After the Revolution: Amnesty Closes Lara Elena Donnelly’s Nebula-Nominated Amberlough Dossier

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Amnesty, the final book of Lara Elena Donnelly’s Amberlough Dossier, returns to Gedda after the fall of the fascistic Ospies, picking up in that tremulous, unsure time after a revolution. In Amberlough, we watched the criminal and compromised agents of Gedda work at cross purposes to one another against a background of the rising tide of fascism. In Armistice, the centrifuge of the police state flings the major players out of the country and into various forms of exile: freedom fighter, propagandist, publicist, presumed dead. In Amnesty, they all come back to their devastated homeland to roost—a place changed by the ravages of war, and not even slightly for the better.

This novel is about that tenuous period in a country’s history when it must pick itself back up and carry on after brutal, unforgivable civic acts. It bears home the tough inexorable press of history through a series of relationships that we’ve watched bend and break throughout the earlier books. The moral ambiguity of what the country, and its people, had to do to survive an authoritarian state is front and center, but this is not some philosophical treatise nor the bloodless recounting of civic facts.

The emotional through-line of the series has been (arguably) the relationship between Cyril DePaul and Aristide Makricosta. When we met them in Amberlough, during the rise of the Ospies, Cyril was an intelligence agent (read: spy), and Aristide a stripper and drug smuggler. There you’ve got a spy and an asset, or a kingpin and a mark, depending on your point of view. Cyril and Aristide enacted a dubious affair, using their institutional reasons for keeping one another close as cover for their real affections. They were truly star-crossed lovers, separated in ways that felt permanent: Cyril presumed dead, Aristide making propaganda films in another country and working hard at drinking himself to death.

They are reunited in Amnesty, but there is no swelling music, nor a fade to black. Cyril moved from being tortured by the Ospies to being tortured by their opposition, not so much a double agent than a man with allegiances to whatever kept him from another beating. His aristocratic nose is broken beyond repair, and he compulsively pockets things—even just the butt of a half-smoked cigarette—because of years of hand to mouth living. Aristide, for his sins, is relatively flush, though the post-Ospies black market economy is changing back from gun-running to the more stable state business of drugs. His reunion with Cyril is one of the most fraught encounters I’ve ever read: they are both broken in their own ways, though some scars are more visible than others. (One scene involving a shaving razor made me want to jump out of my skin.) Their reacquaintance is just the beginning of a series of reunions, as Gedda’s lost are found again.

Cyril and Aristide travel separately to the DePaul country estate in Gedda outside of Amberlough, where Cyril was raised. The DePauls were politely wealthy; now they are living on the ragged edge of political connections and social inertia. The building, like the country, is in poor repair following the Ospie occupation, stripped of its valuables. Cyril’s sister Lillian, her foreign husband, and their disaffected teenage son are in residence. Lillian rode out the Ospies by working in a job something like public relations crossed with propaganda, and she’s trying to market those skills in the nascent post-revolution state. There’s a parliamentary election between a freedom fighter and an old school politician coming up, and she is trying (and failing) to be all things to both people.

Unfortunately, Cyril’s return to Gedda puts all of the moral ambiguity of the Ospie occupation on trial: he’s to pay for the country’s sins, a politically expedient target who will acquiesce to his own destruction. He’s eaten by survivor’s guilt and the less morally pure form of shame, and that the state would try to kill him feels just to him. The people around Cyril—his sister, his old lover—are unwilling to let this come to pass without a fight.

It’s in this conflict that we find the heart of Amnesty, a novel which is, after all, named after a political pardon. All of the principles have been changed indelibly by the occupation, but their motives are still as selfish and as personal as ever. Nothing about the ending feels inevitable, but it’s perfect in its imperfect way: an ambiguous end to an ambiguous beginning. The personal is the political, but maybe not the other way around.

Amnesty is available now.

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Blogging the Nebulas: C.L. Polk’s Witchmark Deftly Balances Character and Worldbuilding

The B&N Sci-Fi and Fantasy Blog

Editor’s note: The Nebula Awards are often described as the Academy Awards of SFF literature. Like the Oscar, the Nebula is voted on by the professional peers of the award nominees—members of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America. There are six nominees in the best novel category this year; every two weeks between now and the awards ceremony on May 18, Ceridwen Christensen will be taking a look at each of them, and figuring their odds of taking home the prize.

The pitch:

From the very first page, Witchmark drops readers into the thick of it. Dr. Miles Singer is just finishing up a long shift at the veterans’ hospital, contemplating a directive that he discharge 16 patients by week’s end, whether they are healthy or not. Aeland’s war with Laneer is over. The victorious wounded are heading home to the imperfect care of their homeland, displacing other soldiers just as damaged. Miles was a soldier himself, which is the overt reason he’s so good at healing the mental injuries of war. The covert reason is that Miles is a magic user—a witch—who has a talent for healing that he must obfuscate and a dangerous past that requires him to live under an alias.

His rueful contemplation is interrupted by a dying man, Nick Elliot, brought into a hospital ill-equipped to provide emergency care. Nick asks for Miles specifically, though he uses Miles’ name from the life he escaped. The dying man also has the aura of a witch and tells Miles that he has been murdered—poisoned—and entreats him to find the killer. Watching their interaction is the man who brought the dying Nick Elliot to Miles, one Tristan Hunter. Miles’ conversation with Nick exposes his magical abilities and his past. After Elliot’s death, Miles fully expects to be blackmailed by Tristan, but that’s not precisely what happens. Hunter has his own inscrutable motivations, and he pushes Miles to uncover the motive for and methods of the man’s death.

The very next day, as bad luck would have it, Miles runs into his estranged sister, Grace. Miles was born into a life of both privilege and servitude: his sister is a Storm-Singer, able to control the weather to the benefit of all Aeland, and he is her Secondary. The Secondary may have skills of his or her own, but they are treated like batteries by the powerful Storm-Singers, used to strengthen their more dominant magical abilities. When assisted by Miles, Grace has the magic to affect the climate on a mass scale; alone she is not nearly as powerful.

Storm-Singing is a practice the secretive, aristocratic Hundred Families have been performing for Aeland for at least a century: turning the storms and mitigating all severe weather, even while Aeland at large persecutes anyone with magical abilities as a matter of policy. Miles didn’t want to live his life under magical duress, so he ran—first to med school and then to the front, faking his death and sequestering himself in the veteran’s hospital upon his return to Aeland. Grace wants Miles to return to fold; their father is sick and needs Miles’ medical attention.

Miles then pursues both matters independently—the murder mystery and the contact with his family—though the plotlines soon begin to collide and converge. His relationships with his sister and the mysterious Tristan Hunter draw Miles out of the penitential cell of a life he’s built for himself, forcing him to confront his past and maybe even start building a future.

The setting is something like Edwardian England just after the ravages of the Great War, but twisted with magic that encodes the colonial subjugations of the British Empire. Miles is both privileged and subjugated. In solving the murder of Nick Elliot, reacquainting himself with his sister, and doctoring to his fellow soldiers, he pulls strings that cause his hidden past and the needs of the empire to intersect in dangerous and volatile ways. The world of Witchmark is complicated and cool, but the story never falters in its attention to character.

Why it will win:

Witchmark is so deft in its balance between worldbuilding and character, it’s hard to believe it’s Polk’s first published novel. The information about the world unspools deftly, never leaving the audience behind nor handholding overmuch. Though I don’t have anything like statistics on whether it matters (see below), the book is told in a lovely first-person voice, the kind where the narrator’s tics and avoidances are as integral to the plot as his desires and needs. It’s not that the world bends to him, more that he bends to the world.  The magic system is complicated and the setting suggests a dense history, but Polk seemingly effortlessly makes what is important clear to the reader while maintaining a briskly plot (bicycle chases are a prominent feature). I can see other writers rewarding the tight craft of the novel; they are, after all, the Nebula voters.

This is more stray observation than anything else, but I went looking to see if there was any preference in past Nebula winners for first or third person voice, if only because Witchmark’s first person is so arresting. Prior winners suggest no particular pattern: Charlie Jane Anders’ All the Birds in the Sky is in third-person, Naomi Novik’s Uprooted is in first-person, Jeff VanderMeer’s Annihilation and Ann Leckie’s Ancillary Justice are both in first-person, Kim Stanley Robinson’s 2312 is in third-person. Last year’s winner,  N.K. Jemisin’s The Stone Skywas partially in second person, though technically there is a first person narrator hiding behind the “you” narrative. There seems to be no evidence that point of view factors in who takes home the prize, which makes sense to me: different writers have different strengths in that regard, just like they do for tense or any other technical aspect of writing. That Witchmark is told in lovely first person doesn’t necessarily factor, but the skill at which Polk carries it off certainly does.

Why it won’t win:

Alas, I don’t think either historical science fiction or fantasy tend to be favored by Nebula voters, and historical fantasy is an especially hard sell. Which is to say: while I recognize that Witchmark isn’t exactly a historical novel—it’s not precisely about Edwardian England and WWI—it has enough signifiers of the literature of the time to make it historical-adjacent. There are a number of recent Nebula nominees in this half-historical place—Mary Robinette Kowal’s Shades of Milk and Honey, Lara Elena Donnelly’s Amberlough, Tina Connolly’s Ironskinbut none of them took home the prize. Blackout/All Clear, which was largely set in WWII, picked up the Nebula in 2011, but that was more science fiction than fantasy—and also by a writer as beloved and accomplished as Connie Willis. Witchmark is on solidly magical terrain.

Witchmark is also Polk’s debut. All things being equal (and with notable exceptions), Nebula voters tend to lean toward established writers. It’s an industry award on some level, and though that industry is the arts, one’s connections within the industry do matter. Established writers also have had time to hone their craft; Witchmark is a very accomplished novel, but there are a couple dropped threads in the narrative. It’s entirely possible they’ll get picked up again in the sequel, Stormsong, but the award is for the novel, not the series.

That said, I can assure you I will be reading the hell out of the series. Polk is an author to watch, and I’m very much looking forward to what she writes next.

Follow along with this year’s Blogging the Nebulas series here. See previous years’ entries here.

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