The Twelve Kingdoms, Book 3: The Vast Spread of the Seas, by Fuyumi Ono.

This novel, a prequel to book 2 (which was a prequel to book 1) is the origin story of two of my favorite characters from the previous novels, the suave king Shoryu and his grumpy kirin Enki (here called Rokuta.)

After the disastrous reign over the land of En by the former king, Shoryu was chosen to succeed him and has begun to repair the devastated kingdom. But he’s flippant and flaky and doesn’t even bother to show up in court most of the time, and everyone wonders if he’s up to the job—even Rokuta, who chose him. When Rokuta goes to meet a mysterious demon-rider whom he’d first met when they were both children, and is kidnapped by an aspiring ruler, the ensuing test of Shoryu’s abilities and Rokuta’s loyalty intertwines with the story of how they first met.

I had wanted more discussion and critique regarding the king-choosing system, and this book supplies it, along with a plausible reason why it’s ever a good idea (magical term limits, basically) and lots of exploration of what makes a good ruler. Rokuta is a much more fun protagonist than passive Yoko or timid Taiki, and kept me engaged in his story even though he spends large portions of it locked in a room, unconscious, or unconscious while locked in a room. And I don’t think it’s spoilery to say that Shoryu has hidden depths.

Like the previous novels, it takes its time exploring the characters and milieu while slowly gathering emotional force. Here the worldbuilding is less about magic and landscape and more about society and politics, which I actually found just as interesting. I’ll definitely keep reading the series.

I especially liked Akihiro Yamada’s illustrations in this. Rokuta/Enki is just so damn cute.

View on Amazon: The Vast Spread of the Seas (The Twelve Kingdoms)
I looked up Fuyumi Ono on Wikipedia and was delighted to see that she had written a series of “Evil Spirits” books, presumably for children, with the following titles:
There are lots of Evil Spirits?! There are really lots of Evil Spirits! Too many Evil Spirits to sleep, A lonely Evil Spirit, I Don't Want to Become an Evil Spirit! Don't Call me an Evil Spirit, I don't mind Evil Spirits 1 and I don't mind Evil Spirits 2.

The Twelve Kingdoms, Book 3: The Vast Spread of the Seas, by Fuyumi Ono.

This novel, a prequel to book 2 (which was a prequel to book 1) is the origin story of two of my favorite characters from the previous novels, the suave king Shoryu and his grumpy kirin Enki (here called Rokuta.)

After the disastrous reign over the land of En by the former king, Shoryu was chosen to succeed him and has begun to repair the devastated kingdom. But he’s flippant and flaky and doesn’t even bother to show up in court most of the time, and everyone wonders if he’s up to the job—even Rokuta, who chose him. When Rokuta goes to meet a mysterious demon-rider whom he’d first met when they were both children, and is kidnapped by an aspiring ruler, the ensuing test of Shoryu’s abilities and Rokuta’s loyalty intertwines with the story of how they first met.

I had wanted more discussion and critique regarding the king-choosing system, and this book supplies it, along with a plausible reason why it’s ever a good idea (magical term limits, basically) and lots of exploration of what makes a good ruler. Rokuta is a much more fun protagonist than passive Yoko or timid Taiki, and kept me engaged in his story even though he spends large portions of it locked in a room, unconscious, or unconscious while locked in a room. And I don’t think it’s spoilery to say that Shoryu has hidden depths.

Like the previous novels, it takes its time exploring the characters and milieu while slowly gathering emotional force. Here the worldbuilding is less about magic and landscape and more about society and politics, which I actually found just as interesting. I’ll definitely keep reading the series.

I especially liked Akihiro Yamada’s illustrations in this. Rokuta/Enki is just so damn cute.

View on Amazon: The Vast Spread of the Seas (The Twelve Kingdoms)
I looked up Fuyumi Ono on Wikipedia and was delighted to see that she had written a series of “Evil Spirits” books, presumably for children, with the following titles:
There are lots of Evil Spirits?! There are really lots of Evil Spirits! Too many Evil Spirits to sleep, A lonely Evil Spirit, I Don't Want to Become an Evil Spirit! Don't Call me an Evil Spirit, I don't mind Evil Spirits 1 and I don't mind Evil Spirits 2.

Lud-in-the-Mist, by Hope Mirrlees (beginning)

I am a few chapters into this 1926 classic fantasy novel, and am, as I’m sure no one will be surprised to hear as this is what it’s famous for, struck by how unique it seems, even after the very long time other writers have had to be influenced by it. (Though I did discover the inspiration for Pamela Dean’s Dubious Hills in its Debatable Hills.)

Lud-in-the-Mist is a town near Fairyland which is so determined to be normal that even the word “fairy” is an obscenity. But there’s still trafficking in addictive fairy fruit… and the young son of the mayor was fed some.

The vocabulary is exceptionally difficult. Not since Dorothy Dunnett have I tripped over so many words which I’ve either never come across, or only seen with different meanings. (I know “levee” as in “drove my Chevy to the levee,” but here it means “gathering.”) A lot of them pertain to the English countryside -- “burn” apparently meaning a body of water, “hornbeams” I guess are trees, and “pleached” seems to mean “roofed with branches” – but there’s also poncifs, opobalsum, and squills. The effect is of reading a document incompletely translated. It adds to the sense of oddness, of a story both familiar and alien, with the familiar bits making the alien bits seem even more weird and disturbing.

The first chapter, introducing the town and its mayor Nathaniel Chanticleer, is an unusual mixture of the cozy and the ominous, a tapestry of elegantly elaborated sentences describing pleasant rural things in a disquieting manner. The Guild Hall is “built of mellow golden bricks” which sounds pretty until the conclusion “like a rotten apricot.” Nathaniel’s experience of hearing a single note of fairy music haunts him all his life in dreams of ordinary life that twist into surrealism: his old nurse bakes an apple on the fire, then says, “But, of course, you know it isn’t really the apple. It’s the Note.”

I could go on, but the entire chapter is like that, image after image of pastoral charm that becomes dark in an understated way that gets under your skin. I don’t think I’ve ever read anything quite like it, though it clearly influenced Neil Gaiman, most visibly in Coraline. Pamela Dean’s Dubious Hills too borrowed some of the mood as well as the hills, though the creepy element there is more intellectual than visceral.

I assume the first chapter is a microcosm of the subject of the book: Lud-in-the-Mist pretends to be charmingly prosaic, even a bit kitschy, but it’s haunted by Faerie. The striking image of the rotten apricot is also a microcosm: the darkness at the heart of the pretty town, and the addictive fairy fruit which seem to symbolize Faerie as a whole: something irresistible that will ruin your life and make you beg for more.

On the other hand, the novel’s social satire and philosophy (like the whole thing about law being an attempt to rewrite reality) are not of particular interest to me. Hopefully those elements won’t take over. I am currently still near the beginning, when Ranulph has been sent away to a farm, ostensibly for his health but clearly so that he’ll be able to run off to Fairyland.

Check it out on Amazon: Lud-in-the-Mist

Lud-in-the-Mist, by Hope Mirrlees (beginning)

I am a few chapters into this 1926 classic fantasy novel, and am, as I’m sure no one will be surprised to hear as this is what it’s famous for, struck by how unique it seems, even after the very long time other writers have had to be influenced by it. (Though I did discover the inspiration for Pamela Dean’s Dubious Hills in its Debatable Hills.)

Lud-in-the-Mist is a town near Fairyland which is so determined to be normal that even the word “fairy” is an obscenity. But there’s still trafficking in addictive fairy fruit… and the young son of the mayor was fed some.

The vocabulary is exceptionally difficult. Not since Dorothy Dunnett have I tripped over so many words which I’ve either never come across, or only seen with different meanings. (I know “levee” as in “drove my Chevy to the levee,” but here it means “gathering.”) A lot of them pertain to the English countryside -- “burn” apparently meaning a body of water, “hornbeams” I guess are trees, and “pleached” seems to mean “roofed with branches” – but there’s also poncifs, opobalsum, and squills. The effect is of reading a document incompletely translated. It adds to the sense of oddness, of a story both familiar and alien, with the familiar bits making the alien bits seem even more weird and disturbing.

The first chapter, introducing the town and its mayor Nathaniel Chanticleer, is an unusual mixture of the cozy and the ominous, a tapestry of elegantly elaborated sentences describing pleasant rural things in a disquieting manner. The Guild Hall is “built of mellow golden bricks” which sounds pretty until the conclusion “like a rotten apricot.” Nathaniel’s experience of hearing a single note of fairy music haunts him all his life in dreams of ordinary life that twist into surrealism: his old nurse bakes an apple on the fire, then says, “But, of course, you know it isn’t really the apple. It’s the Note.”

I could go on, but the entire chapter is like that, image after image of pastoral charm that becomes dark in an understated way that gets under your skin. I don’t think I’ve ever read anything quite like it, though it clearly influenced Neil Gaiman, most visibly in Coraline. Pamela Dean’s Dubious Hills too borrowed some of the mood as well as the hills, though the creepy element there is more intellectual than visceral.

I assume the first chapter is a microcosm of the subject of the book: Lud-in-the-Mist pretends to be charmingly prosaic, even a bit kitschy, but it’s haunted by Faerie. The striking image of the rotten apricot is also a microcosm: the darkness at the heart of the pretty town, and the addictive fairy fruit which seem to symbolize Faerie as a whole: something irresistible that will ruin your life and make you beg for more.

On the other hand, the novel’s social satire and philosophy (like the whole thing about law being an attempt to rewrite reality) are not of particular interest to me. Hopefully those elements won’t take over. I am currently still near the beginning, when Ranulph has been sent away to a farm, ostensibly for his health but clearly so that he’ll be able to run off to Fairyland.

Check it out on Amazon: Lud-in-the-Mist