The goddess’s totem watched Eron too. An Arabian wolf whose enormous eyes let nothing go unnoticed. The air was thick and freezing in Eron’s nostrils, his breathing challenged. God-soldier or not, he’d lingered far too long in close proximity to these Waters. The body-hugging shirt he wore insulated him against natural temperature fluctuations, but a very unnatural chill enveloped him now. Limbs weak, he knelt on hands and knees. Eron blinked against the lights in his vision, fighting the encroachment of unconsciousness. Cold splinters made light work of his innards, and his bones were brittle with the chill. It would be no surprise to feel the taste of his own blood in his mouth, for it seemed that he was being jabbed within by a thousand angry points. A train of self-deprecating thoughts pounded their way through his mind. Ludicrous that it had come to this. He’d survived divine anointment and travelled breathtaking distances across space, only to freeze to death in his own god’s shrine while repenting.
A divine shower stall. That is what Kira had called the shrine when he’d made an ill-advised decision to bring her here. Eron groaned, pressing his hands against the glass. Of all the moments to allow the very reason for his alienation into his head, this surely was the most inopportune. He had spent the night here because he could not be elsewhere. Unable to stand alongside his god-soldier brothers at the First Meld. And Kira was the reason for his banishment from that sacred ceremony. She had put him here. Away from his brethren. Disenfranchised. Shut out of the very task that brought him to this world. But despite all his inner ragings her image refused to leave his mind. The human girl, with her wandering hands and soft mouth, had bewitched him.
Fingers gripped Eron’s upper arms, and his shoulders were lifted from the ground.
‘Eron, do you hear me?’
He recognised Bel’s deep Syranian tone. Eron let his eyes flutter open. Bel stood over him, his outline silhouetted by a soft green glow, his ebony skin morphing him into a shadow.
‘I hear you.’ Eron’s reply clicked with the rapidity of his native Syranian tongue.
Bel crouched down, lifting one of Eron’s arms and draping it across his shoulder.
‘Stand, Eron. Get to your feet.’
The world was darkening. Eron’s thoughts with it. He didn’t make a sound as he was lifted to his feet, Bel taking his weight across his shoulders. Their progress down the short flight of stairs, out of the shrine and into the greater expanse of the Orientation Room, was an ungraceful affair. Eron’s weight was no issue, there being far too little of it, but his height and disabled body were. All the Syranians were tall in comparison to the humans, but Eron was the tallest of the group by a good half metre. Bel cursed under his breath as he tried to negotiate Eron’s barely cooperating limbs. They reached the floor and Bel released him. Eron’s knees met the concrete.
‘How long have you been in there, you fool?’ Bel said. ‘Are you without any sense?’
A moot question that Eron did not answer. At least his breath came now without the sensation of knives slicing through his filtering cavity. He lifted his head. Bel was alone. No sign of the captain, or any other. That should have gladdened him, but he didn’t have the energy or inclination for such an emotion. A dark, inky feeling embraced him. He’d come down here last night to slip out of the grip of isolation, to distract himself from his exclusion. It seemed the shrine had merely enhanced his depression.
‘I do not need assistance.’
Eron’s attempt to stand betrayed him, but to his utter relief, Bel did not offer further physical assistance.
‘That is not what I have seen for some time, Eron,’ Bel retied his loosened jet-black hair, as always pulling it tight enough to lift the skin around his eyes. ‘You are lucky it was I who came to begin preparations for service this morning. Parator and Gren might not have been so amenable.’
The Orientation Room was a sparsely furnished space with bare walls and floors and Bel’s voice seemed to reach every corner.
‘A veridical observation.’ Eron clutched at the back of one of only two chairs available. ‘I thank you for your assistance, Bel.’
Eron’s curiosity about the First Meld’s success or failure burned him to a degree not dissimilar to the Waters. Lifting a shaking hand, he pushed back a strand of silver hair escaped from a careless topknot. If the Meld was successful, a creature of Kur now stood in this world after thousands of years of absence. Bel’s eyes rested on Eron, and there was a noticeable softness in the gaze. Of all his Syranian brethren, Bel seemed the least troubled by Eron’s indiscretions with Kira. There was every chance he might answer Eron’s enquiry.
‘I understand how difficult last evening must have been for you,’ Bel said. ‘To be kept from the First Meld is no small thing. But this behaviour will see you no closer to inclusion, brother. You must get a hold of yourself. Show yourself to be worthy, if there is to be any hope you will be allowed presence at the Melding of the Four.’
Eron nodded. Breathe. Bel’s voice gave him something to focus on. Breathe deeper. The chill seeped from him. The Waters released their hold. Believing himself steady enough, Eron released his tight grip on the chair. A rush of vertigo swept over him, and the room tilted. Bel grasped Eron by the elbow and applied just enough force to
