Just as someone's palate changed over time, so too might their sense of a metal change. ...Remarkable, and ominous, was the fact that it had happened now. Remarkable was what it had changed to.
He was never again going to be able to touch iron without remembering this: the wine cellar. The door. Kissing Evemer. It was imprinted on him permanently, written into his fingerprints. [loc. 5248]
The sultan of Araşht, Zeliha, has just given birth, and her brother Kadou is torn between relief that he's lower in the succession and anxiety that the baby's father, Siranos, is untrustworthy. His anxiety has frightful consequences, and he's assigned a new bodyguard, the upright and stoic Evemer. Evemer judges the prince to be careless, flighty and negligent ... until he comes to know him better. And when the two become involved in political and financial skulduggery, there is plenty of opportunity for both to show their mettle.
This is a romance in a fantasy setting, rather than a fantasy novel with romantic elements: the emphasis is very firmly on Kadou and Evemer's evolving relationship, and their interactions with those around them. The worldbuilding is tantalising (sea serpents!) and there's little more than a glimmer of magic: Kadouhas the rare ability to sense the purity of any metal, and this manifests as a kind of synaesthesia. There are gods, but they remain firmly in the realm of the hypothetical.
One aspect of A Taste of Gold and Iron that I very much admired was its handling of mental health issues. Kadou is plagued by anxiety, panic attacks and overthinking: Evemer in particular -- but also Zeliha, Tadek and others -- are supportive and compassionate, and recognise the value of Kadou's various coping mechanisms. I also applaud the notion of the temple aunts, who are more therapist than priestess.
Araşhti society is refreshingly free of prejudice: women, or oryasilar (third-gender persons) are at least as likely as men to be in positions of power, and same-sex relationships are unremarkable. (At one point Zeliha is trying to broker a marriage between Kadou and a fine-looking nobleman from a neighbouring country.) There are three categories of fatherhood, none of which Siranos seems to understand at all; there are the kahya, who are not mere guards or servants but the future political elite; there is weaponised etiquette. And there are many very likeable secondary characters, especially Tadek (Kadou's ex-kahya and ex-lover, who has wit and heart) and Tenzin, a satyota (truth witch) who has some of the best lines in the novel.
There were some aspects of the novel that jarred. Kadou is named after the word for 'gift' in Vintish -- which, yes, is actually, literally French. ('all the Vintish servants kept coming in to stand around my crib and coo, cadeau, un cadeau, un tel cadeau' [loc. 1275]). Everything else is secondary-world: why not invent the Vintish language too? There are also some moments where the protagonists make poor decisions, which seem out of character: even when exhausted / imprisoned / panicking, both Kadou and Evemer are (almost always) fearsomely competent. And the pacing sometimes feels uneven.
But still, I loved it. The slow-burn romance; the plethora of romance tropes (only one bed! kissing to allay suspicion!); the emphasis on respect and reciprocity in what could have been a tragically unequal partnership; the ways in which Kadou and Evemer initially underestimate one another, and the openheartedness with which they negotiate their evolving relationship.
Thanks to the publisher and Netgalley for the advance review copy, in exchange for this honest review. UK publication date 01 September 2022.
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