Strength isn’t measured by the ability to cause harm.
The first book in this duology,
Crier's War, was one of the stories that officially saved my sanity in 2020. I fortunately don't need as much sanity saving now, but if I did, this sequel would be very much up to the task.
This is my weird of saying that I absolutely, absolutely loved this book, and my one regret is that it eventually had to come to an end. It's going to stick with me for a very long time. This book has it all: worldbuilding that's as intricate as the Automae hearts, a twisty plot, the gorgeous vivid prose, and, of course, the wonderful, wonderful characters. My love for both Crier and Ayla kept growing as I read, and there were so many side characters who all had their distinct personalities, goals, flaws, relationships, who all felt completely alive on the page. There's a tiny scene, for example, close to the end of the book. It's a reunion between two side characters. It's less than half a page. And the amount of pure emotion there, of how that one beat pulled me in and made me care and very nearly tear up, is incredible. Nina Varela is truly a masterful storyteller.
I also felt that this book isn't just a great book; it's a great
sequel. I read a lot, and I often go through series with big gaps of time between books. I expect to be a little confused at the beginning of yet another sequel. My memory of certain details may be murky. I may be confusing some details with something from another book that had a somewhat similar plot. I expect to need to pause and look stuff up. At the same time, I really hate it when at the beginning of a book, the protagonist drops everything to think in detail about the entire plot of all previous installments in that vaguely "As you know, Bob" fashion.
With
Iron Heart, I never needed to look anything up. The important details from the previous book came up organically and naturally, when they were needed; there was always just enough reminder given to jolt my memory. I think what was happening there was that the writing appealed to my emotions rather than to my rational memory of facts and names and other minutiae. I'm a highly emotional person; feelings are my main method of perceiving the world. So when the author basically created an emotional snapshot identical to what I needed to recall from book 1 and slipped in a few details, that was enough to make me feel that I read the previous book yesterday, not over a year ago. This is a super interesting effect, and I want to be subjected to it more often.
There's a lot I want to say about the story itself, all of its turns and twists and reveals and intersection, but I'm afraid that would mean plenty of spoilers. So I'll just focus on the least spoilery detail possible: the beginning. I absolutely loved how in the beginning both leads not only found themselves adapting to very new circumstances; they also, in a way, found themselves adapting to certain aspects of each other's lifestyles while being physically very much apart. Ayla found herself in a palace with handmaids fussing over her, attending the Queen's parties and having lessons with an Automae. Crier was lost and alone, posing as a human handmaiden as much as she could, taking up with a group of human rebels for a while. It felt like their time apart indirectly helped them get closer as each of them got immersed into some of the things that shaped the other. And then, of course, their paths intersected again, and oh my god, there was so much there I want to scream about. So many little moments, all of them spoilers, all of them so
good, so varied, so full of all kinds of feeling.
Last but not least, I want to gush about how queer-positive and queer-normal the setting is. There are plenty of queer characters and queer relationships happening all around. The tales and songs are full of mentions of queer love. No one ever bats an eye on people (or Automae) being queer. It's just so beautifully
normal. At the same time, there were, I felt, a couple of moments when the prospect of romance between an Automae and a human was used as a metaphor of sorts for the real life queer experience; for figuring yourself out, for struggling with these feelings they tell you you're not supposed to have, for gradually coming to the realization that there are others like you, that you're not alone, that you're okay, that you can be yourself. It felt like having the best of both worlds: seeing queer people being completely normalized and just leading exciting lives while being queer, but also having those relatable moments recognizing our own experiences from living in the far less LGBTQ-friendly real world.
