here. He had been brought here by force instead of
coming voluntarily, and he could only pray to all the gods that St'nar
would think him dead in honor. Gods! What gods? Why was he praying?
It wouldn't do him any good, he thought angrily. The gods had vanished
millennia ago, leaving only Godhome as evidence they'd been real. It
was evidence that drove men mad, must be driving him mad if he was
starting to pray. Gods 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 gods. 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 gods' departure.

"Even then," Tenar had said, "they didn't show themselves. They were
just voices that spoke to minds." He'd gotten murmurs of amusement at
that, but had smiled. "I didn't create the legends, younglings, I only
report them. At any rate, the gods 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 gods. But it certainly
won't be any of you disrespectful cubs!" With that, he'd gone down
under the ferocious assault 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,