Agyar is something as unusual—and quietly impressive—as a vampire novel that never once uses the word vampire. Every hint is indirect, every clue oblique. Instead of being told what Agyar is, the reader is left to piece it together through small, carefully concealed references. That alone makes the novel intriguing: it reads like a mystery, where the truth slowly emerges through implication rather than exposition.
But Agyar is not just a mystery, nor merely an unconventional vampire novel. At its heart, it is also a love story—one that digs into ideas of redemption, the possibility of goodness in something fundamentally monstrous, and the question of whether love can redeem evil, or at least restrain it.
I find myself wondering how the book was originally marketed, because it would be fascinating to read it entirely cold, without knowing its genre in advance. That said, knowing that this is a vampire novel does not really diminish the experience. The pleasure lies in the journey—spotting the clues, appreciating the restraint, and watching Brust trust the reader to keep up.
As ever, Brust’s prose is a delight. Even when the story itself did not fully grip me, I found myself smiling at turns of phrase and enjoying the act of reading. With Brust, the telling is often as important as the tale being told, and Agyar is no exception.
Agyar himself is clearly not a nice man. He does horrible things, and Brust never really lets the reader forget that. Yet his constant fight against his own animal instincts—his attempts at restraint and self-control—does engender sympathy. He is not redeemed by denial of what he is, but by resistance to it. The final scenes of the book, in particular, do a great deal to redeem him in the eyes of the reader, even if they do not absolve him.
One of the more interesting aspects of the novel is following Agyar’s internal journey. He begins in a kind of weary indifference—to his fate, to the trap that has been set for him, and perhaps even to himself. Slowly, that indifference gives way to a need to act, fueled largely by love. Even though he is ultimately unable to fully change what is coming, the Agyar who faces his fate at the end of the book is not the same one we meet at the beginning.
Structurally, the book has a diary-like format, with each chapter presented as typed recollections of recent events. The narrative jumps around, as diaries tend to do, which adds to the slightly aimless feel of the story and mirrors Agyar’s own drifting existence. It works well thematically, even if it occasionally makes the story feel meandering.
That said, I did not find Agyar as compelling as Brust’s Vlad Taltos novels or his other Dragaeran books. I enjoyed those more overall. Still, it is always interesting to see Brust stretch himself, demonstrating the breadth of his talent and his willingness to try something different.
This does make it a difficult book to recommend. It is far from an ideal entry point for readers new to Brust, and it is probably not a great choice for someone actively seeking traditional vampire fiction. Agyar sits somewhat awkwardly between categories.
Thematically, the novel explores familiar territory: what it means to be human, questions of morality, and the blurred lines between good and evil. These are staples of good horror. While Brust does not necessarily break new ground here, the way he approaches these ideas—quietly, indirectly, and with a surprising tenderness—keeps them interesting.
As is often the case when Brust experiments, the results are mixed—at least for me. The book is unlike almost anything else I have read, which I admire, even if it does not always work. I can easily see how some readers might find it slow or even boring. Much depends on what expectations one brings into the book.
In the end, Agyar is an interesting and thoughtful experiment. It may not be my favourite Brust novel, but it is a compelling meditation on restraint, love, and redemption—and a reminder that even monsters can change, if only a little, before the end.
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