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Reviews (3)
Publisher's Weekly Review
Fans of Neville's debut, The Eight (1988), which long before there was a Da Vinci Code featured a complex historical setting, ciphers, conspiracies, puzzles and a hunt for an object that could change the course of the world, will welcome this stellar sequel. Alexandra Solarin, child chess prodigy now grown, finds herself immersed in "the Game," searching for a legendary chess set, the Montglane Service, which when assembled spells out the formula for the secret of immortality. The quest for the set ranges from the harem of Ali Pasha in 19th-century Albania to present-day Baghdad and Washington, D.C., and involves such historic figures as Charlemagne, Isaac Newton, Lord Byron and Napoleon. Despite the staggering amount and quality of the research, nothing feels shoehorned or extraneous. The story's relentless pace is matched by characters both sympathetic and real. In the end, readers will be heartened to find signs pointing to the continuation of the Game in future novels. (Oct.) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved
Booklist Review
Twenty years after The Eight, Neville finally unveils the next chapter in Cat Velis' story. Alexandra Solarin, Cat's daughter, receives an invitation from her mom to visit her in Colorado. When Alexandra arrives, she finds that her mother has vanished and that the clues left behind reveal a sinister mystery. To find her mom, Alexandra will have to pursue the same game that Cat did years earlier, searching for the pieces of an ancient chess set with mystical properties. Unfortunately, the people accompanying her on her journey might not be trustworthy. Alexandra's quest is intertwined with the story of a young girl in 1822 named Haidee, faced with a parallel challenge involving the great English poet Lord Byron. Fans of The Eight who have long awaited the rest of the story will be delighted with this entrancing blend of history, chess, and high adventure.--Ayers, Jeff Copyright 2008 Booklist
Library Journal Review
Dan Brown stands on the shoulders of a giant. Twenty years have passed since Neville (A Calculated Risk; The Magic Circle) transfixed readers with her debut novel, The Eight. No one knew how to categorize it; part historical novel, part contemporary thriller, the book became a cult favorite. Patience is a virtue, and Neville's fans are a virtuous lot. Here is their reward. Set 30 years after the events of The Eight, the game that we thought ended has resumed with new players (although familiar characters figure into the plot in some way), and it returns as dangerous as ever. For those who haven't read The Eight, there are some innovative plot recap devices, but fans may want to treat themselves to a delectable reread first. Neville deftly employs time-shifting storytelling and casts historical figures in her story with such dexterity that you are sure all these people must really have known one other. Ingenious puzzles, enthralling historical ambience, and masterful plot twists abound. More please! Highly recommended for all popular fiction collections. [See Prepub Alert, LJ 6/1/08.]--Laura A.B. Cifelli, Fort Myers-Lee Cty. P.L., Fort Myers, FL (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Excerpts
Excerpts
THE BLACK LAND Wyrd oft nereth unfaegne eorl, ponne his ellen deah. (Unless he is already doomed, fortune is apt to favor the man who keeps his nerve.) -Beowulf Mesa Verde, Colorado Spring 2003 BEFORE I'D EVEN REACHED THE HOUSE, I KNEW SOMETHING was wrong. Very wrong. Even though on the surface, it all seemed picture-perfect. The steep, sweeping curve of drive was blanketed deep in snow and lined with stately rows of towering Colorado blue spruce. Their snow-covered branches sparkled like rose quartz in the early morning light. Atop the hill, where the driveway flattened and spread out for parking, I pulled up my rented Land Rover in front of the lodge. A lazy curl of blue-gray smoke rose from the moss rock chimney that formed the center of the building. The rich scent of pine smoke pervaded the air, which meant that-although I might not be warmly welcomed after all this time-at least I was expected. To confirm this, I saw that my mother's truck and jeep were both sitting side-by-side in the former horse stable at the edge of the parking area. I did find it odd, though, that the drive had not yet been plowed and there were no tracks. If I were expected, wouldn't someone have cleared a path? Now that I was here at last, in the only place I'd ever called home, you would think I could finally relax. But I couldn't shake the sense that something was wrong. Our family lodge had been built at about this same period in the prior century, by neighboring tribes, for my great-great-grandmother, a pioneering mountain lass. Constructed of hand-hewn rock and massive tree trunks chinked together, it was a huge log cabin that was shaped like an octagon-patterned after a hogan or sweat lodge-with many-paned windows facing in each cardinal direction, like a vast, architectural compass rose. Each female descendant had lived here at one time or another, including my mother and me. . . . So what was wrong with me? Why couldn't I ever come here without this sense of impending doom? I knew why, of course. And so did my mother. It was the thing we never spoke about. That's why-when I had finally left home for good-my mother understood. She'd never insisted, like other mothers, that I come back for familial visits. That is, not until today. But then, my presence today hadn't exactly been by invitation-it was more of a summons, a cryptic message that Mother had left on my home phone back in Washington D.C., when she knew very well I'd be off at work. She was inviting me, she said, to her birthday party. And that, of course, was a big part of the problem. You see, my mother didn't have birthdays. She'd never had birthdays. I don't mean she was concerned about her youth or appearance or wished to lie about her age-in fact, she looked more youthful each year. But the strange truth was, she didn't want anyone outside of our family even to know when her birthday was. This secrecy, combined with a few other idiosyncracies-like the fact that she'd been in hermetic retreat up on top of this mountain for the past ten years, ever since . . . the thing we never spoke about-all went far to explain why there were those who may have perceived my mother, Catherine Velis, as a pretty eccentric duck. The other part of my current problem was that I hadn't been able to contact my mother for an explanation of her sudden revelation. She'd answered neither her phone nor the messages I'd left for her, here at the lodge. The alternate number she'd given me was clearly not right-it was missing some final digits. With my first true inkling that something was really wrong, I'd taken a few days off work, bought a ticket, caugh Excerpted from The Fire: A Novel by Katherine Neville All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.