The world of Mijak is brutal, unrelenting and savage. Every aspect of daily life is ruled over by a nameless, genderless god who requires regular blood sacrifice and whose symbol is the scorpion; in turn, the godspeakers who enforce these rules wield a magical power that is used both to heal and smite, though more commonly the latter. Slavery exists, and every territory within Mijak is ruled by a separate, conquest-hungry warlord. With the single, strange exception that women can become warriors and godspeakers - a dissonance which is never explained - the misogyny of the setting is absolute. Girl children are referred to as she-brats, women as sluts; sex is only ever called fucking; women are given status by birthing sons, not daughters; warlords can keep concubines; slaves are kept by the godspeakers specifically for soldiers to have sex with; and female warriors are forbidden from falling pregnant.
In this context, we are introduced to a nameless, angry girl who, in the opening scene, hides under a table as her violent, stupid father rapes her mother, all while beating her and complaining that she keeps giving birth to useless she-brats and not enough sons. The girl, who goes on to become the main protagonist and is eventually given the name Hekat, has no sympathy for her mother. She is angry at the woman's weakness in letting herself be abused, and in retrospect, this should have tipped me off as to what the rest of the book would be like.
The title, Empress of Mijak, is a literal spoiler, pointing to the intended shape of the story: we are here to watch Hekat, a self-professed goatslut sold into slavery, as she is taken to the great city of Et-Raklion, where she runs away, makes a pact with the god to be his instrument, becomes a knife-dancer, attracts the attention of Raklion warlord, and, in due time, becomes Empress. That's the plot in a nutshell: the entire novel is dedicated to showing us Hekat's journey. Occasionally, we see things from the perspective of the other, secondary characters, but never for long. We are here because of Hekat.
And now comes the part where I'm conflicted - more deeply so, in fact, than I've ever been in relation to gauging any other book.
Stylistically, Miller has made a deliberate decision to write the whole novel using a run-on sentence structure, with commas used where one might normally find full stops, colons or hyphens. The logic behind doing this - or so I assume - is to heighten the sense that Mijak is another world with its own language and spoken cadences, so that it only looks unusual in English because it has been, in effect, translated. This is further built upon by the constant repetition - and I do mean constant - of particular words and phrases, "the god see you in its eye" being chief among them. Again, there's a reason for this, because Mijak is a culture saturated with religion. Every thought and phrase of every character is sifted through this context, so that the repetition takes on a ritual flavour. The terms Miller has invented to describe the panoply of her religion are a heavyhanded case in point: there are godbowls, godbells, godposts, godmoons, godspeakers, godsnakes, godbraids, godbones, godbreath, godhouses, godsmite, godpools, godsparks, godpromises, godstones and godsight - and all those words are used frequently, often in the space of a single page or paragraph.
Reading the book, I did fall into the rhythm of the writing; I got used to reading that particular voice, and it did feel representative of the culture. I was more aggravated by the constant god-prefixing earlier in the book, when a sudden blizzard of such similar-sounding terminology started to have the same effect that repeating the same word over and over will have. But again, I adjusted, and as the story settled down, I adapted to the ubiquitous god-references. That being said, while the effect was bearable - and while I can understand completely the reason for doing it - the endless repetition weighed down the story like wet sand weighs down a beach towel.
It is an odd thing to find a book which simultaneously has too much and too little happening, but Empress of Mijak somehow fits the bill.
On the too-much hand, there are sudden leaps in time between the end of one chapter and the start of another, so that while we start with Hekat as a twelve-year-old girl, by the end of the book her eldest son is well into his twenties. Momentous events, like the conquest and subordination of enemy cities, happen in the space of paragraphs, their success glossed over as background detail. For a novel with such a potentially massive scope - being, as it is, the story of a slave girl rising to the position of empress and her subsequent desire to conquer the world - there is no political interplay, no sense of warring factions or alliances, except within the discordant personalities of the main characters. Lacking this higher, political focus, one might reasonably expect the bulk of the story to be therefore rooted in character development and interpersonal relations.
But on the too-little hand, the vast majority of the internal dialogue of every single character, which in turn constitutes the bulk of the novel's description, is so obsessed with the god - wondering what it wants, asking it for favours, trying to guess if they're in its favour and constantly referencing it by way of the phrases and neologisms mentioned above - that it soon becomes exhausting. More importantly, all that religion comes at the cost of individual insight and development. Beyond the fact that every character believes themself to be following the god's will, and hoping they've got it right, there is precious little introspection, and even less sympathy. This is personified by the coldness of the protagonist. Hekat is never concerned with anything other than her own wants and the wants of the god. She never doubts. She is rarely curious. She is ruthless, single-minded and selfish, and while that might make her an extremely realistic character, given what she has endured, it also makes her deeply unpleasant to read about.
Which is where, for me, the book really started to fall down. The opening scenes describing Hekat's life in the Savage North are horrific, designed to engender sympathy - and for a while, they succeeded. The way Abajai the trader cares for Hekat, making her feel special for the first time in her life, is bittersweet and compelling, because we know it cannot last: unlike Hekat, we are always aware that Abajai treats her differently to the other slaves, not because he loves her, but because he percieves her as valuable, and plans to make her into a warlord's concubine. When she finally discovers this and runs away, our sympathies go with her. But even at this point, Hekat herself has never been a likeable character. Her plight has engendered empathy, but she is selfish, spiteful and arrogant: all understandable, of course, all things we tolerate due to her youth and circumstances, but only because we are waiting for her to mature into something better.
She never does.
Ultimately, the greatest failing of Empress of Mijak is one of tonelessness, of a static world and static characters. In the entire novel, not one character develops beyond their original description: the only change is in their circumstances, in how powerful or downtrodden they become. After she makes her vow to serve the god, Hekat becomes steadily more manipulative and unlikeable in persuit of her goals, until we are left reading about a character we wanted to come to like, but who has never even tried to earn our affection.
And here is another strange thing, between the static development and the pervasive religiosity: we do not know where Hekat gets her motivation. Yes, she wants to serve the god, and by certain accounts, that god appears to be real. The godspeakers have power, their rituals dominate society; there is never any question of unmasking a false belief system. And yet, the reader carries these questions with them throughout the story: is the god really speaking to Hekat, Vokta and Nagarak, giving them instructions and protection, or is the power they each possess simply magic, which in this world has been conflated with religion, so that the guidance they think they hear is nothing but their own thoughts echoed back at them? There are flashes throughout the story that this might be so, or at the very least, that it is possible for individual characters to act on their own impulses while believing themselves to be divinely guided, but never more than that. And this is problematic, for the simple reason that Hekat hears messages from the god that nobdy else does, and that these messages - which we only ever hear about in her own words, after the fact - constitute her sole motivation. With no way of knowing what she has been told, and with her devotion to the god never in question, it is impossible to tell why she does things, where the line is between her own desires and those of the god (if it exists), or if there's a line at all.
The dilemma posed by trying to understand Hekat's motivation is a dilemma common in the real world, where only our personal convictions are a deciding factor in whether or not a given god is real, where we cannot really know how devout or selfish a given person is except by their actions. In that respect, the above confusions are deeply realistic. But because Empress of Mijak is a fantasy novel - because we know that the godspeaker powers are magical, regardless of whether their deity is real - the god itself begins to feel like something of an absent character; because if it is real, then its desires and motivations are the only real substance of the book, and we cannot fully understand them if it remains in absentia; and if it is not real, then everything the characters believe about their world is wrong, and the tenuous, borrowed morality which allows us to understand their frequently terrible actions is broken: we want them to rebel, and instead they persist in making their world a more vile, more wretched place than it was even in those opening, rape-filled paragraphs.
Which leads me to a final point: the misogyny. Empress of Mijak is a book filled with institutionalised, socially accepted violence against women, and the only exceptions to their second-class treatment - women warriors and women godspeakers - seem to be present solely to justify Hekat's rise to power, and not because they fit with anything else in the story. Given a lone female protagonist ascending to the heights of power in such a male-dominated world, I had expected to feel at least a little solidarity with Hekat's efforts; or rather, I had expected her to have some fondness or sympathy with women to counterbalance her outspoken hatred of men. But we do not see this, largely due to the dearth of other female characters. We hear, in passing, that one female warrior was killed at Hekat's command because she couldn't accept that Hekat was now her superior, and in the final, grotesque pages of the book, Hekat cuts an unborn child out of her daughter-in-law to punnish her son for his defiance. Hekat is a misanthrope, a sociopath, a woman in a world run by men who, in defending her right to power, actually declares that she is not a woman, but a warrior, a killer, the god's instrument and a mother to her son.
So, there we have it. The world of Mijak was realistically, brutally drawn - so much so that it was impossible to like or feel attachment to either the people or the culture. It was written in a style designed to provoke a sense of place and culture, which it achieved, but at the expense of paciness and depth. The main character was, again, a realistic person, but so savage in her actions and so monotone in her thoughts that she was painful to read about. In the end, I only feel like I persisted with the book in order to get some closure, and so I could feel justified in writing this review - which, in fairness, I've been wanting to write for days, because if there's one thing Empress suceeded in doing, it was making me think, and that is always of benefit.