Page 2 of Soul Hate

I ’m Renza Di Maineri, and Fate is a sick, twisted god.

I don’t think he likes me much, either.

Fate’s mocking sniggers lurk faintly in my ears as my gaze locks on the cardinal’s empty seat. Tall creamy columns proudly flank the gaping absence. Wrapped with exquisite gold and silver filagree, they drip with vivid hues and rainbow flecks cast down by the spectacular stained-glass ceiling of the High Chamber. The breathlessly beautiful glass dome glows with an ethereal majesty, filling this circular chamber with rivers of coloured light from every corner of creation. Yet my eyes don’t stay skyward for long, falling back to the cardinal’s vacant seat. The twisted dark wood bleeds crimson as the late sunshine rushes through the arched stained window behind it. A spotlight to showcase its emptiness.

No note. No warning. Cardinal Bellandi left our city without a word two days ago. No one knows why, or when he’ll return.

It’s beyond irresponsible. He’s an Electi, one of the seven elected officials that govern our free city of Halice. Free in that our city earned its independence almost three centuries ago from the sprawling empire of the Holy States. As an Electi, it’s both our privilege and responsibility to guide Halice from one greatness to the next—but he didn’t deign to inform us he was running off. He couldn’t even muster the decency to send a proxy. Everyone else is here. Every other dark wooden seat is filled by their representative. Heck, even the audience is filled with all the usual faces, their muttering a low, ever-present hum at the back of my mind.

I press my lips together, holding back the indignation bubbling in my chest. This is the first time I’ve put a bill before the High Chamber without my father as co-author. This bill is mine alone, and I’ve worked hard to bring my fellow Electi to my side. This isn’t the first time I’ve lost a vote of course, but to lose like this? It makes the bite so much sharper.

I refuse to give my opponents the satisfaction of seeing me sweat. Instead, I shift my weight in my chair, brushing off the immaculate silk of my blue tunic. The decorative pins running along the top of my sleeves twinkle with the movement.

“This motion is about enrichment, about peace, about prosperity.” I rip my eyes away from the empty seat and towards my father’s impassioned speech. He supports my motion, though others think it’s really his in disguise. At least we both know the truth of it.

The tall, circular chamber is beginning to darken thanks to the lateness of today’s session. The creamy stone columns and intricately carved walls are pooled with shadows, sliced with rippling prismatic light gushing through the ornate stained-glass dome above their heads. Pillars of yellow, pink and blue strike through the encroaching shadows; the lazy dust dancing in their path transformed into flickering, glittering art.

All those beams gather into a single white stream, falling on the circular stage in the centre of our seven chairs. That’s where my father, Tomas Di Maineri, stands, his dark hair and time-lined face cast in a thousand bold flecks of light.

“The value of the Garden is always returned a thousandfold. It has always been, and will always be, a valuable investment,” Father continues, moving without falter around the mosaicked central stage. He takes care to meet the gaze of each of our fellow Electi, cobalt fire in his eyes and passion championed on his tongue. A master in command of his work.

Electi Jacopo Patricelli watches with lips thinned and eyes pinched. He’s been Father’s main opposition in this chamber for years. And today marks him as one of mine.

His chair sits in front of my favourite window; yellow and patterned with climbing flowers. It floods his fair face and receding blond hair with a buttery warmth—which does nothing to soften his disdain. He doesn’t study our colleagues’ faces for hints; he doesn’t take notes or murmur arguments under his breath. His unnerving patience turns my stomach. How confident is he that this vote will fall in a split?

If we lose this vote on a technicality I swear to Fate’s Fury, Bellandi will have me to answer to.

“That is why investing in the Garden is the only real way to truly preserve the greatness of Halice through the ages. To embolden opportunity. To empassion beauty. To empower innovation.” Father presses a hand to his heart, sincerity soaked into his words. “Esteemed Members of the High Chamber, I do not deny that Member Patricelli has many informed opinions. The extra finances would indeed make our City Guard stronger. But stronger for what? Safer from whom? We are at peace. Our neighbours are our allies. Will that continue if we signal we are readying for war? Will we not appear as aggressors? History remembers the horrors of the sword with scorn. Yet, the accomplishments of the mind last forever.”

Father looks around at the sway votes one last time before smiling, head held high.

“Esteemed Members, I relinquish the floor.”

Father returns to his seat, flashing me a quick wink as he goes. I nod slyly, eyes skipping to Member Yaleni’s face. Marble is more forgiving than their expression. Each angle of their features is tinted a vivid green thanks to the window behind. My stomach rolls under my ribs.

I’ve worked at Yaleni tirelessly the past four weeks. Yaleni’s election-winning votes came mostly from the farming and rural regions in the land around our city, meaning the distribution of tax to either the Guard or the Garden is a persuadable issue for them. I’m still not certain on how they’ll cast their vote. Jacopo Patricelli has also undertaken his fair share of political manoeuvring; I feel certain Member Gattore is on his side. Jacopo’s face creases, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards. The tinge of smugness in his movements sends a surge of doubt up my spine.

Jacopo surveys our colleagues.

“Any more comments on this bill?” His deep voice rolls around the quiet chamber.

No one stands to claim the floor.

“In which case, we shall vote.”

I open the small panel in the arm of my seat, running my fingers over a number of coloured stones, indicating how my seat will cast their vote. Jacopo clears his throat. It’s his turn to lead the vote. In the event of a split, he decides the outcome.

“In the matter of redistributing the unexpected additional funds gained from the glass tax this year, you may cast your votes as follows. For the movement presented by myself, Member Jacopo Patricelli, to allocate the extra funds to our military, cast red. For the movement presented by Member Renza Di Maineri, to allocate the extra funds to the Garden, cast blue.”

I close my fingers around the blue stone, glancing to see my father confidently doing the same. My heart leaps to throb in my throat. This is my bill, my first solo-authored bill. How it lands will set a tone for my future proposals and how I’m viewed in here—whether I’m just my father’s lacky or an independent voice to consider. The next few seconds determine everything. I look across to Member Yaleni. Their face is unmoving as they select their stone, keeping it close to their palm.

“Cast!”

All at once, six coloured stones fly onto the circular white stage. My heart jumps, catching a flash of blue coming from Yaleni’s hand as it leaps into the centre of our circle.

I’ve done it. I’ve swayed them!

Yet the high sours when my gaze darts across the stones. My heart sinks. I close my eyes, slipping back in my seat. Disappointment curls like a bitter aftertaste at the back of my tongue. Three blue, three red. Electi Morteselli had switched.

The grin on Patricelli’s face says it all.

Every session of the High Chamber is open to the public, anyone is allowed to attend. It’s the law. The spectator seats erupt with chatter. Surprise. Upset. Some angry, some thrilled. Their voices bounce off the domed ceiling ringing around the tall columns and decorated walls.

“The votes are cast. A split,” announces Member Morteselli, sitting back in his seat currently strewn in a veil of violet light. I clench a fist, my teeth on the verge of shattering. If looks could blister, there would be a smoking pile of embers where that damned empty chair stands. Curse Bellandi and whatever he’s doing! Patricelli sits back with a triumphant grin, turning pointedly to my father.

“NOT QUITE!”

A deep voice rolls across the circular chamber, drowning out everything else. Voices still. Questions rise as heads turn in unison.

The arched High Chamber doors hang open, swaying slightly. The setting sun frames the newcomer’s inky silhouette in amber and gold as they march across the brightly tiled floor. He strides down the aisle, through the rows of spectators until he reaches the gate. The City Guard swoop forwards, preventing him from getting any further.

As the newcomer moves towards our chairs, colours ripple around him like a diamond personified. His ebony hair flutters with each tilt of his head, that chiselled jaw set with determination as he waves a letter in his hand.

“I bring a message from Cardinal Bellandi. I’m to be his proxy.” It takes me a minute longer than it should to place that face and that deep, rich voice. The years apart have changed him so much. A smile creeps up around the corners of my mouth.

“Too late! The vote is cast and called,” snaps Patricelli getting to his feet.

“But not yet ratified,” I disagree, with a steady voice and unwavering gaze. “Section thirty-five of the Absence Bill, written into law five years after our founding, states that any Electi may vote only once, but may cast that vote at any point before the voting is ratified. Not called. Ratified. Which has not yet happened.”

My heart gallops. My pulse thunders in my fingertips.

Patricelli narrow his eyes.

“He’s a proxy, not Electi.”

“Amendment two to that bill, written into law thirteen years after founding, states that a legal proxy must be treated with the full respect and consideration given to an Electi during their time acting as proxy. Would you like me to list the last three times this amendment was enacted, because one was by yourself but three months ago?” I refuse to back down. At twenty-one, I might be the youngest Electi ever elected, but I know the law. Bluster can’t intimidate the mountains, so neither will it me. “Proxy or not, so long as he has written confirmation adorned with the cardinal’s seal, he may cast for Cardinal Bellandi.”

“Which I do!” Our hero’s voice is deep and rich like listening to crushed velvet. Has he always sounded like that? Or is my memory failing me? Patricelli marches over to the gate, snatching the rolled letter out of our mystery hero’s hand. He slips it open, face falling in a single moment.

I hold my breath, waiting for Patricelli to speak. To disallow a legal representative to cast in the High Chamber is treason. We may constantly disagree on policy, but everyone in this room knows Patricelli would never commit treason. Like my father and I, his motives come from a desire to serve this city.

We simply disagree on how.

Patricelli sighs, nodding at the guard. They part and the newcomer walks onto the floor. I meet his familiar green eyes and my heart skips a beat. I fervently fight the urge to clear my throat; the emerald seems to pierce right into my soul.

“How do you cast, signore…?” Electi Gattore trails off in question.

“Rizaro. I’m Nouis Rizaro, from the Holy States. I have been instructed to cast in favour of the Di Maineri motion.”

Chatter erupts from the spectator seats. The crimson light of the window enshrines Nouis as he sits in the cardinal’s seat. Nouis looks for the compartment with the stones, fingers running over the twisted wood for an opening. He looks up, catching my eye with those startlingly sharp ones. I slyly tap the right arm of my chair, where my panel holding the stones is still open.

Humour rolls across that face, mischief sparkling in his gaze. He mouths his thanks before holding up a blue stone, tossing it into the centre of the room.

“The votes are cast. The Di Maineri motion is called.” Jacopo spits the words from between clenched teeth. Relief and pure, giddy joy bubbles up in my stomach. Patricelli and his loyalists march away, ending the session in a hump. They retreat through the giant arched doors and into the sunset.

Victory is ours. Victory is mine.