Reflections on Janny Wurts' *The Wars of Light and Shadow*

1. Intro
2. Summary
3. Assessment
4. Analysis
   1. Technology and Progress
   2. Politics and Human Nature
   3. Magic and Music
5. Conclusion
6. Notes

Intro

This is the first of (potentially several) blog posts, in which I reflect on things that strike my fancy. One goal in particular will be to connect two passions of mine, economics and fantasy literature. In this first post, I reflect on Janny Wurts’ The Wars of Light and Shadow (WoLaS from now on). I recently finished the final book, Song of the Mysteries, after restarting reading the series somewhere last year.

Spoilers from now on, be warned!

Summary

tWoLaS is an 11-book cycle mainly taking place on the planet of Athera, with main continent Paravia. This is a planet that (we learn throughout the books) has not originally been inhabited by humans; instead, it was first populated by dragons and later also by three special races called Paravians: unicorns, centaurs, and sunchildren. The Paravians are the centerpiece of this world’s history, for they were sent directly by Ath (God, if you will) to bring grace to the world. You see, these dragons had the nasty habit of running amok with their creative magic, which led to countless horrors and destructions, foremost among them several genocidal nightmare races destroying every living thing.

An interesting feature of the setting is that, while it on first glance looks medieval, it is in fact a sci-fi setting. The prime human movers, the seven super-powerful sorcerers known as the Fellowship of the Seven, arrive on Athera over 10,000 years before the books start. Their arrival is caused by the dragons, who magically pull their spaceship on collision course, and subsequently transform these humans into immortal creatures with mind-boggling power. Their task? To use that power to protect Paravian survival at all cost.

And so they do. Over thousands of years, they hunt the drakespawn to extinction. Interestingly, when the dragon imperative doesn’t bind them, they commit themselves to the Law of the Major Balance: a Paravian concept where no “no force of nature should be used without consent, or against the will of another living being”. Throughout the books, we see the sorcerers ask permission of every sentient being before engaging their power. In Wurts’ vision, not only humans or animals have sentience; so do plants and even inanimate matter. All that is, vibrates; consent is aligning the frequency of what you do to be in harmony with a being’s core resonance. Here we see Wurts’ devotion to music, something I will return to.

After safeguarding the Paravians from the drakespawn, the Fellowship’s past comes back to haunt them: the remnants of mankind travel through space following thousands of years of catastrophic interplanetary conflict; conflict instigated in no small part because of the Big Weapon created by seven scientists now known as the Fellowship. Struck with remorse, the Fellowship ask the Paravians if mankind can settle on Athera, taking responsibility for their conduct. What follows is six thousand years of monarchy, where the kings (and the nobility) are those humans who last longest when exposed to the Paravians’ mystic presence. The royal bloodlines are all engineered by the Fellowship to have a dominant trait (justice, compassion, and so on). Ordinary humans live in towns and cities, while the wilds remain proscribed. Technology remains forcibly limited to medieval standards; some humans’ attempts to discover gunpowder get them expelled to a splinter world.

This decision spectacularly backfires, since the experimenters’ offspring eventually create a technology that traps live spirits in mist fields. When the mist fields spiral out of control, this entity – referred to as the Mistwraith – swallows their entire world, devours everyone’s spirit in the process, and oozes back towards Athera to smother that world too. At the same time, a conspiracy of necromancers and the Koriani (the Fellowship’s prime antagonists, more on which later) overthrows the monarchies, resulting in chaos and extermination of the noble clans. In utter chaos, descendants of the royal bloodlines are smuggled to another splinter world. The Paravians depart the mist-cloaked continent for an unknown destination, leaving the understaffed Fellowship to manage affairs.

Centuries later, two of the royal heirs, Lysaer s’Ilessid and Arithon s’Ffalenn, return to Athera and are swept up by the Fellowship. Their elemental power manages to disperse the Mistwraith, restoring sunlight. However, the wraith’s counterstroke curses the two half-brothers to seek to destroy each other whenever they meet. Arithon, being mage-trained, has some control over the curse, but Lysaer succumbs wholesale. Over the next centuries, events spiral out of control, with large-scale war and small-scale tragedy marring Paravia’s surface. Along the way, the dragons and Paravians eventually return to our attention, the Fellowship is restored to its full strength, and at the very end, the Mistwraith is defeated; even if not all its evil has been undone.

Assessment

TWoLaS is an epic fantasy cycle, on the scale of grandeur of a Wheel of Time or Stormlight Archive. The plot spans centuries (with elaborate backstory going back tens of thousands of years), yet remains tightly knit and focused on a core set of characters. The magic is expansive and rich yet never feels contrived or mechanical; I am impressed with how naturally she merges the magical mechanics with her conception of the world and the story. The human tragedy in these stories is very compelling to me. At multiple points in the books I got almost physically unwell because of the agony suffered by Arithon and his friends, or because of Lysaer’s sly duplicity, or the Koriani cruelty.

That said, the books are not easy to digest. This is partly because of its greatest strength: everything is tightly plotted, from start to finish. There is no meandering here; every action from the very first results in a very natural flow of consequences, such that the series reads as the natural unfolding of a very tight beginning. However, this also means that the plot develops slowly, and can even seem repetitive. On Reddit, I found this funny comment which captures this feeling (if a bit harshly). In addition, Wurts’ prose is flowery and rich, often beautiful, but frequently very hard to actually understand. I have lost count of the times where I had to reread a passage multiple times to make sense of what actually was going on, which made the reading experience quite slow and even tiresome at times.

Nevertheless, my overall assessment of the series is very positive. It is deeply impressive to write eleven books that are this tightly integrated, while sacrificing seemingly very little in terms of core vision. The underlying morality moved me deeply; the magic of the setting is beautifully evocative; the worldbuilding is excellent. I recommend this series wholeheartedly.

Ultimately, I think the concepts explored in the series are perhaps the most interesting aspect of the books. With that in mind, let’s get to the analysis.

Analysis

I will focus in my analysis on three themes: technology and progress, politics and human nature, and Wurts’ conception of magic and music.

Technology and Progress

I write this review from the Netherlands, a country where the horrors of polio and cholera are still within living memory yet feel incredibly distant. In the course of the twentieth century, we have managed to improve wellbeing by a staggering amount. Let me be clear: this is a victory for progress through technological change. Yet the flip side of technology is also clear: the same science that brought us improved treatment for cancer also forms the basis for nuclear weapons; our understanding of DNA can both cure disease and be used to foster eugenics. What matters, therefore, is not just technological progress per se but its direction, as forcefully argued by Daron Acemoglu.

Yet, while Acemoglu is much more skeptical of technological change as a force for good than many other growth economists, his message remains ultimately that growth is essential. Moreover, his work on institutions also emphasizes that the ultimate preconditions for prosperity are in our hands; changing institutions is no easy task, but it can be done. Likewise, steering technological change through targeted subsidies can work and has worked; witness the explosion in solar power after decades of subsidies made the technology so cost-effective to outcompete dirty alternatives.

Whether technology’s direction can be successfully steered is a central tension in Wurts’ series too. Unlike Acemoglu, however, the vision espoused by her – through the Fellowship’s ban on any post-medieval technology – clearly views technology as ultimately unsustainable. In tWoLaS, technology is all destruction, no creation. This vision on technology is most visible in the scene in the second book where Fellowship sorcerer Asandir visits the Alestron nobles who have rediscovered gunpowder:

‘I will say plainly that black powder is a first step on the path that led your forebears to destruction.’ Asandir straightened, as if flicked by a creeping small frisson of chill. ‘A first step, and a tiny one, of seeming insignificance. But the insidious progression of change its use will bring is well known to us. The result over time would spoil the green earth, then breed an enslavement of the mind beyond your most dire imagining.’

I find this hard to swallow. Certainly, technology has wreaked enormous destruction; yet it has also created marvels. Sure, Athera’s magnetic lanes mystically ensure good health so that disease and famine are unknown; no tech needed for that. Yet technology is not just about more stuff or even more material wellbeing. It presents the possibility for all of us to explore our talents and calling, not hindered by the strictures of a feudal economy. What would be my possibilities, growing up on Athera? I could work on the fields; I could be a merchant; be a soldier or do some civil service job. There are no centers of learning, surprisingly little space for the arts (more on that below), nor any other of the myriad types of job that one might choose. The Fellowship, supposedly all in favor of human dignity and free choice, condemn ordinary humans like Tarens’ family to poverty and financial fragility by denying society the kind of change that lifts all living standards.

Now, Wurts might find this a failure of the imagination on my behalf; and I will grant that being in the presence of the Paravians and their electromagnetic lanes does a lot for one’s wellbeing. Yet the series is also clear that most humans are not equipped to deal with that at all! Ordinary humans live in proscribed circumstances for thousands of years, out of some academic hope (espoused by Fellowship sorcerer Ciladis) that mankind eventually evolves to be able to live in Paravian grace. When the series closes, that point has not been reached.

While touched on during some points, there is also no serious attempt throughout the series to make this tension into the interesting conflict it could be. The Koriathain’s Prime Matriarch is supposedly motivated by her desire to restore mankind to its technological greatness, a past she can recall since her order’s crystals function like computer storage. This could have set the stage for a really tough moral dilemma: what is the direction we as society should go toward? More technology, with more opportunity yet also the risk of catastrophe? Or a magical Arcadia where opportunity is proscribed yet we are all (supposedly) happy?

In my opinion, if there is one point where the series did not deliver, it is this. This battle over technology’s limits is at the core of all plots hatched by the Koriani to thwart the Fellowship; yet it never resolves satisfactorily. Morriel/Selidie perishes through her misuse of the Waystone (whose self-destruction also conveniently burns the last ships that could return humankind to its former technology levels); Lirenda gets struck moon-eyed by the arrival of a unicorn and promptly repents all her evil plots. This is a missed opportunity, since it feels like Wurts has forced her preference on us as readers, whereas a more ambiguous ending would have both served the plot better and forced us to reflect on the not-so-easy tradeoffs involved here.

Politics and Human Nature

Wurts has frequently extolled the subtlety of her writing.¹ Exhibit A: the Fellowship-created monarchy completely shatters our preconceptions of a medieval-style monarchy. Where we might think that these people lord it over those poor townborn suckers, in actual fact they are in service to the people, not the other way around. Their main service: to liaise with the Paravians, a hazardous undertaking; and indeed, an early clue is that Arithon is the 1,504th heir to Rathain in 6,000 years, implying an enormously high deathrate among royalty. Even the ingrained idea that townborn were second-rate citizens since they had no magic is shown to be incorrect, since clan lines used to be more fluid before the Mistwraith. So far, so good: the nobility does hazardous jobs and the ordinary people are not literally discriminated.

I do not think this system of government is as novel as she claims it is; even the most depraved feudal ruler ultimately derived his legitimacy from their defense of the realm. But what is more interesting than the supposed novelty is that the Fellowship created this system de novo. In other words, there is no path dependence here: feudal rule was directly created by the immortal custodians of humankind. Paravians, incidentally, also seem to follow feudal rule (although their exalted state supposedly makes all that more ceremonial than anything).

What I find striking is that this seems to imply that hereditary rule (of an idealized type, to be sure) is an essential precondition for establishing and maintaining paradise. I was actually surprised when I finished Song of the Mysteries when royalty was re-established, after centuries of interregnum. This after we learn about sorcerer Davien’s discontent from the get-go, the bitterness felt by clanborn about their life on the outskirts, the travails of royalty while in service to the land, and so on. Here was an opportunity for something new to emerge from the cataclysms of the Wars between Arithon and Lysaer. And yet again, the perfect solution which we are supposed to embrace unreservedly is to return to the status quo.²

There are several points worth highlighting here. First, one would think that democracy (or at the very least a rapprochement between town and clan) would be superior to the old hierarchy; Tarens’ plot point seemed to work toward that goal. Yet, rather unsubtly, that ideal is quashed because we cannot trust those dastardly townborn with their zealotry and greed; and so the transgressing townborn are all killed by the Paravians (painlessly of course and in full ecstasy from their exposure to the Mysteries, but mass killing even so). Yet another dead end.

Second, this whole contrast between the pure service-led nature of the old monarchy and the corrupt ways of the town councils is in my mind an unsatisfactory way to deal with the intricacies of government. Certainly, corruption is a thing, and special interests can corrupt town councils. It just feels like a copout to magically exempt the clan hierarchies from this fallibility. Clanborn make mistakes (the s’Brydions, Jeynsa), but those are of an individual nature (or perhaps even more insidiously, family traits). There is no serious discussion of opposing interests within clans, misaligned incentives between rulers and their people, or any of the other aspects that make politics a vital plot point of many successful series (Wheel of Time, A Song of Ice and Fire, etc.).

Ultimately, what makes a system of government more or less just is the set of incentives its institutions produce for the diverse powers that be. Here, we have a magically mandated monarchy, where the monarch’s adherence to the Good is supposed to happen because of their bloodline’s magically enabled Virtue; or, if that fails, because their caithdein (shadow behind the throne) will punish their misdeeds; and, if that fails, because Asandir will get angry. As such, it is less a conception of an ideal system of government and more a description of an idealized set of people who should rule us; the form doesn’t seem to matter that much.

As evidence for that claim, consider the Rathain caithdein Cosach in book 10. He does a bad thing (hits Arithon against his will) and is then stripped of his office by Kharadmon of the Seven. In other words, the whole system collapses when the caithdein isn’t up to the job, and the Fellowship needs to browbeat them back into submission. Ultimately, then, this is not a system of judicious checks and balances, but a convenient form for the Fellowship to monitor the power wielders; democracy would be too inconvenient since the Mayors might change too frequently for them to effectively control. Hardly an ideal form of government if you ask me.

The Madisonian quote that “If angels were to govern men, neither external nor internal controls on government would be necessary” seems apt here. And because the rulers in the books are not angels, it feels inadequate to idealize a system of government that rests all power in two people (King and caithdein) and trusts them to be angels, necessitating the Fellowship to come to the rescue when the angels turn out to be human after all.

Magic and Music

The most startling aspect of the series to me was the magic. It is rich, immensely powerful in scope and scale, yet feels entirely natural. Impressively, it also ties in very naturally with her whole conception of reality, that all that is, vibrates. Magic as we call it is simply aligning once’s inner vibration (your core personality) with that of the living thing you wish to engage in your magic. This is why the Law of the Major Balance is important: it ensures harmony (in the musical sense of the word). It also exemplifies a compelling moral point made by the books: each individual is complete and special (‘unique unto Ath’), each individual deserves to be seen and heard. No ‘end justifies the means’ logic here. Intriguingly, even inanimate matter vibrates and therefore deserves to be asked consent.

Wurts is an accomplished bagpiper, and her love of music shows in the books. Most obviously, Arithon’s talent as a musician is ultimately what saves the world. The reimagining of all vibration on the electromagnetic spectrum (and beyond) as a kind of cosmic music is powerful imagery. As such, it is the most seamless integration of music in a fantasy setting I have yet encountered.

However, I am not quite satisfied with her conception of magic/music. The core problem can be traced to her instrument of training. The bagpipe is an individual instrument; although bagpipe ensembles are a thing, the instrument’s timbre is not rich enough to make these ensembles truly different in terms of color. In the books, the instrument of choice is the lyranthe, a kind of lute with silent strings that make it possible to play all kinds of chords and harmonies by yourself. The type of musician we see is your classic medieval troubadour, wandering from town to town, playing some tunes for the ordinary fellows and for the rich hobnobs alike.

There is nothing wrong with this view of music per se, but it limits the possibilities. What is most enriching about music to most of us who practice it is, as conductor Claudio Abbado put it so nicely, “l’amore per fare musicà insieme”. There is no love of making music together in Wurts’ books. This is rather surprising actually, given the whole point about music/magic making us harmonize and empathize with each other. To Wurts, music is an act of individual creativity and autonomy; invariably, Arithon’s, who through his royal gift of Compassion truly understands the nature of the listener. There is no sense that that listener would have to work together with Arithon to create something; nor do we ever see him and his beloved Elaira work together musically/magically to create something new.³

This onesidedness is not limited to humans. The Paravians have divine musicians, notably the sunchildren; and we see them blow their flutes in concert (supposedly in harmony). But there is no value-added to them working together that we learn of; no greater gift of grace or creation enabled through the melding of individual creativity and ingenuity. If ever there would be a template for Wurts’ vision of a harmonious (pun intended) society, it would be that of a chamber choir or orchestra, creating harmony through their individual voices, blending their colors to match each other, producing a combined beauty that is greater than what they could have achieved individually. There is none of that in the books. Arithon plays his guitar lyranthe, he sings, he dances; but it is always him who does the music, not a group, let alone the all-important connection between performer and audience.

Of course, orchestras are not possible in a rural economy that the Fellowship enforces; but even in medieval times, most music was communal, in the form of Gregorian chant and other religious expression. Surely, Ath’s adepts could have served that role in the book. The fact that music remains individualized and onesided (artist to audience, no two-way feedback) limits the strength of Wurts’ otherwise profound writing on music and magic.

Conclusion

Blog posts are supposed to be short and snappy; this is not an auspicious start in that regard. Nevertheless, I feel like Wurts’ vision is deep enough that it deserves to be taken seriously. I remain impressed by the series, my criticisms above notwithstanding. She challenges us to find music in our everyday life, to treat the wellbeing of the smallest among us as essential, and to dare to imagine a better future. I have learned from her books, and I am sure others will too. They deserve to be read.

Notes