The Wings That Bind (Deluxe Edition)
Briar Boleyn
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by Tamsyn Muir
A wisecracking swordswoman, a brilliant bone-witch rival, and a locked-house murder mystery in a decaying gothic palace make this one of the most distinctive science fantasy debuts in years.
Gideon Nav has spent her whole life trapped on the Ninth House, a grim planet of black-robed devotees, crumbling crypts, and skeleton servants. Just as she tries to escape, she is pressed into service as cavalier to Harrowhark Nonagesimus, the Ninth's young necromancer heir and Gideon's lifelong enemy. The two travel to a vast, half-ruined palace where heirs from the Emperor's other Houses compete to become immortal Lyctors. Then the competitors start dying.
The book blends several things that shouldn't fit together: baroque gothic horror, space-empire politics, a closed-circle mystery in the vein of Agatha Christie, and a voice full of internet-age snark and crude jokes. Muir's prose is dense and ornate in description and then suddenly flippant in dialogue. There is a large cast with elaborate names, much necromantic jargon, and very little hand-holding. The first act can feel disorienting.
Once the competitors are gathered in the palace, though, the puzzle-box structure pulls hard. The real engine of the novel is the prickly, hostile, slowly shifting relationship between Gideon and Harrow, which grows more complicated and more moving than the banter first suggests. It is funny, gory, and stranger than most fantasy. It is also the first book of the Locked Tomb series, and it rewards rereading once you know where it is going.
Gideon and Harrow loathe each other for reasons rooted in a shared, lonely childhood, yet the trial forces them to depend on each other completely. Their antagonism is the emotional core of the book. Muir lets the relationship evolve through grudging cooperation and painful revelation rather than easy reconciliation, which is why it lands with such weight.
Beneath the swords and skeletons is a classic closed-house whodunit. Isolated heirs explore a decaying palace, solve necromantic puzzles, and grow suspicious as bodies pile up. The structure gives the sprawling worldbuilding a tight frame, and readers who enjoy piecing together clues will find the setup unusually satisfying for a fantasy novel.
Gideon narrates in close third person with jokes, memes, and crude asides that clash deliberately with the solemn bone-cult world around her. That tonal collision is the book's signature. It keeps the darkness from becoming oppressive, and it makes the sincere moments hit harder when the humor drops away.
Each House practices a different flavor of death magic, treated almost like an academic discipline with theory, specialties, and costs. The question of what ascending to Lyctorhood demands becomes a moral question about power, loyalty, and what people owe one another, not just a contest of skill.
Many readers find the opening chapters confusing, with a large cast, ornate vocabulary, and minimal exposition. Some secondary characters blur together until late. The irreverent humor divides readers: for some it is the main draw, for others it undercuts the gothic mood. The world's larger politics and the Emperor's empire are mostly sketched here, as the sequels expand them, so readers wanting thorough worldbuilding up front may feel shortchanged. Its romance elements are more slow-burn tension than central plot.
Book details and cover from Google Books.
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