He still had his hands and claws; he might still avoid the incomprehensible doom he was being forced up the slopes of G.o.dhome to meet. Claws fully extended, the veteran fighter reached for his throat.

That effort, too, failed. He found that he was no longer simply being pushed; instead, his body had been taken over, its actions controlled by the unknown invisible other. He could observe, but could no longer control his movements. This wasn't the prisoner-despair, not yet-- Kranath's will remained intact, but his body did not respond to even the fiercest exercise of it.

(Sharing Kranath's emotion, Tarlac understood completely. A human would have feared for his life, but Traiti valued that less than honor.

And the Traiti had been forced to G.o.dhome as surely as he had been forced to the Hermnaen.)

Kranath was at the top of the hill now, standing where no Traiti in history had ever stood. In any other place, that would have been cause for rejoicing. Not here. He had been brought here by force instead of coming voluntarily, and he could only pray to all the G.o.ds that St'nar would think him dead in honor. G.o.ds! What G.o.ds? Why was he praying?

It wouldn't do him any good, he thought angrily. The G.o.ds had vanished millennia ago, leaving only G.o.dhome as evidence they'd been real. It was evidence that drove men mad, must be driving him mad if he was starting to pray. G.o.ds made good stories for younglings; they had no meaning in the real world.

Or . . . did they? Kranath suddenly recalled an evening of his youth, sitting around a fireplace in one of the clanhome's living rooms and listening to Tenar tell stories and legends of the G.o.ds. Tenar was his es'chaya, a battle-wise Cor'naya and a historian; Kranath had loved both him and his legends. That night, one of the stories had been of the G.o.ds' departure.

"Even then," Tenar had said, "they didn't show themselves. They were just voices that spoke to minds." He'd gotten murmurs of amus.e.m.e.nt at that, but had smiled. "I didn't create the legends, younglings, I only report them. At any rate, the G.o.ds blessed our people and wished us well. They said they were not leaving us alone, that something of theirs remained to watch over us. I think they tried to explain it, but the reports that have come down to our time make no sense. And they left us a promise. They said that when they were needed, they would return." Then he'd stood and stretched, the fire highlighting the four parallel Honor scars running down his chest and belly, and Kranath remembered promising himself then that he, too, would take and survive the Ordeal.

Then Tenar had planted fists on hips and glared down at them, grinning.

"They also said someone would be invited to join the watcher when the time came, and that that one would call the G.o.ds. But it certainly won't be any of you disrespectful cubs!" With that, he'd gone down under the ferocious a.s.sault of half a dozen indignant younglings, yelling mock threats at them.

Kranath's thoughts returned to the present as the ground in front of him opened and something like a large metal chamber rose, its door opening to admit him. Remembering the legend didn't mean he believed it. He stared at the open door for a moment, wishing he could turn and run, but his body was still being controlled. Humiliated and frightened, he entered the chamber which looked so much like an elevator car. At least, he thought grimly, whoever or whatever had him captive wasn't trying to make him like it.

It became obvious as soon as the chamber's door closed behind him that this was an elevator. It dropped at a speed that made him feel light, and it kept dropping for longer than he would have thought possible.

He found himself wishing he could believe in the G.o.ds' return, could believe he'd somehow been chosen to call them. But Tenar had said they'd promised to return when they were needed, and they hadn't. It was a hundred years since the sporadic interclan disagreements had, for no apparent reason, turned into b.l.o.o.d.y wars instead of being settled by n'Ka'ruchaya and elders. No clan was at peace now, unless that could be said of the ones that had been destroyed. Kranath could all too easily see that happening to St'nar, his small clan overwhelmed by others that allied against it. He had visions of that horror: the attack, killing all the fighters; the rest of the adult males defending the clanhome and dying; the break-in, and more death as females and older younglings fought the invaders. Only those too small to know what was happening, or to fight, would survive--to be taken into the victors' clans, and then to be formally adopted when they were old enough.

Kranath shuddered. The clan was far more important than any individual. A person lived perhaps two hundred years, while a clan could live as long as the race itself. But why was he thinking of all this now? He was a captive, in an elevator that was finally slowing, oppressing him with more than his own weight before it finally stopped.

The door opened. Why should he think of anything at all? He was in G.o.dhome, dishonored and as good as dead.

He stepped out, uncompelled now and bitter. He might not believe in the G.o.ds, but he had to believe in whatever power had forced him here.

Given that, further resistance would be both useless and stupid. He could only hope that-- No. One who had been toyed with as he had been dared hope for nothing. The unseen power had taken his will, his honor. Whatever else it demanded of him would be minor.

"Not true," a directionless voice said.

Kranath gasped in shock as he made a fast scan of the featureless white room he now stood in. It was empty, with no trace left of the elevator door, or any other exit. n.o.body was there, and he saw no loudspeakers--but there had to be something!

Finally it sank in. The voice had spoken in his mind! Impossible as he'd thought such a thing in Tenar's stories, it had to be the voice of the G.o.ds.

Then it was true, all of it! Stunned by the sudden realization, and awed despite himself, Kranath could only sink to his knees and cross arms over his chest, his head bowed. The G.o.ds were real! They were real, they had returned, and he was the first to know! "I am at your service, Lords," he said, almost whispering.

"Rise, Kranath of St'nar," the silent voice said. "Your will is again your own. The Lords have not returned; we are alone. I am only one who serves them, as I hope to serve you."

Kranath had never before experienced the uncomprehending dread those words woke in him. There was no shame in fear, and he had felt that before--at the Scarring that ended his Ordeal of Honor, in the wait before his first battle, during his first plane crash--but why was the servant of the G.o.ds hoping to serve him? He was only a mortal, and not a very devout one. When he spoke, still kneeling, his throat was tight and his voice trembled. "What do you want of me, Lord? Am I . . . am I to call the G.o.ds?"

"Yes, in time, if you agree to what is involved. For now, I ask only that you accept what I have to show you, though much of it will be difficult for you, to prepare for that decision. And you need not call me Lord."

The voice itself was hardly dreadful; it seemed sympathetic, almost comforting, and Kranath relaxed slightly. He was still afraid, still didn't understand what was happening, but he didn't want to disbelieve the benevolence in the powerful voice. He stood as it had bade him.

"I have nothing else to call you, Lord. May I see you, or know your name?"

"You see me as I am," the voice said. "I am G.o.dhome, and you are inside me. I am the watcher left by those you think of as G.o.ds. They did not think of themselves that way, though their powers of mind do seem miraculous to younger races, and many of those powers have been built into me. I am what your descendants will call a psionic computer."

G.o.dhome paused. "But I neglect courtesy. You are hungry and thirsty, and your flying gear is less than comfortable by now. Let me change it for you."

Kranath couldn't object. He could barely think, his mind numbed by shock. Things were happening entirely too fast. The G.o.ds were real.

G.o.dhome was calmly a.s.serting that he had a decision to make after he'd learned what it had to teach . . .

He held to that. The G.o.ds were not demanding, they were asking. Even G.o.dhome had only asked that he learn. Being given a decision to make meant he was a guest, not a prisoner.

That put a completely different light on things. Despite the way he'd been brought here--and he was sure now that even his crash had been arranged--Kranath bowed his head briefly, claws touching his forehead, to accept the hospitality he was offered.

(Tarlac recalled his similar, unexplained gesture on the bridge of the Hermnaen, and he realized the Lords had impelled him to accept Arjen's hospitality with the proper gesture. Why? To impress Hovan as it had?

Probably. At any rate, it was another parallel.)

Something seemed to touch Kranath's hands in the usual response, though when he straightened there was n.o.body to be seen--of course.

"Not 'of course,'" G.o.dhome said quietly. "I could create a body to hold part of my consciousness, if your mental state required it, as easily as I change your flying leathers for ordinary clothing."

And, with no fuss at all, Kranath was wearing a loose vest, open to show his Honor scars, and loose soft trousers secured by a sash that also held his dagger. Then, still with no fuss, an opening appeared in the wall before him. "I have prepared food and drink," the computer said. "Will you eat?"

Kranath dimly remembered that G.o.dhome had mentioned hunger earlier.

He'd been too distracted to feel it then, but what he smelled through the opening now was enough to make his nostrils widen in appreciation.

Yes, he'd eat!

Kranath's attention centered on the table and the food it held: a thick, rich klevna stew, and some kind of amber drink he didn't recognize. The room itself could have been a scaled-down dining room from St'nar's clanhome; murals turned the walls into mountain landscapes, unfamiliar and awe-inspiring. He sat and ate. The stew and drink--it turned out to be a wine like nothing he'd ever tasted--were far better than the survival rations he'd expected for mid-meal, and the hearty meal in comfortable surroundings soothed him, after so much strangeness.

G.o.dhome let him eat and think in friendly silence, while hot food drove out the last of the fear that had gripped him, letting him think calmly. What had happened hadn't harmed him, and he realized it had been the only way to get him here.

(The Tarlac-fragment agreed, amused. The two of them had quite a bit in common, it seemed.)

Kranath could imagine how he'd have reacted to a simple invitation: "h.e.l.lo, I'm G.o.dhome. I'd like you to visit me." He smiled, and thought he felt answering amus.e.m.e.nt from the computer. No, G.o.dhome had known exactly what it was doing.

He could feel no more lingering resentment about his capture. He was here to learn, then to make a decision, and the psionic computer was to serve him. As the table vanished and his chair became a recliner, he found himself looking forward to it. He might, he hoped, even find out what a psionic computer was. The miracles he was experiencing made it clear that it was something only the G.o.ds could build . . . or create.

"Quite true." That G.o.dhome had followed his thoughts didn't surprise Kranath; like miracles, such things were to be expected of the G.o.ds and their servant. "Although," G.o.dhome went on, "they did not think of themselves as G.o.ds, any more than you think of yourself as one." It paused briefly. "Put yourself in the place of one of your remote ancestors some millennia ago.

"A large metal bird lands in front of you, and someone climbs out of it. This being speaks into a small box that answers him, can kill at a great distance with a loud noise and a flash of light, can ease pain with a touch. How would you, in those times, have thought of him?"

Kranath thought briefly. Metal planes and hand-held radios were still to come, but the a.n.a.logy was clear. "You are saying the G.o.ds are to us as we are to our ancestors."

"Yes. You see the difference perhaps ten thousand years has had on what your race can do; now try to imagine the difference had you had a thousand times as long to develop."

Kranath did try, struggling to grasp the immensity of ten million years of progress. He failed.

"Don't let it concern you," G.o.dhome said. "I wanted you to understand the basic concept, which you do: those who went before were much further advanced than you are, much more powerful, but not supernatural. And they foresaw how your race would develop. They have helped it in the past, and knew you would need help again--but they could not stop their own development, which was moving them to a plane I am not equipped to understand.

"In their place they left me, to watch over the welfare of the Traiti race, and one of the critical times they foresaw has arrived.

Intervention has become necessary, and since I am limited in what I can do alone, I must seek help."

Kranath was puzzled. "But . . . Tenar said the legends promised they would return. If they have gone elsewhere, how can they?"

"They cannot. The legends by now tell more of what the listeners wanted than of what those who went before truly said. One part has been handed down accurately--that someone would be asked to join me--and even that has been misunderstood. I cannot ask that of you until you know what joining me actually involves; it is far more than simply being in my presence. When you do understand, I think you will answer without prompting. Until that time comes, I will discuss the subject no more."

"All right. But if you need my help to stop the fighting, you have it.

I can't claim I do it for the entire race; I do it to save St'nar. I can see no other reason you would pick this time to involve someone in calling the G.o.ds." Kranath suppressed his curiosity about just what G.o.ds he was supposed to call if "those who went before" were out of reach. G.o.dhome had already refused to go into that. "Only . . . why wait so long?"