Page 11 of Soul Hate

M y nose stings. Humidity steals the air from my lungs, making every breath harder than the last. A gentle breeze makes the winged silk sleeves of my black and white dress flutter against my sensitive skin.

Black and white—the colours of our faith. Of mourning.

Dried tears cover my cheeks. My eyes are swollen and itchy, the skin on my face tight. My mind staggers like a drunkard between crippling grief and overwhelming numbness.

I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting on Giulia’s balcony, staring out over Halice. I can’t take my eyes off the spot where the Grand Temple used to stand. That gaping, smoking hole in the skyline is a seeping wound burrowing ever deeper into my chest.

From here you can see out over the city all the way to the Argenti Straight. The rooftops of thousands of homes undulate like waves. The original city wall snakes through them, that old boundary abandoned generations ago. In the mouth of the river, an ancient fortress has been repurposed and converted into our prison, standing on a little rocky island. Closer to home, to the far left of my view, the sun glints on the domed glass ceiling of the Old Watchtower where, inside, the emergency bells lie dormant, gathering dust.

The old vestiges of war and violence hadn’t been needed for centuries. They crumbled and languished because we didn’t need them anymore. We had built better.

Now they’re screaming at me like a swollen blister.

Behind me, Giulia lies unwaking in her bed. A nurse is by her side every minute of every day, taking her pulse and making sure she’s still breathing. A tube has been placed down her throat, for water and liquid food, so she doesn’t starve while she sleeps.

There’s no sign of her waking yet. No flickering eyes. No reaction to anything.

Michelle holds her hand like they’re welded together. She talks to Giulia constantly, telling her silly stories or reading little poems. We seem to trigger each other’s tears, so an hour ago I’d decided to step out for a minute, to let us both catch our breath.

I haven’t been more than thirty paces away from Giulia since this whole thing happened. I’ll have to leave her with the nurse soon enough, return to the world and my city. Fate’s Mercy, I hope she wakes up. Because my city is in a state of emergency and mourning, and it’s my job as an Electi to fix it.

How on earth do I fix it?

Nouis approaches the balcony. He hasn’t left. Not since it happened. He slept in a spare room last night, while I lay awake next to Giulia, staring at the rise and fall of her chest. I was terrified that if I closed my eyes it would stop. Nouis has put food in front of me, been a shoulder to cry on when the tears wouldn’t stop. His arms have been so strong, at times they’re the only thing stopping me from falling apart.

“Here.” Nouis sets a glass of water on the dark wooden table.

“Thank you.” I take the drink, that numbing coolness dripping through my fingers.

“Any word?” I ask, hating how coarse my voice is.

Nouis sighs, sitting down next to me. “The excavation is finished. No survivors. The blaze… There isn’t much of anything. Nothing discernible.”

Fresh tears well along my lash line. I nod slowly, letting them fall. “Okay,” I say with a thick voice.

Nouis reaches out, his hand wraps around my arm and squeezes softly. “Focus on what is in front of you,” Nouis coaches softly. “What do you want?”

“I want to catch these monsters,” I hiss, pain rippling up my throat like a venom. The rage twists at the words. “I want them to pay.”

“The City Guard are already on it. Idris Patricelli is personally overseeing their work.”

I grit my teeth, turning my head away. Patricelli. Practically a stranger to Halice, spending the last ten years dancing from country to country in the name of education. He was handling this? His family may have a long history of supporting the Guard, but did he even care?

A cool breeze wriggles past my ear, bringing with it a sharp dose of reason.

Of course he cares. His parents were just murdered.

“Focus on the immediate, Renza,” repeats Nouis, thumbs drawing mercifully distracting circles on the back of my hand. “Right here, right now. What do you want to do now? Little steps we can achieve today will help you feel so much better. I promise.”

“I… I…”

“Think small,” encourages Nouis. “Grief can make big things seem like mountains. How about you start by deciding what you want for dinner? Or perhaps we can go for a walk in the garden, hmm? A change of scenery might help.”

“Giulia,” I stammer in protest, twisting in my seat to glance back in her direction.

Nouis takes both of my hands in his, pulling me back to look at him. “Giulia’s condition is stable. If there is a change, someone will fetch us.”

I shake my head. I can’t leave her. I can’t.

Nouis nods slowly, releasing my hands. He lifts up the book resting on his knee, one of those foreign texts from Malaya.

“I started to give this a read last night. I couldn’t sleep,” he admits, sliding it my way. “I think you should read it. Some of the techniques in here could be useful for all kinds of situations. The breathing techniques in particular might help when the grief gets really bad. I think they would’ve helped me when … I was a kid.”

I slowly stretch my fingers for the green leather. I pull it closer, running my hands over the foiling of the spine. I will myself to open it, to try and begin doing something mildly useful. Fresh tears well on my lashes as I turn my gaze out over my city, squeezing my lips into a tight line. It’s still. Quiet. As though the very stone itself is still reeling from the shock.

Not completely quiet.

Rhythmic thumping hovers at the edges of my ears, slowly growing. I stand up, my hands wrapping around the stone railing as I search the city for its source. “Do you hear that?” I squint against the harsh attention of the sun as I scan the city.

“The marching?” Nouis offers hesitantly.

My heart spasms. “Marching?” I snap, spinning to face him. “Why marching? Where?”

Nouis comes to stand by my side, one hand going to the small of my back as his green gaze cuts across the city. He points out. “There. Black and white, heading this way.”

My stomach churns as I follow his finger. He’s right, a wave of black and white is pouring through one of the gates into our walled city, heading this way.

“Fate’s Fury, what is that?” I hiss in horror.

“Signora,” comes a quiet voice behind me. One of the servants, Leo, stands in an all-black uniform of mourning. “Cardinal Bellandi has arrived and is waiting in the foyer,” he announces before darting away.

Cardinal Bellandi? Back so soon?

I hurry inside, half running across the mosaicked floors and past the tall columns of my home. I hurry towards the staircase at the front of the house and I stop dead at the top when I see armed Church Militia. Their heavy boots track mud over my mother’s mosaics, backs straight as a spear and vicious swords poised at their side. Their pristine black and white cloaks are proudly wrapped around their shoulders, the holy colours of the Church.

Cardinal Bellandi stands amongst them, sharp brown eyes examining the foyer. He is a tall, thin man—his usual uniform of heavy robes has been replaced with riding leathers and a matching Militia cloak. His bald head shines with sweat as he looks up at me, his strong features lined with the marks of time. The sun has blistered the ridge of his long nose, and sleep-deprived curtains of purple hang beneath his eyes.

“Ah, Electi Di Maineri, it’s good to see you. How is your dear sister?”

“Not awake yet.” My voice grates. I swallow, my eyes flickering to the men in my hallway. The cardinal turns, waving a hand in dismissal.

“I brought some extra protection. They’re for you—to keep you safe. Clearly we can’t be too careful.”

“You think they’ll come for me?” I croak, fingers digging into the wood of the banister.

We can’t find these monsters, so they’re either in hiding or have fled. Or what if they’re biding their time? I clench my fingers to stop their trembling, hating how my pulse throbs at the back of my dry mouth.

“They might,” the cardinal shrugs. “Better safe than sorry. Don’t worry, the Church Militia is the best army on the continent.”

And the largest. Everyone in the Holy States must serve in it at some point.

“How many did you bring?” I hate the crack in my voice at that question.

“Enough to double our City Guard. The Holy Mother sent them on loan, to help us secure the city and keep our people safe from more attacks.”

“At what price?”

“Price? It’s a gift. Help for a friend in distress,” scoffs the cardinal.

“We haven’t found any more explosives; the city has been searched top to bottom twice over,” I argue, descending the steps. My knees feel weak as I come to a stop two steps above the cardinal. “There won’t be any more attacks. Not like that anyway. Though the gesture is … kind, I don’t think the Militia are needed.”

“I hope you’re right”—the cardinal nods—“but we can’t be too careful. You and I are the only Electi left. We need to stay safe … or this city could quickly become leaderless.”

He’s right. From seven strong we now stand at just two; it wouldn’t be hard to take us out completely, leaving Halice without a protector.

“Don’t worry, Renza.” I jump as Nouis’s hand goes to my shoulder—I hadn’t even heard him on the steps behind me. “The Church Militia are designed to help. They’ll protect the people.”

My stomach wriggles uncomfortably. I search for the right words, but I come up empty. We were attacked and here are trained soldiers ready to help us.

How can I refuse? Why should I?

“But Renza, dear, how are you?” asks the cardinal, placing a hand over mine on the banister.

A short, horrible laugh bursts from my lips as I pull my hand away. “Horrendous, Cardinal. Absolutely horrendous.” I step around him, walking past the statue-like soldiers and into my living room. Sunlight ploughs in through large arched windows and drowns the pale blue walls and plush sofas. The mosaic floors quietly clip underfoot as I head to my drink’s cabinet and pour myself a generous glass of wine.

The cardinal follows, hands smartly linked behind his back. The riding leathers he wears groan softly as he moves to stand by one of our large windows overlooking the garden.

“I’m sorry for the careless question, Renza.” Cardinal Bellandi watches me clinically as I set the decanter filled with wine back in its cupboard. “I meant more physically. You weren’t hurt?”

“Nothing permanent, thank Fate’s Mercy,” answers Nouis for me, leaning against one of the bright bookshelves with the tips of his fingers in his trouser pockets. “A few burns and bruises, but we’re both fine.”

“Good, good. You said as much in your letter but … it’s good to see it with my own eyes.” The cardinal gives Nouis an approving pat on the back. I sit on the cool leather couch and stare at the white wine, swirling it around the patterned red glass as I think.

Bellandi and I. That’s it. Only us guiding this city though such a tragedy.

We’re going to need help.

“We should hold an election quickly,” I announce.

Both men turn and the cardinal walks forwards to sit on the opposite couch. “Why?”

“We need our numbers back so we can make some proper decisions.”

“You and I can make them,” responds Bellandi.

“No. We need at least three. A minimum of an odd number to decide a split.” I shake my head, feeling a sweaty curl slip free from the back of my neck. “Besides, it’ll show the world we won’t be cowed by underhanded, dirty tactics like this.”

“I disagree.” The cardinal frowns. “Yes, we should hold elections but we don’t want to rush it and swear in someone who is wholly terrible at the job.”

“There’s one person still alive who’s been preparing for the job his whole life, even if he was off in other countries.” The words spring from my tongue before I realise what I’m suggesting.

Cardinal Bellandi throws a curious look to Nouis, who frowns at me. “Really?” Nouis asks, perching next to me so his knee presses against mine. “You want to support Idris Patricelli for Electi?”

“He’s my Soulhate, yes. But he’s also a smart man who wants what’s best for this city. I shouldn’t stand in his way when he can do good here. He can help reassure the people, with a name they know and respect. Then we have three Members, and the ability to make any emergency decision without a split vote.”

“Well, I agree, he’s the perfect candidate,” says Cardinal Bellandi with a chuckle, throwing his arms over the back of the leather sofa, “but he wants to wait.”

“He wants to wait?” I repeat, leaning forwards and setting my wine down on the coffee table. My brow pulls together and I narrow my eyes at Bellandi, waiting impatiently for his explanation.

“I went to see him before coming here. Since he’s been running the City Guard and I wanted to ensure the Militia are welcomed and settled,” Bellandi reasons. “I brought up the idea of his election. He said he wanted to wait at least until after the public funeral—for tact. He doesn’t want to be seen as a tragedy profiteer.”

My lips form a line. I tap one finger to my knee, chewing on that.

Such a petty reason, particularly when we don’t even have a date for the public funeral yet. Of course, we have to have one. The people need to grieve the loss of their leaders as much as we do our families. They need to grieve and move on. But we need his help now , to enable our Electi to simply run and make decisions.

“Well, given you’re both going to back him, why don’t you make him a proxy for now? You can hold the official election after the funeral?” offers up Nouis, his hands moving to cover my restless fingers.

“Now that might work,” agrees Bellandi. “Treat him as an Electi, but wait to make it official.”

“That’s not how the High Chamber works,” I argue. “The law states that?—”

“No, but we’ve declared a state of emergency in the midst of a tragedy. You can be forgiven for a little rule-bending, if it makes things better, right?” Nouis asks softly, squeezing my fingers.

I sigh, lifting a hand to my brow.

We need three Electi to function. If this is how we have to fudge it, because Patricelli is being difficult, then so be it.

Stupid, arrogant jerk.

“Fine,” I mutter.

“Excellent. I’ll write to let him know,” says the cardinal, getting up.

“Let’s set a date for the public funeral as soon as possible, to officiate Patricelli’s position as soon as we can. I don’t like bending the law, if it can be helped,” I say. The cardinal doesn’t answer as he sweeps from the room. I repress my sigh, picking up my wine again.

“Aren’t you happy? We’ve made progress,” asks Nouis, leaning back against the leather with me.

I glare at my red crystal glass, running my tongue across my teeth. “Trust Patricelli to make things awkward. I mean, can you imagine caring about appearances? And at a time like this?”

“He’s just trying to protect his family legacy. He doesn’t want to damage all the good his father, and his father before him, has done. Don’t let him upset you,” Nouis advises softly. He lifts a hand, gently sweeping my face to return a stray curl behind my ear. His touch ripples my skin with sparks. He pulls me closer and I rest my head against his shoulder, warm arms holding me tight.

“He does upset me, that’s the problem,” I whisper, breathing in Nouis’s addictive scent. “It’s hard to distinguish between what’s truly me and what’s the bond’s interference.”

“Don’t worry. I’m here, I’ll help you sort through it.” Nouis’s promise gently breaks against my ears, prying a grateful smile from me.

I twist my face up to his, lifting a hand to cup his jaw. “Thank you.”

“Always,” he barely whispers.

I decide to close the distance between us, wiping all thoughts from my mind as I wrap my lips over his. We haven’t kissed since the river, neither of us has even mentioned it. And just as before, the world stills into blissful silence. Caught in this moment, something lifts off me. I sink into that quietness in my head, focusing on nothing but the glory of his fingers weaving through my hair. A shiver runs down my spine and I press my body against his, feeling the rumbling of his chest. He breaks the kiss. A ragged breath breaks across my nose and he forces some distance between us.

“Perhaps we should put a pin in things between us for now,” Nouis says quietly. “Wait for when you’re feeling more yourself.”

“You told me to think of what I want,” I argue quietly, wrapping my fingers around his tunic. Nouis smiles almost sadly, lifting his hands to wrap those warm hands over mine.

“Renza, I want you too, but I don’t want it to be as a distraction from what’s going on,” Nouis says softly, gently stroking my hair back from my face. I swallow tightly, my cheeks rushing with blood and I look down in shame.

Because that’s what I’d been doing. Grabbing a delicious distraction.

“No, don’t do that,” Nouis breaths softly, “Don’t feel guilty, I understand more than you think. When things are less … raw, we can see where we are. However the cards fall.”

I nod, not daring to meet his eyes.

“Come on, let’s try that walk and when we get back you can read that book,” Nouis says, standing up and offering me his hand. My chest goes warm. My hand leaps eagerly to his as he pulls me to my feet, holding me close.

This wonderful man leads me towards our gardens, and I can’t help but look up at him with a flood of gratitude. Fresh sunlight breaks over his dark face and hypnotising green eyes. A tightness in my chest begins to loosen and a small smile breaks free.

I’m feeling more like myself already.