Eon – Alison Goodman

Publishers’ Summary:
“Sixteen-year-old Eon has a dream, and a mission. For years, he’s been studying sword-work and magic, toward one end. He and his master hope that he will be chosen as a Dragoneye – an apprentice to one of the twelve energy dragons of good fortune. But Eon has a dangerous secret. He is actually Eona, a sixteen-year-old girl who has been masquerading as a twelve-year-old boy. Females are forbidden to use Dragon Magic; if anyone discovers she has been hiding in plain sight, her death is assured. When Eon’s secret threatens to come to light, she and her allies are plunged into grave danger and a deadly struggle for the Imperial throne. Eon must find the strength and inner power to battle those who want to take her magic . . . and her life.”

For the sake of this introductory paragraph, think of days in terms of dog years. In that respect, it’s been ages since I finished Eon (and its sequel, Eona). Too much time has gone by for me to recapture my immediate reaction to either book, but one thought has stuck: I didn’t love it as much as I anticipated.

Several aspects of the book(s) worked for me: I loved the idea and depiction of the dragons; the political machinations whirring behind the scenes, manipulating and motivating every character that crossed the page, kept the slow and steady pace on track, upping the stakes at each turn; and I heartily appreciated the main antagonist’s palpable menace, his changeable charm, in spite of the too simple reasoning behind his actions. Eon’s world-building was nicely crafted; the setting was refreshing; and the story told in a manner that engaged nearly all of my senses.

My primary sticking point with the books turned out to be Eon/Eona herself. As a general rule, I enjoy reading about deeply human characters, which is exactly what Eon/Eona was. Attempting to navigate a torn, obstacle-ridden inner landscape, the result of a painful, some might say curse-struck childhood, Eon/Eona’s sense of self constantly seemed to stretch like a rubber band that might snap between one decision and the next. Every troubled thought, every defiant action, and the way she bore up under the criticism, hostility and derision cast her way because of her disability, provided plenty of fodder for sympathy and appreciation. Not far into the novel, however, I realized that my appreciation wasn’t transitioning into like; I wasn’t wholly sympathetic to her plight, and some elusive thing was frustrating me. Without being fully invested in her character, the highs and lows she experienced were viewed from a distance; it was like witnessing an earthquake without feeling the tremors. And the side effects didn’t stop there: the romance, which transpired moreso in Eona, and was, I think, purposely understated, didn’t stir me in any real way because I couldn’t connect with one half of the pair. As always, keep in mind that every word of this paragraph is based on a personal reaction, one that is definitely in the minority going on the glowing reviews I read prior to picking up the book.

Why so many readers loved this duology is understandable; I can recognize the books’ merits, despite my feelings (or lack thereof) toward the main protagonist, and agree that the story-telling was strong and ultimately well-done. On that positive note, I will assuredly pick up Alison Goodman’s next offering.