#isern-i-phail | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

beeblackburn · 5 years ago

Text

Pretender Reads A Little Hatred, Part I, Chapter Three

Guilt really is a luxury for the living, isn’t it. Goes without saying spoilers ahead for the entirety of The First Law works beyond the keep reading. Read at your own risk.

Chapter Title: Guilt Is a Luxury Point-of-View: Rikke

The snow had all melted and left the world cold and comfortless. The icy slop that stood for ground seeped into Rikke’s boots and spattered up her sodden trousers. Cold dew dripped endlessly from the black branches, through her sopping hair, onto her soggy cloak and down her chafed back. The wet from above met the wet from below around her belt, which she’d been obliged to tighten on account of having hardly eaten anything in the three days since she killed a boy and watched her home burn.

At least it couldn’t get any worse. Or so she told herself.

In short, it’s really goddamn cold. As an opening, it serves as a microcosm of the lack of small comforts that Rikke’s endured since watching Uffrith burn, a relentless litany of the miserable chill upon her person, but as a contrast to the Original Trilogy, it’s a difference in prose craft and characterization between our two Northern voices, from Logen’s more stripped-down viewpoint to Rikke’s longer ruminations on the comfortless environment. Just compare here:

The sky was a brilliant blue, the sun was blazing overhead. He turned his face towards it, closed his stinging eyes and let the light wash over him. The air was painful cold in his throat. Cutting cold. His mouth was dry as dust, his tongue a piece of wood, badly carved. He scooped up snow and shoved it into his mouth. It melted, he swallowed. Cold, it made his head hurt.

Whereas Abercrombie went for a more bare-bones description of how cold it is, note the repetition of cold and how the descriptions don’t quite connect as neatly here, Rikke’s descriptions have a greater sense of continuity, going more directional as she notes the dew above dripping down her hair, soaking through her cloak, then her back, then from above to down below. There’s a sense of seamless rhythm here that Abercrombie’s earlier word craft doesn’t quite have, in terms of being refined by the later books. I definitely think Logen’s more bare-bones voice in reaction to his condition is intentional, but I also think the comparison shows concretely how much he’s improved since then.

And, character-wise, you can see the difference between the two: Logen acknowledges that things can always get worse. He’s a survivor, a hardened man who’s been through tougher and been through far blacker conditions than the cold. Rikke, though? She’s not there yet. An inexperienced naif who thinks it can’t get worse, even though past books in the Circle of the World make a point that things can always get worse, and the difference between the winners and the losers being how clear-eyed you are about taking reality as it is.

One can argue that makes Rikke less compelling compared to the savage experience Logen had, but she’s still learning, and everyone in this world learns about how this world works in full.

“Aye, and his uncle Scale Ironhand’s, and his father Black Calder’s. The thorns may scratch your downy-soft skin, but a lot shallower than their swords would.”

WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!! CALLED IT!!!

CAN’T WAIT TO MEET STOUR!

On a more serious note, yeah, this makes sense on how Stour’s taking back Angland plan would have the traction it got. If Black Calder wasn’t involved, he’d plot to assassinate Stour Nightfall in a heartbeat. That being said, I wonder what made him decide to cut Bayaz’s strings now? Did he meet with King Casamir Shenkt already? If not, then Calder’s playing a hugely dangerous game, given Bayaz’s history with the North and their talk in The Heroes.

I hope you can slither your way out of Bayaz’s wrath, Calder.

“It’s almost like an unfriendly army swarming over your land is an inconvenience in all kinds o’ ways. You’re used to reckoning the world your playground. Beset by dangers now, girl. Time to act like it.” Isern slipped on through the thicket as quick and silent as a snake, leaving Rikke to struggle after, pointlessly cursing.

She liked to think of herself as quite the rugged outdoorswoman, but in this company she was a towny oaf. Isern-i-Phail knew all the ways, that was the rumour. Even better’n her daddy had. Rikke had learned more from watching her the last couple of weeks than she had from that fool Union tutor in Ostenhorm in a year. How to build a shelter from ferns. How to set rabbit traps, even if they hadn’t worked. How to reckon your course from the way the moss grew on the tree trunks. How to tell a man from an animal in the forest just by their footfalls.

Aw, Rikke calling the Dogman daddy instead of da’ or father’s a cute detail.

This chapter really digs into how lacking Rikke’s been in real experience, giving this picture of a coddled Northern girl. And, on the one hand, that’s honestly kind of sweet: Dogman getting out of a life of relentless violence to try and give his girl the peaceful sort of upbringing he didn’t get to have, drenched in blood and the violence that comes with being the following dog to the Bloody-Nine.

But, at the same time, life in the Circle of the World is pretty pitiless to those with illusions. As someone who’s lived through the old trilogy, but isn’t in a familial capacity like the Dogman, Isern is an old hand at how this world works, and she’s giving Rikke a crash course on how to survive it.

Union tutor, eh? I wonder if that better life for the Dogman’s daughter also included giving her an education. Though, Rikke certainly isn’t appreciating it now.

Some folk said Isern was a witch, and no doubt she’d a witchy look and a witch’s temper, but even she couldn’t magic food out of rocks and bogwater at the arse-end of winter. Sadly.

Snrrrk. I’m noticing a patterns with how much Abercrombie shades magic and magicians from other series in Rikke’s chapters. Which, you know, makes sense, given how much the Long Eye pervaded her first chapter, and I imagine that not stopping in later ones. Magic isn’t a cheat code in this world, no substitute for lived experience and knowing how to survive.

Rikke knew what folk said about her, and maybe her head didn’t have the right parts in the right places, but she’d always had a sharp eye for things. So in spite of the gloom and Isern’s nimble fingers, Rikke saw the hillwoman only ate half as much as she handed over. She saw it, and was thankful for it, and wished she had the bones to insist on fair shares, but she was just so damn hungry. She stuffed her shred of dry meat down so quickly she swallowed her chagga pellet too without even noticing.

1. That first bit makes me think of a growing thought about how Rikke could be read as neurodivergent, given the whispers and the consideration that her brain isn’t wired “right.” In some ways, I’m not entirely sure how to feel about this, considering the magic = disability trope is a thing, but I think Abercrombie’s earned enough credit in the bank, and the writing with her mundane difficulties with the Long Eye makes me feel that Rikke isn’t really written as a figure of pity as some poorly-written disability-coded characters can be, so much as someone who has to deal with the inconveniences of a mental condition, but is still their own person beyond that. 2. Awww, Isern! That’s really nice of you. Though, I will admit, what’s Isern’s skin in this game? She says it’s the Long Eye, but why not just knock Rikke out and give her to Stour’s men? Would be the selfish thing. Would be the easy thing. 3. Rikke really isn’t a bad person at heart, but, when the practicalities of hunger push us, we find it easier to lean on our self-interest to make our choices. Selfless choices are rare in this world and a good way to determine the choices of characters in this world is “how does this benefit me?” Not always, but you’ll rarely be disappointed.

While she licked the wondrous taste of stale bread from her teeth, she found she was thinking of that lad she shot. That bit of dyed cloth around his scrawny neck, like mothers give sons to keep the cold off. That hurt, confused look he’d had. The same look she used to have, maybe, when the other children laughed at her twitching.

Man, Rikke really is a soft person and it’s such a tonal contrast from Logen’s “welp, I didn’t really have a choice, best not think on those I killed” attitude towards killing. The difference between lived experience is a chasm between them. An evil older man in a harsh world, and a decent younger woman in it.

Also, I know a friend similar to Rikke, who’s got a mental condition. It inconveniences her more often than not, and she’s not particularly happy about it, but, at the same time, she was born with it and she appreciates all the people in her life that don’t define her by her disability.

And when I read that last part, my heart hurts for Rikke. And my mouth tells those children to fuck off.

“I killed that lad.” And she sniffed up a noseful of cold snot and spat it away.

“Aye.” Isern trimmed off a chagga pellet and stuck it behind her lip. “You killed him all to bits, and robbed everyone who knew him, and cut all the good he might ever do out of the world.”

Rikke blinked. “Well, you’re the one split his skull!”

“That was a mercy. He’d have drowned on your arrow for sure.”

Oh, Rikke. I get the defensiveness, I do, but Isern’s right in that you effectively killed him first, so don’t deflect the blame there. Sure, it might’ve been an accident, but sometimes, intentions don’t mean anything to the reality of actions. Just ask Khalul.

“Deserving won’t make much difference to an arrow. The best defence against arrows is not a life nobly lived but to be the one who shoots them, d’you see?” Isern sat back against her, smelling of sweat and earth and chewed chagga. “They were your father’s enemies. Our enemies. Wasn’t as if there was any other choice.”

The difference between the killer and the killed, the hunter and the hunted, the living and the dead in this world.

Rikke hunched into her cold cloak and her bleak mood. “No justice, is there? For him or for me. Just a world that looks the other way and doesn’t care a shit about either one of us.”

This chapter is basically The First Law 101, one of the fundamental truths of the Circle of the World: the world is full of shit, and the people living in it just have to make the best of it through the eyes of a naif who wishes she didn’t have to kill to preserve herself. Someone like Logen would’ve given up on the idea of existential justice or wishing things were better, he’s long past that point.

Rikke still wishes for that, and it’s a heavy feeling borne from her youth.

She felt Isern’s hand firm on her shoulder, and was grateful for it. “If killing folk ever starts to feel right, you’ve a worse kind of problem. Guilt can sting, but you should be thankful for it.”

“Thankful?”

“Guilt is a luxury reserved for those still breathing and with no unbearable pain, cold or hunger demanding all their fickle attention. Long as guilt’s your big problem, girl …” Rikke saw the faint gleam of Isern’s teeth in the gathering darkness. “Things can’t be that bad.”

In short, “I am still alive.” When you’re alive, you can feel all these emotions, you have the luxury of guilt. Because once you go through the Last Door, meet the Great Leveller, guilt’s your last worry. So, at the very least, be grateful to be alive. Because there are some who don’t get to be grateful, especially the corpses you made to keep yourself breathing.

She slapped Rikke’s thigh and gave a witchy cackle, and maybe there was some magic in it after all because Rikke cracked her first smile in a day or two, and that made her feel just a bit better. Your best shield is a smile, her father always said.

Awww! This is so much more emotionally warm than Logen’s first few chapters, trying to survive in the bitter cold. And I love how, after a dig against fantasy’s penchant for easy magic, Abercrombie flips it, giving a sort of magic to just these mundane gestures. Abercrombie’s gotten more optimistic as the series went on, and I just smile at how much it’s carried over to the official start of the new trilogy. There’s a sweetness to this I adore after the first trilogy’s more cynical touch.

“Why haven’t you just left me behind?” she asked.

“I gave my word to your da.”

“Aye, but everyone says you’re the most untrustworthy bitch in the whole North.”

“No one should know better than you what the things everyone says are worth. Truth is, I only care about keeping my word to folk I like. I seem untrustworthy because there are only seven of those outside the hills.” She made a fist of her tattooed hand, trembling tight. “To those seven, I am a rock.”

Rikke swallowed. “You like me, then?”

“Meh.” Isern opened her blue fist and shook out the fingers with a clicking of knuckles. “About you, I remain to be convinced, but I like your father and I gave him my word. That I’d try to put an end to your fits and coax your Long Eye open and bring you back to him still breathing. The small matter of an invasion may have nudged him out of Uffrith, but the commitment still stands, far as I’m concerned, wherever Stour Nightfall’s bastards might’ve driven him off to.” Her eyes flickered to Rikke, cunning as a fox that sees the coop unguarded. “But I’ll admit I’ve a selfish reason, too, which is a good thing for you, since selfish reasons are the only reasons you should trust.”

“What reason?”

Isern opened her eyes very wide so they bulged from her filthy face. “Because I know there’s a better North waiting. A North free of the grip of Scale Ironhand, and the one who pulls his strings, Black Calder, and the one who pulls his strings even. A North free for everyone to choose their own way.” Isern leaned close in the darkness. “And your Long Eye will pick out our path to it.”

Hah! Setting up the joke, only to deliver that “Meh” punchline. Perfect.

Well! That explains why Isern hasn’t abandoned Rikke yet. Though, frankly, that’s pretty non-selfish as far as motives go, Isern. You’re a nicer person than you give yourself credit for. Few of the characters in the first trilogy gave a shit about their countries in terms of better. I think only Jezal did, by the end, and... well. We all know that sad story in the end.

Though, whoa, does Isern know about Bayaz? Or is she just smart enough to realize Calder’s got strings around him, just like everyone else? Intriguing...

And I have to laugh a little about this ending. Isern’s sentiment’s in earnest, don’t get me wrong, but at the same, this feels like the typical “protagonist with magical gifts is set-up for a huge destiny” and... well, we all know Abercrombie doesn’t entirely roll that way. His character and genre deconstruction work is way too notable for him to play that sort of trope entirely straight and I relish that expectation coming true.

In short, this chapter is definitely a bit more light-weight than the others I’ve read, but it definitely serves a crucial purpose: The First Law 101, the Lesson. Imparting to a new reader, unfamiliar with this world, that this is how the Circle of the World works, but also, for old readers, pointing out that we’re getting different blood fore-running our stories, a huge difference from Logen’s world-weary mindset.

And, I got to say, it’s a lovely contrast so far! It only makes me like Rikke all the more, as she wrestles with her guilt and the reality that the world doesn’t care for her guilt. Her first steps in being a survivor. And Isern really helps bring out the naivete in her, but there’s also a splash of character, both wild and warm, in her that makes it a more winning combination than the first trilogy’s Logen-Quai roadtrip duo.

PART I

Chapter One: Blessings and Curses Chapter Two: Where the Fight’s Hottest Chapter Three: Guilt Is a Luxury Chapter Four: Keeping Score Chapter Five: A Little Public Hanging Chapter Six: The Breakers Chapter Seven: The Answer to Your Tears Chapter Eight: Young Heroes Chapter Nine: The Moment

#a little hatred #a little hatred spoilers #the age of madness #the first law #joe abercrombie #rikke #a little hatred part I

1 note · View note

beeblackburn · 6 years ago

Text

Pretender Reads A Little Hatred, Part I, Chapter One

It's time. Goes without saying spoilers ahead for the entirety of The First Law works beyond the keep reading. Read at your own risk.

PART I

"The age is running mad after innovation;

and all the business of the world

is to be done in a new way.”

—Dr Johnson

No joke? This quotes gave me chills as a declaration of authorial intent. I have a slightly more optimistic view of The First Law’s world, but even I knew the first trilogy’s intent was, beyond commenting on how much Abercrombie dug Lord of the Rings so much that he wrote a trilogy to show his... appreciation, to show that, as much as people want to change, they are helpless to actually commit by their pasts, being pieces and pawns to the old ways and grudges of Bayaz and Khalul’s “great” war of two old assholes fighting over grudges kept alive solely two great powers butting heads over wrongs long past.

That human nature is fundamentally unchanging.

But, at the same time? Abercrombie’s throwing down a gauntlet with this quote. With the new flavor of fantasy he’s promising, the new generation of characters he has to usher in to spearhead that new age, he has to change. He cannot rehash the old stories. Cannot repeat the old patterns. Cannot force the old systems continuing to work, having grown rusty and creaky with age. History has to move forward. Meaning he has to pave the path to new ways. The question is, new way in what manner? New ways as in a social progress, positive change, a better world? Or new ways as in Bayaz changing from magic to money, and from spells to cannons, in order to assert the same small-minded ideal of might makes right with different tools?

It’s a new age of madness, but with human nature being what it is? Abercrombie has shown that a little hatred goes a long way to lead us to stepping upon old roads left behind our parents, who they themselves trod on by their predecessors.

Chapter Title: Blessings and Curses Point-of-View: Rikke

“Rikke.”

She prised one eye open. A slit of stabbing, sickening brightness.

“Come back.”

She pushed the spit-wet dowel out of her mouth with her tongue and croaked the one word she could think of. “Fuck.”

Now isn’t that just a typical Abercrombie sentiment. Actually, what I want to focus on is how this opening is lean compared to The Blade Itself:

Logen plunged through the trees, bare feet slipping and sliding on the wet earth, the slush, the wet pine needles, breath rasping in his chest, blood thumping in his head. He stumbled and sprawled onto his side, nearly cut his chest open with his own axe, lay there panting, peering through the shadowy forest.

—The Blade Itself, The End

From Blessings and Curses, we already see a much apparent crispness of voice, short paragraphs broken apart, an unusual situation of a girl opening one eye and having to come back (come back from what?) There’s a surreal quality that Logen’s opening, as much as I like it as an introduction to The Blade Itself, can’t beat beyond the chapter title. Yet, to remind us it’s Abercrombie, someone has to say fuck. Because of course.

“There’s my girl!” Isern squatted beside her, necklace of runes and finger bones dangling, grinning that twisted grin that showed the hole in her teeth and offering no help at all.

HOLY FUCK IT’S CRUMMOCK’S SHIN-KICKER AAAAAAAAAAAH!!!

“I saw folk falling from a high tower. Dozens of ’em.” She winced at the thought of them hitting the ground. “I saw folk hanged. Rows of ’em.” Her gut cramped at the memory of swinging bodies, dangling feet. “I saw … a battle, maybe? Below a red hill.”

Isern sniffed. “This is the North. Takes no magic to see a battle coming. What else?”

“I saw Uffrith burning.” Rikke could almost smell the smoke still. She pressed her hand to her left eye. Felt hot. Burning hot.

“What else?”

“I saw a wolf eat the sun. Then a lion ate the wolf. Then a lamb ate the lion. Then an owl ate the lamb.”

“Must’ve been a real monster of an owl.”

“Or a tiny little lamb, I guess? What does it mean?”

So, full disclosure here: I did read the A Little Hatred blurb before reading, so I already knew we were getting something like this... but holy shit, we’re seriously getting a prophet? I’m going to talk my precise thoughts on this later, in full first impressions of Rikke as a character, but man, I usually hate prophecies and prophets, but with Abercrombie? Dude’s earned enough credit (specifically, everything to do with Grom-gil-Gorm’s prophecy in the Shattered Sea series) at my trust bank to get me to care. And I love how Rikke can still feel the sensory details of her visions, the costs of magic. Magic.

Also, am I a terrible person for, seeing the eats in the prophecy, immediately thinking Eaters? I probably am.

I’ll hold off on dissecting the prophecy at the chapter’s end.

"Well, I can unveil two secrets right away.” Rikke groaned as she pushed herself up onto one elbow. “My head hurts and I shat myself.”

"That second one’s no secret, anyone with a nose is party to it.”

"Shitty Rikke, they’ll call me." She wrinkled her nose as she shifted. “And not for the first time.”

"Your problem is in caring what they call you.”

There’s definitely a very winning formula with how Rikke and Isern’s dynamic works: the young, soft-hearted naif butting and bouncing heads against the more world-weary, a touch twisted, experienced warrior. Rikke complains about how much the world will react to her, Isern tells her to suck it up because Rikke doesn’t have to care at all.

Also, not going to lie: part of why I love Rikke is that she shits herself during her visions and fits. It undercuts the mystique of magic with the unpleasant consequences, grounded in reality.

Isern tapped under her left eye. “You say cursed with fits, I say blessed with the Long Eye.”

So. First off, fun fact:

Crummock spun one of the wooden signs on his necklace round and around. “I can’t see her letting Bethod lose, and herself along with him, can you? A witch as clever as that one? There’s all kinds of magic she could mix. All kinds of blessings and curses. All kinds of ways that bitch could tilt the outcome, as though the chances weren’t tilted enough already.”

—Last Argument of Kings, Leaves on the Water

History echoes, doesn’t it? Another i-Phail, another user of the Long Eye, and a discussion about the blessings and curses of magic. The players are different, but the sentiments are similar enough to ripple from the past to the present.

Now, my first reaction to reading this part of the blurb was: WHOA WHOA WHOA, Caurib’s Long Eye from The First Law trilogy? OH MY GOD!!!!! Just more connective tissue to link this book from its past, the earliest roots of Abercrombie’s world-building, when he was still tinkering with what he wanted (long eye isn’t even capitalized in The First Law’s mention of it). It’s a nice reference for us long-time readers and a magical power for the new readers.

Mind you, all I’m thinking is: was Caurib, every time she was decked out and being impossibly beautiful in the way Abercrombie wrote her... was she actually having fits and headaches and shitting for her visions? Because, wow, I can only imagine how frustrated she must’ve been having to make public appearances. I can just imagine her wishing everyone would fuck off so she could have headaches and shit in peace. Already makes me like Caurib a lot more now.

“Huh.” Rikke rolled onto her knees and her stomach kept on rolling and tickled her throat with sick. By the dead, she felt sore and squeezed out. Twice the pain of a night at the ale cup and none of the sweet memories. “Doesn’t feel like much of a blessing to me,” she muttered, once she’d risked a little burp and fought her guts to a draw.

I really do appreciate how much Abercrombie grounds and mixes a curse into magical “blessings.” I was really skeptical of putting in some last trace of magic in anyone, but Rikke’s right in it not being a blessing, and considering magic is on its last legs, there’s no way Bayaz won’t meet her later and clutch his monstrous hands on her Long Eye, teaching her finesse in exchange for getting to aim where it goes towards.

Another tool. Another weapon to kill his enemies.

"Might have to rope you in future, make sure you don’t crack your nut and end up a drooler like my brother Brait. At least he can keep his shit in, mind you.”

HOW MANY SONS DID CRUMMOCK HAVE. THE FUCK!? I can’t even find a Brait anywhere except The Heroes and that was clearly not him. For one, he didn’t drool!

“My head still aches so bad I can feel it in my teeth.” Rikke wanted to shout but knew it’d hurt too much, so she had to whine it soft instead. “I need no more small discomforts.”

“Life is small discomforts, girl! They’re how you know you are alive.”

Another part of why I like Rikke so much is that, as a character starting out, she whines. A decent amount. She’s admittedly got some good reason to do so, but as the narrative points out and Isern especially, at least living means you get to whine about it and too much of it will only enable more discomfort, make the pain bigger. There’s intentional room to grow for Rikke and the fact that Abercrombie lets her be a bit of a whiner at the risk of alienating readers is a writer’s courage I always try to emulate.

Character development’s has to start somewhere.

“Guess not. Just, in the songs, it’s a thing witches and magi and deep-wise folk used to see into the fog of what comes. Not a thing that makes idiots fall down and shit themselves.”

“In case you never noticed, bards have a habit of dressing things up. There is a fine living, d’you see, in songs about deep-wise witches, but in shitty idiots, less.”

Snrrrrrk. I got to love how Abercrombie shades lesser and classic fantasies. He does so well with it.

“And proving you have the Long Eye is no simple matter. You cannot force it open. You must coax it.” And Isern tickled Rikke under the chin and made her jerk away. “Take it up to the sacred places where the old stones stand so the moon might shine full upon it. But it’ll see what it sees when it chooses, even so.”

Huh. Crummock made it clear that there was something special about the moon during his time in Last Argument of Kings. I assumed it was solely just him thinking the moon’s love made men more violent and strong, but did he think it could influence magic? Given his more singular focus on violence and his clear Bloody-Nine murderboner fanboying, I think Crummock was a lot more close-minded about how the moon can affect things. Isern’s a lot more flexible, by comparison.

(Also, are those sacred places that fortress Logen and Crummock and the rest had their last stand in the High Places? Crummock did say it was well loved of the moon...)

“War?”

“It’s when a fight gets so big almost no one comes out of it well.”

“I know what it bloody is.” Rikke had a spot of fear growing at the nape of her neck which she couldn’t shrug off however much she wriggled her shoulders. “But there’s been peace in the North all my lifetime.”

“My da used to say times of peace are when the wise prepare for violence.”

“Your da was mad as a bootful of dung.”

“And what does your da say? Few men so sane as the Dogman.”

Rikke wriggled her shoulders one more time, but nothing helped. “He says hope for the best and prepare for the worst.”

Isern’s first line is true, but also makes me think of all the Northmen who came into war, looking for glory and a Name, and came out dead or unable to stop killing, their bloody footsteps followed by fellow warriors with same dreams of glory and a Name, just younger. War chews up men and spits them out, dead or alive, no one living coming out without trauma and/or a score of dead friends.

Also, Dogman’s daughter, huh! Good on him for managing to raise a decent child in the Circle of the World, even if she has her share of flaws. Rikke certainly reminds me of a softer, more whinier Dogman, yet still decent.

Rikke blinked at her. ‘You can’t have been ten years old.’

‘Old enough to kill a man.’

‘What?’

‘Used to carry my da’s hammer, ’cause the smallest should take the heaviest load, but that day he was fighting with the hammer so I had his spear. This very one.’ Its butt tapped the rhythm of their walking on the path. ‘My da knocked a man down, and he was trying to get up, and I stabbed him right up the arse.’

‘With that spear?’ Rikke had come to think of it as just a stick Isern carried. A stick that happened to have a deerskin cover over one end. She didn’t like thinking there was a blade under there. Especially not one that had been up some poor bastard’s arse.

I love Abercrombie’s humor, especially given how actually rather depressing Isern’s age of killing was. It always serves to give levity to some heavy stuff in the story, preventing the darkness from choking most people whole. It’s the “poor bastard” part of that last line that brings the smile and laughter out.

“Girl, you have a ring through your nose.”

“I am aware.” And Rikke stuck her tongue out and touched the tip to it. “It keeps me tethered.”

Hey, you want to know another part of why I really like Rikke? Nose rings are fucking cool. Gives her a distinct appearance and fashion.

Now if only other prophets had nose rings instead of cloaks and vague portents, I wouldn’t find them so bloody boring.

“You’ve a wolf on your shield,” she said.

“Stour Nightfall’s mark,” growled the big man, with a hint of pride, and Rikke saw he had a wolf on his shield, too, though his was scuffed almost back to the wood.

(Looks at his book) Well, shit! The cover’s actually relevant. I was eyeing the UK cover better, but now that this US/Can one has meaning, I can accept it.

Also, Stour Nightfall is the coolest fucking name. Can’t wait to meet him!

“Nightfall’s the greatest warrior since the Bloody-Nine!” piped up the young one. “He’s going to take back Angland and drive the Union out o’ the North!”

(Arches an eyebrow) I don’t take issue with taking back Angland, there’s some valid enough history with Casamir that I don’t blame the North for it, but how did what I theorized to be Calder’s son become such a beef-cake? But really? Greatest warrior since the Bloody-Nine? I can’t help but think him a cut-price Bloody-Nine now.

“The Union?” And Rikke looked down at the wolf’s head badly daubed on his badly made shield. "A wolf ate the sun,” she whispered.

Thank you, Rikke, I studied English lit in high school. I can do my own analysis of symbolism and visions.

Rikke’s arrow stuck into his back, just under his shoulder blade.

Her turn to say, “Oh,” not sure whether she’d meant to let go the string or not.

A flash of metal and the old man’s head jolted, the blade of Isern’s spear catching him in the throat. He dropped his own spear, grabbed for her with clumsy fingers.

“Shush.” Isern slapped his hand away and ripped the blade free in a black gout.

The inexperienced child and hardened warrior dynamic continues with Rikke accidentally, not knowing if she meant to or not, dooming a boy to death and Isern, experienced hand at the black business, aims for the kill and gives her enemies no ground to gain leverage upon her. But, ultimately...

“You killed ’em.” Rikke felt all hot. There were some red speckles on her hand. The big one was lying on his face, shirt soaked dark.

“You killed this one,” said Isern. The lad knelt there, making these squeaky little gasps as he tried to reach around his back to the arrow shaft, though what he’d do if he got his fingertips to it, Rikke had no idea.

... no one’s hands in this world remain clean for too long.

“Then killing ’em was all o’ the one choices we had, eh? Your problem is you’re all heart.” And she stabbed Rikke in the tit with one bony finger.

“Ow!” Rikke took a step away, holding her arms across her chest. “That hurts, you know!”

“You’re all heart all over, so you feel every sting and buffet. You must make of your heart a stone.” And Isern thumped her ribs with a fist, the finger bones around her neck rattling. “Ruthlessness is a quality much loved o’ the moon.” As if to prove the point, she bent down and heaved the dead lad into the bushes. “A leader must be hard, so others don’t have to be.”

First off, I stabbed my own chest with my own finger just now to see how much it hurt. I can only imagine the increased discomfort with doing it to breasts.

Second off, to give my first impressions of Rikke... well, it’s funny. I once talked to a great friend of mine who we love to talk tropes and stories and fiction about and I told him I generally don’t gravitate to the rougher shit-talking tomboy and the prophet character tropes. To be quite frank, the former bores me on general lack of craft (everyone seems to think the trope itself constitutes a strong personality!) and the latter is just dry plot exposition on two legs generally, full of billowing cloaks and being fuck-useless 99% of the story.

Rikke might have been love at first sight for a few reasons.

The consequences of prophecy. I keep nailing this point, but I do for a reason: I have rarely seen a prophet actually endure physical ailments for their magical gifts, and the headaches, the fits, the burning hot eye, and the shitting? It helps ground Rikke’s struggles in less abstract details so we can sympathize better. We might not have had visions, but we’ve had headaches, hot eyes and shat before.

She’s got a personality! She’s rough, she gives as good verbally as she gets, but she’s also kind and not someone who goes for violence as a first resort. But, at the same time, she’s definitely got her flaws. She’s a whiner. There’s a touch of naivety and inexperience that shows when she talks how times were different when Dogman was fighting and Isern shuts that illusion down, there’s even a softness in her with how she said they should’ve given Stour’s thugs a chance.

Her partnership dynamic with Isern is really winning, allowing more of her personality to bounce off of Isern while having some sass of her own to snap back at Isern, allowing her to have a personality to bounce off of. It allows for development of both characters in a way that Abercrombie’s first attempt at having an early traveling pair in Malacus Quai and Logen can never match, given all the personality leaping off the screen.

The tonal difference. Rikke is a really decent kid dropped into the Circle of the World. In any other series, my eyes would glaze over in boredom. In here? There’s so much misery and depressing reality that happens in the Circle of the World, that it looks like it’ll be a treat to see how she’ll interacts with the older, hardened generation of characters and how much decency might touch upon them. And that only makes Isern’s advice to her all the more interesting. Because her being all heart is hardly Bayaz’s ideal tool and I get the sense that her turning her heart into stone won’t be a smooth ride.

The nose ring. I’m sorry if it makes me shallow, but that’s a cool design choice and love the tethered justification.

The morning mist was long faded and she could see all the way across the patchwork of new-planted fields to Uffrith, wedged in against the grey sea behind its grey wall. Where her father’s old hall stood with the scraggy garden out the back. Safe, boring Uffrith, where she’d been born and raised. Only it was burning, just the way she’d seen it, and a great column of dark smoke rolled up and smudged the sky, drifting out over the restless sea.

(winces) Well, that’s one part of the prophecy dealt with.

Isern wandered from the trees with her spear across her shoulders and a great smile across her face. ‘You know what this means?’

‘War?’ whispered Rikke, horrified.

“Aye, that.” Isern waved it away like it was a trifle. “But more to the matter, I was right!” And she clapped Rikke on the shoulder so hard she near knocked her down. “You do have the Long Eye!”

Hah! Somehow, Isern, I think she won’t take the blessing of that statement and only see the curse of it.

So! Theory-crafting on the prophecy itself!

The only tower I know of in the North was in the High Places, and given Isern’s with Rikke, I can imagine that’s certainly plausible. Either that or somewhere in the Union, given its towers, especially the Tower of Chains?

The battle below a red hill will be one of our battle set-pieces. Definitely something like the Casualties chapter in The Heroes.

Uffrith already burnt, but it was the first thing to happen, so the people hanged from towers and the red hill battle are yet to happen.

“I saw a wolf eat the sun” Stour taking down the Union.

“Then a lion ate the wolf” Leo taking down Stour, which I’d normally take as a sign I shouldn’t get invested because I already know the outcome... but given Grom-gil-Gorm’s prophecy twist, I think there’s plenty of ways this could easily turn twisted, especially with Black Calder about.

“Then a lamb ate the lion” I heard a decent amount of people say they thought it’d be straight-up Lamb and, man, NO. The point of Red Country is that, deep down, Lamb was only pretending to be a lamb and was really a wolf in lambswool. Someone who genuinely is worthless... Orso, from the blurb, seems to fit the bill, given that Leo’s been hoping for help there.

“Then an owl ate the lamb.” Bayaz with Orso. Owls are symbolized as knowledge and Bayaz’s being the First of the Magi, feels right for that... and given that Orso is part of the royal family and how Bayaz “ate” Jezal, I can’t say him repeating it with Orso is implausible. My only worry is, how will this be new from Bayaz and Jezal’s deal?

PART I

#a little hatred #a little hatred spoilers #the age of madness #the first law #joe abercrombie #rikke #a little hatred part I

15 notes · View notes