Marking the return of many characters from Gardens of the Moon and introducing a host of remarkable new players, Memories of Ice is both a momentous new chapter in Steven Erikson's magnificent epic fantasy and a triumph of storytelling.Ī triumph of storytelling and the latest thrilling chapter in Steven Erikson?s magnificent fantasy. Rumors abound that the Crippled God is now unchained and intent on a terrible revenge. For it would seem something altogether darker and more malign threatens this world. In its path stands an uneasy alliance: Onearm's army and Whiskeyjack's Bridgeburners alongside their enemies of old-the forces of the Warlord Caladan Brood, Anomander Rake and his Tiste Andii mages, and the Rhivi people of the plains.īut ancient undead clans are also gathering the T'lan Imass have risen. Like a tide of corrupted blood, it seethes across the land, devouring all. Until comes a time when one final lie is voiced, the one that can only be answered by rage, by cold murder, and on that day, blood shall rain down every wall of this vaunted, weaning society.The ravaged continent of Genabackis has given birth to a terrifying new empire: the Pannion Domin. They will lie, and in time, such liars will convince themselves, will in all self-righteousness divest the liars of culpability. Liars will lie, and continue to do so, even beyond being caught out.

Once subsumed, ideals and the honour created by their avowal can never be regained, except, alas, by outright, unconstrained rejection, invariably instigated by the commonry, at the juncture of one particular moment, one single event, of such brazen injustice that revolution becomes the only reasonable response. Truth was lost, a chimera reshaped to match agenda, prejudices, thus consigning the entire political process to a mummer’s charade of false indignation, hypocritical posturing and a pervasive contempt for the commonry.

Lies went unchallenged, lawful pursuit became a sham, vulnerable to graft, and justice itself became a commodity, mutable in imbalance. The meanings of words lost their precision – and no-one bothered taking to task those who cynically abused those words to serve their own ambitions, their own evasion of personal responsibility. The affliction was too insipid, too much a product of our surrendering mindful regard and diligence. “Denigration afflicted our vaunted ideals long ago, but such inflictions are difficult to measure, to rise up and point a finger to this place, this moment, and say: here, my friends, this was where our honour, our integrity died.

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