Bests & Worsts Reviews from Amazon

Why was this book written? What purpose stands behind it? A work of fiction is an interplay of ideas - "Rhapsody" is more like a collision of cliches, with lots of interesting yet lifeless tidbits interspersed with some of the most insipid writing ever committed to paper. There are snatches that read like Salvatore, parts reminiscent of Weis and Hickman, more than a few bits of Goodkind here and there (I imagine fans of one will be fans of the other), but the book never quite connects then dots - it occupies the uneasy vacuum between a character story, an adventure story, and a setting story. "Rhapsody" is a rote exercise in fantasy, limp and without passion. So limp and so without passion that the reader is reduced to analyzing what went wrong with any given scene, the way the characters are described, or how the dialog flows (or, in this instance, doesn't). Thus, I found it interesting when, as Rhapsody is being abducted for no reason (oh, the book provides one, but it is almost impossibly contrived), she turns around to gaze at the cityscape. We see the stone houses, the jumble of marble temples... of course, you have to understand there isn't a single original word in there - I can quote identical lines from Howard, if not Dunsany. My interest wanes, only to revive several pages later at the mention of "some root that also needed cooking (66)." What is this mysterious root, that lone vegetable ingredient of "stew," the fantasy catch-all dish? Then comes a scene with a wrathful demon-priest. It's unintentionally funny, because too many things catch on fire. The book opens with two adolescents meeting. They instantly feel they are meant for each other and have sex - in the course of a long, protracted, very descriptive scene. Several things wrong here: a - this is child pornography; b - no fourteen-year-olds could possibly pull off anything close to what is described; and c - this is actually the setup for the sequel, never to be tackled till the very end of the book, when we've lost all interest. The book continues on in this fashion, alternating between the sing-song language of badly written fantasy and parts possessing a tone so oblique and impenetrable that it seems Haydon wrote the book against her will (the interminable scene with the Root comes to mind). The characters aren't much help: these two-trait manikins are bereft of any semblance of humanity; they are plot devices, despite even the fact that only three are developed to any useful extent. Haydon doesn't understand that there are ways to elaborate characters other than long, winding conversations. Haydon tells, not shows, far more than is necessary, and when she IS able to communicate something through her characters' actions, not only does the whole situation seem contrived, but Haydon repeats the scene again and again to hammer in the point (the numerous scenes of people getting weak-kneed at the sight of Rhapsody's face come to mind). She also cannot do without the simplistic device of switching viewpoints when a character needs introducing: she simply inserts a small scene written from the new character's viewpoint, and later everyone knows how to respond. Lastly, her writing is exceptionally florid. "He was perennially in a state of vigilance (349)" could be much more comfortably phrased as "he was always cautious." In addition, Haydon is uncertain about this odd device of "plot". At first she abandons it almost totally. Then, when her characters emerge from the Root two hundred pages and fourteen hundred years later, she tries to build one - for no reason at all. Achmed, one of Rhapsody's two companions, develops a sudden interst in becoming the King of the Bolg tribes. He has no motivation to rule a nation of cliche savages, but who cares. Rhapsody, who is normally queasy at the sight of blood, starts enjoying the numerous flashy swordfight scenes, for no reason other than to let them exist (at first she is almost in hysterics, but later dismisses gruesome skirmishes as "unholy messes"). Then she sanctions the brutal conquest of the Bolg. The victory is very simple, because Haydon fails to communicate the costs involved. Even when the characters occupy Gwydion's ruined palace, they seem to be on vacation. Haydon realizes that her book is failing and tacks on a comic sidekick - Jo, a street urchin. Lots of scenes follow in which Jo mistakes men's privates for coin purses (the book is generally heavy on innuendo no one could find funny, or at least not repeatedly). Magic plays an unbelievably small role: the F'Dor (the demon-priest who sets things on fire) is abandoned early in the book; Rhapsody can put things to sleep through music, but her arcane gifts are just conversation pieces ("you're a Namer, eh?")... oh, wait, scratch that - she uses her gifts in two totally extraneous scenes: in one she charms an Ouroboros look-alike and in another revives a tree (note that both times she leaves her harp behind her, only to be seen playing it in the next scene). In essence, the entire book boils down to an incredibly lengthy prologue form its sequel: we never discover what malicious magic hypnotizes the villagers and abducts children (there's a scene where waves of zombie villagers assault a friendly duke's mansion, yet further in the book Lord Stephen acts as if nothing happened); who is Rakshi, and who is pulling his strings? is Llauron really Gwydion's son, and why does it matter? So many loose ends remain untied, it's scary. Even at its best, "Rhapsody" fails to absorb. There isn't even a climax, or a resolution: this isn't even a part of a trilogy as much as a complex setup for the sequel. And I can sincerely say I am not at all likely to read the next book in the series - it may well turn out to be the prequel for the third.