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The sixth chapter of Shaman’s Crossing, “Sword and Pen,” starts with Nevare ruminating on his interactions with trauma victims and comparing their testimonies to his own experiences with Dewara. Much of his rumination focuses on the attempt to drive uncomfortable ideas–the experience on the bridges, notions of his father’s doubts of him–from his mind, and Nevare rededicates himself to his training and development. Months pass, and Nevare’s siblings grow around him as he, himself, undergoes a growth spurt.

News of the outside world reaches Nevare through his father and older brother. Political unrest in the capital, centering on the tension between eastward expansion and westward reconquest, receives attention, as does the increasing spread of plague. Members of the local staff see their families affected by the latter, and Nevare remarks upon seeing both troops heading east and funeral processions heading west. Information about the effects of the plague, both in direct mortality and in lingering effects, are noted.

Also noted is the Burvelle midwinter celebrations. The common celebration, Dark Evening, receives some attention, notably in the family’s minimal observance of the winter solstice. The local, Nevare’s birthday, receives more, particularly as he reaches majority at eighteen. The family gathers, Vanze reading from Writ of the duties of the second son as Nevare is presented with his sword and his first formal journal. The importance of the journal is attested, and the physical object described. Nevare reflects on his family and his place within it, as well as what he knows of how he came to hold it; his father’s history receives some attention.

Celebration continues as Nevare’s father announces wedding arrangements, pending certain conditions, made between him and the neighboring Carsina Grenalter by their respective families. The existing relationships involved are described, and Nevare acknowledges with gratitude the honor being done him.

With that done, Nevare enters a manhood of increased discipline and austerity, accompanying his father and brother on surveys of their holdings and people, noting their ways and their efforts to work the land where they dwell. He thinks towards his expected future, serving in uniform until unable to do so, and then serving the family, and he continues to train in academics and martial arts, setting aside the pursuits of his childhood now ended. Duril continues to train him, growing closer as he passes what he can of hard-won practical wisdom to Nevare. Nevare also learns Duril’s curious personal history, as well as about the recent changes in Gernia’s fortunes under Troven. Resistance thereto and the ensuing conflicts are noted, and details of the Plainspeople and their social structures are presented.

Duril waxes eloquent about the Plainspeople and their groups that he had fought. Difficulties in fighting the Plainspeople are noted, and Duril reports the subjugation of the local Ternu indigenous people. The genocide of the Portrens is also reported, Duril commenting darkly thereupon. He continues, noting the passage of peoples and times and looking towards what he regards as an in-progress war with the Specks. Duril offers Nevare his commendation as the chapter concludes.

To address the chapter-length issue: the present chapter, in the edition of the novel I’m rereading, runs 22 pages in length, approximately 3.81% of the novel. As with an earlier chapter of similar length, however, the shorter page-span felt a longer read. Some of that is addressed by the indexing noted below; there was a lot of information presented, which frustrates the idea that “explication” part of the novel is over at this point but does lend itself to the idea of reading the first five chapters as something of an independent work and the present chapter as the beginning of another. In such a reading, the heavy explication makes sense, structurally; it’s a new story beginning (sensibly enough for a stated and ceremony-solemnized entry into adulthood), and so it needs its own set of explication.

Also, for indexing purposes, the following: Barrier Mountains, Battle of Bitter Creek, Bitter Creek, Captain Herken, Carsina Grenalter, Cavalla, Corporal Curf, Council of Lords, Dark Evening, Dark Woman’s Night, Dewara, Elisi Burvelle, Far Sea, Fort Renalx, Journal, Keft Burvelle, Keslan, Kidona, Kifer, King Darwell, King Troven, Lady Grenalter, Landsing, Landsingers, Locked Sea, Long War, Lord Egery, Lord Grenalter, Nevare Burvelle, Nobles’ Revolt, Old Thares, Percy, Plague, Plains War, Plainspeople, Portrens, Ratmen, Rawly, Rosse Burvelle, Sefert Burvelle, Selethe Burvelle, Selethe Rode, Sergeant Duril, Sergeant Jeffrey, Sergeant Refdom, Shir, Sirlofty, Sirlofty, Specks, Spond tree, Stonecreek Mansion, Ternu, Tree woman, Vanze Burvelle, Widevale, Widevale Mansion, Writ, Yaril Burvelle. As noted, there’s a lot of information presented.

While the novel, dating to 2005, long predates COVID-19, rereading it after the panic of 2020 and ongoing concerns of pandemics has some…effects. It is the case, of course, that pandemics long predate COVID-19, and even as composition of the present novel and preparations for its publication were underway, SARS might well have been in mind, given its timing and spread, per report. And it is not as if pandemics did not occur in the nineteenth-century United States the novel evokes, such as a yellow fever epidemic in 1878 and the various waves of cholera that swept across cities, states, and territories. Some of the description of the effects of the plague in the present chapter call to mind tuberculosis, which was certainly prevalent enough in the novel’s historical antecedents, although the usual care–sanatoria and removal to arid areas–seems not to do much for what the Dappled People are doing to their enemies. (Of course, the milieu admits of various competing magics, so it is not necessary there be a “real world” diagnosis applicable.) Still, the plague is certainly in keeping with the verisimilitude Hobb notes prizing, and it is something resonant perhaps with later readers more than Hobb’s initial readership–something that does not happen often.

Parallels to the United States are both frustrated and increased in the present chapter. As to the former, there is an inversion of expansionist drive, as well as a reminder that the United States’ narrative of being undefeated is very much not in place in Gernia. Gernia is growing east rather than the United States’ west. Too, while the United States likes to assert that it has never lost a war and never ceded territory, Gernia openly acknowledges that it was defeated by Landsing and some of its territories–“our coastal lands and our best coal-mining region” (143)–taken; so much is mentioned in earlier chapters and explicated in greater detail in the present. Along with the explicit hereditary nobility and kingship, it’s a decided motion away from historical antecedent, but that is not necessarily a bad thing for the reading. There are reasons to retain some trappings of mainstream fantasy literature, as I’ve noted on more than one occasion, and it is generally a good thing not to recapitulate tropes and antecedent flatly. After all, if all that’s happening in the text is a repetition of other things, there’s no need for the text.

As to the increased or enhanced parallels between the United States and Gernia, the present chapter notes the age of majority as eighteen, something of a commonplace in the US but not necessarily or even often the case in other works of fantasy fiction. Tolkien’s hobbits famously come of age at 33, for example, and even Hobb’s Six Duchies admit of adult responsibility and position at sixteen or so. Too, Gernia does look towards an expansion past mountains to another sea, something about which I’ve commented before. (I really do need to revise that old paper; perhaps it will happen after I finish my reread of the present volume. It would be a good time.) As such, even though there are decided motions away from both the dominant tropes of fantasy literature and historical antecedent in the text, there is enough (of the latter, at least, although certainly also of the former) to keep readers grounded and oriented. Such grounding and orientation work to maintain verisimilitude and a Tolkienian “inner consistency of reality” such that Coleridge’s “willing suspension of disbelief” can take place.

Of some note, given the long indexing list, is the divergence of naming, particularly as applies to indigenous populations. Certain components of the Plainspeople–the Kidona, the Portrens, the Ternu–are accorded more or less proper demonyms; others, such as the Ratmen, as well as the Specks, are given only pejorative descriptors that do not seem to be what they call themselves or even close thereto. Some of the division seems to be based on martial prowess. The Kidona had been described as difficult foes, while the Portrens were willing to die to a person rather than to accept defeat, and the Ternu obliged the eradication of their entire fighting population for their own subjugation; the Gernians, or at least those who receive sustained narrative attention, seem to respect that. The putative Ratmen receive scorn, and the Speck, whether due to the current conflict or the way in which it is being conducted, also garner no popular acclaim. Such is not something to be sought, of course; it matters little what an oppressor says of the oppressed. But it is something telling, at least to my current rereading.

Of particular note in the chapter is the emphasis on the journal. Much is made of the volume, itself, as it is presented to Nevare; much, too, is made of the importance of filling it and its successors. I’ve noted before (here, here, and here, if not also elsewhere) that Hobb remarks upon the importance of writing–fittingly enough for someone who makes a living writing. That the act is emphasized as important in the present chapter is therefore not to be wondered at; that it attracts attention, not only from the amount of page-space given to it but also from readerly engagement, is also not to be wondered at. There’s much overlap between those who read and those who write; both are likely to value writing, and both are therefore likely to respond well to positive depictions of writing. And I’ll note that even my practice of journaling is influenced by the present chapter’s depiction, something I noted in my journals recently as being the case (among others; I have been much influenced by the reading I’ve done over decades); while getting words onto the page is important, it is nice to have fancy pages onto which to put the words.

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The fifth chapter of Shaman’s Crossing, “The Return,” begins soon after the fourth ends, with Nevare waking as his parents argue about him and what has happened to him. He begins to realize that he is back home and begins to take stock of his physical condition as the argument continues, his mother pressing his father after his motives for placing Nevare with Dewara. His father notes that Nevare has needed to learn distrust, and he cites a historical example for that need; Nevare expounds on the example in his narration.

The argument between Nevare’s parents over placing him with Dewara continues, his mother growing cold and his father matching her temper. Nevare makes clear that he is awake and aware, and his parents begin to tend to him again. Nevare rehearses what he learned of how he returned to his home, delivered roughly and with clear disdain by Dewara, who is pursued but never captured. Nevare convalesces, noticing that Duril has preserved for him one of the stones taken from his body as part of his treatment, and at his father’s questions, he relates some of his experiences with Dewara.

Nevare also lies to his father about some of what happened, partly to cover his own shame, partly to dissuade his father from much pursuit of Dewara, and partly because he cannot make sense of it all. He considers his words carefully, and he muses over the experiences and his confusion about the same. He does try to discuss matters with his sister, Yaril, although the discussion goes awkwardly and ends swiftly.

Months pass, and Nevare continues to regain strength. In the fall, he receives permission to go out hunting and uses the time to retrace his journey with Dewara. As he does, riding Sirlofty, he finds signs of his earlier passage amid the season-changed terrain, and he notes that most or all of what he had made while with Dewara had been destroyed. Of his journey into dream, he finds no sign, and he wonders if he had, in fact, passed into the realm of the Kidona gods, contrasting the notion with his own faith.

Duril joins him not long after, and Nevare has opportunity to reflect on what Dewara taught him.

To address the chapter-length issue: the present chapter, in the edition of the novel I’m rereading, runs 19 pages in length, approximately 3.29% of the novel. Following on the expansion of shorter time-frames in the preceding two chapters–the present covers months, while the preceding two expanded on a few days separated by a few weeks–the present chapter comes off as being a reframing and re-situation, setting up for another section of narrative without being overt and explicit in doing so. Were I still writing lesson plans more frequently (which I’ve discussed here, here, here, and elsewhere–and I’m happy to do for you if you’d like!), I’d divide the novel at the end of the present chapter for ease of study (to that end, approximately 22.18% of the novel is completed); honestly, it works as a novella, although it is not presented in isolation as one.

Also, for indexing purposes, the following: Agu jelly, Battle of Tobale, Captain Dernel, Dernel’s Folly, Duril, Keeksha, Keft Burvelle, Kidona, Landsing, Landsingers, Nevare Burvelle, Plainsbuck, Rock, Selethe Burvelle, Sirlofty, Soot-cat, Taldi, Tobale, Tree woman, Writ, Yaril Burvelle.

At last, five chapters into the work, we have the name of Nevare’s mother: Selethe. And we have it amid a number of reiterations of patriarchal construction, Keft noting that “this concerned Nevare as a soldier son. And where he is a soldier, the boy is mine alone” (109) and “I do not know if you can understand this, Selethe. This once, I will try to explain it to you” (111). More than in the Liveship Traders series, which is as evocative of the early United States as is the Soldier Son, gender roles are a concern, and something in Nevare’s relatively guileless report of events makes the issue stand out more than might otherwise be the case. It is, admittedly, an area of criticism in which I am not well versed, my training having been otherwise; that said, I know that concerns of gender roles are a significant thread in criticism of Hobb’s works, although more of it focuses on the fluid presentation by the Fool in the Realm of the Elderlings novels than on most any other part of Hobb’s writing. As I continue to work towards resuming the Fedwren Project, I will see if more has been done with Soldier Son in that regard since I looked last.

Of note is Keft’s assertion that Nevare has needed to learn to disobey, to stand up for himself and question those in authority over him when their knowledge is clearly uncertain. Nevare’s lack of disobedience is cited as a concern–and understandably; he’s fifteen in the present chapter, and I don’t know many fifteen-year-olds who don’t at least lip back to their parents to some extent (absent significant abuse). I certainly had a mouth on me at that age (and before…and after), and I didn’t really have a rebellious phase as many of my contemporaries did; I was “a good boy,” but I was not as…passive as Nevare. Reading him with some sort of coded difference of ability is tempting…but this is another area of criticism with which I am relatively non-conversant. It’s something else I’ll look for as I get back into more scholarly reading.

Of note, too, is the text’s related dwelling on Dernel’s Folly and the loss by Gernia of the Battle of Tobale (111). The one leads to the other, something held out in-milieu as a lesson on leadership–and not a bad one. Overall plans have to respond to local conditions to succeed. Given some of what I’ve had to remind myself of to put together my response to the chapter, I find myself wondering if there is a specific historical antecedent being referenced; I would not be surprised to find it so, and perhaps it is something that I might come across if I address the scholarly someday of revisiting my old conference paper on the novel and series.

I did find myself falling back into getting lost reading as I reread the present chapter. It’s something I’ve noted happening before, probably so many times that it’s of no use going back to look at examples; it’s something that, back when I was in graduate school, annoyed some members of my cohort, who would find me engrossed in reading one or another of the novels about which I was writing a master’s thesis when they were scrambling to wrap up papers or grading. (It’s not that I didn’t scramble; it’s rather that I limited my social life and spent a lot of time in the office on weekends taking care of what they would generally confine to “regular” working hours. It was a different choice; it may or may not have been a good one.) I’m reminded in doing so of why I pivoted to doing this kind of thing, to learning how to do this kind of thing, when I committed an early failure of professionalization and was obliged to shift my major field of study. It’s not an unpleasant thing, getting caught up in reading, even if it is sometimes a distraction from what I set out to do, but as far as distractions go, it’s one of the better ones.

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The fourth chapter of Shaman’s Crossing, “Crossing the Bridge,” begins the day after the third ends, with Nevare waking in a silent night. Realizing that Dewara is present, he rises and assumes a defensive stance he recognizes as somewhat silly, and Dewara taunts him. Melee ensues, and while Dewara handily beats Nevare, he also feeds him, leaving Nevare aware of being humbled. He recalls lessons from Duril and, as he eats, speaks hateful words to the Kidona, who responds calmly if with sarcasm, telling him that he will make of him in the coming days. Nevare settles in for an uncomfortable night, noting in retrospect how neatly he had been handled.

The next day, Nevare rises to find Dewara regarding him amiably, praising him for his surly, teenage attempts to remain angry with him. He also begins to show Nevare how to live off of the land, as well as to teach him some of the ways of the Kidona in the following days. Dewara also speaks at some length about the Specks, whom he calls the Dappled People, what he says clashing in Nevare’s mind with what he had previously been taught.

Nevare’s training proceeds, and its effects on him are noted. Information about Dewara’s experiences with Nevare’s father is related, and Nevare begins to be aware that he might well follow other scouts and become as much Plainsman as Gernian or more, which is an uncomfortable prospect for him as he recalls Halloran. Yet Nevare still finds himself drawn more and more towards the Kidona as Dewara takes him closer and closer to his own home.

One evening, Dewara tells Nevare a story of the god Reshamel and offers him a test of worth in the god’s eyes. Nevare inquires further and is drawn into a strange ceremony, following Dewara into the night. He steps off of the edge of a cliff, falling but landing safely. Dewara feeds him something strange, a dried gore frog, and Nevare finds his senses overwhelmed. Amid the confusion, he sees Dewara as a figure of great stature and with a hawk’s head, Dewara urges him onward; Nevare notes that his recollection of events is disjointed, mourning his inability to recall them fully.

At length, Dewara brings Nevare to a series of bridges, noting that they lead to the spiritual center of the Kidona and relating the experience of hostility between the Kidona and the Dappled People, including the infliction by the latter of a plague upon the Kidona. Dewara warns Nevare about the Dappled People, urging him to have the Gernians conquer them. He also cites his own failures to restore his people’s connection to their spiritual home, regarding Nevare as a means to restore that connection, and he urges Nevare to make the attempt.

Nevare presses ahead, following Dewara’s direction and facing the series of challenges that present themselves to him, crossing such bridges as provide the inspiration for the cover of the novel as I have it. Symbolism presents itself to him that he acknowledges failing to understand, but Nevare becomes aware of the lost history of the Kidona as a people who built. And at length Nevare finds himself confronting a tree that transforms into an immensely heavyset old woman, one of the Dappled People. Confused, Nevare approaches cautiously, and the woman challenges him, first for his name and then for his purpose. She perceives Dewara’s intentions and attempts to persuade Nevare to her thinking; Dewara protests, bidding Nevare fight against her and resist her attempt to suborn him. She attempts to force a choice on Nevare that he fails to understand, and he falls as she opens the ground beneath him.

He cries for help, and he accepts her offer of the same, at which Dewara bewails their doom. The woman takes up Nevare, mocking Dewara for his reliance upon him and noting to Nevare the bond that is forming between them. She takes something from Nevare that he does not understand, and he loses consciousness.

To address the chapter-length issue: the present chapter, in the edition of the novel I’m rereading, runs 36 pages in length, approximately 6.24% of the novel. If length is to be taken as an indicator of narrative importance–and I’ll admit it’s a big if, although there is something to say about an author spending more time and attention on a particular passage–then the present chapter is the most important one yet. Certainly, in terms of content, it seems singularly important, offering a pivot both in the story and away from a flat iteration of particular tropes; to follow Freytag’s model, the rising action would seem to have begun.

Also, for indexing purposes, the following: Barrier Mountains, Cavalla, Dappled People (Specks), Dedem, Dewara, Duril, Gore frogs, Halloran, Hawk, Hoodoo, Jindobe, Keeksha, Keft Burvelle, Nevare Burvelle, Pheasant, Plague, Plateau bear, Prairie grouse, Reshamel, Scouts, Sling, Swanneck, Taldi, Tefa River, Tree woman, Troven, Widevale. Despite the greater length, there are fewer unique items of significance in the present chapter.

Less…mechanically, there is a bit of confusion early in the chapter. When squaring up against Dewara, Nevare remarks on his “gangly fifteen years pitted against the mature and solidly muscled warrior” (73); early in the previous chapter, when leading up to his introduction to Dewara, Nevare remarks that his experience with Dewara was in his sixteenth year (51). While it is technically the case that passing one’s fifteenth birthday opens one’s sixteenth year–being a Millennial, I well remember the discourse about the first year of the new century being 2001 rather than 2000, and this is a similar thing, so recall of that might be at work in the composition of the present chapter–it is not common to make such a comment. Admittedly, Nevare does have some penchant towards exactitude, although the degree to which he exhibits that penchant is limited in the present chapter by being yet early in the narrative; I am not at this point in my rereading certain what kind of coding he exhibits or to what degree. (I did note it’s been a while since I was in this series, and I’ve slept once or twice since last time.) But I find the framing peculiar in context, and so it stands out to me.

As it does so, I am reminded of Hobb’s major narrating protagonist, FitzChivalry Farseer,* and find some points of contrast between the two. Nevare is nobler than his literary predecessor in several traditional senses, being a legitimate child explicitly schooled in a strict pattern of “being good.” Even at a comparable age, Fitz had undertaken assassin’s work; it is hard to conceive of Nevare even thinking in such a way. Indeed, Nevare avers that he “would never have stooped to such a dastardly act” as killing a man in his sleep (76). Fitz was also already blooded in more “normal” fighting than Nevare at a comparable age; even if Fitz is a nuanced warrior-hero, he had already proven himself earlier in his life than Nevare had even had a chance to start. It is a curious juxtaposition; Nevare is a more “normal” instance of a noble figure than Fitz,** but he is also decidedly less competent. There are implications that might be read into that; perhaps another scholarly someday might treat one or more of them.

A point of comparison between Nevare and Fitz from the present chapter is their mutual confusion when immersed in magic. Notably, Fitz suffers quite a bit of it on his initial approaches to Kelsingra and the Skill-stone quarry (witness this, this, this, and this, with the last showing comments that it’s not just me who had a time with Fitz’s journey). Nevare, in the present chapter, remarks upon the brokenness of his memories of his ritual with Dewara (87), although I note an easier time following his narration of events than I did Fitz’s. Perhaps it is only because I am in a better headspace rereading now than I was then; perhaps it is because the Skill is more remote than intoxication. (I did go to college, after all.)

In the present chapter, the fact of the Kidona as something of a pastiche of Native American plains-dwellers and others presents itself again. The cultural virtues related by Dewara to Nevare ring of traditional stories of Coyote, and the ritual experience through which Dewara guides him echo depictions of vision quests and similar intoxicant-driven religious / spiritual practices. The former practices of the Kidona that Dewara relates trace similarly echo seminomadic people such as the Caddo and Karankawa, at least to a cursory reading; those with greater knowledge of indigenous history and culture than I have could doubtlessly say more, and more eloquently. Still, even from what I do know,† the Kidona are borrowing from multiple peoples; they function therefore as a stand-in for the many peoples who were subjected to the colonialist practice of European settlement of the Americas and who still suffer the effects of the same…which makes the attempted reliance upon Nevare as a figure of hope for them read as an iteration of the white savior complex (and its suborning an interesting twist). Again, Helen Young’s comments would seem apt.

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*He counts as the major one because he narrates more books than the others. Simple as that.

**This leaves aside, of course, the entanglements of colonialist practice. For all the problems of the Six Duchies, they are not actively colonizing the neighboring peoples. Even the interactions with the Mountain Kingdom are being conducted diplomatically, and the Chyurda are in position to be able to refuse the Duchies. Gernia is not so innocent as that.

†That I know only what I know is my issue, not that of the knowledge. There is much worth knowing that I do not know; it is for me to learn it more than for others to teach it.

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The third chapter of Shaman’s Crossing, “Dewara,” starts some three years after the second, Nevare glossing the passage of time to his fifteenth year. New tutors are found for him, Rorton and Leibsen, and he studies ancient languages as well as military arts. In the spring of his sixteenth year, he is also introduced to Dewara, a Kidona whom Duril distrusts and who is described as Nevare and his father make their approach. Nevare reflects on what he knows of the Kidona people and the members thereof he sees as Dewara and Nevare’s father negotiate the fee for his training, as well as the terms and conditions of the same. Nevare notes, in particular, the swanneck (a formidable bronze knife) Dewara carries and the Kidona’s appreciation for sugar.

The agreement between Dewara and Nevare’s father completed, Dewara demands his own agreement, which Nevare gives. He is then obliged to disarm himself to accompany Dewara, and he muses on his father’s earlier interactions with Dewara; Keft had fought and imprisoned the Kidona. But Nevare’s father nonetheless leaves him in Dewara’s care, the Kidona bidding him mount one of his beasts, a taldi that initially proves difficult to handle. Dewara calls the taldi by its name, Keeksha, and informs Nevare how it is to be handled only briefly before galloping off on his own taldi, Dedem.

Nevare struggles to catch up as the terrain worsens, only doing so when Dewara stops and dismounts, showing an attitude towards the taldi that takes Nevare aback. Nevare is himself wearied, but Dewara rebukes him for his complaints about the same, bidding him to silence. Dewara uses that silence to locate Duril, whom he notes has gotten himself lost. After some time passes, Dewara mounts again, bidding Nevare follow, which he does through the remainder of the day.

Camp that night is bare, and Nevare sleeps poorly, waking thrice. Two are in the night; the third is in the morning, and he perceives Dewara sneaking up on him. He rises, and Dewara greets him flatly before bidding them depart again. It is another dry ride, and Nevare begins to suffer the effects of his thirst. He also suffers from another rough campsite, although he comes to believe Dewara has provisions that he declines to share, and he rebukes himself for doubting his father’s judgment. His dreams are unpleasant.

The next morning, Nevare demands water from Dewara and is refused. He then attempts to depart Dewara, fleeing on Keeksha and, after some chase, is caught and his ear notched, to his shame. But Dewara lets him ride on after inflicting the injury, and Nevare sullenly considers himself against events. Keeksha eventually finds water, and Nevare drinks, but he remains ashamed and knows that how he is marked will carry with him. But he sees to his mount nonetheless, and he arms himself as he can amid desolate surroundings.

To address the chapter-length issue: the present chapter, in the edition of the novel I’m rereading, runs 21 pages in length, only approximately 3.6% of the novel. Reading the chapter, I did not feel it shorter, although I’ll admit three pages isn’t much; even so, the present chapter felt a longer read than either of the preceding two, despite the slightly lesser length. I have to wonder if it inheres in the presentation of less familiar things; the Burvelles, while fictional, clearly partake not only of the real, but of real with which I am familiar, as noted, but the Kidona, although described in terms reminiscent of Native American peoples, are far more remote from me. I can understand how the difference would affect the perception of narrative heft; there is more to do to understand the less proximal than the more, and the greater effort involved comes off as heavier writing. Maybe.

Also, for indexing purposes, the following: Bronze, Dedem, Dewara, Duril, Gore frog, Hoodoos, Humpdeer, Iron, Jindobe, Keeksha, Keft Burvelle, Kidona, Lead, Leibsen, Nevare Burvelle, Rew, Rorton, Salt, Sirlofty, Steelshanks, Sugar, Swanneck, Taldi, Tobacco, Varnian. There are fewer new names in the chapter, although the presence of trade goods and identification of creatures stand out.

On the subject of trade goods: I note with some interest the offerings of salt, sugar, and tobacco by the Gernian Keft Burvelle to the Kidona Dewara. I note, too, that the previous chapter reports the Burvelle holdings as generating cotton (with attendant agricultural challenges). Such offerings evoke, at least to my reading, both the cash-crop system that underlay much of the antebellum economy of the United States and the disparate trading arrangements through which many Native American peoples were dispossessed (although it might well be noted that the inclusion of tobacco as a significant trade good also does come up in Tolkien; again, Hobb does have cause to stay close to the Tolkienian fantasy tradition even as she moves away from it in many ways). As such, the colonialist underpinnings of the Gernian setting are reinforced.

On the subject of creatures: the taldi and the gore frog attract attention. The latter is mentioned briefly at the end of the chapter, a poisonous creature and hazard of the local environment. The former is the specific type of animal the Kidona use as horses. Described as “black-muzzled, round-bellied striped-legged mounts” with stiff manes and almost bovine tails (52), such as “did not whinny, but squealed” (57), they evoke such animals as the Somali wild ass, the grullo/grulla, and the takhi (and note the relative similarity of name). Notable is that the evoked animals are distinctly Old World, an interesting motion against the largely US-Western setting of the novel, even as the depiction of their use and their users in the chapter accords with traditional depictions of such peoples as the Nʉmʉnʉʉ and Łibaį́ Ndé and their practices.

The matter of religion comes up again, as well, Nevare contrasting his remote and benevolent “good god” with Dewara’s present but fickle spirits of the land. It becomes clear from comments made that Nevare feels strongly about his faith, that it is not for him a thing of lip-service observance, even if it is perhaps not closely considered. Already, the comment has been made in the novel that a good soldier follows orders, and Nevare, it seems, very much wants to be a good soldier.

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The second chapter of Shaman’s Crossing, “Harbinger,” begins four years after the first chapter, with Nevare musing on the first news of plague. He notes of the day that he had been training under Sergeant Duril with his horse, Sirlofty, both of whom are described. Some of Duril’s youthful exploits are noted and given context, as is his familial situation, and socioreligious norms are expressed.

Duril interrupts Nevare’s horse drills with a pursuit exercise, during which Nevare attempts to track his tutoring sergeant while ruminating on the terrain and its perils. He is surprised to be struck by a rock sling-cast by Duril, who admonishes his pupil to remain cognizant of his surroundings even while tracking intently. Duril instructs Nevare to take up the rock that has struck him, and Nevare reflects on their practice of having him do so.

Exercises concluded, Nevare and Duril return to the family holdings. Their history is glossed, as is their arrangement. As Nevare and Duril return, they find present a chain-gang, criminals condemned to hard labor and relocation in lieu of harsher punishment. Nevare muses on pity for them, which Duril argues against until interrupted by the arrival of the messenger. The royal messaging service is glossed, and the unusual haste of the rider receives remark.

Afterwards, Duril delivers Nevare to his academic tutor, Rissle, from whom he accepts an afternoon of lessons. Following that, Nevare dresses for dinner and joins his family. The various members, as well as those in household service, are described, and conversation regarding the disposition of the family is undertaken. Reports of the children’s activities are made, following birth order, leaving Nevare third. He makes his report and asks after the messenger and his errand, receiving little information from his father in return. Nevare’s older brother, Rosse, asks further and receives more information. Nevare’s mother attempts to redirect conversation, succeeding only temporarily.

As months pass, more news of the plague spreads, and Nevare muses on what he hears and knows. The Gernian project to put a King’s Road to the Barrier Mountains, and its opposition by a people Nevare refers to as the Specks in what is clearly a derogatory term, are noted. The distance from his own life of such concerns receives comment from Nevare, although he notes an ongoing fascination with the topic.

Later, Nevare overhears a conversation among his father, Rosse, and a Scout Vaxton, who had served with Nevare’s father. The social situation of Scouts is noted, and Nevare is taken aback to hear his father overtly angry as he confers with Rosse about the putative sexual immorality of the Specks and their status as “a lesser race” (43). Nevare’s father comments aspersively on the eastern commander, a General Brodg, and bemoans the current state of affairs in the military. He also inveighs heavily against the Specks in general among a rambling conversation about changes and putative progress.

Nevare, after hearing his sisters called inside, makes his own way back inside. The next day sees him ask Duril oblique questions about what his father had said, to which the sergeant responds with remarks that soldiers reflect the qualities of their commanders.

To address the chapter-length issue: the present chapter, in the edition of the novel I’m rereading, runs another 24 pages in length. As with the first chapter, it is approximately 4.16% of the total main text and thus roughly proportional (rounding happens) to the full text. A cursory glance at the table of contents in the front matter indicates that not all chapters are thus proportional; as I reread, I’ll look to see if there is anything signified in the differences.

Also, again for indexing purposes, the following: Barrier Mountains, Bejawi, Burvelle Landing, Canby, Cavalla, Chafer, Cotton, Elisi Burvelle, General Brodg, General Prode, Gettys, Jankship, Kassler, Keft Burvelle, Kenzir bark, Kidona, King Troven, Lady Wrohe, Midlands, Nevare Burvelle, Old Thares, Plague, Rissle “Quills-and-Ink,” Rosse Burvelle, Scout, Scout Vaxton, Sergeant Duril, Selethe Burvelle, Shir, Sirlofty, Soudana River, Specks, Spond, Swick Reaches, Tefa River, Thares, Vanze Burvelle, Widevale, Writ, Yaril Burvelle. There are a lot of names in the chapter.

I note that the present chapter not only makes reference to religion, invoking a holy text–the Writ–but quoting from it: “Let each son rise up and follow the way of his father,” it says, and “Of those who bend the knee only to the king, let hem have sons in plenitude. The first for an heir, the second to wear the sword, the third to serve as a priest, the fourth to labor for beauty’s sake, the fifth to gather knowledge” (27-28). Nevare’s mother makes much of what the faith calls proper, and Nevare’s father gives information about his religion that situates it alongside demonstrable magics at work (while also making it overtly colonizing). This is another point of distinction from the Tolkienian tradition, in which (as I’ve remarked) religion is typically not nearly so prominent a force as in fantasy literature’s medieval(ist) antecedents, although I acknowledge the degree to which Hobb’s other writings engage such constructions. She does not develop practice in the Realm of the Elderlings to quite the same extent that even two chapters of the Soldier Son novels have, however, so that the increased development of religious doctrine in the present novel pulls it further away from its own antecedents, both by the author and in the genre.

I note, too, that the present chapter, being still early in the series, could be expected to offer much explication and does offer much explication. Aside from laying out religious structures (including faith-mandated days of rest), it points out quite a bit of social structure, asserting a markedly class-based system that both locks people into prescribed roles by birth (contrary to the stories folks in the United States like to tell about themselves) and addresses the issue of profligation of nobles; sons are expected follow their fathers’ careers, except for nobles, from whom spring other careers as well as their own. The son of a noble is only a noble if he is the first one; others have no such expectations. There are ways in which this parallels much imaginative work, as well as earlier real-world practice; stories abound, within fiction and without, of second sons striking out to seek their fortunes, often in military service, because they do not expect to inherit (and, I’d point out, Hobb’s Verity comments at one point that he was born to be second, the heavy hand to support his brother’s rule). But in such cases, the second son of a noble is a noble–not so in Hobb’s Gernia, which is an interesting point of distinction.

Also, as mentioned above, the present chapter decidedly situates Gernia, or at least the part of it where the Burvelles live, as a markedly colonialist state. Its laws and religion combine to drive overt settlement by Gernian populations at the expense of indigenous people, who are themselves either pushed from their ancestral lands or made a subjugate, client, even subaltern folk. Their native ways are denigrated and destroyed, with such vestiges as remain condemned as “savagery” in need of “civilizing” by the conquering Gernian people, spearheaded by compulsory generational military service and the exploitation of prisoner labor. Some indigenous populations are regarded along the lines of the “noble savage” trope that pervades much of the mythos of the United States, while others are described in flatly racist terms (some of which center on skin coloring), and I find myself again in mind of Helen Young’s article on the series.

Gernia additionally comes off as sexist. I note that, while Nevare’s father, brothers, and sisters are named, his mother is not yet. (I have since back-edited this commentary to include her name, but it is not yet present in the text.) I note, too, that much is made, both in the present chapter as in the previous, about what is and is not proper for young women of any reputation to do and not do, to hear and not hear. And I note that the Writ, at least as yet revealed, does not speak to what daughters, of nobles or otherwise, are to do, although it comes clear from context that they are to try to marry well (although “well” is left somewhat ambiguous a term). It seems Kyle Haven of Bingtown would be apt to find himself at ease in Gernia, and that is not a compliment.

All that said, I do not fall into the trap of thinking that what an author writes necessarily reflects that author’s belief. It does reflect the author’s understanding of the world, and I, living where I do and where I have, can look around and see and hear much of such as shows in Gernia–and I don’t have to work hard to do it, either. I also try not to fall into the trap of thinking that everything I read ought to agree with what I believe. There’s a lot I don’t know, for one, and for what I do know, there’s some value in sometimes confronting what disagrees with it. In a story, too, having something wrong means there’s an opportunity to put something right.

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The first chapter of the Solder Son trilogy, Shaman’s Crossing‘s “Magic and Iron,” opens with the narrating protagonist, Nevare Burvelle, joining his father on a trip to relatively nearby Franner’s Bend. The approach to the location, its general appearance, and its significance are explained. Nevare confers with his temporary tutor, Corporal Parth, about some details thereof and is answered tersely. Nevare’s father adds details about local indigenous populations as Nevare considers economic details and his family’s fortunes. Nevare’s father explicates some family roles, and Nevare muses on others, including shifts to his own education.

Arriving at the military headquarters in Franner’s Bend, Nevare’s father gives instructions to Parth for Nevare’s education and proceeds inside to confer with the local commander. Parth offers only a desultory compliance with the instructions before tucking into the local canteen for beer and gossip, turning Nevare out to play with local boys, including Carky and Vev’s son Raven. Nevare watches the rough play among them until the arrival of Scout Halloran and his daughter attract attention. The scout, his situation, and his daughter are described, with Nevare recalling his mother’s disparaging comments and prevailing disparaging attitudes about mixed-heritage unions and their progeny.

Halloran leaves his daughter to make his report to the local commander, and Nevare is startled by his willingness to do so, contrasting it with the treatment his sisters, Elisi and Yaril, receive. The local boys urge Nevare to guide the scout’s daughter to them, citing her evident collaring with iron as proof of her restraint, and Nevare, not fully understanding their intent, makes to comply. The young woman deflects Nevare from aiding in entrapping her, but the local boys press them, and Nevare finds himself taken aback by their disrespect and assaulted by them along with Halloran’s daughter. She demonstrates that she is not as restrained as had been thought and works magic against her attackers. The event sends Raven and Carky sprawling, and Raven’s brother Darda flees.

The attack dissuaded, Raven upbraids Halloran’s daughter, Sil, until Halloran returns and pointedly rebukes him. The commotion attracts attention, including from Vev and Nevare’s father. The latter dismisses the clearly inadequate Parth, and the local commander finally arrives, questioning Halloran about events. Nevare makes his report of events, which stymies grumbling for a moment before the local commander rebukes Halloran for having brough Sil with him. A fracas ensues, leading to Halloran laying Vev out in the street; Nevare’s father reminds the local commander that Vev struck an officer, leading to Vev’s banishment from Franner’s Bend. Nevare’s father, Keft, asks Nevare what happened and receives as full report as a boy can give. The local commander attempts to smooth matters over, to little success.

Leaving Franner’s Bend, Nevare’s father discuss events. The latter’s distaste for what had happened is given context; the local commander, Hent, is not good at his job, and Halloran has, in his estimation, erred via miscegenation. He also offers Nevare an opportunity to reflect by way of punishment.

Given the many times when rereading the Realm of the Elderlings novels that I expressed a desire to have a cohesive edition of those novels to read and look at page-counts by chapter, I am pleased to note that I do have such cohesion among my copies of the Soldier Son novels. Each is printed by Eos, and each is a first edition, so I should be able to take them as a reasonable set of writings from which to do the kinds of things I’d wanted to do with others of Hobb’s writings. The present chapter is 24 pages in length, out of 577 in the novel (disregarding front matter), thus approximately 4.16% of the total main text; this is roughly proportional (rounding happens), given that there are 24 chapters in the novel.

Also, for indexing purposes, the following: Bejawi, Carky, Commander Hent, Dancing Spindle, Darda, Elisi Burvelle, Franner’s Bend, Gernia, Halloran, Iron, Keft Burvelle, Kidona, Nevare Burvelle, Parth, Raven, Scout, Selethe Burvelle, Sil, Sisi, Varnia, Vev, Widevale, Yaril Burvelle. I’d noted in some of the comments I made rereading the Realm of the Elderlings corpus that I’d wished I’d indexed things better. Starting a new series seems a good time to start a better practice.

Less…stiltedly, the opening chapter of the series does a lot of explication, which it ought well to do. The overall setting is glossed smoothly, presented as distinctly different from the mainstream Tolkienian tradition of fantasy literature. An ambiguous feudalism seems to be in place, admittedly, with references to inheritable lordships and the like, as well as the older mythological / legendary commonplace regarding the magic-inhibiting properties of iron, but there is also a clear demarcation of military ranks immediately recognizable as belonging to later periods, as well as the presence of firearms. The latter two, the ranking and weapons, move far afield from Lord of the Rings and, indeed, most mainstream fantasy literature, going away from the medieval/ist towards the modern; Colonel and Corporal, the referenced ranks, are both noted by Merriam-Webster as first used in the 1500s, and after even a late reasonable idea for the end of the medieval, and cannon appear rarely if ever (about which I’ve remarked once or twice in this series).

Other details of the setting emerge, and quickly, that make clear why Carroll and Young both found things to say about the series. There is, in the comments of Nevare’s father and others, a clear if convoluted honor culture at work in Gernia; there is also in those comments a decided sense of colonialist entitlement that brings to mind Kipling and many even less gracious commentaries about indigenous populations. There are also, as is the case with the Liveship and Rain Wilds novels, concerns of gender norms presented early, which contribute to marking the milieu as a thinly veiled pastiche of the post-Civil-War United States, as I’ve argued. (A scholarly someday re-suggests itself; I really ought to expand the old conference paper and post it. But the fact of the argument itself serves to show that I have read the Soldier Son novels before, even if it has been a while.)

I’ll readily admit that my (re-)reading of the material is heavily influenced by my having grown up in the Texas Hill Country, which makes much of its Old West background and heritage. In the town where I grew up, Kerrville, there is the Museum of Western Art to consider, as well as a fair bit of local history (on which current mayor Joe Herring, Jr., is something of a leading expert); nearby is Camp Verde, the site of the US Army’s camel experiment; not much further off is the Cowboy Capital OF the World, Bandera, Texas (yes, the OF is emphasized); also-nearby Fredericksburg, Texas, hosts Fort Martin Scott; and there are many other sites in the area that report and celebrate (and, yes, occasionally mourn) the frontier spirit. Having spent my formative years there (and going often to San Antonio, with the Alamo, the Missions, and the like), I grew up with a lot of that mythology and self-fashioning in mind (for good and ill); I read even in the opening chapter of Shaman’s Crossing a lot of words I heard in my youth, or a lot of words damned close to what I heard, and I expect I’ll have more to say about things as I read on again.

One other thing comes to mind at the moment: the narrative perspective. Much of the Realm of the Elderlings novels are written from a first-person retrospective stance; Fitz recounts what he remembers of his experiences at various points, as Bee does hers. Nevare is set up to do much the same thing…which does lead a reader to wonder if Hobb might expect lightning to strike again or if she is getting locked into particular patterns. I’ve not read the novels in a while, so I don’t remember fully how Nevare compares to Fitz, although it is clear that he has a more wholesome beginning than his predecessor, being legitimate and actively parented, even if with some difficulties already made clear. Perhaps yet another scholarly someday presents itself; I look forward to the continued rereading to find out again!

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The Solder Son trilogy begins with the novel Shaman’s Crossing. The work begins, as might be expected, with some front matter. Said front matter consists of a half-title page with a list of other works by the author on the reverse, a title page with copyright information (citing the novel as belonging to Megan Lindholm) on its reverse, a dedication, a map, a table of contents, acknowledgments, and another half-title page.

I‘ll admit that I’ve been less diligent in getting back to this text than I perhaps ought to have been. I did read it when it came out, picking up the hardcover pictured above not long after the novel’s release and reading it in short order. I’m sure that, in my personal journals (yes, I keep a journal, which should not be a surprise), I comment about the experience of the initial reading; I’m not able to find any earlier commentary in my online writing I have that still can lay eyes on. And I know I’ve reread the book for reasons that I make clear below. (You might guess from this that I don’t necessarily compose “in order.” That is, I don’t start at the beginning and work through consistently; instead, I jump around. But I’ve commented about my writing process a few times–here, here, and here, for examples–so I don’t need to much belabor the point.) But after years attending to the Realm of the Elderlings corpus (and there is still some work to do with it; there are a few other pieces it contains of which I’m aware, and there might be a few things I’ve missed along the way), shifting over to another series and another narrative milieu…I’m less eager than ought to be the case. I don’t know why.

As noted, I am aware at this point of only a few pieces of criticism that treat the Soldier Son series. From the linked piece (n39), they are Siobhan Carroll’s “Honor-bound: Self and Other in the Honor Culture of Robin Hobb’s Soldier Son Series,” Anna Metsäpelto’s Attitudes to Fat Characters in Fantasy Literature—Cases from The Soldier Son by Robin Hobb and A Song of Ice and Fire by George R.R. Martin, and Helen Young’s “Critiques of Colonialism in Robin Hobb’s Soldier Son Trilogy.” I also presented a paper, “Manifest Destiny and Other Western Ideas in Robin Hobb’s Soldier Son,” which is abstracted here. There may be more work on the series and its component novels at this point; I am still winding back up into work on the Fedwren Project, which I have left alone for too long. I look forward to seeing what work has been done since I last looked, as well as to adding to the same; I do have ideas for how to expand on my older paper.

In any event, while I am not certain why it did so, the front matter of the novel struck me. (Perhaps it is because, with it being graduation season, I have school on the mind, and it occurs to me that, were I teaching a class on the novel or preparing a lesson plan for it along the model I used to get paid to do, there are things in it that would come up for assessment.) Although the copyright date of the novel is clear enough–2005 for the edition I have–it was useful to see where Shaman’s Crossing falls in relation to Hobb’s other works (after Tawny Man but before Rain Wilds). With that information in mind, seeing how Hobb’s front matter shifts into her next series (witness this, this, this, and this) offers some interest; the Rain Wilds novels give different details in their front matter than does Shaman’s Crossing, offering dramatis personæ and narrative prologues but not maps and not always dedications. It might be another scholarly someday, some short piece of criticism, to articulate the different effects on the narratives that such difference have, although it would need to follow my rereading; I’ve read the Soldier Son novels before, but it has been a while, after all.

It might be because of the dedication that I found myself attending to the front matter:

To Caffeine and Sugar

my companions through many a long night of writing

I’ve made such comments myself a few times, and it gave me a bit of a chuckle to be reminded that, in so doing, I’ve been part of a greater writerly community. I believe I’ve noted that no small part of why I do what I do as a scholar (insofar as I was or am one) is because I find delight in what I read. I like to laugh, and I like to look at what prompts laughter from me. Perhaps that is enough.

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