“Are there any real chearis left?” asked Sorren.
“Maybe, in the north somewhere. Legend says that a scion of the line of Van of Vanima still lives in the Red Hills.”
232 years have past since the events of Watchtower, the first book of the Chronicles of Tornor trilogy. The Northern Girl follows the relationship between two women, Sorren, a tall, blonde haired 17 year old with a unique gift, and her older lover, Pax, a fierce, dark skinned warrior. Both women serve Arre, who leads one of the most powerful families in Arun. Together, it falls to these three women to stem the tide of greed and dissolution that threatens to plunge Arun back into a collection of warring fiefdoms.
The novels trace the invention of a new belief system - part religion, part philosophy, and part martial art discipline, all wrapped together in the aesthetics of dance. Called the chea, it starts as the vision of a renegade aristocrat in Watchtower, the first book. By the second, The Dancers of Arun, it’s pervasive across the land of Arun, with the dancers, or chearis, credited for maintaining the balance and peace throughout the land.
By the third book, The Northern Girl, the chearas have died out, and the chea has become an established but degraded, institution. The art of dance has been cut off from the arts of combat. Sorren, the tall, pale Northern girl at the center of the book, has visions of the past and feels the call of Tornor. History may not repeat itself, as the saying goes, but it rhymes, and we get the sense that more is at stake than Sorren’s future.
Written 40 years ago, this beautiful, immersive novel is noteworthy on several fronts. Lynn, a two time World Fantasy Award winner, was among the first to feature LGBTQ characters in fantasy and science fiction, and, to this day, is one of the even fewer to feature an intersex character. She’s also remarkable in her commitment to racial, socioeconomic, and gender diversity.
Equity, in Lynn’s invented world, isn’t an aspiration but a fundamental aspect of reality. This novel is centered on a broadly inclusive group of women, all coming from different backgrounds and races, all of which are caught in the mysterious and dangerous machinations of barely glimpsed villains.
But the Northern Girl shouldn’t be appreciated just for its inclusion. It’s gorgeously conceived and written. Moreover, it’s deeply human themes reflects aspects of own world, which is likewise caught in a struggle between old and new, between balance and instability. The book has stood the test of time, and deserves broader recognition.
Part of its appeal is the way it perfectly fits means and ends, form and function, together. Lynn’s terse earlier style is here turned out to pasture. Unsaddled and unbridled, it finds its own free-range rhythm. Sinking into the run of words in a sentence, the pacing of a chapter, is a pleasure unto itself. The prose has a luxuriant feel, basking in carefully selected details, mooring us in the present moment along with each of the characters, bring the world of Arun alive.
But this luxuriance doesn’t mean Lynn loses her gritty realism. There’s steel in her spine and in her words. She thinks her story through until she gets to the dirty, phlegmy, venal reality that exists alongside Arun’s poetic beauty. The novel has a hard edged, intimate precision that has all the unforgiving clarity of a Hans Holbein portrait. Perhaps this is a hallmark of seminal fantasy worlds, the synthesis of deep grained reality with the fantastic.
You won’t find easy tropes or formulas in this book. It’s as if Lynn takes on the role of a cosmic clockmaker, winding her characters and setting with an exacting intricacy and then letting it loose, allowing the narrative to unspool according to its own idiosyncratic mechanics.
This is classic world-building, crafting a world according to its own inner logic. Tolkien, who was religious, called it “secondary creation” (God’s creation being primary), in his classic essay, “On Fairy-Stories.” I’m not sure such secondary creation is possible in our hyperlinked, intertextual, social media saturated lives. But in Lynn’s Arun, we have a serious, thorough, and entirely enchanting example.
Her characters are complex and real in ways I’m not sure many contemporary authors can match. Today, giving a novel the gloss of gritty reality amounts to a marketing gimmick: don’t worry, young authors, we have a mad-lib template for whatever mood, a prefab shellac for whatever feeling, your story needs. The multifaceted emotions and textures of Lynn’s world, by contrast, feel hard won, built up from the ground layer by sweaty, sedimented layer. As a result, The Chronicles of Tornor, and, especially this last book of the trilogy, has its own unique, nearly irresistible gravity.
With the Northern Girl, Lynn, without question, established herself as an author who deserves to be remembered and grouped along with Tolkien, LeGuinn, and other classic fantasy world builders.