Godhome 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 gods were real. Godhome was calmly asserting that he had a decision to make after he'd learned what it had to teach…
He held to that. The gods were not demanding, they were asking. Even Godhome 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 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."
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 Godhome 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.