Tribute to Hell by Ian Irvine

T RIBUTE TO H ELL
    Greave was sliding between the thighs of his god’s forthcoming month-bride, exulting at the conquest, when an icy finger went where no finger had gone before and a wintry voice said, Have you heard the one about the definition of savoir-faire?
    Greave had often told the joke, smugly implying that he was that very master. An inveterate seducer, he prided himself on his self-possession, but it eluded him now. The irony did not.
    Go on, then. Complete the deed.
    Not for anything could Greave continue, and now he felt the young woman grow cool beneath him. Then cold. Then freezing; the god had frozen her solid.
    Her fate will be echoed by every woman you touch , said his god, K’nacka, until you have paid for your crime and redeemed yourself. To ensure you do, I hold hostage your little sister, the one person you care about more than yourself.
    â€˜What must I do?’ said Greave, fighting to remain calm despite the absurdity of his position. He glanced over his shoulder. The god had the form of a round-bellied man, a plump, jolly little fellow, save for the agate in his eyes.
    In the High Temple, on the Altar of the Seven Gods, there is a Graven Casket.
    Spikes closed around Greave’s fluttering heart. ‘The most precious treasure of the temple. You want me to steal it.’
    No mortal may approach the casket and live. However, there is one tiny instant of time when this spell fades and a man at the end of his rope may draw near. The day after tomorrow, at precisely the fifth hour after midday, you will open the casket and take out what lies inside.
    â€˜The casket is sealed,’ said Greave. ‘It can only be opened, and then but once, by the touch of a god—’
    The touch of a god — but not a god , K’nacka corrected. He tossed down a pair of small bones held together by a silver wire. These come from the little finger of a dead god. Touch the casket with a god-bone, it will spring open, and you may safely remove the contents.
    K’nacka vanished, leaving Greave frozen in place and knowing that the task was a trap. He had to do it, but he was not going to survive, and neither was his little sister.
    Â 
    Novice Astatine was lying awake, scratching some itchy specks on her stomach, when Abbess Hildy slipped into her cell.
    â€˜The gods are weakening,’ intoned Hildy, ‘while the power of the dark princes swells. Our lost souls wail so loudly that I sometimes recognise their voices — and they all lived good lives.’
    Astatine shuddered. The abbess’s ecstatic visions were always disturbing, but this was the worst yet.
    â€˜The more sainted they were in life, the louder they shriek,’ Hildy said. ‘Something is dreadfully wrong with the world.’
    Ice was advancing from all sides on the island of Hightspall, the last surviving outpost of the empire, but that was not what Hildy was talking about. ‘What did you see this time?’ whispered Astatine.
    â€˜The wicked Margrave Greave is planning to open the Graven Casket. You must stop him.’
    â€˜Me?’ Astatine choked.
    â€˜You will journey to the High Temple and prevent this dreadful insult to the gods. Our beloved K’nacka must be weeping at the insult.’
    â€˜But I’ve taken binding vows,’ said Astatine, wringing her fingers under the covers. ‘The corruption inside me must be cleansed.’
    â€˜You take too much upon yourself,’ Hildy snapped. ‘Your sins are insignificant.’
    Astatine bowed her head. The abbess was wise, while she was a foolish, worthless novice. ‘Abbess, I’ve left the wicked world for good; I can’t go back.’
    â€˜You feel that the world abandoned you,’ said Hildy, ‘so you seek to escape it, and yourself, in closeted obedience.’
    Astatine bit the tip of her tongue to prevent an angry retort. The other novices called her ‘the mouse’ because she was so