The vision of a bridge likely evokes simplicity—a means to go from point A to point B. At times ornate, but more often sensible, serviceable, and functional. Yet in fiction, bridges are more than crossings; they are moments. Memorable ones.
Whether it’s the Bridge of Khazad-dûm, the Goats Gruff, Jon Orr, or, most vivid to me, a standoff between brothers—Benedict and Brand—fans of speculative fiction have crossed many bridges. With Shadowbridge, Gregory Frost offers us a world built of bridges, turning figurative pathways into literal ones. Here, bridges are not just structures—they are the story.
The town drunkard was the first to bring Leodora to Tenikemac as a baby—and he would accompany her again when she fled. This man, Soter, is the caretaker of legacy. He preserves the puppets and traditions of Bardsham, the master of shadow play, and passes them on to Bardsham’s heir.
Soter is a bridge to the past—conversant with ghosts, cloaked in secrets, and defined by contradictions. His intent seems true, yet he always moves as if hiding from something. Is it guilt, the weight of past choices? Or anticipation, waiting for the future to catch up? Or perhaps, he just enjoys his drink. There’s guilt. There’s pride. And above all, a quiet, persistent sense of duty.
Between journeys, the novel takes two striking detours. One tells the origin of the third member of the troupe, Diverus—a boy left in an abandoned home, offered as bait to a divine lottery, and then sold into service in a harem-with-a-twist: spirits included, literal and alcoholic.
A musical savant, an avatar of resonance, Diverus sings and you lose yourself. Although his tale is brief, you’re immersed before realizing you’ve left one narrative for another—it was always about Diverus, wasn’t it? Until the story loops back, and a familiar face in the crowd reminds you where you began.
The other detour is mythic—a recurring tale of a fisherman and his wife. He is the original dreamer, she the keeper of endings. Their story recurs like a ritual, painting the mythology and origin of Shadowbridge itself with strokes both intimate and grand.
And then there is the fourth member—a secret companion, an enigma that remains just so.
“There is much to life that seems random, events for which no obvious purpose is apparent even though they may compound. In the aftermath only can a pattern be discerned — missteps lead to inevitable conclusions, an inescapable fate, sometimes doom and sometimes triumph. We curse the one and pretend to be responsible for the other, while neither fortune is true.”
The most remarkable feature of Shadowbridge might be its constraint. It’s a real story—tight, purposeful, always returning to itself. Frost could have gone anywhere along these endless bridges of multiverse, and he nearly does. Yet every detour spirals back. Every step matters, even if we don’t know it yet. At once Florentine and Shinto in spirit, it never dissolves into dream logic. The characters hold it all together. If this is an experiment, they are the control.
What made Zelazny’s Amber so compelling was that, while one could feel the endless possibilities of walking through Shadow, the story was never forgotten. Frost’s work is more ambitious in perspective and structure, but no less rooted. You may briefly lose the thread, but only so it can find you again around the next corner.
Transitions from one environment—or one span—to the next are seamless. It’s not jarring absurdism. This isn’t a book that demands blind leaps of faith, even when you’re mid-jump. It maintains the authenticity of a road story. We’re not watching a finished world being deconstructed—we feel it being built beneath our feet. Frost doesn’t just tell a tale—he performs it.
Often, in fiction about troupes and travel, the journey feels like filler between the author’s passions. Or the reverse: destinations are placeholders for bonding scenes. Shadowbridge does both—and neither. Nothing feels like an extension of something else. Everything is unique. Everything is fantastic. We touch myth. We trade tales with gods. We drink beers. We cast fishing lines. We play board games with Kitsune. And we keep walking.
This is a planned duology, but you can already feel the stirrings of a larger cosmos—one that could support many more tales. Short stories, companion novels, origin myths, parades, retellings, returns. This is fertile ground for future stories in a Willingham-ish fashion.
There are echoes from Frost’s earlier works too. In Attack of the Jazz Giants and Other Stories, a Sturgeon-finalist tale—How Meersh the Bedeviler Lost His Toes—is subtly referenced. As Leodora inspects her puppets:
“The figure of Meersh stood alone and somehow wretched.”
Later, the master storyteller commands the trickster: “Go back to your own story.”
It’s a beautiful moment. Not showy. Not loud like Valente, whose work sings and screams and makes us love both equally. Frost charms more like Paul Park—quiet, exacting, lyrical. A harpist in the wind. There are flashes of my most beloved reads here, but only in passing. Shadowbridge forms its own vision.
When reaching the end of the first book in a series, readers often feel anticipation, dissatisfaction, contentment—or sometimes, a strange unease. Frost leaves us with a sense of completion and continuation. A story well told—and the promise of more. It’s hard not to recall the old phrase: we build too many walls and not enough bridges.
We’ve crossed one already. And we look back and forward at once—feeling not just hopeful for a worthwhile journey, but certain we’re already in the middle of one. We chase it, and yet somehow, it chases us too.
At just under 300 pages, Shadowbridge offers a richer, more immersive experience than many multi-volume sagas with swords and secrets. You can trip on its shadow.
I’m hooked. Between the serenity of a fisherman’s dream and the chaos of gods who interrupt it, Frost offers a place we all might find ourselves. One of the best reads of the year—and this is only the beginning.
This year, I’ve been walking. The best books I’ve found came when I crossed a bridge.
*check out my interview with Gregory Frost.