As long time readers know, I've always been a fan of Mark Lawrence. He's got a knack for writing a richly imagined, immersive universe. For making the stage feel like a real, lived in place. And for putting characters on it who you can feel. Who are working on their own wants and needs, not just marching through the narrative motions. A knack for stories that ask big questions, and challenge the reader to go on the journey to, if not find the answer, at least find an answer. Which brings us to The Book That Broke The World.
In part, this is a book about The Library. Not a library, but the library. It squats on its world, pulling in knowledge and focus like a gravity well. It's a monstrous thing, a collection of more knowledge than anyone can bear. Constructed over aeons, pulling in different peoples, different species, from all across its geography. The library squats within a mountain, and plumbs its depths. And while its physically imposing, its cultural weight is larger. Wars are fought for the knowledge of the library. People broken and forced out of the city. Which changes hands again, and again, and again. On a long enough timeline, the library draws everything to it, and then sets it aflame. Whether that's a good or a bad thing is open to debate. But the library itself has a warm, cosy, only slightly horrifying feel to it. As people step between different rooms, which can be feet or miles across. As they uncover secret knowledge, and terrifying defence mechanisms, those people step deeper into the space which is at once confined and limitless, chambers going ever deeper into the bedrock, each turn and each open door promising more understanding, greater knowledge. Greater power. And that's a promise which in this world carries costs. The story isn't afraid to explore those, looking at the systemic oppression enacted by those in control, at one time or another. At the efforts to make changes, gradual or otherwise, violent or otherwise. It's a text that gives us a world about which it often seems fiercely angry, a world where knowledge is available if you're willing to kill for it, where keeping people down is a survival strategy and also inevitably ends in blood and fire. From the dark tunnels of mines worked by slaves, pulling out layers of shattered civilisations, to iron shelves in the library, torn apart by murderous automatons, there's layer after layer of history, of politics of compromise of blood. This is a world in thrall to its past, unwilling or unable to walk away from it. Whether that's a good or a bad thing is one of the questions this book is asking, as it shows you the consequences of both knowledge and ignorance (and perhaps, quietly, understanding).
We get to see some of our friends from the previous book once again. Livira and Evar are back, each one looking for the other, in their own way. Something Lawrence does well is show us characters changing, not just telling us about it. So we can see Livira, marked by her actions in the previous story, trying to find a way home, find a way back to Evar, to hold tight to a connection that might slip away forever. Whether she's willing to bear the costs of doing that is uncertain. But like Evar, she finds her family in those around her, and you can feel her becoming something more by osmosis. Evar, of course, has his own family, from hardened killers to schemers and back around again, victims of ancient trauma that they struggle with every day. He's a person willing to guide and be guided, growing from a lost boy into a leader, but still holding to curiosity, to vulnerability, to a quiet hurt that draws sympathy. They're both delightful in their empathy for others and fierce love for each other, and sympathetic in their struggle against their environment, their circumstances, and their struggle against antagonists that include malevolent ghosts, automatons, and, of course, other people. But this book also gives us a breath of fresh air in Celcha, someone brought up as a slave, mining knowledge, crushed into despair that hides a lively intelligence, and a strength of feeling likely to shatter worlds. Her journey, along with her brother, is a searingly painful one with flashes of joy, of understanding and belonging - and it's also a story of suffering, of the conflict between becoming what you hate and fighting back against it. Celcha is fiery, unyielding, thoughtful, and every page she's on is better for it.
The story. Well. No spoilers. But this is Lawrence at his best. Weaving strands of narrative across different moments of time and space, across multiple books, setting up convergences, letting people make choices that move them toward fraught, occasionally bloody conclusions. There's more action here than you can shake a stick at, and a slyly leering horror, and on the other side, there's the best of people, coming together to try to make something better. And, of course, the big questions - like how much knowledge is enough, how much is too much, is there such a thing, and should we let other people decide that for us, even if they look like they know what they're doing? It's a story that wants to give the reader room to think, while pacing the story so that you have to run to keep up at the same time. This is smart, wonderfully written fantasy that asks big questions about the kind of world we want, and about ourselves. It's also bloody good fun. So as ever, I thoroughly recommend it - though you could stand to read the first book in the series beforehand. Anyway, absolutely brilliant book, go, read.
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