Page 16 of Soul Hate

T he High Chamber is empty.

Far too empty.

It’s the middle of the week. Voices should be bouncing from the technicolour ceiling. Citizens should fill the spectator pews, their low muttering an ever-present background noise as the future constantly evolves around us.

It lies empty, silent as a tomb.

I grip the arms of my seat, smothered in pillars of blue and pink raining from above. My cheeks are dry and crusty, my swollen eyes jump from chair to chair, remembering the faces and voices of my colleagues. But one chair I can’t dare to face. One chair haunts the corner of my vision, its power trampling over my heartstrings as if to crush me. My fingers bite white as I dig into the twisted wooden arm-rests.

The funeral was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. All I had to do was stand there, and even that was a struggle. Every step following the memorial through the city threatened to pull me down. Every sympathetic look pulled fresh tears to the surface, every gentle word ripped fresh sobs from my lips.

The Garden had put in so much effort. It was beautiful. Perfect even.

And now it’s over.

Now it’s done.

How can it be done? We haven’t found the attackers. We don’t know who did this. We don’t know why. All we have are questions, panic, and heartache.

Yet, we’re supposed to press on as though nothing has changed?

I reach up, using the ends of my black and white sleeves to wipe my eyes. Nouis wanted to take me home, but I couldn’t face it. Not when I knew I’d never see Father walking through those doors again.

I went for a walk by myself, and somehow my feet brought me here. The High Chamber, where I’d always felt so powerful, so hopeful, so strong. But stepping foot inside, I felt nothing but loss. I did what I always do, found my seat and sat down.

Alone.

Barely days ago, the only thing I wanted was to find a way out of my father’s political shadow. To be seen as my own woman, rather than his extension. Now I’d give anything to be in his shadow again.

I wrap my arms around myself, trying to pick up the pieces of my spirit. I know grief lasts, that time chips away at the load until it gets easier to carry. When we lost my mother, I thought the pain would bury me. But it didn’t.

This will pass too, though now it seems impossible.

My heart jumps. My fingers tense, biting into the wood. Revulsion writhes in my stomach as the urge to gag flies up my throat.

I bolt upright in my seat, spine twinging sharply.

It takes everything I have not to watch Idris Patricelli walk through the doors of the High Chamber. His slow footsteps move down the aisle towards me. I grit my teeth, fixing my eyes to the white central stage, focusing on keeping my breathing under control.

In through my nose. Out through my mouth. In through my nose, count to four, out through my mouth.

“Maineri,” he greets softly, standing at the edge of the stage.

“Patricelli,” I manage to say calmly, the breathing forcing my heart to slow a fraction. “Why are you here?”

“When I think of my father, I think of this place.” Idris’s voice is tense but broken. The grief is screaming. Relief makes my breath catch and the edges around my heart prickle.

“Me too,” I whisper.

The silence passes between us for a moment before Patricelli steps towards his father’s chair. Each step clangs like war bells in my ears. I lock my jaw, jerking my head away from him.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Idris whispers. I track his movement, hear the wood of his father’s chair creaking.

His chair now.

But he doesn’t sit, just stands next to it, running his fingers over the wood.

“And I for yours,” I respond, linking my fingers over my lap to stop them reaching for the knife at my waist. “Your father was a good man. I respected him greatly.”

“I thought you didn’t like him much,” Idris muses. I swallow tightly, clenching my fingers.

“That would do both him and me a disservice. He and I differed on a few issues but we were one High Chamber, both of us devoted to the same city. We were sometimes opponents, but we were never enemies. He had great passion and skill … and he taught me as much about this chamber as my own father, if not directly. I admired him greatly.”

Idris lets out a short laugh. I wince, the noise like a punch to the gut. Whispers spiral at the back of my mind.

Kill.

Kill.

Kill.

I grit my teeth, closing my eyes and clamping my hands over them. In through the nose, count to four, out through the mouth like blowing out a candle. And again. My satin sleeves rub against my face, thick with the scent of my tears.

“I’m so sorry about the other night.” Idris broaches the silence. “I was wrong; letting my control slip like that was unfair and inexcusable. I hope you can forgive me, and please allow me to pay for your window.”

“Thank you for your apology.” I clear my throat. “The window is already fixed.”

“Then allow me to reimburse you. I will be better.”

“That’s all the reimbursement I need,” I sigh as silence settles between us again. The air grows uncomfortably hot. My fingers bury into the wood of my chair. I should go before Fate tempts my fury any further, but I can’t move from this spot.

“I’m almost glad of it,” Idris says suddenly.

“Of what?”

“The Soulhatred,” Idris barks in laughter. “Being here, with you … I can finally feel something else. Rage is so much easier than grief.”

Surprise shudders down my spine because he’s right. My breathing is easier, though each is blistering, and my mind feels clearer. Tears have finally retreated from my eyes. The tiredness, the numbness—they have all vanished.

“Agreed,” I mutter, voice cracking.

“Still, we need to talk,” Idris continues, words falling harsher as he takes Jacapo’s seat. I dig my fingers into my hairline, each breath in and out of my lungs hotter than the last. I take a moment to soak in that feeling, to bathe in the absence of grief. This hatred is so much easier.

“Indeed we do,” I agree sharply, Serra instantly springing to mind, “starting with?—”

“Why did you stop me from running an election?”

I freeze. My shoulders pinch. My head whips around to him in surprise, but I catch myself before I let my gaze fall on him. Instead I stare at the white circular central stage, analysing every crack and corner in the pearly tiles.

“What?”

“Why did you stop me? I truly thought you were better than that. When we spoke in your garden you seemed so ready to try, and in the High Chamber the following week it worked. We worked! The two of us contributed in the same room and there were no disasters, so why block me? I thought you weren’t going to let this stupid Soulhatred get in the way of our city,” Idris laments, frustration barely masked behind his vile accusations. “Or are you just that obsessed with power? Our laws clearly state we need at least three people for a proper vote. I could’ve been that vote.”

“What are you talking about? I didn’t stop anything. I suggested a snap election. I wanted you in that seat officially days ago.” I glare at the central stage, turning over his venomous words. “I was told you wanted to wait.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“You’re a proxy. I didn’t block you. Fate’s Fury, I actually insisted you be your father’s proxy until you wanted to run your election, because I know we need three votes. That’s the law, one of the most basic. Bellandi agreed. It’s not completely legal but in times of crisis and all.” I scowl, getting to my feet and stalking a few paces left and right, walking that tight line over and over to try and quiet the storm screaming in my ears.

Breathe. Breathe. Slow my heart. Control my pulse, control my mind.

“When did you decide this? Why didn’t you bother to tell me?”

Fire floods through my blood like an explosion, charring my bones and blistering my gut. “Don’t. Don’t you pretend with me, Patricelli,” I snarl. “You and Bellandi are thick as thieves. You arrested Serra Stacano!”

“I’ve arrested nobody. What are you talking about?” Idris snaps back, getting to his feet. He stalks towards me, his eyes burning into the side of my face.

“Serra Stacano, the engineer. Who was arrested on suspicion of treason at a school where soldiers started smashing furniture and terrifying children. One of them even beat a teacher. Serra isn’t one of the attackers. She has explosives for a device she’s been working on for months. But Bellandi made it crystal clear that you don’t care if she’s innocent. All you want is to be seen as making progress, but I won’t let you do this. I won’t let you hang an innocent woman.” I seethe, my boiling breath coming fast and short as fire wriggles like worms under my skin. Idris is right there, his stupid, smug, arrogant self is right there. My hands shake as I clench them together so tight my knuckles turn white.

“What are you talking about? They’ve arrested somebody?”

“I told you, don’t pretend with me,” I growl, my breath turning to short, hot pants, “I’m not an idiot!”

“I’m not pretending.” Idris seethes, low and dangerous, stepping closer his arms going wide with frustration. “How dare you insinuate that I would condemn an innocent woman for such vain self-serving reasons? I want justice, not facades.”

“Justice?” I scream, finally turning to look at him and his stupid blond hair and those blistering hazel eyes. “Justice? Serra is in a dark cell terrified for her life because of you!”

I leap at him, tackling him with all my strength. We smash into the ground, my fingers gripping onto his tunic as I punch for his face. It lands and I land the second too; the warmth spreading across my knuckles is addictive. Idris bucks his hips and throws me sideways. His teeth grit in determination as I hit the tiled floor inelegantly. He clambers on top of me, pressing his tall, athletic body into mine and grabbing my wrists before I can reach for the knife at my belt.

“Get off me! Get off me you self-centred, disgusting little cockroach,” I scream, writhing underneath him as he pins me securely to the floor, both of us panting furiously.

“Enough!” shouts Idris over me, “Don’t push it, Renza, enough!”

“Screw you!” I scream with all my chest. My pulse echoes around my ears with the rage of a tempest.

“I need you to listen to me! I didn’t arrest Serra Stacano,” he roars, jolting me sharply. Somehow his words cut through, hitting me to my core. I stop struggling, the realisation crashing over me, somehow more powerful than the seething desire to crush Patricelli’s skull.

“I didn’t block your election,” I whisper, looking at Idris. Both our faces fall. Silence lingers between us as his body hovers over me. The unquestionable truth of the situation begins to settle around our shoulders. My breath hitches, shaking in my lungs. I swallow tightly, gasping for air. Idris is panting too, the air thick between us. He’s so close, I can barely think. I can just feel him, his body setting off a chain reaction of shudders along my skin. Idris slowly peels himself away, but the memory of his blistering touch lingers on my wrists. Fighting for calmer breath, we sit back-to-back on the tiled floor. He’s like the sun, a roaring blistering beacon at my back, I dare not look directly at. I keep my eyes glued to a chip in one of the black floor tiles.

“We’ve been fools,” whispers Idris. The horror of the lies that’ve been woven around us win out against the desire to tear out his throat.

“Why? Why would Bellandi do this?” I choke.

“To seize power? To reset the government he was losing control of?” offers Idris. “The influence of the Church has been dying in Halice for some time. Perhaps he sees this as his chance to fix that. He’s been handed a perfect opportunity.”

I lift a trembling hand to my lips, horror engulfing me like a wave.

“What’s more likely? That he’s been handed the opportunity, or that he created it?” I ask, the words shuddering in the air. Idris swears loudly, bolting to his feet as he begins to pace. I wince at the sharp movement, hurrying to get to mine too.

“It lines up too perfectly,” I continue, tears of hatred springing to my eyes. Fate’s Fury when will I ever stop crying? “Bellandi was away, but not so far that he couldn’t be back at a day’s notice. He left without telling anyone why and returned with a small army that equals the size of our City Guard, yet is better trained and more vicious, loyal only to him.”

“He could’ve easily planted the explosions before he left. Or arranged it,” Idris adds.

“Fate’s Fury,” I breathe, sitting in my seat again as the strength leaves my knees, gripping my head with both hands. “Why? Why do this? Why like this?”

“Desperation?” Idris offers. “He was the only Church member left in the High Chamber. Perhaps he felt like we were gunning for his seat.”

“He had Member Morteselli on his side.”

“An old man who couldn’t have more than two or three good years left in him,” Idris counters. “When he retired, who would’ve been his replacement?”

“Leone Strozzi,” I answer quietly. “Leone has no love for the Church, or anything really except only his own wealth and privilege.” I beat Leone during my election; my seat used to belong to Leone’s grandfather. He’d been my fiercest competitor and it’d been very close. He’s the clear successor to Morteselli.

“So Bellandi knew he’d soon lose an ally,” sums up Idris, “that the Holy States would have only him representing their interests.”

“Bellandi did this. Bellandi blew up the Grand Temple.”

Saying the words out loud, nausea forms a noose around my throat. Blood drains from my face. My insides are hollow.

“It’s worse than that,” Idris says darkly. “He’s trying to take control of the city. Playing us against each other like this was convenient. He’s got Church Militia everywhere. They obey his orders. If he says so, they’ll kill us. Lie to the people, make it look like an accident—he’ll have absolute power.”

I thought I was crazy, imagining that the Militia outside my house were watching me. “Protection,” Bellandi said when he dropped them off. He was telling the truth of course, but all he’s protecting is himself.

“What’s next?” I ask, “Why hasn’t he just killed us and declared himself king? Or started installing a puppet government or whatever his plan is?”

“I don’t know, that would be the play,” growls Idris, rubbing his eyes. “It makes no sense. Why let us live all this time?”

“We must serve a purpose. It’s the only reason to accept the risk of exactly this, us figuring him out.”

“What purpose though? Scapegoats? Martyrs? Colluders?”

“Speculation does nothing; the options are endless. We’re alive, and now we’re on to him. He doesn’t know that we’ve figured him out,” I clear my throat. “Halice is in danger, but we have no proof and we don’t know how… We need answers.”

“Then we get some. Discover his plans, find the proof. We kick the Church Militia out of the city, then we can put Bellandi on trial and convict him for treason.” Idris stops marching around, a plan forming between us.

“We haven’t had a charge of treason in Halice since my grandfather’s day,” I murmur.

“Yet, here we are.” Idris’s words are soft and quiet. “What about Nouis?”

“What about him?” I ask with a frown.

“Do you think you can get rid of him without arousing suspicion?”

“Why in Fate’s name would I do that?”

Idris rolls his eyes like it’s obvious. “He’s working with Bellandi! He works for the Holy States who orchestrated this whole thing. Surely you can see that.”

“No. No way.” The answers come to me instantly. “He almost died with me the day of the explosion.”

“Almost being the key word.”

“He’s the only reason I’m alive, he’s the only reason Giulia is alive too! Not to mention we were literally headed back inside the Grand Temple. If we had been even five paces closer or two seconds faster we would be dead too. We were going inside. There’s no way Nouis would willingly walk to his death, knowing about an explosion like that. He wouldn’t let me or my family do that either. There is no way he knew about this.”

Idris was quiet for a long time, but the scepticism bubbles on their air like bile.

“Meet me tomorrow. There’s a cafe on Tana Street, the Amica. Meet me there at sunset.”

“To do what?”

“To start a plan. To work together to bring this traitor to justice.”

I grit my teeth, a fresh wave of loathing crumpling me forwards.

“We can’t tell anyone,” Idris says eventually. “We have no idea who else might be complicit.”

“Agreed.”

My stomach churns, I press a hand to my mouth. I march for the door, my long black tunic slapping my legs as I stride.

“Don’t tell anyone, Maineri. I mean it,” shouts Idris as I exit to freedom.