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MacAvoy has a way of bringing me into every scene, using precise language and memorable detail:
"His mind was flooded with the memory of this very pasture in the green of summer, when his father would treat the sheep with tar poultices and incantation. Grass up to his half-grown knees, except where the flocks had cropped it. It had been cool then, in the mountains, but pleasant. Sheep's milk. Napping at midday, surrounded by curious, odorous, half-grown lambs."
I wish MacAvoy hadn't killed off my favorite characters, one by one, but it is a tribute to the power of her writing that I kept reading, anyway. I was hooked. I had to know how her trilogy ended.
If history is fair to fantasy authors, Damanio and his lute and his little, talking dog will outlast all of the overblown 'ologies' of Brooks, Goodkind, and Stephen King.