Grimly determined to at least die in what honor he could, Kranath reached for his weapons. Either gun or dagger would be fast and clean. He touched them, got his hands firmly on the grips--and was unable to draw either. Whatever held him had left him his weapons, but made them a useless mockery. That didn't mean he was completely disarmed, though. He still had his hands and claws; he might still avoid the incomprehensible doom he was being forced up the slopes of Godhome 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 Godhome 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 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.