Azril is a city known for its universities and its brothels, its festivals and its observatory, its merchants and its anchoresses. It is home to the demon Vitrine, who has built and shaped the city as she pleases for centuries. She is pleased with her project, until a quartet of angels come and destroy it in a single night. Left with nothing but the book of names in her heart, she curses them as the leave, leaving a piece of herself lodged in the last angel’s chest. And then they are left to consider what to do next. The City in Glass is a book about recovery and revenge. It is a book about trauma and it is a book about love. Vo’s poetic, tightly worded prose brings a dead city to life as Vitrine wanders the ruins of her home, propelling the reader backwards and forwards in time with an immortal’s perspective as she sifts through the rubble and slowly rebuilds. Her sparring, circling affair with the angel who brought it all down is set against her memories of the city that was, with anecdotes of the artists, pirates, and refugees who had called the city home. A novel written during the Pandemic Lockdown, Vo has poured grief, frustration, and a strange wicked fondness into her characters and her broken garnet of a city. While many of us were making our Animal Crossing: New Horizons islands, Vo created her own bustling port city only to tear it down with holy fire and start again. The story captures and personalizes the god’s eye view of a simulation city builder as Vitrine goes from changing the course of rivers and cleaning up bodies to planting flowers to choosing which citizens to favor and which to spurn. But Vitrine and the Angel are such fascinating characters and the city they are building is so vibrant that I never felt like I was watching someone else’s play-through. Vo pulled me in completely. The City in Glass is a bloody jewel of a novel. It constantly surprised me with its capricious demon building and planning her wonder of a city as she danced through the streets and whirled closer and farther from the distraught Angel that pursued her. You can find it in print or ebook from the usual online sources, or from your local independent bookshop. Or, as Vitrine might suggest, your can get it at your local library. I highly recommend it.
The Naga keep to themselves. On rare occasions, one can be seen in the wasteland, watching silently before slithering away. They don’t mix with the other peoples of the world. Rumors say they are the remnants of a lost civilization conducting horrific rituals and worshiping strange gods in the ruins. The Naga would be bemused by the description. Their ship had crashed and stranded them on this planet decades ago. Rather than twist the world out of shape with their advanced technology, they elected to wait for the native civilizations to catch up before announcing themselves. They are very patient.
The legends said that monks first learned to brew coffee from a goat. Suspicious, a powerful wizard scried back in time to learn the truth of the matter. Eventually he found the event and was surprised to find the legends were accurate. He saw the goat eat the fallen fruit and the learned men observing its reaction. Then he saw the creature slink off and transform into a dragon. The Wizard decided to abandon his research. If the dragons wanted humanity to drink coffee, they probably had a good reason, and only a fool meddled with dragons and their politics.
As dawn spread over the campsite, the paladin practiced his devotions. His swinging blade coruscated in the light of the rising sun. The thief watched from the shadows. He appreciated the efficiency of combining sword practice with prayer, although he found the routine somewhat flashy for his taste. “Is there something I can help you with?” The paladin asked. He appreciated his companion’s skills, but found the little man odious company. “Oh, don’t mind me,” the thief replied. The paladin went back to ignoring him. If there was one thing the thief could always steal from him, it was time.
The grisly crime scene was the worst I’d seen in twenty years of work as a forensic investigator. A dozen fae lay restrained and exsanguinated. Golden blood lay in shiny pools and dried patches all over the room. The Court would have a fit when they found out. Faerie blood has potent magical properties. We were likely dealing with a wizard trying to take a shortcut or a vampire looking to get high. It would be a difficult case. But as I surveyed the crime scene I couldn’t help but think: They’re never going to clean up all this glitter.
She taught herself to lucid dream, and created a fantasy world where she could be and do whatever she wanted. She imagined herself a heroine, and weaved a story around herself. She was a princess in a magical world. For years, her dreams were good. But gradually the intensity of her quests increased. She found herself sleeping later but getting less rest. Her health began to suffer. She went to a psychologist, who proscribed medication for dreamless sleep. After a week, her companions made the perilous journey to the Waking World to find out why their leader had abandoned them.
The wizard was a connoisseur of the tools of his trade and only used the best. His staff was carved from the green wood of the Elves’ sacred Heart Tree. His ring was forged from the Dwarves’ magic ores. He placed his faith in his gear, and it hadn’t disappointed him. When he began a duel with a hedge witch, clothed in rags and carrying a simple walking stick, he thought it was be no contest. After she bested him, she healed him with a smug grin. “Magic doesn’t come from your paraphernalia,” she said. “It comes from your heart.”
The goblin sat in the shade a little off the dirt road, waiting for someone to pass by. The Tall Folk, humans and elves or what have you, talked a lot about duty and justice, but he thought they usually didn’t live up to their supposed ideals. The Tall Folk said goblins just did whatever they wanted and never thought much about it at all. Finally, a figure rounded the bend. He was young, probably younger than the ill-fitting rusty armor he wore. But everyone had to start somewhere. The goblin leapt out and tried his luck at an encounter.
She was famous both as a philanthropist and as a witch, although not in the same circles. She’d figured out how to distill and bottle approbation. You needed a lot of the stuff to make an elixir, though. Her schedule filled up with charity drives, advocacy meetings, and good deeds. After being awarded the key to the city, she calculated that it cost her more to be a witch than she made in good will. She retired from witchcraft and dedicated her life to service. But she kept a stash of brewed approval in a back cupboard, just in case.
The thief waited until the dragon flew off before sneaking into the cave. His patience was rewarded with a huge pile of glittering treasure at the back. Working quickly and quietly, he began to fill his pack. A large, glittering ruby caught his eye. The thief grabbed for it, but it slid just out of his grasp. Muttering curses, he tried again, and chased the jewel until he found himself knee deep in the hoard. The coins suddenly shifted, revealing a baleful eye and gaping jaws. The mimic devoured the thief in a single bite, leaving only a boot behind.
Hugh J. O'Donnell 