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, 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 gods' 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 bloody 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 Godhome, dishonored and as good as dead. He stepped out, uncompelled now and bitter. He might not believe in the gods, 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.