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The King's Peace

The King's Peace

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by Jo Walton

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Sulien ap Gwien was seventeen when the Jarnish raiders came. Had she been armed when they found her, she could have taken them all. As it was, it took six of them to subdue her. She will never forgive them.

Thus begins her story--a story that takes her back to her family, with its ancient ties to the Vincan empire that once ruled in Tir Tanagiri, and forward


Sulien ap Gwien was seventeen when the Jarnish raiders came. Had she been armed when they found her, she could have taken them all. As it was, it took six of them to subdue her. She will never forgive them.

Thus begins her story--a story that takes her back to her family, with its ancient ties to the Vincan empire that once ruled in Tir Tanagiri, and forward to Caer Tanaga, where the greatest man of his time, King Urdo, struggles to bind together the squabbling nobles and petty princes into a unified force that will drive out the barbarian invader and restore the King's Peace.

Ringing with the clash of arms and the songs of its people, rich with high magic and everyday life, The King's Peace begins an epic of great deeds and down-to-earth people, told in language with the strength and flexibility of sharpened steel.

Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
War is a tough subject to do well, but in this gritty, moving second and final book in the saga of Tir Tanagiri, British author Walton makes the strife of civil war not only believable but understandable. Battle-hardened, older and wiser after her adventures in The King's Peace (2000), the warrior Sulien ap Gwien has become lord of her own bit of land and wants nothing more than a quiet life. Ill fortune and an evil sorcerer who'd not been dealt with years earlier, however, return her to the saddle and a civil war that could break King Urdo's peace and leave the kingdom a shattered ruin. Brother turns against brother or in this case, sister against sister. The novel opens: "The first I knew about the civil war was when my sister Aurien poisoned me." Sulien survives her poisoning only to wonder why her sister hates her the answer makes her wish she'd remained poisoned. In the end, the cost of battle is felt by every person in the land. No one will ever be the same, especially Sulien ap Gwien. Walton has taken a thoughtful look at what war can do to real people, as a group and as individuals. A nicely paced, unpredictable plot that keeps the reader guessing who might be back-stabbing whom, coupled with musical language and natural conversations, sets this well above the fantasy average. The ambiguous gender of some of the character names may confuse some, but Walton is never stridently feminist, with women and men represented as equally capable of both good and evil. This fine work should garner an award nomination or two. (Dec. 17) Copyright 2001 Cahners Business Information.
Sulien ap Gwien of Derwen is on an errand of mercy when she is raped by a group of Jarnish raiders and left to die. Her brother Darien comes to her aid but is killed by Ulf Gunnarson, one of her attackers. Desperate to save her neighbors and family from the invading Jarnsmen, Sulien rides to Caer Tanaga to beg assistance from Urdo, the High King. As a result of her rape, she gives birth to a son, naming him Darien in memory of her murdered brother. Leaving her child at the monastery of Thansetan, she rises through the ranks to become the praefecto of Urdo's own army. Sulien becomes a trusted confidante of the king, and over time, rumor suggests that Darien is Urdo's son. Darien's presence offers a convenient solution should the childless king and queen not produce a legitimate heir. When peace finally is declared, Ulf returns. Defending the family honor, Sulien's younger brother, Morien, challenges him to combat and is killed. As Morien's heir, Sulien must leave the army to rule Derwen. There is not an ill-written sentence in this lengthy book that features cover art with a charming Maxfield Parrish quality. Walton weaves a beautiful story of love and war, based loosely on the Arthurian tradition. The text never lacks immediacy or loses its historical quality. Sulien is a soldier first, honorable, capable, and trustworthy, and she is a wonderfully believable character. Setting the stage for a sequel, King's Peace will appeal to fans of Marion Zimmer Bradley's Mists of Avalon (Del Rey, 1987). Walton's narrative introduces a fantasy world that credibly and eloquently mirrors our own history. VOYA CODES: 5Q 4P S A/YA (Hard to imagine it being any better written; Broad general YAappeal; Senior High, defined as grades 10 to 12; Adult and Young Adult). 2000, Tor, 416p, . Ages 16 to Adult. Reviewer: Nancy K. Wallace SOURCE: VOYA, April 2001 (Vol. 24, No.1)
Library Journal
When Jarnish raiders attack and overwhelm 17-year-old Sulian ap Gwien, they make the mistake of leaving her alive to offer her services to a king with a vision of a united land free of invaders. Drawing on Arthurian legends and Welsh myths as her model, Walton has crafted a gracefully written epic fantasy featuring a female warrior who embodies the knightly virtues of courage and integrity. Her polished and luminous first novel belongs in most collections. Copyright 2000 Cahners Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
Curious Arthurian fantasy from a Walesresident newcomer. Not long after the Vincans have departed the shores of the island kingdom Tir Tanagiri, raids by yellowhaired warrior Jarns begin to ravage the coasts. In Derwen, a party of raiders takes young warrior Sulien by surprise; she kills or wounds several but they capture, bind, and rape her. Finally her brother Darien arrives, killing several, but he's also killed by the last Jarn, Ulf Gunnarsson, whom Sulien wounded. She agrees to heal Gunnarsson with her magic in exchange for her life, but he rapes her and dedicates her to his god, OneEye. Furious and grieving, Sulien gallops off to warn High King Urdo, who accepts her as an armiger. Finding herself pregnant in due course, Sulien goes off to a monastery to have her baby: a boy she names Darien and, against all custom, Suliensson. Soon after the birth, Urdo's sister Morwen visits the monastery. An evil sorceress who doesn't like the future Sulien and her son will help create, Morwen attempts to kill Sulien—but Gunnarsson's god, OneEye, saves her. Later, Morwen will perish in flame, leaving behind her evil son Morthu. Sulien steadfastly supports Urdo in his ambition to restore to Tir Tanagiri the civilization and peace embodied by the vanished Vincans.

From the Publisher
"A nicely paced, unpredictable plot that keeps the reader guessing who might be back-stabbing whom, coupled with musical language and natural conversations, sets this well above the fantasy average."

—Publishers Weekly


"Thoughtfully reweaves Arthurian legend with history into a vivid, fluent narrative."

Kirkus Reviews


"A richly woven narrative, this debut novel from Jo Walton depicts a meticulously researched alternate account of the Arthurian legend."

RT Book Reviews


"Walton writes with almost poetic skill, and the world she constructs is finely built."



"Jo Walton's splendid re-imagining of the Matter of Britain has a rich immediacy that calls to mind the best of Thomas Malory and Rudyard Kipling. The King's Peace is the novel that The Mists of Avalon should have been." —Debra Doyle

"The people, the politics, the details of warfare and daily life, all ring as true as the steel sword the heroine wields so doughtily. This is much more than a retooling of the Matter of Britain: it is a fully-imagined, living, magical world." —Delia Sherman

"There is not an ill-written sentence...Never lacks immediacy or loses its historical quality. Sulien is a soldier first, honorable, capable, and trustworthy, and she is a wonderfully believable character." —VOYA

"A truly engrossing character-driven novel with strong female characters...Highly recommended." —Vector

"I really liked this sideways take on the Matter of Britain and I highly recommend it." —Mythprint

 "Walton writes with an authenticity that never loses heart, a rare combination in a genre where we are so often offered one or the other. The King's Peace is a proof that no matter how mined-out a subject may seen, a dedicated writer can dig down to a true vein of legend and hammer out gold." -Robin Hobb

"Beautifully and thought-provokingly tells a story set in a world and a history almost like ours, but different enough to be in itself a kind of elvenland. It's good to know that there will be more." -Poul Anderson

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The King's Peace

By Jo Walton, Patrick Nielsen Hayden

Tom Doherty Associates

Copyright © 2000 Jo Walton
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4299-7065-5




    First came the Tanagans, hop along, hop along,
    then came the Vincans, dance along, dance along
    then came the Jarnsmen, run along, run along
    the gold-headed Jarnsmen to chase you all home!
    —Children's step game

If I had been armed on horseback, I could have taken them all out. Even afoot I could have made a good showing with a sword. Hand to hand I think I could have given one of them a fair match, for all they were full-grown men and I, at seventeen, had not quite all my woman's growth. I was already veteran of ten years' training and one brief battle against raiders the year before. I was strong, not just strong for a woman but strong by any measure. These were but common Jarnish ship-raiders, all but untrained in land fighting like most of their kind. They had not spent their childhoods as I had, lifting weights and swinging staves to develop their strength and speed. But here I was alone and unarmed, and there were six of them. Worst of all, they had taken me unawares.

I was on my way home from one of the little farms that lay in those days inland about five miles, well within my father's lands. One of the farmers was ill, and my mother had sent me with a healing potion and a hymn to sing over her bed. I had stayed to teach the woman's son that hymn, which was needful to help keep up his mother's strength. He had a liking for tunes, so while I was there I taught him a few other lesser hymns to the Radiant Sun, two of them my own translations into the tongue of the people. The farmers in those days had their own names for the gods we all worshiped, few indeed had heard of the White God then in Derwen or elsewhere in our part of Tir Tanagiri.

I was walking back singing across the fields. I was thirsty in the hot sun and thinking longingly about the little stream of good clear water that ran in the shade of the trees. I was looking up at the smoke rising over the wood from the direction of the house. I wondered who had put what on a bonfire to make such a billow on the wind. The wind was coming out of the southwest and blew the smoke away from me, the smell might have warned me. As it was, the first I knew anything was amiss was the appearance out of the trees of half a dozen burly sea-raiders, yellow-haired, white-skinned, and ugly. I had seen a troop of them the summer before, but they still looked strange to me then. There were no Jarnsmen settled anywhere near this part of the realm in those days. They laughed to see me, showing their bad teeth, and shouted to each other in their own tongue.

I fell at once into a fighting stance. I shifted my grip on the bottle that had held the potion. It was baked clay, not a good weapon but all I had. They came on, bunched together. I held my ground and looked around for what there was to help as they closed in. It was a meadow, grassy, covered in buttercups and daisies, a pleasant place where the farmers grazed the cows. There was earth to throw in their eyes. I could see no stones. The trees were not too far away, if I could make their cover I should know the ground better than the men and be able to get home. There would be fallen wood I could use for a club. Somehow I assumed without thinking about it that the raiders had just come out of their boat, and that these six were all there were of them.

The first one reached me, only moments ahead of his companions. He carried a single-edged blade, typically Jarnish; it could be thought of as a short sword or a long knife, as suitable for cutting brush as slashing an enemy. It was loose in his hand. He did not think me much of a challenge. I kicked his arm hard, aiming for the elbow. My foot connected with an impact I could feel all through my leg. I spun, completing the movement. He dropped the blade and clutched his arm. The second man was on me then, and I was facing him. I brought the bottle up in his face and brought my arm down hard on his knife arm. I wasn't fast enough, and his knife caught me a gash across my sleeve. It would have been nothing if I'd been wearing leathers; as it was the cloth tore and it cut my skin. I felt nothing then, although I saw my own red blood flowing. It was a shallow cut but it stung badly later. I never feel wounds in battle. Some say this is a gift of the gods, others have said it is a curse. Urdo always said I would die fighting of wounds I never noticed I had. I never did, though I suppose I may yet.

The third man was there, his spear pointed towards me. The first was reaching down for his fallen knife with his good hand. I stooped for it, ducking under the second man. I was lucky in that they were not trying to kill me, for he could have had me then easily, my throat was exposed. He did not try though; the Jarnsmen in those days did not kill young women. They saw me as not only their own sport but as booty. Women had a resale value on the continent even then, when the market was glutted. They probably hoped to get as much for a strong girl like me as for a horse.

I had the sword, and as swift as thought I stabbed at the second man's knee. It was a good target from my position. These Jarnsmen wore leather tunics and leather sea boots, nothing like as hard or as well made as my boots. The knees are unprotected in the old Vincan style, nobody is supposed to be that low in the line of battle. The sword was heavier than the short knives I had practiced with. It had not the reach of even our short swords, let alone the long cavalry sword I was used to. He toppled, and I was drawing out the knife when one of the others grabbed my arms from behind. I brought my head up hard to jar his chin. I felt the force of the blow through my skull. He reeled a little, but held firm, and the others were there. I had wounded two of them, but four were whole and I was captured.

If they had taken me back to the ship then I should no doubt have spent the rest of a short unpleasant life as a slave on the continent in some Jarnish or other barbarian encampment. Maybe I would have escaped and found some other life in the parts of the continent that still clung to some shred of Vincan civilization. I have often wondered how I would have survived. I had skill at arms and languages, I knew a few useful devotional charms, but I had few womanly skills such as they might expect. But they were greedy and wanted to taste their prize themselves. One of the men quickly cut off my clothes using a short sharp knife he had at his belt, ruining the good green cloth and leaving me quite exposed. I stayed limp in their grasp, hoping for an opportunity to escape. I had no body-shame, of course, though I had been told the Jarnsmen suffered from this badly. My siblings and I had always trained for athletics naked, Vincan fashion.

They jabbered in their own language. I understood no word of what they were saying. They poked at me, and dragged me, unresisting, back towards the trees. I was ready to fight at any moment there seemed to be any possibility of advantage in it. I ignored the irrelevancies of my nakedness and vulnerability, stayed limp, and concentrated on tracking where they all were. This was Duncan's advice for being in a bad spot, and it came back to me now that I was in one. They were laughing at the ones who had been wounded, though one of them bound up his companion's knee. Looking at him then, I thought that if that was the level of their treatment he would surely lose the leg. He never walked without a limp again even as it was; that was a good blow with my strength behind it. I had clean severed the muscle.

The loud laughter was a bad sign. They had no worries about being overheard, or they thought only their own friends were near. I remembered that rising smoke and worried. I should not have called for help over that distance in any case, nobody would have heard me. But now I heard them laugh and shout out jests at each other I shouted too and screamed for help as loudly as I could. This was not only foolish but against Duncan's teaching, and I have found it hard to forgive myself for that. They gagged me with part of what had been my sleeve. I could taste the blood on it from the knife cut.

The trees' shadow was pleasantly cool. The sound of the stream trickling nearby was a torment. The leaves were green and fully out, all at their best, stretched wide gathering summer light to last through the winter. They tied me under a great oak, using cut strips from my clothes. They fastened my wrists and ankles to tree roots. They were careful never to let me have a chance to be free and hurt them. The bindings were very uncomfortable, especially on my wounded arm. The little roots and last year's leaves were hard and rough beneath me. I stared up at the three-fingered leaves, sending my mind up away among the pattern of twigs and branches, determined to ignore the pain. I tried to relax into it as Duncan had taught me, although it hurt like a vise. The leaves, the tree, I can see it now, the shapes the leaves made against the blue sky that did not care for me in my pain. People have told me they have taken pleasure in the act of begetting life, and some of them have even been women. That was the only time I ever did it, that thing which in most people's lives is so important, that thing for which, and for the lack of which, kingdoms fall and grown men turn into little boys. It hurt me worse than any wound I ever had. I believe there may be pleasure in it for some people, but I was not made so.

The fifth of them had just begun his thrusting and I was staring up into the leaves and wondering if I would die of the pain when the man fell forward suddenly upon me and I saw my brother Darien's face between me and the light. I had thought never to see sight of those I loved again, and it was almost too much for me. I wept.

"Sulien!" he said. He dragged the body off me and bent to cut me loose. So it was that he did not see the last man, the man with the wounded knee, come up behind him, though I did. I tried to warn him, but I was gagged of course and could make no sound. He was bending down, and the Jarnsman took him from behind in the thigh with the knife. Poor Darien had no chance, he fell forward almost at once, quite dead beside me. The wounded man limped forward, pulling up his tunic. I was quite sickened, and that time was the worst of all, both for pain and for violation. Darien's dead body lay only inches away from me, and I could send no part of my mind away, all that happened happened to me. Worst of all I knew for sure that he would kill me when he was done, and Darien and I would lie together, unburied in the wood. I believed all the rest of my family were dead already. Nobody would say prayers for us to the gods of earth and sky, our names would not be given back, and we would all walk the world as unavenged shades forever. He had to kill me. He was one injured man alone, and he had sense enough to know he could not get me back to his ship if he untied me.

When he was done he pulled out my gag. I stared at him, sure I was about to die. I did not scream. I wanted to keep some dignity in my last moments.

"You know spells?" he asked, in broken Vincan. It was the most unexpected question I had ever been asked. I almost laughed hysterically, but just managed to restrain myself. I raised my chin in cautious assent.

"You hurt my leg, you mend it," he said.

"Why?" I asked.

"You hurt, you mend," he repeated.

"Why should I if you're going to kill me after?" I asked.

"What?" he looked puzzled.

"Why mend if you kill me?" I said, slowly. His Vincan was not up to much subtlety.

"You mend, I no kill," he said. "Swear by One-Eye, Father of the Slain." This was one of their old gods. I had heard the name even then, enough to know it sacred.

"All right," I said. "If I can. Let me up." He shook his head.

"You up, you run," he said. I would have, too. I sighed.

"You give me water," I said. My mouth was unbearably dry. He took a water bottle from his waist and held it to my lips. Enough of it made its way into my mouth for me to choke, and some went down.

"Where sword?" I asked. He held up his own blade. "Where sword that did wound?" After some searching of bodies he limped back with it. "What your name?" I asked. His ugly pale eyes narrowed. I hated those pale Jarnsman eyes; they did not seem to me at all like human eyes that are dark and full of thoughts.

"Name secret."

"Need name to do spell," I said. He must have known that was true, however little his people knew about it.

"Ulf Gunnarsson," he muttered, reluctantly.

"Put knife against wound," I instructed. He did so, then knelt and touched me so that I could work the charm on him. With the most reluctance of my life I sang the charm of healing of weapon-wounds, an invocation both to the Lord of Light for healing and to the dark battle gods. Into the charm I wove Ulf's name, and by the time I had finished I could see that it had worked inasmuch as it could on such a wound—it was like a wound he had suffered ten years ago and not like a fresh wound. His leg would never be as it had been, and there was nothing anyone could do about that.

"Now let me go," I said. He smiled, showing his dreadful teeth again.

"Never said so," he said. "You know name, know spells. You dangerous. I not kill you. I swore. But you stay here, sacrifice to Father of the Slain, make corn go strong." I heard this with absolute horror. He took the sword that had wounded him and cut the ball of his thumb, then squeezed out a few drops of his blood to fall on my stomach. Ignoring my screams and protests and threats to curse him, and being careful not to touch me to give my curses a chance to work, he walked away, leaving me to die beside my dead brother. Ulf Gunnarsson, I swore, if I get free and we meet again you are a dead man. I knew no real curses, then.


    To the land of the dead in the dusk returning
    all deeds done, time gone, life ending,
    no more amending, this is what you are,
    this is your name, you know it all at last.
    We, who are left on life's shore, mourning
    as you walk on, into dark, not turning,
    we cannot go with you, this journey all make alone.
    However loved, and you were loved,
    however strong, and you were strong,
    however brave, and you were brave,
    however skilled, and you were skilled,
    you will come alone to Lord Death's halls
    speak there your name and deeds,
    for them to stand alone, for what you were.
    You go on, shine bright, begin a new life,
    taking from this all of the beauty,
    learning from this all of the mistakes.
    Do not grieve for us, though we are sundered,
    you were what you were, you will be remembered,
    learn to be what more you can be,
    and we will mourn with the name you left us,
    on life's shore, bound by old choices,
    go free ahead, on new paths, returning.
    —From "The Hymn of Returning"

When I was quite sure Ulf was gone I began to test the bonds. The one Darien had started to cut was frayed partway through. I craned my neck to look at my wrist, then saw what I had hoped to see. Darien's knife lay near it, in a large clump of fungus that sprouted beside the root my wrist was tied to. I could slowly force my wrist and the twisted linen down on the blade, which was lying sideways rather than point up. Because of the angle of my arm and the tree, I could either see what I was doing or do it. I alternated between doing and looking, with no thinking. It was a long time, and I did not know whether the cloth or my wrist would be sawn through first. If it had been my wrist it would have been a quicker death than Ulf would have wished on me. I cannot say how long it was before my wrist was free. After that it was a short time before the rest of me was free. The cramps when I stood and tried to walk were agonizing.

The first thing I did was to walk to the stream and drink until I could hold no more. Then I bent down and washed myself, over and over. The cold water was soothing, and it was good to wash away the blood. Hardest to scrub off was the dried blood on my stomach with which Ulf had dedicated me to the One-Eyed God. By the time I was clean I was chilled through. I walked back to the bodies. I had Darien's knife already; now I took his sword and his leather jacket. It had no bindings for my breasts such as my own leathers had, but it would do. It was unmarked, although the breeches were drenched with blood from the one slash, behind, where Ulf had struck so treacherously. I took them back to the stream and washed them as best I could, then pulled them on, still wet. They fit me well enough. Darien was close enough to my height—if he had lived he would have overtopped me soon. He was my closest friend, as well as my brother. We were equal in most ways, for though I was the elder he was the heir. Often enough we were rivals in prowess, but this only encouraged us both to strive the harder. I was better with the sword, having what Duncan, our arms master, considered an inborn skill for the weapon. Darien was a better horseman, and much better at aiming a lance at the target. He had had dreams of winning some great prize someday with his lancework.

All this I thought as I made his leathers mine. My thoughts turned to those of his hopes and dreams he had shared with me, of the times we had practiced together with wooden swords until our arms and shoulders were far past aching and then rubbed each other down with oil. I remembered the times we had lied for each other to Veniva, our lady mother, always so Vincan and proper, protecting each other's secrets. Well, Darien had come to protect me one last time. Without him I would be enslaved or dead. It was then that I realized for the first time what it meant to be old.

I knew it was foolish, but I stopped to build a pyre for Darien. I knew there might be other Jarnsmen around seeking their lost companions. But I could not leave my brother unburied in the wood. I built a pyre of fallen branches at the edge of the meadow. I put the weapons and gear of the men he had killed into the pyre. I set Darien upon the pyre in his linen underclothes and with his enemies' weapons beneath him; I left the Jarnsmen unburied for the dogs and birds to eat. All this took some time, and I was only just finished in time to be ready at dusk.

I lit the pyre with Darien's flint and steel and sang the great "Hymn of Returning," all alone beneath the twilight stars. I thought about Jarnsmen, but I had a sword now, and it would have pleased me to kill them and add their weapons to Darien's glory pyre if they came. I was lucky. No Jarnsmen came. Nobody came at all. If anyone saw the smoke they probably thought it just more destruction. Alone, and not half a mile from home, I mourned my brother. At last, when the pyre was burning brightly and all the hymns were sung, I took his sword and cut off my hair in the Vincan mourning custom. It made a thick black double handful. I cast it onto the pyre, where it flamed up with a singeing smell almost enough to mask the roasting smell of poor Darien. He should have had incense. He should have had sacrifices. He should have had his killer's arms beneath his feet. Swearing that one day I would bring them to add to his grave, I turned away and walked back through the woods towards the house.


Excerpted from The King's Peace by Jo Walton, Patrick Nielsen Hayden. Copyright © 2000 Jo Walton. Excerpted by permission of Tom Doherty Associates.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

What People are saying about this

Ken MacLeod
Head and shoulders and sword arm above most fantasy…It reads like a lost memoir from the Dark Age of a subtly different history, tough, and unsentimental and all the more touching for that.
Debra Doyle
A rich immediacy that calls to mind the best of Thomas Malory and Rudyard Kipling…The King's Peace is the novel that The Mists of Avalon should have been.

Meet the Author

Jo Walton won the John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer on publication of her debut novel The King's Peace. Her novel Tooth and Claw won the World Fantasy Award. A native of Wales, she lives in Montreal.

Jo Walton won the John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer on publication of her debut novel The King's Peace. She won the World Fantasy Award in 2004 for Tooth and Claw, and in 2012, the Hugo and Nebula Awards for Among Others. In addition to writing SF and fantasy, she has also designed role-playing games and published poetry. Her song "The Lurkers Support Me In Email" has been quoted innumerable times in online discussions all over the world, frequently without attribution. A native of Wales, she lives in Montreal.

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The King's Peace 4.4 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 5 reviews.
Guest More than 1 year ago
Jo Walton's wonderfully crafted retelling of Arthurian legend is a perfect example of what a skilled writer can do with well-mined themes when approaching them from a fresh perspective. The tale of Sulien's service to her king, told from her perspective, is neatly interwoven with themes of war, peace, and the struggle of traditional ways giving way to the new. Whether describing a vivid battle or the musings of Sulien, Walton effortlessly holds the readers attention with her crisp and flowing style. Lovers of fantasy, particularly those who have grown weary of the cookie cutter volumes crowding bookstore shelves, will especially find Walton a breath of fresh air and should not miss picking up this book. Highly recommended.
Guest More than 1 year ago
'King's Peace', Jo Walton's first novel, is well planned and well written. Its an obviously fictional world that's large and intricate and put together with considerable foresight and thoughtfulness.
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