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Tempered Throne
Stewart Finney’s high-risk lifestyle takes a spin into the bizarre when he encounters the Tempered Throne. Then with the guidance of a pushy little blackbird, he meets a retired Hollywood actress, an Elvis-impersonating chauffeur, a scraggly homeless boy named Pig, and ultimately, an enchanting beauty to whom he is hopelessly drawn. When two acquaintances are murdered in the city, Stewart knows he is next. He tries to find his killer before the killer finds him, but in the meantime Stewart must confront his disreputable past. In his bleakest moment he realizes that he is and always has been in the company of angels.
332 pages, Paperback
First published April 2, 2014
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Displaying 1 - 2 of 2 reviews
June 29, 2014
I just finished reading “Tempered Throne” by Ray Owen. It was a well-conceived piece of literature. This is actually several stories going on simultaneously running parallel to one another but not intersecting for nearly the entire book. The main storyline revolves around Stewart Finney, a high level engineer who displays few redeemable qualities. He is a gambler and thief. Stewart attempted to steal his friend’s wife, tried to kill the same friend and would seem to have an obsessive compulsive disorder about being clean all the time. He is being followed and murders keep happening around him. Then there is a pesky problem he has with birds; particularly blackbirds following him and showing up at the oddest times.
Then there is the story of a young boy named Pig. If ever there was a dysfunctional family poster child, it was Pig. His alcoholic father abuses him physically and emotionally without caring for the boy or his basic needs. The father takes up with Tina, an evil woman who hates Pig even more than his father and makes the boy’s life unbearable. Both stories continue independently until the very end. A word of advice to the reader. Go over the last chapters slowly or you could miss some things. The author took characters that a person would not usually pull for and makes you care about them. He leaves clues along the journeys for you to piece the story together. It’s like a jigsaw puzzle. You don’t see what you have until it’s finished. When it is done, though, you will be glad you read it.
Rival Gates
Then there is the story of a young boy named Pig. If ever there was a dysfunctional family poster child, it was Pig. His alcoholic father abuses him physically and emotionally without caring for the boy or his basic needs. The father takes up with Tina, an evil woman who hates Pig even more than his father and makes the boy’s life unbearable. Both stories continue independently until the very end. A word of advice to the reader. Go over the last chapters slowly or you could miss some things. The author took characters that a person would not usually pull for and makes you care about them. He leaves clues along the journeys for you to piece the story together. It’s like a jigsaw puzzle. You don’t see what you have until it’s finished. When it is done, though, you will be glad you read it.
Rival Gates
July 7, 2026
I don't say this lightly: Tempered Throne is one of the most unexpectedly delightful reading experiences I've had this year, and it's taken me a few days after finishing to figure out exactly why it's stuck with me so persistently. On the surface, Ray Owen's premise sounds almost too eccentric to work a reckless, high risk living protagonist, a pushy little blackbird acting as some kind of otherworldly guide, a retired Hollywood actress with secrets of her own, an Elvis-impersonating chauffeur, and a scraggly homeless boy named Pig. Written out like that, it reads like a fever dream. And yet Owen takes all of these disparate, almost fable like pieces and stitches them into a story that feels not just coherent, but genuinely enchanted.
Let's start with Stewart Finney, because the entire book lives or dies on whether you buy his journey and I bought every second of it. Stewart is introduced as a man who treats danger like a hobby, someone who has built an entire identity around not caring what happens to him. He's brash, a little insufferable in the way that interesting characters often are at the start, and clearly running from something even before the story tells you what. What could have easily become a tired "reckless man learns to feel again" arc instead becomes something much richer, because Owen refuses to rush it. Stewart's transformation isn't a switch that flips; it's a slow erosion of armor, chipped away piece by piece by every strange soul he encounters along the way. By the time he's hopelessly drawn to the story's mysterious, enchanting beauty, that pull doesn't feel like a plot convenience it feels earned, inevitable, the natural result of everything that's cracked him open along the way.
And what a cast surrounds him. The blackbird alone could have been a gimmick in lesser hands, but here it becomes this wonderfully strange thread of magic and mischief running through the narrative, never fully explained in a way that robs it of its charm. The retired Hollywood actress brings a melancholy glamour to the story, a sense of faded lights and old regrets that adds unexpected emotional weight. The Elvis-impersonating chauffeur is pure delight the kind of character who could have just been comic relief but ends up carrying more heart than you'd expect. And Pig, the homeless boy who feels like the story's quiet moral center, broke my heart in the best possible way. Every one of these characters could have starred in their own book, and yet Owen manages to give each of them room to breathe within Stewart's story without ever losing focus.
What impressed me most, though, is the tonal balancing act Owen pulls off from start to finish. This is a novel that can have you laughing out loud at some bit of absurd, perfectly timed dialogue in one chapter, and then quietly wrecking you with a moment of real tenderness in the next. There's a whimsical, almost fable like sensibility running underneath the modern day setting a sense that anything could happen, that the ordinary world is just a thin veil over something stranger and more meaningful and it gives the whole novel a lightness, a sense of magic, without ever tipping over into saccharine or precious territory. That's a hard needle to thread, and Owen threads it with real skill.
The prose itself deserves mention too. Owen writes with an easy, conversational confidence that makes the 332 pages fly by, but he's not afraid to slow down and let a scene breathe when the emotional stakes call for it. There's a rhythm to the way tension and humor and warmth are layered throughout the book that feels intentional rather than accidental like Owen knew exactly when to make you laugh so that the next gut punch would land even harder.
By the final chapters, I genuinely found myself slowing my reading down, not wanting it to end, savoring the last stretch the way you might a good meal you know is almost finished. That's rare. Most books I read quickly because I want to know what happens. This one I read slowly because I didn't want to leave.
Tempered Throne is the kind of book that sneaks up on you funny, strange, tender, occasionally heartbreaking, and ultimately deeply hopeful. It's a story about armor and the people who manage to get underneath it, told through a cast of characters so odd and specific that they end up feeling entirely real. I closed the book with a full heart and an immediate urge to recommend it to absolutely everyone I know who wants their fiction to have a little soul in it. Highly, highly recommended.
Let's start with Stewart Finney, because the entire book lives or dies on whether you buy his journey and I bought every second of it. Stewart is introduced as a man who treats danger like a hobby, someone who has built an entire identity around not caring what happens to him. He's brash, a little insufferable in the way that interesting characters often are at the start, and clearly running from something even before the story tells you what. What could have easily become a tired "reckless man learns to feel again" arc instead becomes something much richer, because Owen refuses to rush it. Stewart's transformation isn't a switch that flips; it's a slow erosion of armor, chipped away piece by piece by every strange soul he encounters along the way. By the time he's hopelessly drawn to the story's mysterious, enchanting beauty, that pull doesn't feel like a plot convenience it feels earned, inevitable, the natural result of everything that's cracked him open along the way.
And what a cast surrounds him. The blackbird alone could have been a gimmick in lesser hands, but here it becomes this wonderfully strange thread of magic and mischief running through the narrative, never fully explained in a way that robs it of its charm. The retired Hollywood actress brings a melancholy glamour to the story, a sense of faded lights and old regrets that adds unexpected emotional weight. The Elvis-impersonating chauffeur is pure delight the kind of character who could have just been comic relief but ends up carrying more heart than you'd expect. And Pig, the homeless boy who feels like the story's quiet moral center, broke my heart in the best possible way. Every one of these characters could have starred in their own book, and yet Owen manages to give each of them room to breathe within Stewart's story without ever losing focus.
What impressed me most, though, is the tonal balancing act Owen pulls off from start to finish. This is a novel that can have you laughing out loud at some bit of absurd, perfectly timed dialogue in one chapter, and then quietly wrecking you with a moment of real tenderness in the next. There's a whimsical, almost fable like sensibility running underneath the modern day setting a sense that anything could happen, that the ordinary world is just a thin veil over something stranger and more meaningful and it gives the whole novel a lightness, a sense of magic, without ever tipping over into saccharine or precious territory. That's a hard needle to thread, and Owen threads it with real skill.
The prose itself deserves mention too. Owen writes with an easy, conversational confidence that makes the 332 pages fly by, but he's not afraid to slow down and let a scene breathe when the emotional stakes call for it. There's a rhythm to the way tension and humor and warmth are layered throughout the book that feels intentional rather than accidental like Owen knew exactly when to make you laugh so that the next gut punch would land even harder.
By the final chapters, I genuinely found myself slowing my reading down, not wanting it to end, savoring the last stretch the way you might a good meal you know is almost finished. That's rare. Most books I read quickly because I want to know what happens. This one I read slowly because I didn't want to leave.
Tempered Throne is the kind of book that sneaks up on you funny, strange, tender, occasionally heartbreaking, and ultimately deeply hopeful. It's a story about armor and the people who manage to get underneath it, told through a cast of characters so odd and specific that they end up feeling entirely real. I closed the book with a full heart and an immediate urge to recommend it to absolutely everyone I know who wants their fiction to have a little soul in it. Highly, highly recommended.
Displaying 1 - 2 of 2 reviews