez

She was a tall tree, strong as an oak, with wisdom flowing through her branches and a sense of home stretching into the earth alongside her roots. Her trunk was hollowed out by adversity and time, a comfortable space for the passing weary traveler to rest, a place to forget your troubles for a while.

She was a tall tree, strong as an oak, with wisdom flowing through her branches and a sense of home stretching into the earth alongside her roots. Her trunk was hollowed out by adversity and time, a comfortable space for the passing weary traveler to rest, a place to forget your troubles for a while.

Her leaves sighed and whispered in the breeze like a telephone conversation in the middle of the night. Or they pattered and chattered as she told those seated at her feet stories she’d heard on the wind. Her protective canopy provided equal parts shade from the sun and cover from storms.

I found when I felt lost in my journey, my steps often turned toward her. When I needed comfort, that hollow space would squeeze my shoulders just enough to be a hug. I wasn’t the only one, either. Many others bided their time with me, with her. She was our tree. We knew she would always be there for us.

On Jay Gurley

Between the silvered trunks of a mighty, alien forest, I came upon a wounded man. He sat next to a small campfire, one he had built himself. Pensiveness filled his eyes. A heavy, lead-lined cloak dragged at his shoulders, the red and gold hem crusted with mud. He had one hand pressed to his side and a puddle of crimson surrounded him, too much for him to still live.

Between the silvered trunks of a mighty, alien forest, I came upon a wounded man. He sat next to a small campfire, one he had built himself. Pensiveness filled his eyes. A heavy, lead-lined cloak dragged at his shoulders, the red and gold hem crusted with mud. He had one hand pressed to his side and a puddle of crimson surrounded him, too much for him to still live.

When I gasped, he looked up at me. “I’m fine,” he said, flashing me a cocky grin.

“You’re not,” I retorted.

But when he pulled his hand away from his side, there was no blood. He showed his clean palm to me. “See? Nothing wrong.”

More blood seeped up from the ground, the puddle growing larger until it lapped at my bare toes. I went away from that place, feeling that I had let the world down somehow. I think he must have been a magician. A tricksy one, who pulled a blindfold down over my eyes.

On Joshua Edwards

His was a voice that often followed mine. I could drop a snappy comment and he would snatch it up, shift the trick sideways, and lob it back at me. You had to be quick on your toes around him, because you found that you didn’t want to disappoint him by dropping the ball.

His was a voice that often followed mine. I could drop a snappy comment and he would snatch it up, shift the trick sideways, and lob it back at me. You had to be quick on your toes around him, because you found that you didn’t want to disappoint him by dropping the ball.

Conversely, if he believed in you, you could do anything.

In his words was the wistfulness of a dreamer. He gave much and asked for little in return. But if you watched closely enough, you could see how, when he believed no one was looking, his gaze would drift toward the stars, the ache in his heart for something more becoming the ache in your own. I think he thought himself unnoticeable, invisible, and if you’re shifty enough, you can be. But I saw him. He’s real. If you’re quick enough to catch him, cup him gently in your palm, because starlight cannot be imprisoned.

Book Review: The Blood Mirror

A deft narration interwoven with a unique magic system, complex world building, cunning politics, interesting history, brilliant battles, intricate confrontations, and, best of all, puns.

Capture
The Blood Mirror by Brent Weeks

Synopsis:

Stripped of both magical and political power, the people he once ruled told he’s dead, and now imprisoned in his own magical dungeon, former Emperor Gavin Guile has no prospect of escape. But the world faces a calamity greater than the Seven Satrapies has ever seen… and only he can save it.
As the armies of the White King defeat the Chromeria and old gods are born anew, the fate of worlds will come down to one question: Who is the Lightbringer?

(Via Goodreads)

My Impressions:

The Blood Mirror is the fourth installment in The Lightbringer series, written by New York Times Bestselling author, Brent Weeks. I’ve been following his works since the simultaneous debut release of The Night Angel trilogy in 2008, which was my first real introduction into the genre of epic fantasy (and my gateway drug into the works of Peter V. Brett and Patrick Rothfuss). Since then, I’ve read The Night Angel trilogy more times than I have fingers on both hands. Yet Weeks continues to improve his storytelling game with every new book. His Night Angel trilogy is breathtaking, but his Lightbringer series is mind blowing.

I took so long to get around to reading this book partly because every time I went to pick it up at the library, it was checked out. No matter which branch I went to. The other part of the reason was because I knew that, once I started it, I wouldn’t be able to stop reading.

I was wrong. By that, I mean I was so wrong. Not only could I not stop reading it, The Blood Mirror consumed me, mind and soul. Every time I had to put it down for work or sleep or socializing, I wanted only to get back to it the moment I was free again. Even now, a solid day after devouring even the Author’s Note at the end (Weeks’s notes are always humorous), I’m still pining for more.

Here’s why:

The Lightbringer series features a plethora of characters from all across the spectrum, each one individual and interesting, complex and–in the case of Andross Guile for me–infuriatingly difficult to pin down. As lifelike as real people. The Blood Mirror focuses on a year fraught with peril for our four main characters: Kip, Teia, Karris, and Gavin. These four undergo tremendous character growth, each trapped in personal fights, stretched more and more between impossible decisions that will affect the war raging across the Seven Satrapies against the White King. It’s plain that what occurs in The Blood Mirror is the buildup to the explosive climax that will be the entirety of the final book.

Weeks has convinced me to fear for his characters.

Just when it seems Weeks has reached the maximum number of new cultures to introduce to the story and the peak of new applications for his magic system, he flies right past it and soars into the sky. I can never get enough of exploring this vast and richly colored world. The narrative itself is an examination and dissection of morality, madness, philosophy, theology, and love. More questions than answers, as well as a look out how each character must handle that uncertainty. A deft narration interwoven with a unique magic system, complex world building, cunning politics, interesting history, brilliant battles, intricate confrontations, and, best of all, puns. 

I don’t know how I’ll survive the next couple of years waiting for, likely, the last book. What torture. (Somewhere, Brent Weeks is cackling as he draws more life from his readers’ pain.)

Goodreads rating: 4.28 stars
My rating: 5/5 stars

On Adam Zielinski

Forever in my mind, he relaxed at a table surrounded by friends, the neck of a beer bottle held loosely between long fingers, his other hand gesturing a narrative point to support his story. He had an intensity about him, the electromagnetic capacity to hold his audience spellbound in a way I never could. But no matter the gravity of a topic, he couldn’t remain serious for long, often dissolving into laughter, along with the rest of us. When he listened, he listened. When he spoke, he spoke. But, I thought, when someone could make him laugh, that person gifted us with something small, yet wonderful.

Forever in my mind, he relaxed at a table surrounded by friends, the neck of a beer bottle held loosely between long fingers, his other hand gesturing a narrative point to support his story. He had an intensity about him, the electromagnetic capacity to hold his audience spellbound in a way I never could. But no matter the gravity of a topic, he couldn’t remain serious for long, often dissolving into laughter, along with the rest of us. When he listened, he listened. When he spoke, he spoke. But, I thought, when someone could make him laugh, that person gifted us with something small, yet wonderful.

On Lyle Hall

I came upon a solitary scarecrow in the middle of an empty field. At first, he wasn’t there, and then he was, just in the corner of my vision. He hunched against the elements, head bowed in the red evening sunlight. When I approached him, he seemed nearly translucent, so faded with the sun and the wind. But in his very human eyes I found a glint of mischief; humor was tucked into the corners of his smiling mouth.

I came upon a solitary scarecrow in the middle of an empty field. At first, he wasn’t there, and then he was, just in the corner of my vision. He hunched against the elements, head bowed in the red evening sunlight. When I approached him, he seemed nearly translucent, so faded with the sun and the wind. But in his very human eyes I found a glint of mischief; humor was tucked into the corners of his smiling mouth.

I asked him which way to go and he pointed me in the right direction, keen to help. As he did, he became tangible again, not from my acknowledgement of his existence, but from his direct impact on reality. He had made change. Before I went on my way, he slipped a witty quip into my pocket. I keep it folded there even now, in case of nosey crows.