Forgive my move from totally medieval... I so enjoyed the lyre music that I wanted to also hear songs with which I was acquainted...LOL
Upon finishing Masters late last night, my first and immediate thought was to begin my review of this book with some thoughts on Melodrama. I had already read, somewhere, that Roland loved melodrama, so I knew exactly what to expect--or thought I did... You know... Think Soap Operas... At least that is what they used to call them. Those daily portions of an ongoing story that are fed to, mostly women, all over the world... My mother, my cousin...you get the idea...there were always fans who would stop everything each day to watch "my story..." LOL Seriously? Truthfully, I rarely watched unless I was forced to, by being at somebody's house visiting and would have to stop all activities, at least until The Guiding Light or whatever, was over...
But the storyline wasn't necessarily the issue... As an avid reader of books on all things, I got used to a finale--a climatic completion, most of the time totally satisfactory, even if I wasn't a fan of the book itself. A writer had written a good story, which may or may not have met my personal preferences. I acknowledged that and would evaluate the book on merit as opposed to opinion... Now, as my posting to the right says, I include not only my merit review but my personal opinion... and I normally purchase all of the books I now review.
As you have seen, I read straight through this trilogy, often losing sleep to finish and move on, needing to know what was coming... Until I came to Masters... The ending did not satisfy... BUT, I started searching and learned that the author is writing a fourth book--I am sure she realized that she could not leave her fans hanging... GUARDS is the next book!!!! Not yet published, but I am thrilled and hope that my personal desires will be ultimately met before the series ends... LOL
This latest book is the most melodramatic of those now published! Roland has unbelievable timing in writing her stories... She ensures that at the end of the book, the reader both immediately wants to read more of the story, but, also, provides a great cliffhanger that excites and titillates the reader to look for answers that have been left hanging, at least in my mind... LOL Thus, I'll be looking for the next book due out in February if everything goes right!
Hey! Everybody! I'm now an honorary Guild Member! Me! A Girl! LOL I'll be getting the first chapter of Guards to read!
Now on to Masters!
A light snow must have fallen sometime earlier in the night, unnoticed by us all in our preoccupation with the evening’s more dire events, and before me now stands a perfect circle of white bathed in the light of a full moon. I’ve only seen a moon like the one that’s out tonight once before, on the night I led the squires on an outing to the convent of St. Genevieve to ask for a kiss. A witching moon the boys called it then, and I guess they were right; at least, with the icy foliage and the snow-strewn ground gleaming in the moonlight the place is so transformed from what it was during the day that I hardly recognize it. Now it’s an inviolate druid’s circle or the forbidding haunt of a faery queen, and I suppose it should be beautiful. But this place can never be anything but ugly to me, and if anyone had told me when I stumbled blindly away from here this morning that I’d ever come back willingly, or that it would now seem to me to be a place where things made sense, I’d have said he was crazy. I pluck up my courage and pick my way across the open ground, lifting each foot high and placing it down deliberately again as I go. A nervous tick has started pulsing away erratically against my wrists and behind my temples at being back here again, but when I pause to lean the bow in my hand against my leg and adjust the shooting bracer carefully on my arm, I’m not stalling. It’s just my usual routine, before taking any shot. When I’ve got the bracer positioned, I pick up my bow again. It’s a long clean, line, and holding its smooth wood feels good. It feels right. It’s something I understand, something that makes sense. I make sense, when it’s in my hand. I’m a boy again, Tristan’s squire Marek and an archer of St. Sebastian, the boy I want to be. It’s about the only thing that’s made any sense today, and right now I need to do something that makes sense, something I can know exactly how I’m supposed to feel about it. I slide an arrow out from the quiver slung across my shoulder, and roll it between my fingers. It’s one I made myself, and I don’t think I’m bragging when I say it’s as beautiful as any work of art. I’m good with my hands and I never do anything but my best work on Tristan’s equipment, and a squire always shoots with his master’s arrows. It’s a little thing, but it feels good, too, moving in my hand. I watch the thin red whipping swirl through the feathers of the fletching as I twirl the arrow, and the red bands around the shaft that are Tristan’s mark blur until they could be a smear of blood. With a deep breath, I slip the nock of the arrow onto the bowstring. Then I step to the place where Tristan fell, an unmarked arrow in his side. I know the exact spot where it happened, on the day of that fateful hunt here so long ago. I recognized it right away this morning, didn’t I, when Remy and I came out of the woods across it, by some extraordinary chance? A lucky chance for me, as it turns out, although I felt anything but lucky, then. Now even with it covered in snow I couldn’t miss it. Not after the wretched scene that followed our discovery, when all the boys spilled into the clearing behind us, to find me with a broken arrow clutched in my hand. A fresh wave of frustration and rage washes over me, although after all that’s happened since, I’m no longer sure who or what it is I’m so angry at. Myself, maybe. How could I have been running thoughtlessly through the woods to Tristan’s rival, bent on betraying Tristan, and myself? I was about to throw away everything I’d worked so long and hard to achieve for the both of us, and why? Because I’d let the girl in me be seduced. And how easily he did it! Just by letting a hawk land on my hand. At the thought of how I felt standing in Brecelyn’s field as that bird of his swooped down toward me, a flush of shame floods my cheeks. Who am I kidding? I know exactly who it is I’m really furious at. I give myself a shake. I didn’t come here to think about this morning. I came here to forget all about it. It’s time to take aim and focus on what it is I really want. So I force my mind further back, to the day Tristan was shot, and I lift my bow slowly. As I do I sight across the clearing, along the path the arrow that struck Tristan must have come in its flight. My eyes search out the hiding place where his shooter would have been concealed, waiting for his prey, and I find it easily: a fallen log, with the tall stump of a tree rising next to it, its arms outstretched. It’s not hard to imagine it’s the boy who must have stood beside it then — an archer in St. Sebastian’s garb, dressed all in black, without a spot of color to relieve the midnight of his costume. I bend my bow, and as I rise into my shot, I focus all my concentration on that stump, just as though it really were that treacherous boy, that day. As I do, in my mind I picture Tristan’s enemy and mine as he would have looked then: tall and strong, his head held high, the huge yew bow in his powerful hands trained on Tristan. He throws back his broad shoulders, and those incredible arms of his eagerly stretch his bow, straining it to the breaking point for the kill. There’s a murderous scowl blazing on his handsome face; his thick, black hair falls in a wave across his brow, his dark eyes flash with fire; his mouth curls into a triumphant sneer, as his breath comes out hot and fast through parted lips that … uh … his lips … warm, hungry lips, pressing mine … “Oh, damn it all!”
With an exasperated cry I squeeze my eyes shut and let my arrow fly, sending it with shaking arms in a perfect shot, straight for his eye. The arrow strikes the stump with a loud thwack. It’s a very satisfying sound. To me, it sounds like finality. Okay, maybe it’s an empty gesture. But I do feel better. A little. “Gads, Marek! What a remarkable shot!” a languid voice suddenly exclaims behind me, and I jump about two feet straight into the air. I clutch my chest and stagger backward, more from shock than from fear. I’d know that impeccably accented voice anywhere. It’s Gilles, and I’m caught. I can’t believe it! I’ve managed to make a complete fool of myself on the exact same spot, twice in one day. My eyes fly open, and I whirl around. Sure enough, an elegant boy is lounging up against a tree a few feet behind me, dressed to the nines despite the hour and casually examining the fingernails of one hand in the moonlight. “But whatever do you have against stumps?” he drawls, amused. “Why, you’ve positively emasculated the poor thing!” I look back over my shoulder, to see with dismay that he’s right. My arrow is sticking out of the stump. But it’s much, much lower down on it than where anyone could picture a boy’s eye to be.,,
~~~
The hierarchy of the Guild is mandatory, filled with painful penalties on just about anything that the Masters disapprove... Using the term master begins at the lowest level. Squires refer to their Masters, the Journeys... Journeys refer to those who have become Masters, as such... But, there is only one Head Master at a time... We see even more of this cruel man as we start reading the latest book in this extraordinary and fascinating series!
When I don’t rise to his bait, Gilles doesn’t take it amiss. Needing no audience, he simply returns to his earlier theme and starts waxing lyrical about lovers again in a most grating fashion. When he starts to sing an old love ballad that echoes crazily around the hollow room I move away, not wanting to let Gilles suspect how much all his talk of lovers is getting under my skin. For some reason, I find myself gravitating over to one of the alcoves, to the place where I dragged Tristan to tend to his wound here after the hunt; to the place where I pulled the arrow out of Tristan’s body that Taran shot into him.
~~~
“In a clearing in the forest there stands a willow tree,” Charles croons, and I don’t like the song already. But I tell myself with Gilles suggesting it, it could be worse. It could be about a stump. “Beneath its bending branches you used to wait for me,” Charles warbles on. “But your heart is as fickle as clouds that ride the skies, for oh my faithless lady, you believed all their lies! Why did you give ear to idle rumors, slurs that I was fancy free? Or trust in the opinions of others over your own experience of me? How often have I proved noble, more than worthy of esteem? Oh, why didn’t you remember: things aren’t always what they seem?” My head swivels around and I look sharply over at Gilles; it’s obvious now where he got this line of his. But he’s not looking at me, and I don’t think he asked for the song to tease me. And as Charles begins the next stanza, I have to wonder why he did. Despite cutting his hair (and some of his affectations), Gilles is still a wands man. So maybe it’s as simple as that. But I doubt it. I feel myself blushing in the dark, and I look furtively around the garden to see if anyone is looking at me, embarrassed by the thought that the reproachful words of the song could somehow be meant for me. Of course, no one else is thinking about me in connection with the song. It’s a love song after all, and their heads are full of thoughts of the trials, or of their own amours. So I suppose, given the way he feels about me, it’s only natural that the one boy who is staring at me intently from across the little patch of grass is Remy. I can’t tell if the moonlight is making him romantic, or if he’s thinking about what happened between us in Brecelyn’s clearing, when we found Taran’s broken arrow and he begged me not to tell. But I bet he knows I kept that promise about as well as I’ve kept my promises to his master, and with the moon casting long, distorting shadows across his face he looks older than usual, and more serious. Hard, even, and a stray thought pops into my head, that it’s odd Remy’s never held my low opinion of his master against me. In the strange light that’s making everything look so different, it suddenly strikes me as incredible. Where another boy would hate me for it, instead Remy loves me. It must be the alcohol confusing me, since soon Armand nudges Remy and the two of them start whispering about something together, to all appearances quite happily. But as Charles’s rich tones fill the garden, I can hardly bear to hear any more of the song, or to think about what Remy’s master must be making of it, and it takes all my willpower to keep myself from looking directly over at him. "St. Sebastian’s is our family, and a merry band were we, until I found you with another, with my own guild brother — Tell me, was that kiss just to punish me?" Before Charles can finish the line, Taran’s already on his feet. He’s gotten up even more swiftly than he did from table, and just like then he turns heel and without a word to anyone he disappears into the darkness of the portico, no doubt heading inside to bed. Nobody much seems to notice; abrupt departures are nothing unusual for him, and the boys are too spellbound by the magic of the evening to pay any mind to him. Even Remy doesn’t seem to mark it, since Armand is now pestering him with some nonsense about ghosts, and the two of them are quietly arguing about it. Nobody, that is, but me. As soon as Taran is on his feet, in the same instant I’ve sprung up, too, almost as though we were connected by an invisible string. And without a thought for what he or anyone else might think about it, in a flash I dash recklessly across the garden, and I run after him. I catch up with Taran behind the vines, and as Charles is belting out the last lines of the wretched song, I’m pulling Taran back frantically by his sleeve. “When all my trials are over, dig my grave beneath that tree, with a wand as my marker, inscribed for all to see: No one ever loved her more, or did more for her than me." Taran turns to peer down at me in the dark, and as the words of the song hover in the air between us, we stand there in the portico, so frozen for a moment that again I think we could be statues in a niche, hidden from the view of the others in the garden only by a thin veil of leaves. “Taran,” I stammer breathlessly, “Taran, I … oh, Taran, I don’t, I don’t … I, oh, Taran.” And then I’m in his arms, and I’m kissing him. Or he’s kissing me, most violently. I don’t know how I got there — if I grabbed him, or he grabbed me. I don’t really care, since his arms are tight around me and I’m swimming in moonlight, up through the clinging vines that are sweet with scent and trembling right along with me. The blood in my veins is liquid fire and it’s moonbeams, and as I drink Taran in as deeply as I longed to do that day in the archives, his kiss is moonlight, too, and it’s fire and I’m drowning in it. As abruptly as it started, it’s over. Out in the garden the boys’ voices raise in laughter at some joke or other, and at the sudden sound my eyes fly open...
Taran’s nowhere to be seen. I’m still sitting out in the garden, with my head on Tristan’s shoulder and my back up against the base of the tree. It was just the moon playing tricks on me, and I dreamed the whole thing. I straighten up, and I wipe away the drool that’s been puddling from the corner of my mouth onto Tristan’s shoulder self-consciously. I’m burning in the dark, as disoriented as if my feet had been suddenly pulled out from under me and all the breath knocked out of me; I’m only vaguely aware of Tristan now drawling amusedly over my head, “It’s dashed ungrammatical, too, isn’t it? It really should be ‘no one did more for her than I,” and as the boys all laugh again, I struggle back to reality: I’ve been slumped out here under a tree drunkenly slavering over Taran, while he’s surely back in his room, lying face-down on his cot with his face buried in that sea-foam green veil of my sister’s. But I don’t let it upset me unduly. I really don’t. On a night like this, anyone can slip. I am a little drunk, and no one can control what he thinks in his sleep. Besides, I’ve already admitted to myself that I’m in love with him. The full moon comes around only once a month; by morning it will be gone, and with it all its cruel fantasies. So I force myself to settle back into enjoying what’s left of the evening, and I think I manage it pretty admirably, although some of its charm has understandably palled for me. What stays with me the longest isn’t the humiliation of it, or even annoyance at myself that I haven’t really managed to forget about that almost-kiss of Taran’s, since it’s not hard to figure out what inspired the dream. It’s the chastising words of Gilles’s song. And it’s that the feeling I had in my dream that there was something I was desperate to tell Taran is still lingering — only now that I’m awake, I’m no longer sure exactly what it is. With the competitions starting up again in earnest, I know I’ll never really have a chance to thank Taran for saving me on the tower, or find a way to tell him that I no longer think quite so badly of him. But I have a niggling feeling that whatever my dream-self was about to say to Taran there under the vines was something more than either of those things. Gilles interrupts my meditations not much later, by giving me another meaningful prod with the toe of his boot. When he proceeds to drawl down at me sourly, “A lovers’ moon, indeed! What a pity, Marek, it’s turned out all along just to be Aristide’s,” all I can do is agree. And with that, I’m more than ready to go in. I cast one last baleful look up at the brilliant moon. It’s so huge and bright, it could be the eye of our Saint himself, keeping tabs on me. So I lift my arms in that motion that’s like I’m aiming to shoot down the moon, and as I follow my master inside to get some much-needed sleep, I grumble to myself, “If you had to give me a test, Sebastian, did it have to be such a hard one?”
~~~
A couple of things I need to point out for possible readers. These books in the series cannot be considered free-standing. Consider this, Marek is the main character. We are privy to all of her thoughts, her dreams, her tantrums, her planning and her love mates--whether or not she wants them... That results in Marek's thoughts going back and forth often and sometimes from book to book. One in particular is that one day she loves a boy; the next she gets so mad that she hates him, doesn't trust him...and so on... To me, this writing made my reading more compelling. I was totally lost within Marek's life from the first words in Book 1. Fortunately I have a good memory so a change of heart on her part which contradicted what was said in the last book, was just another characteristic of this main character... But, sometimes, I just wanted to slap her face and give her a chance to talk to somebody--like me--LOL But she had nobody with whom she could share ALL of her innermost thoughts... What a cruel life punishment that resulted purely from her father being murdered!
I've always been a fan of drama, mystery, romantic suspense. This book has all of that. But, in my opinion, 90% of the melodrama in these books was brought about by Marek, actually created by Marek, or bitterly responded to by Marek... That's a lot of burden to throw at a 16-year-old girl... Sometimes I loved her; other times I was frustrated with her inability to, like one Journey said, keep her mouth shut; but most of all I admired her resilience at every turn that was forced upon her by others! And, I could appreciate her often turning to Sebastian, her Patron Saint, to help her through what she was doing...To me, God's role in our lives is what keeps us...moving...forward. Kudos, especially, for Marek, to author Jeanne Roland!
Head Master Guillaume has left the Guild to travel to another town. There is immediate speculation as to why and what he is actually doing. But when he comes back, several of the journey and squires are excited to see that at least one past master, with a skilled background, comes with him, together with two of those journeys who were cut due to low scores during the competitions, and have been brought back to take on different roles. Charles who was our lyre player in earlier books and Jerome whose eyesight had prevented him from moving upward. Each of them will be assuming different roles as the Guild works to both finish reconstruction after the plague/riots as well as to expand the programs of the Guild. Crossbows, another idea generated by Merek will become a new skill to be taught!
Upon Master G's return, he announced one major decision. All of the rankings from the last competition would be eliminated. Journeys were stunned. Squires automatically began to think about how they could guide their Journey forward... But, for Marek, she had already accepted that she had allegiance of some sort to two different Journeys. One of who had been top winner last year. Now, she knew she had to place her Journey, Tristan, first in all ways...
Thoughts flitter across my mind as I consider what was happening back then. Was Marek (or somebody like her) the first to propose that, instead of competitions for each other, that teams could be created to work together, to challenge each other... In any event, last year she had initiated what was called Squires Club and it had been so successful that Master G decided to break into that activity... As we now know, Master G is also an authoritarian dictator. Even though Squires Club was a success and had provided an excellent exhibition at last year's event, Marek had never asked for permission to even form such a club! She Must Pay! It is doubtful to me that even Master G did not know what he had done when he had this year placed Taran as the trainer of this group--no more unsanctioned leadership of a club of squires! The Squires, especially, as well as we readers, will be privy to the ongoing arguments between Taran and Marek as he slowly took over control, often disagreeing with Marek in front of the other squires...
Still, Marek thought through what had happened and decided that Master G had not stopped the squires working as a team. So, she was now able to start thinking about what could be done as the Journeys started their do-over and beginning again to establish a new ranking for those remaining journeymen... She chose Gilles, the journey who was top at most of his competition activities, to team up with Tristan who was lower in ranking. Her proposal to them was that each could help the other train for whichever type of skill that was needed for the three different types. While they agreed to try her idea, nothing prepared Marek or the entire Guild for what these two actually did...
Gilles is an aristocrat with lots of money and chose flamboyant clothes, jewelry and type of language that reflected best of his personality. Tristan had, long ago, given reign of his illegitimate background, to adopt a somewhat insolent attitude where he chose sarcasm as his main type of communication to those with whom he was not close... Gilles and Tristan began to spend much more time together than ever before. They began to practice together and saw the potential... Then, based upon their respective personalities, they decided that the only way to really understand the other's skills, was to become that other one! Yes, Tristan soon had taken on the persona of Gilles and vice versa! Everybody thought it was hilarious...except maybe the Masters...
But, we also find just what kind of man Gilles really is, when he creates a false celebration for his squire that was absolutely revolting... I hope the next book rectifies this piece of betrayal...
Still practice for the "Firsts" competition, once the theme was announced, moved forward smoothly... Which, of course, allowed our author to slide in several new catastrophes for Marek to deal with! One of which could possibly lead to her death by revelation that she was a girl... Yes, The Guild would kill any woman who violated the sanctity of the Male Guild...
And, second, the attack of Tristan, which prevented him from being on time for the exhibition portion of the competitions!
This book thus became much more melodramatic than, in my opinion, either of the first books... The switch of Gilles and Tristan was hilarious... The two scenes for Marek, especially, and Tristan are hair-raising... By the end of this book, readers will be thinking of Marek as a true HEROINE!
But the ending, I think, is what led Roland, to write another book. She knew that readers would not be willing to stop...and...accept... This story was NOT OVER! I--We Want More!
GABixlerReviews
