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Updated: June 10, 2025
He hadn't been worried about that, exactly, but since he was Cor'naya, it was good to hear. He wondered when the computer would begin his lessons. "Now," Godhome replied to his thoughts, "with some history." The landscapes on the walls faded, and the three-dimensional image of a planet, blue-green and girdled with brilliant white clouds, appeared in mid-air. "Beautiful," the fighter breathed.
Godhome had been right when it told Kranath that refraining from action was often harder than taking it and that too much intervention would harm, not help, even when it meant allowing suffering and death he could stop by an act of will. He sensed Dr. Jason's resentment at what seemed like callousness, and knew the man simply didn't have the scope to understand. "My word as a Ranger, Doctor.
The meadow is on the brink of a ravine, beyond which, towering on distant heights, stands Godhome, a mighty castle, newly built as a house of state for the one-eyed god and his all-ruling wife. Wotan has not yet seen this castle except in his dreams: two giants have just built it for him whilst he slept; and the reality is before him for the first time when Fricka wakes him.
Something seemed to touch Kranath's hands in the usual response, though when he straightened there was nobody to be seen of course. "Not 'of course," Godhome 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."
But if someone disliked what you did or commanded intensely enough You have a saying that nobody is safe from a truly determined assassin, not true?" "I hadn't thought of it like that, but you're right. And you no, we can't be killed." Then Tarlac frowned. "Godhome gave you a choice, Kranath. It said you had to be willing why didn't I get that option?" "Did you need it?" "I don't understand."
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.
Nobody went to Godhome voluntarily, and Kranath cursed at himself for allowing speculation about the crash to distract his attention from his course. He'd come too far south! He began to veer east, trying to put some distance between himself and the ominous hill before the madness of the place seized him.
It nagged at him, but even after a full tenth-day of pondering while he walked, he still had no idea. By that time he was a good five n'liu from the crash site, a respectable half-morning's walk. He was also approaching a low hill, the legendary place known as Godhome. That was the reason he'd had to plan an indirect route to St'nar.
Kranath suppressed his curiosity about just what gods he was supposed to call if "those who went before" were out of reach. Godhome had already refused to go into that. "Only . . . why wait so long?" "Some situations must be allowed to ripen, or their lessons will not sink in. Had I intervened earlier, such fighting would break out again, worse.
He had already made the decision that was asked of him, though he realized there was still much he did not know. What the gods wanted of him, as Godhome had said earlier, was not minor. Their plans for him did not include the plans he had had for himself before he crashed: life in St'nar, and the comforting presence of clanmates held together by an empathic bond that was never questioned.
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