”Lyonesse”
by Jack Vance.

My copy was published by Gollancz Fantasy Masterworks, and the “Lyonesse” trilogy consists of:
– “Suldrun’s Garden”, 1983, 434 p.
– “The Green Pearl“, 1985, 378 p.
– “Madouc”, 1989, 400 p.

In the Cantabrian Gulf, in what is today known as the Bay of Biscay, between Galicia, Aquitaine, Armorica, Britain and Ireland, there was once a large cluster of islands, known as the Elder Isles. On these isles, largest among them Hybras, ten kingdoms existed — Lyonesse and Dahaut were the largest among them, and the foremost competing realms of the isles. No more than a generation or three before the events in “Lyonesse”, the Elder Isles were all united under one King, who sat on the Throne of Evandig and gathered his vassal lords around the table Cairbra an Meadhan — the model for the later King Arthur’s Round Table. Now, however, the realm is split, and the ambitious King Casmir of Lyonesse spends all his days plotting the conquest of the other nine realms, and the return of Evandig and the Cairbra an Meadhan to Lyonesse Town from Avallon, the Daut capital. In the meantime, his rival, King Audry II of Dahaut, is more concerned with his magnificent parties and other frivolities, while the Godelian Celts nibble away at his northern borders. Most of the other kings can do little but work for the security of their own rule; expansion is hardly an option for any of them.

Excepting the Ska. These fierce but few warriors, the original inhabitants of Norway, who were driven out by the numerically superior Goths, have settled on the island known as Skaghane, and they are intent on defeating their enemies — a group that contains the rest of humanity. The Ska have conquered the shores of the Kingdom of North Ulfland, and roam the rest of that country at will, and have set their eyes next on South Ulfland. Both King Casmir and King Audry look on these events with concern, but while their combined forces would have few problems with driving the Ska out to sea, they do not trust each other enough to accomplish this. Instead, King Casmir attempts to secure an alliance with the Ska, in order to crush the Dauts.

The Kings are also eager to recruit the services of the Isles’ wizards, who command not insignificant powers. But Murgen, the strongest of these, have stated an edict, forbidding wizards to meddle in worldly matters, and his powers are great enough to curb the ambition and avarice of his colleagues. However, there are discontent…

Into this world, the Princess Suldrun is born. She is the eldest child of King Casmir, who, upon discovering her sex, shows little or no interest in her. Her mother, a recently converted Christian, is hardly more interested, and so Suldrun’s upbringing falls to the serving maid Ehirme — a simple country girl who fills the young Princess’ head with tales of fairies and wizards, halflings and ogres, and of other elements of the literally lively folklore of the Isles.

Suldrun becomes a strange girl. She is dreamy and absent, yet intelligent, and her parents’ lack of interest has prevented her from internalising the norms of the court. When she reaches puberty, and her father begins searching for a husband for her, this constitutes a problem. The young Princess has no intentions of marrying a man chosen by her father, and opposes even the concept so vehemently that her father goes into one of his infamous rages, and imprisons her in a garden by the sea. Here, as it happens, she will live out the rest of her life, the monotony broken only by a brief visit from the young nobleman Aillas of the Kingdom Troicinet — with which Lyonesse is at war — and the birth of her son, whom Persillian the Magic Mirror once prophesised would command from the throne Evandig before his death.

This was a very rough outline of the basic conflicts in “Lyonesse”, and of the events that take place during the first two hundred pages or so of “Suldrun’s Garden”. The rest of the series predominantly deals with Casmir’s search for Suldrun’s son, Dhrun, the struggle between Aillas and Casmir, and the troubles of Murgen the Wizard and his scion Shimrod. All of these plotlines intertwine, of course, and none of them are uninteresting, although I sometimes wondered at Vance’s disposition, as he tended to spend page upon page upon page on seemingly trivial conversations and journeys — or other forms of micro-narrative — while the macro-narrative, i.e. the politics, the wars, the battles, were described in shorter prose, much alike summaries. Of course, the micro-narrative is far from uninteresting, in fact, it is almost always both suspenseful and witty, but if the macro-narratives had been described with as much detail as the micro ones, this’d been a contender for the first place on my list of favourite fantasy series. As I believe I’ve said elsewhere once, I can clearly see how George RR. Martin — a self-confessed fan of Vance (in fact, Vance is one of the many fantasy authors whose names have been given to families in the ASOIAF world) — might have read this, and though, “Wow, that was good! But all these political intrigues could have been fleshed out a bit more, I felt.” And then sat down to write “A Song of Ice and Fire”. Speculations, of course, but it seems plausible.

This tendency to over-simplify the “action” also has an impact on the climaxes of the stories told. There are no Erikson-like cataclysms here, at least not in respect of form. In substance, there is, of course, as the events that round up plot threads are spectacular in scope, but the form is made so that it seems much smaller than it is. I suppose this can be a nuisance for some, as I admit it at times was for me (but, like I said, mostly because it would have been so much better with a bit more flesh), but if you know of it beforehand and is prepared for it, it might work out fine. Depending on your taste, of course.

But all these power politics — and the philosophical discussions belonging to this, such as conversations about the nature of peace, the best way to unite and build a state, or the legitimacy of conquest, just to name a few examples — are just one side of the story, and a relatively small one, too, taking up little more than three hundred pages, all in all. The other side consists of beautiful depictions of human fates, a complex mythology drawing deeply from English and Irish folklore, and daring quests. There’s also a string of fascinating characters, such as Aillas, Shimrod, Casmir and Madouc, as well as a plethora of supporting characters, all of which interact by way of some really good dialogue.

If I were venture a comparison between “Lyonesse” and other works of fantasy, I would perhaps call it a mix of ASOIAF’s politics, the Deverry setting mixed with some Strange&Norrell, all written in a style reminiscent of, say, Gaiman in “Stardust”. In quality, I’d say that for me, “Lyonesse” as a series falls quite short of ASOIAF or Malazan, but that goes for every other work of fantasy I’ve ever picked up, too, so it doesn’t really say much. “Lyonesse” is, however, a more entertaining read than Wolfe’s “Book of the New Sun”, with its larger cast of characters, all of which are less serious than the dour and sombre Severian the Torturer. It is also, and I say this bursting with doubt and scepticism, a better read than “The Lord of the Rings”, as it lacks an equivalent to LotR’s dull sequences with Sam and Frodo — at least anything that is both as dull and as long. Of course, there are areas where both “The Book of the New Sun” and “The Lord of the Rings” are better than “Lyonesse”, but overall, I’d risk the claim that “Lyonesse” is the better book.