Horrible insomnia last night, so dug out a brainless comfort book, Mercedes Lackey's Arrows of the Queen. This was her first book, which shows in the little awkward fluctuations in narrative voice; it's also firmly within certain subgenres, the confluence of which I am much less sympathetic to these days (namely the abused, completely beaten down child, the hopelessly naive fish out of water, and a girl and her horse). Though it kicks off a trilogy (and then a gazillion-book series), it actually stands fairly well alone, which is good because the next two have gratuitous torture and One True Destined Love angsting, so I shall not re-read those. There is a small comment about Skif that I hadn't noticed before that almost makes me want to read the new book focused on his origins; perhaps the library will have it.
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