Steven Erikson - Memories of Ice

High House Dark

King

Queen

Knight (Son of Darkness)

Magi

Captain

Soldier

Weaver

Mason

Wife

High House Shadow

King (Shadowthrone/Ammanas)

Queen

Assassin (the Rope/Cotillion)

Magi

Hound

Unaligned

Oponn (the Jesters of Chance)

Obelisk (Burn)

Crown

Sceptre

Orb

Throne

ASCENDANTS

Apsalar,Lady of Thieves

Beru,Lord of Storms

Burn,Lady of the Earth, the Sleeping Goddess Caladan Brood, the Warlord

Cotillion/The Rope(the Assassin of High House Shadow) Dessembrae, Lord of Tragedy D'rek, the Worm of Autumn (sometimes the Queen of Disease, see Poliel) Fanderay, She-Wolf of Winter Fener, the Boar ( see also Tennerock) Gedderone, Lady of Spring and Rebirth Great Ravens, ravens sustained by magic Hood (King of High House Death) Jhess, Queen of Weaving

Kallor,the High King

K'rul,Elder God

Mael,Elder God

Mowri,Lady of Beggars, Slaves and Serfs Nerruse, Lady of Calm Seas and Fair Wind Oponn, Twin Jesters of Chance Osserc, Lord of the Sky

Poliel,Mistress of Pestilence Queen of Dreams(Queen of High House Life) Shadowthrone/Ammanas (King of High House Shadow) Shedenul/Soliel, Lady of Health Soliel, Mistress of Healing Tennerock/Fener, the Boar of Five Tusks The Crippled God, King of Chains The Hounds (of High House Shadow) Togg ( see Fanderay), the Wolf of Winter Trake/Treach, The Tiger of Summer and Battle Son of Darkness/Moon's Lord/Anomander Rake (Knight of High House Dark) Treach, First Hero

Steven Erikson's epic fantasy sequence

continues in House of Chains, now

available from Bantam Books.

Here is the Prologue as a taster …

Verge of the Nascent, the 943rd Day of the Search, 1139 Burn's Sleep Grey, bloated and pocked, the bodies lined the silt-laden shoreline for as far as the eye could see. Heaped like driftwood by the rising water, bobbing and rolling on the edges, the putrifying flesh seethed with black-shelled, ten-legged crabs. The coin-sized creatures had only begun to make inroads on the bounteous feast the warren's sundering had laid before them.

The sea mirrored the low sky's hue. Dull, patched pewter above and below, broken only by the deeper grey of silts and, thirty strokes of the oar distant, the smeared ochre tones of the barely visible upper levels of a city's inundated buildings. The storms had passed, the waters were calm amidst the wreckage of a drowned world.

Short, squat had been the inhabitants. Flat-featured, pale-haired, the hair left long and loose. Their world had been a cold one, given the thick-padded clothing they had worn. But with the sundering, that had changed, cataclysmically. The air was sultry, damp and now foul with the reek of decay.

The sea had been born of a river on another realm. A massive, wide and likely continent-spanning artery of freshwater, heavy with a plain's silts, the murky depths home to huge catfish and wagon-wheel-sized spiders, its shallows crowded with the black-shelled, ten-legged crabs and carnivorous, rootless plants. The river had poured its torrential volume onto this vast, level landscape. Days, then weeks, then months.

Storms, conjured by the volatile clash of tropical air-streams with the resident temperate climate, had driven the flood on beneath shrieking winds, and before the inexorably rising waters came deadly plagues to take those who had not drowned.

Somehow, the rent had closed sometime in the night just past. The river from another realm had been returned to its original path.

The shoreline ahead probably did not deserve the word, but nothing else came to Trull Sengar's mind as he was dragged along its verge. The beach was nothing more than silt, heaped against a huge, cyclopean wall that seemed to stretch from horizon to horizon. The wall had withstood the flood, though water now streamed down it on the opposite side.

Bodies on his left, a sheer drop of seven, maybe eight man-heights to his right, the top of the wall itself slightly less than thirty paces across; that it held back an entire sea whispered of sorcery. The broad, flat stones underfoot were smeared with mud, but already drying in the heat, dun-coloured insects dancing on its surface, leaping from the path of Trull Sengar and his captors.

Trull still experienced difficulty comprehending that notion. Captors. A word he struggled with. They were his brothers, after all. Kin. Faces he had known all his life, faces he had seen smile, and laugh, and faces — at times — filled with a grief that had mirrored his own. He had stood at their sides through all that had happened, the glorious triumphs, the soul-wrenching losses.

Captors.

There were no smiles, now. No laughter. The expressions of those who held him were fixed and cold.

What we have come to.

The march ended. Hands pushed Trull Sengar down, heedless of his bruises, the cuts and the gouges that still leaked blood. Massive iron rings had been set, for some unkown purpose, by this world's now-dead inhabitants, along the top of the wall, anchored in the heart of the huge stone blocks. The rings were evenly spaced down the wall's length, at each intervals of fifteen or so paces, for as far as Trull could see.

Now, those rings had found a new function.

Chains were wrapped around Trull Sengar, shackles hammered into place around his wrists and ankles. A studded girdle was cinched painfully tight around his midriff, the chains drawn through iron loops and pulled taut to pin him down beside the iron ring. A hinged metal press was affixed to his jaw, his mouth forced open and the plate pushed in and locked in place over his tongue.

The Shorning followed. A dagger inscribed a circle on his forehead, followed by a jagged slash to break that circle, the point pushed deep enough to gouge the bone. Ash was rubbed into the wounds. His long single braid was removed with rough hacks that made a bloody mess of his nape. A thick, cloying unguent was then smeared through his remaining hair, massaged down to the pate. Within a few hours, the rest of his hair would fall away, leaving him permanently bald.

The Shorning was an absolute thing, an irreversible act of severance. He was now outcast. To his brothers, he had ceased to exist. He would not be mourned. His deeds would vanish from memory along with his name. His mother and father would have birthed one less child. This was, for his people, the most dire punishment — worse than execution by far.

Yet, Trull Sengar had committed no crime.

And this is what we have come to.

They stood above him, perhaps only now comprehending what they had done.

A familiar voice broke the silence. 'We will speak of him now, and once we have left this place, he will cease to be our brother.'

'We will speak of him now,' the others intoned, then one added, 'He betrayed you.'

The first voice was cool, revealing nothing of the gloat that Trull Sengar knew would be there, 'You say he betrayed me.'

'He did, Brother.'

'What proof do you have?'

'By his own tongue.'

'Is it just you who claims to have heard such betrayal spoken?'

'No, I too heard it, Brother.'

'And I.'

'And what did our brother say to you all?'

'He said that you had severed your blood from ours.'

'That you now served a hidden master.'

'That your ambition would lead us all to our deaths-'

'Our entire people.'

'He spoke against me, then.'