One of those dark brows lifted in gentle scorn. “The highest possible, always.
But the service has to be one I wish to render … and the coin of payment must
be such as will please me. I have my own priorities, you see. But you haven’t
told me clearly what the service is.”
“We want to go to hell,” Siveni said.
Ischade smiled, tastefully restraining herself from the several obvious replies.
“It’s easily enough done,” she said. “Those gates stand open night and day, to
one who knows their secrets. But retracing your steps, finding your way to the
light again … there’s work, there’s a job indeed. And more of a job than usual
for you two.” She looked over at Siveni. “You’ve never been mortal at all; you
can’t die. And though you’ve had experience at being mortal, you apparently
haven’t died yet. And only the dead walk in hell.”
Mriga’s omniscience spoke in her mind’s ear. “Gods have gone there before,” she
said. “It’s not as if it’s never been done.”
“Some gods,” Siveni said, “have gone and not come back.” She looked at Mriga in
warning, silently reminding her of the daughter of Dene Blackrobe, merry
Sostreia: once maiden goddess of the spring, and now the queen and bride of
hell, awful and nameless.
“Yes,” Ischade said, “there is always some uncertainty about the travels of gods
in those regions.” Yet her eyes were inward-turned, musing; and a tick of time
later, when they focused on Mriga again, the goddess knew she had won. There was
interest there, and the hope that something would happen to relieve the terrible