Song of Leira was definitely one of my most anticipated reads for the year! I loved the other two books in the series: I said that Orphan’s Song “captures the quality of a song—melodious, lyrical, wrought with the loving care and concern of a master wordsmith” and, about Songkeeper, that “Adams hits the perfect pitch of emotions in this book and ends on a note of quiet awe and longing.” And so, musical puns quite aside, how could I say no when Gillian offered the readers on her email list a chance to read and review the book before it came out?
You realise, of course, that you’ll have to read my review with caution. After all, I did receive a free copy and I do have an interest in promoting this author’s work. However, please allow me to assure you that I was not obliged to give a positive review and that what I write here expresses only my most honest and genuine feelings and all that technical boggswoggle.
Song of Leira is a beautiful dichotomy. It’s brutal. There’s no denying the brutality. How heavy the burden of leadership can become. How much you can lose with an honest mistake. Brutality is the most common concern I’ve seen in reviews of the Songkeeper Chronicles. Brutality can certainly lead to the self-satisfied cynicism of grimdark: “This is the way the world is, and there’s nothing you can do to change it.” In these stories every wicked deed comes with a twisted smirk from the narrator, offered up as “proof” of the hard reality of life.
Song of Leira doesn’t do this.
In the consuming bitterness of grief and loss, we have the sense that darkness isn’t the sum of life. There’s rightness amid all the wrong. There’s divine truth among all the questions, all the very human questions. And while the world portrayed is certainly dark, there is always hope that soon the clouds may part. Dark stories aren’t for everyone, but the dark is handled so much better in Song of Leira than the world-weary adult fiction of today.
That is the other side of the dichotomy: innocence. Innocence and brutality, a dissonance that somehow—inexplicably—harmonises. This is all too vivid in the image that pierced me deepest: Birdie struggling to find her way forward as war rages all around her, a young girl with a bloodied axe. Symbols of innocence and of violence in an unforgettable combination. This image is perhaps the one I’ll remember best about Song of Leira, because of how it captures the very essence of the story.
As a writer and student of writing myself, I was struck by Song of Leira’s use of scope. For much of the story, we follow just one group of characters through their small-scale conflicts with each other and the outside world. As a result, these conflicts became exceptionally well developed rather than being wrapped up quickly. In high fantasy, there’s definitely the temptation to go big, to choose world-altering stories over small groups and their struggles with each other—and while there’s certainly nothing wrong with world-altering, I felt that Song of Leira needed and that it rejoiced in how small it started, in a time of uncertainty, of slippery ground underfoot, of a desperate need for rest and an equal and opposing need to persevere.
The small scope enabled each character to embody their own answer to the thematic question. Birdie’s struggle is what, what should she do—okay, I am a Songkeeper, but what are the practical steps I take, how do I live according to my calling? Each of her supporting characters lives out one answer to her question. Gundhrold believes that war is the only answer. Frey disdains anything to do with bloodshed. Quillan is a man of peace even when faced by evil. Gillian has written each character honestly, authentically, taking care to respect their driving beliefs, and I love that about her story. And yet, even when these characters fill the archetypal role of mentor, their way is never presented as the only way. This is their view of life, not a narratorial hammer dropped on our heads to drive the lesson deep. It’s up to Birdie, the story promises, to find her answer.
If Song of Leira has a weakness, it’s the final 30%. I was disappointed at how fast the story wrapped up. Half of that, no doubt, is because I love this series and I would love the story to continue in a fourth book!
The other half of my disappointment is because I really do think a fourth book would benefit the story. Song of Leira undergoes a distinct turning point when a group of characters meets up with Birdie, which causes the story’s scope to increase exponentially over a very short period of time. This rapid escalation results in the very antithesis of what I love about Song of Leira. Where the first 70% is deep and vivid, the last 30% is frantic. And the deepest consequence: that the thematic strengths of the story—the focusing questions Birdie and Ky ask, and each character’s heartfelt answer—become very nearly irrelevant as living, growing things.
I reacted so strongly to the (rushed) final push to victory because I paid so specific attention to the pace and scale and humanity of the long singing buildup. I really do think another book would have given Gillian a better opportunity to bring the essential conflicts set up in this story to a satisfying conclusion—and then, only then, to investigate the final push to victory again with the freedom and space of 25% of the series rather than 10%.
This is a hard thing to say, because I’ve been privileged to hear some of Gillian’s personal journey in writing this series and especially this book, and as a pre-release reader and reviewer, I have a stronger connection with the author than many. I wonder if I’m overstepping my privilege, whether I’m wielding sandpaper rather than gauze. But then I remember that even Gillian describes Song of Leira as her big, beautiful, and imperfect book.
Perhaps imperfection is all right. Perhaps that’s the very reverberation of the human heart.
In sum: While the story struggles in its final third, Gillian Bronte Adams’s final instalment of the Songkeeper Chronicles stands out among modern fantasy and even modern fiction for its rich themes and authentic characters. Song of Leira is a beautiful harmony of the steady beat of God’s voice twining through the broken notes of our frail humanity, a dichotomy of brutality and innocence, satisfaction and disappointment. I read late into the night. I can’t recommend it highly enough.
My most earnest thanks to the author for letting me read Song of Leira ahead of its release. You’ve given me an echo of the true master melody sung by the true Singer.
Rating: 4 stars (Good. I would certainly reread.)