Inspired by the glory and power of Tang dynasty China, Guy Gavriel Kay has created a masterpiece.
It begins simply. Shen Tai, son of an illustrious general serving the Emperor of Kitai, has spent two years honoring the memory of his late father by burying the bones of the dead from both armies at the site of one of his father’s last great battles. In recognition of his labors and his filial piety, an unlikely source has sent him a dangerous gift: 250 Sardian horses.
You give a man one of the famed Sardian horses to reward him greatly. You give him four or five to exalt him above his fellows, propel him towards rank, and earn him jealousy, possibly mortal jealousy. Two hundred and fifty is an unthinkable gift, a gift to overwhelm an emperor.
Wisely, the gift comes with the stipulation that Tai must claim the horses in person. Otherwise he would probably be dead already…
-Nancy Pearl, Book Commentator NPR “Morning Edition”
“A magnificent epic, flawlessly crafted, that draws the reader in like a whirlwind and doesn’t let go.”
-The Huffington Post
“Guy Gavriel Kay’s fictional rendition of the Tang dynasty of ancient China in Under Heaven reads almost as a historical document. For anyone who enjoys a smart political thriller, a historical recreation or a good ghost story, this novel offers all three in an immensely readable union.”
“Guy Gavriel Kay, hunting in the twilight zone between fact and dream, has written a shimmering novel, a fantasia on T’ang China, the epitome of Chinese civilization, as beautiful and as alien as the rings of Saturn… a beautiful, compulsive read…”
“Under Heaven is virtually everything a reader could want in a book: a thrilling adventure, a love story, a coming-of-age tale, a military chronicle, a court-intrigue drama, a tragedy and on and on. It is a sumptuous feast of storytelling, a beautifully written tale with a beating, breaking heart at its core that will have readers in tears by its final pages.”
-Globe and Mail (Canada)
It actually feels strange to do the math, but I’ve been living with Under Heaven for over seven years now. Makes it harder, and more complex, to have it finally being published, no longer just ‘mine’ but out there in the world.
In 2003, around when I was finishing my tour for Last Light of the Sun, I started doing some reading about the Silk Road. I thought there might be a book for me in this, I saw it as a way of sneaking up on China, so to speak. I could use outsider characters to enter an eastern setting, to serve as ‘windows’ for the reader.
So I made the decision to explore this for my next book, and then my wife and I made another decision: we decided that it was a good year for us to live abroad again, with our sons, back in the south of France where we’d been before on writing trips, but not for a decade.
We sorted out (not always easily) the arrangements, and flew overseas. I took a suitcase of books (excess luggage, big time) about the Silk Road and about the countries along the way—in various periods. I didn’t know just what I was going to do, but it would focus on this.
Or so I thought. When we arrived back in Aix en Provence in the late summer of 2004 I was, almost immediately, overwhelmed by the sensory richness of the place, the history, even the changes in ten years. I was hijacked, kidnapped, abducted. The intensity of my response to where we were immediately started taking shape as a novel. I fought it for awhile. But if I’ve learned anything over the years, it is that you can’t fight a book that wants to be written. Or at least—I can’t. What emerged from that year abroad was Ysabel, generously rewarded with a World Fantasy Award.
What followed, as I began preparing myself in 2007 for what to do next, was a return to the ‘eastern book’. But something had changed. After those intervening years I somehow found myself more urgently moving towards China itself—treated with my own ‘quarter turn’ towards the fantastic, as one reviewer has described what I do.
The novel which became Under Heaven, was no longer a Silk Road book. Now, as I read and made notes and corresponded with scholars around the world, the new book was going to be inspired by and anchored in the glittering, glorious, sophisticated, violently dangerous Tang Dynasty of the 8th century. One of the absolute high points of civilization—anywhere.
Theirs was a world where the capital city, Changan, held two million people at a time when London and Paris were market towns of fifteen to twenty thousand. The imperial court received pearls and aromatic woods from the south, amber from the farthest north, music (and musicians) from the west beyond the deserts, and they believed the islands of the eastern coast were home to immortals and that fox-women could steal men’s souls at night. They feared tigers, with cause. Courtiers and courtesans mixed with soldiers and poets, astrologers and holy men, all circling the emperor, the ‘Son of Heaven’.
As always, I use the fantastic as a way of being up-front about the idea that there is a space between the novel I write (the novel you read) and the real people and time and place. There are gifted writers who try (often brilliantly) to erase this space. I celebrate it, I value it, I find it artistically and ethically empowering. And then, as the book appears, my hope—always—is that readers find both power and pleasure, and perhaps something as seductive as music heard late at night, in the experience of Under Heaven.