Reviving the Prophecy Trope (The Farseer Trilogy)

One of the things I most appreciated about Robin Hobb's The Farseer Trilogy was how it handled prophecy. Seers and sages are hoary tropes in the high-fantasy genre, and the oft-used convention of the prophesied farm boy who grows up to slay an ancient evil has garnered its fair share of ridicule. (Tim Pratt delightfully skewers the trope in his short story "Another End of the Empire," a delightful reading of which is available for free at PodCastle.) Yet even though The Farseer Trilogy hinges on prophecy as does so much fantasy, Hobb manages to make it feel fresh. How? By altering the very nature of the convention.

In the series, there's a character known only as the Fool, an acid tongued, albino jester who has the blood of ancient prophets flowing through his veins. Yet the Fool doesn't discern the future as clearly as other more traditional mystic types. Instead of clearly glimpsing what's to come (which we could call "foretelling"), his visions serve as a nexus at which probabilities converge, a central point from which a thousand different futures branch out in a dendritic riot. At one point in Assassin's Quest, the Fool tries to explain it to protagonist FitzChivalry:

"Years ago I had a vision," the Fool observed. ... "I saw a black buck rising from a bed of shining black stone. When first I saw the black walls of Buckkeep rising over the waters, I said to myself, 'Ah, that is what that meant!' Now I see a young bastard whose sigil is a buck walking on a road wrought from black stone. Maybe that is what the dream signified. I don't know. But my dream was duly recorded, and someday, in years to come, wise men will agree as to what it signified. Probably after both you and I are long dead."

That's a smart switcheroo and not only because it pleasantly subverts readers' expectations. It also happens to have precedence in at least one of the world's major religions -- Christianity.

While those weaned on the paperback apocalypses of LaHaye and Jenkins might assume that foretelling encompasses the entirety of Christian prophecy, it actually has a trifold nature. Yes, foretelling is part of it, but so is "forthtelling," the idea a prophet speaks moral imperatives for the here and now. However, the third aspect, "typology," might prove the most interesting for genre writers because it's so delightfully different. Francis Foulkes provides a decent starting point for explaining it in his 1959 article "The Acts of God," writing that:

One of the deepest convictions that the prophets and historians of Israel had about the God in whom they trusted, and whose word they believed they were inspired to utter, was that he was not like the gods of other nations ... Rather he had revealed himself to them, and had shown himself to be a God who acted according to principles, principles that would not change as long as the sun and moon endured. They could assume, therefore, that as he had acted in the past, he could and would act in the future.

This presupposition forms the foundation for typology. Essentially, an observer can look back at something distinctive that happened in the past ("a type") and see its pattern repeated later on in history ("an antitype"), thus demonstrating divine action by the unchanging God. Examples include the prophet Ezekiel linking Israel's Babylonian exile with its early wanderings in the Sinai wilderness, as well as Jesus pointing out the correspondence of his own forgiveness-securing crucifixion with Moses raising up a molded-bronze serpent for miraculous healing of the people during the Exodus.

Why am I going into such detail? Certainly not to impart some sort of Sunday school lesson (although those really interested in digging into old texts might enjoy G.K. Beale's doorstop-thick tomes on the subject). Rather, I want to urge genre writers toward greater cross-disciplinary study. Many authors brush up on science and history before putting pen to paper; very few study theology, and it shows in their works, with prophecy being just one example. Sure, we have Robin Hobb and Orson Scott Card, Lars Walker and Saladin Ahmed. They put serious thought into the spiritual nature of their fantasy worlds. We need more of them. Our stories -- and readers -- have everything to gain from it.

(Picture: CC 2010 by Ian Scott)

Uneven Quest Ultimately Satisfies

It's no secret to genre lovers that the final installment in any multi-part story tends to fall a little flat, and at first Robin Hobb's Assassin's Quest -- the last book in her The Farseer Trilogy -- seems to succumb to that very fault. Court assassin FitzChivalry has found himself quite literally pulled from his grave by old friends after being tortured by Prince Regal, who is bent on securing the throne at any cost. And secure it he has. King Shrewd perished in his bed, and King-in-Waiting Verity disappeared beyond the mountains in search of the Elderlings, mysterious mythical creatures whom he hopes can save the Six Duchies from the marauding Red-Ship Raiders. Now Regal reigns in their place. The foppish prince cares nothing for maintaining trade routes or wisely ruling his subjects. He yearns only for sensual delights and the elimination of any who oppose him. But FitzChivalry is going to do more than just oppose him. Regal's actions have stripped away everything precious to him, and he's going to see the youngest Farseer royal bleed no matter what it costs.

One of the great delights of Royal Assassin, the volume that preceded Assassin's Quest, was its subtlety. Hobb wove the fabric of its action with exceeding skill, plot threads twining about each with nary a gap between them. Assassin's Quest proves much more straightforward. FitzChivalry has set his mind on killing Regal and goes right for him. When the attempt fails (and you know it will since the confrontation occurs about a third of the way in), the goal then becomes to find Verity. So far, so standard, which was a letdown from the heights of the previous two titles. When mentions of dragons began to appear at around the two-thirds mark, I rolled my eyes at the cliché, but kept on reading. Boy, I'm glad I did, because soon after Hobb jumped off the well-trodden paths of fantasy and romped through the undergrowth.

To give it a fair shake, Assassin's Quest does invert some tropes early on, but they're less dramatic than what's to come. A novel that includes the word "assassin" in its title might conjure up images of uber-competent killers who know a dozen ways to murder with an unsharpened stick. That's not FitzChivalry. He fails at almost every assassination attempt, slaughtering people he doesn't intend to, never quite reaching those he most wants dead, and accidentally hurting those he loves in the process. Such clumsiness becomes a large part of his character's development, but Hobb wants to do more than examine the interior lives of her creations. She's interested in shaking up fantasy tropes (and not in that smug, self-aware way that the intelligentsia love). Rather, she infuses existing conventions with fresh ideas. I won't spoil anything, but let's just say that the aforementioned dragons owe as much to Jewish mysticism as to Saint George. What's more, the Red-Ship Raiders' senseless savagery seems a lot more rational by the final page -- indeed, almost understandable. Assassin's Quest may be a bit uneven, but it ultimately satisfies.

(Picture: CC 2008 by Luis Alejandro Bernal Romero)

The Subtle Skill of Royal Assassin

When I write reviews, I try very hard to keep a conciliatory tone. Often that means I don't name names or toss off combustible assertions. I'm afraid, though, that I may end up doing both with this one, dear readers, so I beg your patience. See, while I was reading Robin Hobb's Royal Assassin, the sequel to Assassin's Apprentice and second volume in The Farseer Trilogy, I kept thinking of Patrick Rothfuss. Rothfuss made a big splash in the fantasy world, and for good reason: The man knows how to write and isn't afraid to let his talent take center stage. You can tell an author likes a literary panache when he pens titles such as The Name of the Wind, The Wise Man's Fear, and The Slow Regard of Silent Things. Robin Hobb, though, takes almost an entirely opposite tack. The two books I've read from her so far are plainly titled and simply written. Yet such simplicity proves deceptive, because behind it lurks compositional complexity, understated linguistic flourishes, and plots more immensely satisfying to me than anything I've read in years.

The boy who kills for King Shrewd of the Six Duchies has finally taken a name -- FitzChivalry, bastard of now-deceased Prince Chivalry. Court intrigues during his uncle Verity's wedding nearly killed him, and he returned to Buckkeep, the high court of the Six Duchies, broken in both body and spirit. The kingdom has fared little better than himself during his absence. Red-Ship Raiders still harry the coasts, capturing poor peasants and stripping them of all human emotion through a terrifying magic known as forging. Discontent brews amongst the inland duchies, who see no need for new taxes and levies to guard against a threat they've yet to face. King Shrewd has fallen desperately ill, and ambitious Prince Regal has quietly begun scheming to seize the throne. FitzChivalry knows numerous ways to kill a man, but how can he handle political schemes that may send him to his grave?

Like Assassin's Apprentice before it, Royal Assassin moves at a leisurely pace. Part of that is due to the constraints of verisimilitude. The last book ended with FitzChivalry poisoned, half-drowned, and battered by his uncontrolled use of the Skill (an honored magic only those with royal bloodlines can tap), and Hobb grants him an appropriately lengthy convalescence. That makes not only for a more convincing protagonist -- a deeply damaged yet still dangerous killer rather than the typical prophesied-farm-boy-who-saves-the-world -- but also allows subtle conspiracies to slowly unspool. Here is where Hobb really shines, tossing off a bit of dialogue here and a scrap of description here that later forms the fabric of major power shifts and treasonous betrayals. Though Royal Assassin is an easy enough read, it would be more than a little challenging to outline. So little feels wasted or extraneous and everything connects to something else. It's a triumph of composition made all the better by Hobb knowing the precise moment when it's best to impress. A page of pun-laden, ribald joking from the court jester. A moment of jaw-dropping horror during a battle. A sudden shift in perspective as she expands on the books' magic system. Such subtlety shines brighter than blatant skill.

(Picture: CC 2008 by Hani Amir)