Prince of the Blood

I have never particularly liked fantasy literature. I have never read a single Harry Potter book, flee from Twilight as if it has rabies (I now have interesting mental pictures of rabid vampires), and the delights of Prachett and Tolkien remain largely unknown to me. Since my latest story concept requires a certain amount of fantasy worldbuilding, however, I have decided to make a foray into the genre. My first attempt: Raymond E. Feist's Prince of the Blood, chosen solely because it was the first interesting-looking fantasy novel I saw at the library this morning. The F section is right there near the entrance and I was in a hurry. 

One hundred and fifteen pages in, as of a few hours ago, and I am not engrossed. I am, however, enjoying it to a certain extent. The antics of a pair of ginger twin princes are entertaining, if occasionally irritating, and remind me oddly of some of Georgette Heyer's young heroes. I suppose what she writes is not so far from fantasy, anyway. I get the impression, with all the politics and characters mentioned, that I've dived right into the middle of a larger series; Wikipedia confirms that this is the case. Luckily, Feist is kind enough to provide exposition for the newbies. 

There's a map before the prologue, which is slightly intimidating, but it's proven extremely useful in that I've been forced to go back to it several times to check facts. That is probably a bad thing, but I'm not sure if it reflects on me or the novel. The geography, culture and politics are beautifully detailed, almost certainly a side-effect of setting a long series in one word. Descriptions are vivid, although the prose could be smoother in places. When the second sentence sets me cringing, it's not a good sign. 

What's really driving me insane right now, though, is the names. James is fine, Locklear I can handle, Borric and Erland are pushing it slightly, and Pug sends me directly over the edge. I cannot read a scene with him in without bursting out laughing, which is not a good reaction to provoke in your reader when referring to an elderly, wise gentleman, magic powers or no. Feist also has a habit of beginning every chapter with a snappy one sentence paragraph, which is effective the first time, and becomes decidedly tedious around chapter five. 

I'll definitely finish the book. I'm enjoying the idea of the hopefully impending desert fight scenes too much to abandon it now, despite my desire to slap Borric around the head and change Pug's name by deed poll.