Lord of the Empty Isles
A young man seeking revenge realises he’s fighting the wrong person, in a space opera that explores grief and loss.
Plot summary
Five years ago, Remy’s older brother Cameron was killed by the pirate Idrian Diraciel, and he’s been looking for revenge ever since. He finally gets a sample of Diraciel’s blood to perform a “withering” – a magical curse that killed Cameron and will kill Diraciel in the same slow, painful way. Unfortunately for him, Remy discovers that he’s “fate bound” to Diraciel, and has doomed himself to die in the same way.
Shortly after, Remy and his friend Tirani get picked up by Diraciel and join his crew, all of them fatebound and doomed by the same curse. Initially Remy is full of hate for Diraciel, blaming him for his brother’s death, but then he starts to see what’s going on.
The “Empty Isles” are desolate moons that orbit the planet Verdine, where enemies of the state are imprisoned for “crimes”. Diraciel is stealing the supplies they need to survive, because the Verdine government is deliberately starving them, and gradually leaving them to die. Water, fuel, air – all scarce resources, and even Diraciel’s valiant effort can only slow down the dying.
Remy spends an extended time in one of these prisons, where he sees the effect first-hand – he watches people die, run out of oxygen, and the devastation caused when one of the sectors loses pressure and kills everyone inside. He also learns that Idrian suffered similar losses to him, when his younger sister died in one of the prisons. The cycle of pain goes round and round.
The doctor and de-facto leader Yves realises that Remy caused the withering, and threatens to reveal his secret. After several failed attempts to stop the withering, Remy and Idrian see the bigger plot: the Chancellor is trying to wipe out the prison colonies and his political enemies with them, and frame Idrian for the disaster. They infiltrate a festival and expose his corruption; he’s arrested and new leadership takes over.
Remy and Idrian find a way to sever the withering, and Remy is finally able to mourn his brother and let go of his hate.
My thoughts
This book shines in its exploration of grief, loss, and the perpetuation of harm. Remy’s grief for Cameron causes him to wither Idrian; Idrian still mourns the death of his 3-year-old sister Astrid; Yves’ rage causes him to threaten Remy for withering Idrian’s crew. What is the purpose of that rage? Does it help us and guide us, or does it drive us into the ground?
I enjoyed this book, especially the extended stay in the prison on Alta. It paints a vivid picture of the suffering, and even though it’s a “neater” version than real refugee camps, it makes the point. Space is dangerous and it’s always trying to kill you, and an unsupported colony is running on borrowed time. I especially liked the disabling aspect of living in space, when Idrian finds it harder to walk on the planet.
The book struggles to illustrate the politics with the same depth. The ending wraps up in the neat way that only works in fiction, and the geography feels quite small. Although it talks about planets and moons, this felt more like the struggle of a small country. (I wonder if it makes more sense to imagine the “moons” as being atop high mountains, and “spaceships” are really airplanes.)
The tether system introduces some interesting ideas that are barely used – Remy must give up a song to cast the withering, which reminds me of antimemetics, and Idrian’s crew are very excited to discover Tirani is a weaver, which is the last time her skills are mentioned or used.
With the exception of the Chancellor, the characters feel well-rounded and three-dimensional. Yves is particularly terrifying, especially when contrasted with Idrian – both want to look after people, but Yves is making more calculated and callous decisions. One of the first things he says is “giving oxygen to Beni is a waste, she won’t live long”; a cold-hearted prediction which comes true within the next chapter or two.
This was the March 2026 book for the London Ace Book Club, but I forgot it was meant to have any ace rep and just enjoyed it as a space opera. The rep is light; the book is about found families and friendships and doesn’t involve any romantic or sexual relationships (or lack of).
Quotes and highlights
Chapter three, in one of the few hints that Remy is aro-ace:
It rarely occurs to them to ask if he’s looking for one. Remy’s always known it’s all right to like whoever he likes. Cam fell in love with a new person each month. The boy in the garden with the sharp jawline and soft words. The blacksmith’s daughter with her reckless grin and laughter like poetry. The tall artist by the shore with their black hair twisted in a silky bun and fingers stained with clay. For Cam, the answer to the question of attraction was all of the above. For Remy, it’s always been none, and his life has been no less rich for it. He’s never longed to be desired—not how people like Fluora expect him to—so it seems useless to choke himself with clothes other people might like to see him in. Wearing what he loves and having someone who understands him at his side is enough.
Chapter five, when they’re raiding a Protectorate ship, Remy sounds the alarm, and Idrian kills a contact who he thought sold them out:
Delaciel walks like he didn’t just kill a man. Remy tries to walk like he didn’t watch someone die.
Chapter nine, when Remy finds Beni’s corpse (Beni is a young girl he met in the prison colony who died in a block collapse):
Beni is so much smaller than Cameron was, but the weight of a body is just the same. Some people talk like the wasted ones are light, but Remy has never held anything heavier than a corpse. Living limbs are so easy to lift, even when they’re trying not to be. A body with no one inside it is unspeakable, as painful as a tether with no one on the other end Remy wonders if she died afraid, if there’s anyone living who will ache for her.
Chapter fourteen, after they drain a second lake to get water for the prison colonies:
They all stop dead at the sound of a single, frayed word.
“Edie?”
Remy turns just as Idrian does.
Like she was there when they landed, Ma Windsel waits for them as they prepare to depart, hunched and alone on the shore of a mostly emptied lake.
“Why?” The moons cast the hollow of the lake in dense shadow behind her. The siphons withdraw into the Astrid with a whir.
Idrian’s blood trails after him into the cargo bay. “I’m sorry.”
Ma Windsel stands still as a statue.
She must have found her glasses, because they’re perched on her nose now. “Sorry don’t work when you do it on purpose. You told me what happened on that other island was an accident, said you’d never let it happen again.”
Idrian sags in Roca’s hold like he’d be kneeling if he could. “I’m so sorry. I had to.”
“You chose to,” Ma Windsel says. “Like I chose to believe in you. It’s in our nature to make mistakes, isn’t it?” At that, Idrian recoils, but Ma Windsel keeps going. “I have half a mind to let them find you, dear, but I know I couldn’t stop you. You go now. You live with what you brought to my home. What you took from it. You won’t be welcome here again.”
Chapter twenty, in a message that Cameron recorded for Remy before his death:
“You’ve been asking for names, and I can’t tell you, not yet. I can’t let myself be someone who survives because you killed another person to save me. Call me selfish, but I’d much rather you lived for me. You don’t need to be in such a big hurry to grow up. The way you see the world, it keeps me looking at everything the right way. Keep—keep drawing on the wallpaper, and anywhere else you want. Keep loving people with your whole heart and-collecting rocks and giving them names and making shitty porridge. It was terrible, Rem. It was so bad. I loved it. Thank you, and I’m sorry I won’t see where you go after this.”
Later in the same message, in a passage that reminds me of The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas:
“I respect the Chancellor’s caution and agree that treating our world kindly is the way to help our people thrive, but this is not the way to preserve Verdine. A planet revived at the cost of so many lives isn’t worth keeping. There’s room here for every voice that wishes to speak. You’ve got a big heart, Remy. I know you’ll understand.”
At the end of chapter twenty-two, a particularly poetic line:
Tonight. One way or another, everything will end tonight. All the wealth in this house, and the one thing it’s never been able to buy the Canta family is time.
In chapter twenty-four, when the Chancellor realises that Remy and Idrian are no longer enemies:
It is funny, in the way nightmares are funny when you wake up and realize how little sense they make. A breathy, nearly hysterical laugh tumbles past Remy’s lips, shaking him until tears roll down his cheeks. The man at the desk just continues to look embarrassingly befuddled, no doubt attempting to piece together how that conversation might have gone.
Perhaps he was expecting Remy and Idrian to go after each other—a clean resolution to his problems. The trash taking itself out. He glances between them, but by the looks of it, his examination doesn’t yield any answers.
No surprise. The Chancellor could not predict a choice he couldn’t imagine making.
The realization cuts Remy’s laughter to a tired trickle, and he slumps, exhaustion thrumming through his bones. Andrew begins to slip, and Remy’s arms go up around him. He’s tired. It’s more sad than it is funny, that the one thing this planet’s leader couldn’t predict was reconciliation and unity.
Chapter twenty-four, as Remy prepares to sever hs bond to Cam:
Cam’s been gone for years but it feels like only yesterday that he died while Remy slept in another fucking room. Remy should have been there, should’ve slept beside the bed so his brother wouldn’t have to die alone. He shouldn’t have been afraid when Cam grew so thin he was barely recognizable, an alien in his own body. He shouldn’t have gotten distracted and fidgety and impatient to play while scooping up spoonfuls of soup when Cam got too weak to hold a utensil.
He looked out the window when he could’ve looked at Cam. When he looked at his brother, he saw the end of something he couldn’t stand to let go of, so he ran out into the yard, away from the promise of loss. He should’ve talked more, should’ve asked more questions—should’ve learned every story his brother was willing to tell him. He should’ve read stories to Cam, too, should’ve told him everything, told him he loved him every time he saw him. Once for every day he wouldn’t be able to say it again. He should’ve let Cameron cry on his shoulder instead of crying onto Cam’s. A good brother would have found a way to treasure even the ugly parts. A good brother would not have slept through his last chance at goodbye.
It should hurt. Letting go shouldn’t heal him.
Later in that chapter, when Idrian and Remy dig a small memorial for Astrid and Cam:
“He’s gone.”
“No more than he was before,” Idrian says. “He would have been proud of who you’ve become. The beauty of living things is that they grow.”