Page 3 of Soul Hate

“I ’m going to find Giulia,” I tell Father as we stride out of the High Chamber, descending the grand steps with a bouncing gait. Each step is intricately carved and painted, reaching with rippling technicolour patterns to the open square below. Tall buildings of creamy stone and carved columns surround the square, separated by a maze of busy streets. The High Summer heat is slowly slipping away, the cool shadows slowly leaving their nooks and crannies to stretch across the cobbled stone.

I don’t fight the smile stretching across my lips.

Today was a victory for the future. I’m ready to find my sister and celebrate! Good food, wine and a rare but glorious chance to relax—just for one evening, of course. Maybe we’ll even grab the girls and go out dancing.

Over my shoulder, Father is backlit by the magnificent stained-glass dome at the top of the High Chamber building. The setting sun slashes the vibrant colours with streaks of amber and vermillion. Cooling shadows wind down the tall, gilded columns and stretch across the bright steps.

At the base of the steps Jacopo marches away, his staunch supporters at his heels and tunic flailing with his frustrated gestures.

“You would’ve thought after twenty years in service, he’d get used to losing,” I chuckle.

“It’s always hard to lose a vote that narrowly. Particularly by that kind of margin,” Father says graciously. “If my twenty years of opposition with the man has taught me anything, it’s that he’ll come back swinging on the next bill.”

Father and Jacopo had clashed on most issues since they’d both won their respective elections over twenty years ago. Neither wasted an opportunity to try and change this city for the better. The problem was a serious disagreement on what needed changing the most. They often put opposing bills before the High Chamber, meaning only one would pass and the other would fail.

The two had become rather famous for their opposition throughout Halice, the rivalry of Maineri and Patricelli. At first it had managed to stay on the polite side of civil. But then the Patricelli family decided to snub my mother’s funeral, and that blatant disrespect cemented the strong opposition between the two camps of supporters.

“We’ll be ready. But for today, we won,” I remind him. Father grins widely, his blue eyes meet mine. Eyes that mirror my own, not only in colour, but also glinting with victory.

“Yes, go find your sister.” He claps his hands, orange tunic shining in the movement. “And bring Michelle with you—this is an occasion for all the family!”

The stifling High Summer heat is beginning to fade. Its hot, sticky fingers trace my hairline, weaving my brown waves with thin threads of perspiration. The ends of my low ponytail trail over my shoulder. I brush back the dark strands wriggling under the lazy efforts of a lacklustre breeze.

Movement drags my gaze over my father’s shoulder. A wide grin splits across my face. Our last-minute hero hurries out of the High Chamber, his dark hair gleaming crimson in the fiery sunset. He flashes a cheeky smile when he realises he’s finally caught my attention. With shoulders back and one easy hand in his pocket, he quickly descends the few steps to my position.

“Nouis, my boy,” my father greets with joyful warmth soaking his words. He wraps Nouis in a brief hug. Nouis laughs, patting my father on the back.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the proxy with perfect timing,” I chuckle as Nouis turns to face me. He laughs, dimples forming in his cheeks as he rakes a hand through his hair.

“Ah that!” Nouis says with good humour. “Sorry about the theatrics. I rode all day without rest to get here in time. I was afraid I’d be too late.”

“Don’t apologise, it might have been one of the most spectacular entrances ever seen in that chamber—and as for drama? It’s politics. The two walk hand in hand,” I snort. “Besides, you just made history. You’re the first non-Halician to ever cast a vote in our High Chamber.”

“I’ll consider it my highest honour,” he grins. I step forwards, wrapping this man in a hug.

Fate’s Mercy, he’s changed. How has it been five years already? We saw each other almost every summer as children, when his uncle came for business to the city. The Rizaro family run the most prominent bank in the Holy States. My family, the Di Maineri, run the biggest and only bank of our success, influence and size outside the Holy States. Naturally the two businesses overlapped.

But he and his uncle hadn’t been back in over eight years, and now the gangly teenager from my memories has vanished. In his place is a tall, muscled, charming man. When did that happen?

Still, it begs the question, what is he doing in Halice? Why come all this way from his home in Kavas, the Capital of the Holy States, just to cast a vote—particularly one he had no vested interest in?

I release him, stepping back to tuck a stray, lazy curl behind my ear.

“Giulia didn’t tell us you were coming,” I say, letting the real question leak through my words. My sister is a brilliant woman and in charge of the family bank. She would’ve mentioned if Nouis had asked for a meeting.

“Ah, that’ll be because she doesn’t know. I’m here for other business I’m afraid,” Nouis answers with a chuckle. “Still, I was hoping we could all catch up. It’s been far too long.”

“Absolutely. You must join us for dinner,” my father invites, giving him a back-pat. “We were just saying it’s a family affair.”

“I would be delighted. But first I’ll go change,” Nouis laughs. “Wash all the travelling off me and be more presentable.”

This is what he looks like after days and days of travelling? Fate really did right by him.

“Where are you staying while you’re here?” I ask.

“I’m booked in at the Occasus.”

“Forget the hotel, you must stay with us,” Father invites brightly.

“I’d hate to impose?—”

“Nonsense, Nouis,” I laugh, cutting him off. “We have more than enough room and we have so much to catch up on.”

“Yes, it appears we do, Electi ,” Nouis teases softly, a sparkle in his eyes as he gives me a small smile. My throat tightens and I chuckle in a vain attempt to relieve it.

“Right, I’ll see you two later. Nouis, just head to ours and we’ll sort everything out for you,” Father says, giving me a parting side squeeze before walking away. “Renza, remember to invite Michelle.”

“Will do,” I promise. As if I’d ever forget one of my closest friends. I watch my father walk towards our waiting carriage.

“Thank you for your help in there,” Nouis says, giving me a friendly shoulder nudge. “I could have been scrambling in that seat for ages looking for the Voting Stones.” Fate’s Fury, his voice is so soothing and deep. Listening to him speak is like getting into a warmed bed at the end of a long, cold day.

“Of course,” I answer, slowly heading for the Garden. “What are friends for?” He walks with me, two of his long strides matching three of mine.

“Still, you have my thanks all the same.”

“How long has it been? Eight years?”

“I was last in this city when I was fifteen. So yes, eight years sounds about right,” Nouis agrees, shaking his head ruefully. “Though I have met your cousins on occasion.”

“Don’t hold them against me,” I say, only half joking. The Di Maineri banking family was spread far and wide—and held many strong characters.

“Never,” laughs Nouis softly. “I merely meant that I’ve heard a few stories about you over the years. You’re an Electi now, winning people’s hearts and minds.”

“Guilty,” I snort. “Hard work but it’s worth it.”

“Perhaps we can spend some time discussing it, and the last eight years?”

“Of course, that’s why you’re staying with us.” I grin up at him. “So we can all catch up.”

“But perhaps the two of us can go out to eat?” He stops suddenly in the street, lowering his voice so only I can hear. “Just you and I, to really catch up. Without needing to filter ourselves for others. Some stories really shouldn’t be shared with your father … and I’m guess you have a few of those yourself.”

“Whatever do you mean, signore?” I gasp in mock horror, “I’m a well-behaved young lady.”

“I would never cast any other aspersion, signora!” Nouis cackles, giving me a wink as he leans closer. The air between us grows unexpectedly thick, fizzing with something that makes my throat go dry.

My heart sputters at the intense look in those remarkable green eyes. He cracks a crooked smile, like an unapologetic kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He takes a slow step closer, the sunset making his warm complexion glow.

“So, dinner?” he asks again. Suddenly, I’m not sure whether it’s just as friends or something more. My thoughts scramble as I mull the argument over.

I shouldn’t. He might be a family friend but he is also, technically, a competitor. Financially and politically—he’s clearly involved with Cardinal Bellandi somehow. What if we don’t work out? What about our friendship? His home is in the Holy States, how could things ever work? He’s Nouis. I can’t decide if that works for him or against him.

“Nouis, I’m not—” I begin but Nouis holds up a hand to cut me off.

“Look, it’s just dinner. Two friends reacquainting themselves.”

I bite my lip, indecision rolling around my gut. But it stills and solidifies as I meet those gorgeous green eyes. My pulse throbs in my throat as my cheeks warm. My tongue moves of its own accord before I can really consider the words.

“Tomorrow. Eight. I’ll pick the place.” Nouis grins, the corner of his mouth curling in victory before he could smother it.

“As friends,” I say pointedly. Nouis nods, holding up his hands.

“Friends, you got it.”

“Now if you’ll excuse me,” I continue before I can change my mind, “I have to find my sister and tell her you’ve arrived.”

“Of course. I look forward to seeing her again. See you soon, Renza.” He inclines his head towards me, stepping backwards before turning to leave with a new bounce in his step.

A high buzzes through my veins as I take off through the streets of Halice. Shadowy curtains and spotlights of amber climb over the tall creamy buildings and busy, winding roads. Citizens wave, smile or simply nod in acknowledgement. Children laugh and call out their hellos. I smile and wave back to each and every one. If only the thrill of victory could be bottled. It’s addictive.

The air is limp, all its energy has drained away. The day’s heat is baked into the stone of the buildings and radiates from every surface. The painted street columns are slowly being lit to combat the encroaching night. Brilliant murals decorate walls and art pours from every corner, even the cobbled roads beneath me are cut in decorative patterns, all of it leading to one place, and every step closer just gets grander and more beautiful.

I round the last corner and there it stands. The Garden.

Spilling out of the vibrant walled community are wondrous sounds, smells and sights. The telltale signs of the genius held within that can’t possibly be held back by something so ordinary as stone and mortar. A huge bang erupts behind those massive walls, and fluttering black smoke pours over the thick brickwork, tickling my nose and sticking to the back of my throat.

No one blinks. No one gasps or even flinches.

It’s simply expected of the genius held within.

I take a deep breath as I pass under the giant gates. Every time I set foot here, a wave of amazement rushes over me just as it did as a child.

The Garden. A community of the most talented minds in the world, each with their own city-funded workshop. Artists, musicians, engineers, designers—the truly exceptional brought together.

This is my favourite place in the whole of Halice. Step through the gate and a person walks on ground that will change the world.

I walk down the familiar wobbly path. Vibrant grass and bursting blue flowers cover the giant courtyard, large, sweet blossom trees throw out rivers of frolicking peachy petals. The painted walls that create this community are also homes, alternating haphazardly between two and three stories tall, with the ground floor of these terraced homes all converted into large, open workshops.

Today, doors and windows are thrown wide in a weak battle with the heat. A violin’s sweet tune strokes my ear, mingling with the arrhythmic banging of an engineer next door. On a luscious grassy lawn, two writers argue over prose. Sitting in the branches of a blossom tree, an artisan sketches something into a pad of paper, his fingertips blackened with charcoal.

I stop walking, confronted by a massive contraption that looks half slingshot, half trombone, blocking the path ahead. A familiar pair of long, dark legs stick out from under it. Smoke from a recent explosion lingers in the air around this device, staining my tongue and stinging my eyes.

“Well, well, Serra Stacano,” I chuckle as my ex-lover wriggles out from under the device. “Should’ve known you’d be the one disturbing the peace.”

Serra blesses me with one of her wild grins, pulling the goggles from her eyes to rest them in the dark halo of tight curls on her head. Her skin is the majesty of midnight, and those eyes are the darkest, purest stars I’ve ever seen.

Why did we break up again? Seeing the engineer caught in the grips of discovery, that undiluted enthusiasm plastered to her face—it brings back every reason I fell in love with her, even sweaty and splattered with grime.

“I’m so close!” Serra explains excitedly, hopping up. “It’s almost there. Soon I’ll be able to fire the explosions into the sky.”

I hand her one of her discarded towels. She wipes her face, sweat shining like a badge of honour as she looks at her project like it’s the sun walking.

“Why?” I can’t help it. One of the many reasons I’d never be an artisan or engineer: a painful failing of imagination.

“So we can see them!” Her eyes shine as she throws the towel back down. “Explosions are incredible to watch but everyone is always running away, and they destroy everything around them. But if we launch them into the sky, we can relax and enjoy. Nothing to destroy up there.”

“Except birds.”

“Nasty creatures,” Serra retorts.

I snigger, patting her back. “I look forward to the show.” I start down the path again, giving her explosion machine a wide berth.

“Yours’ll be the first invite,” she calls.

“I expect no less!”

She winks before getting back to her contraption. I shake my head before dragging my eyes back to my journey.

I pass a familiar workshop adorned with mint green paint and brilliant yellow flowers. Mother’s. Or it used to be. Mother brought us here every day. This was my childhood, wrapped up in discovery. My love for the arts and sciences took root at the knees of the masters.

Bittersweet strings tug at the edges of my heart as images flash past. Little Giulia and I played on the patio while mother worked. My sister passed out on the sofa as I read my books. Evenings where Father would come to get us after Mother forgot the time. He’d always looked at her with so much love, amusement in his eyes even at the late hour.

Now it’s home to my mother’s best friend, Uncle Ruggie. My step falters slightly as I catch sight of him leaning over his forge, the flames lining the familiar ridges of his face with yellow and orange. The jeweller seems to feel my eyes, turning his head up. He flashes me a smile, and a shallow wave. His grey hair is thick with sweat, that sticks like a second skin on his face, but missing is the old spark of life in his eyes that used to be ever-present as he worked.

I hope one day he’ll get it back.

I draw closer a few paces, giving the flames a wide birth.

“Evening, Renza,” Uncle Ruggie chuckles, wiping his brow, “Good day?”

“Pretty good thanks,” I answer before turning my eyes to the portrait of his daughter, Fausta. I rarely pass this memorial without stopping to think about my friend. The protected portrait is surrounded by planters bursting with colourful flowers. That’s what she would’ve wanted. Living flowers were far more fitting to celebrate her life, nothing dead that could wither away and be forgotten. My gut twists with the memory of her brutalised Soulhate lying still in the mud, lifeless eyes staring endlessly up at the pouring rain.

After a minute more I bid Uncle Ruggie goodbye and continue down the path. I finally come to the workshop I’m actually looking for. Nestled in a corner, the small butter-coloured home could easily be missed. Peaceful and quiet. I walk across the small stone patio, through the wide arched doors and into the open space.

Giulia sits by the window, the stream of vermillion light flooding across the bank documents in front of her. Golden hair falls around her face like waves of spun candlelight. Her enviable porcelain features are pulled in concentration, a pen poised between her slender fingers. Those blue eyes are twinned with my own—a copy of our father’s.

A few paces from my sister is her girlfriend, the current occupier of this workshop. A tall, skinny woman with tight, dark curls bundled on top of her head and blue paint smeared across her narrow nose. Michelle’s dark eyes are thinned in concentration, shoulders pinched as she carefully wields a paintbrush against a canvas board.

I cross the wooden floors quietly, standing behind the artist as she works. This depiction of Giulia is going to be phenomenal when it’s finished. Michelle’s work is so expressive, every emotion poured into paint. Her total adoration for my sister is evident in each brushstroke.

Michelle’s head springs up, giving me a toothy grin.

“So, did you win?” she asks.

“We won,” I answer. She throws her hands up in celebration.

“Yes!”

“Of course, you did,” chuckles Giulia without looking up. “I never doubted you.”

“Thank you, lovely, even if you’re lying through your teeth.” I scoff softly, throwing myself into a chair opposite her. The furrowed concentration doesn’t leave her brow as a beat passes. “Everything okay here?”

“I’m sure it’s nothing.” She waves it off, setting down her pen and gesturing to a letter lying open to one side. “Though on another note, Cousin Eliseo is asking for more money for another investment.”

“Urgh.” I wrinkle my nose and cast my eyes over the irritatingly familiar scrawl. “How ridiculous is this one?”

“I’ve already written back to his brother instead, to let him know about the request.” Giulia shakes her head. “There’s no way someone as sensible as Marino knew what Eliseo was asking.” I snort at the utterly mad scheme Eliseo details in his letter, chucking it to one side.

“Probably because Eliseo already asked Marino and was soundly rejected.” I smirk.

“Enough bank talk. Today was a win for Renza and a win for the Garden. This deserves a celebration!” Michelle excitedly throws down her paint palette and tosses her paintbrush into some water. “We need drinks. I have a bottle here somewhere.”

“Great but just the one. We’re going out for dinner,” I say as Giulia starts sorting the massive pile of banking files and documents to put them away. “Father’s handling the details. You’re invited too, Michelle, in case that wasn’t clear.”

I look over my shoulder to see Michelle rattling through her wooden cupboards. Her head pokes out from behind a cupboard door, flashing me a grin and a thumbs up.

“So, how did the session go?” Giulia asks. “Smooth sailing?”

“Hardly,” I scoff as Michelle reappears with a bottle and glasses, starting to pour generously before sliding the drinks around the table. “Cardinal Bellandi didn’t bother to turn up.”

“No!” Giulia gapes, doing the mental maths before quickly adding, “Did Bellandi nominate a proxy?”

I nod, sipping my drink.

“He did, but the proxy didn’t turn up until after the votes were cast and called. Thankfully the proxy got there before it was ratified. At the last minute, he charged into the chambers with the papers held high and saved the vote.”

“Wow.” Michelle sits down next to my sister, pecking the side of her head with a kiss. “Dramatic much.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Oh well,” shrugs Michelle. “All’s well that ends well, right?”

“Speaking of dramatic, has Serra lost a finger yet?” asks Giulia.

“Not from what I saw.” I frown, turning to Michelle. “Do you get why she wants to launch an explosion into the sky?”

“Engineers are a law unto themselves.” Michelle shakes her head. “Art doesn’t involve risking life and limb. At least mine doesn’t.” Giulia links her fingers around her girlfriend’s hand and lifts it up, giving it a quick kiss.

“A fact I’m thankful for every day.”

An explosion punctuates Giulia’s words. The drinks ripple. The plants shudder. A flicker of worry passes between Giulia and me. In tandem we lean out of our seats to see another flurry of black smoke rise into the sky. I get up, crossing to the door quickly.

“Serra?” I yell down the street. “You alive?”

A beat passes.

“All good!” her muted voice comes back. Shaking my head, I cover my eyes, unable to stop the nervous smile breaking across my features.

Giulia snorts, a spark filling her blue eyes as she watches me.

“You know … she might be free tomorrow night,” she starts, slyly.

“Well, I’m not. I have dinner plans,” I explain quickly. It’s not a real date, just two old friends catching up … alone … right?

“With who?” demands Michelle immediately, setting down her drink. Giulia bolts forwards in her seat, the banking now completely forgotten. I smile, sipping on my wine to hold the suspense a moment longer.

“Bellandi’s proxy of course. Nouis Rizaro.”

“Nouis is back?” Giulia grins, eyes going wide with delight. “What’s he doing in Halice?”

“Business, I think. We’ll have to ask him at dinner; he’s coming tonight,” I dismiss with a wave.

“Who’s Nouis?” Michelle asks eagerly.

“An old family friend,” Giulia quickly explains. “We used to spend our summers together. So he finally asked you out, huh? When you said dinner plans you really meant date.”

“What do you mean ‘finally’?” Michelle pushes, head leaning on her hand as she settles into the gossip.

“It’s not like that. He’s asked to go out as friends,” I shoot back at Giulia.

“Nouis always had a crush on Renza, ever since we were little. It was so sweet but also really painfully obvious,” Giulia chuckles. “And don’t be silly, Renza, of course it’s a date.”

“It’s not like that,” I insist, leaning back in my seat.

“Oh my gosh, from when you were both little? Like, as in first sight?” gasps Michelle excitedly. “What if he’s your Soulmate? They say that if two people meet when they’re really young that sometimes it can be tricky to tell.”

I wrinkle my nose in disgust. The memory of how Fausta had transformed when meeting her Fated hovers like a bad taste in my mouth.

Everyone has their Fated. Two other people that Fate has linked you with for life. The first, a Soulmate, a partner perfectly designed by the gods to be your one true love. The second, a Soulhate, that one person destined to be your most loathed enemy. It’s a fact of life. We all have our Fated; our Soulmate and our Soulhate. Meeting them, however, is a matter of chance. It’s uncommon but it happens, one in ten, or so the saying goes.

A Fated Bond can never be broken. Once discovered, it’s for life—however long or brief. Thousands of people have tried to break with their Fated over the centuries. History books brim with sweeping brutal tragedies around such a hopeless quest.

And yet, seeing how Fausta changed upon meeting her Soulhate, I could see the path towards that desperation.

Fausta had been one of the sweetest, most caring people I’d ever met. When we were kids she was forever nursing animals back to health or stopping to help when people were upset. She spent all of her free time volunteering with various charities and had just begun training to be a nurse.

But then she met her Soulhate. In an instant I watched this sweet, gentle woman turn into a vicious, bloodthirsty animal. Clawing at a woman she’d just met at a bar—she didn’t even know her name yet—Fausta started spitting words calling for her death. That Fate-inflicted loathing, an unfathomable urge to kill a complete stranger, had transformed her into a totally different person.

Fausta and her Soulhate decided to follow tradition and duel at dawn, to settle it once and for all as the Church taught us. A fight to the death. And as per tradition, the duel was held privately for “the sake of public decency”. Both sides of the fight were allowed two spectators. Fausta asked her father, Uncle Ruggie, to spectate, and then she asked me. One of my closest friends was potentially marching to her death. How could I refuse?

A holy servant was required to be present to sanction it. On learning I’d be attending, Cardinal Bellandi offered to be there personally as moral support for all involved—despite it being a little beneath his position.

So I watched the sweet girl I’d grown up with, the girl that saved baby birds and helped every single kid that scraped their knee, as she tried to slaughter this stranger. The two fought with daggers as rain poured from the sky. There was no skill. It was gruesome and brutal. It was just wild lashing and unrestrained loathing.

I wanted to stop it. To save Fausta. To end the senseless violence of it all. We all did, but we weren’t allowed. Then the other woman stopped moving and the cardinal declared her dead. But Fausta’s injuries were ghastly. She limped home, and died two days later, consumed by grief at what she’d done.

Uncle Ruggie hasn’t been the same since, and truthfully, I don’t think I have either.

The idea of Fate controlling something so visceral and important makes me physically uncomfortable. And while a Soulmate is vastly different from the raw fury and loathing of a Soulhate, the Soulmates I’ve seen have rarely been as easy or romantic as the Church screams at us they should be. They seem to be dramatic, twisted and designed for Fate’s entertainment, rather than actually matching us with the right people. Yet…

I was instantly attracted to Nouis when I saw him again. Maybe, it was just because he’s handsome, or perhaps it was his confidence. Or maybe because he swooped in like a hero and saved my first solo bill?

I shake my head, shifting towards my seat.

“I don’t … I don’t think so,” I say the words out loud, to myself more than anything. I furrow my brow. “I mean, he’s—objectively—attractive for sure. But nothing … Fated.”

I forced the last word out past the lump in my throat.

“Besides,” I continue, “it’s just dinner between old friends. Nothing more.”

“Nothing more, right. He’s just ‘ objectively attractive ’.” Giulia mocks my words with a snort, “Don’t kid yourself, Renza, this is a date.”

Michelle’s face stretches to a cheeky grin. “When was the last time you even went on a date?”

“I see people,” I argue.

“One-night flings are not dating.” Giulia counters without missing a beat. I poke my tongue out at her.

“Not all of us can be in nauseatingly happy, committed relationships at the ripe old age of twenty,” I jab back with a teasing grin. “I’m enjoying my life.”

“So Nouis, he was Bellandi’s proxy?” Michelle’s face crinkles, questions brewing in her eyes. “How does he know Bellandi?”

“I’m guessing through the Church? I mean, Nouis’s aunt is the Holy Mother,” I offer, mind spiriting away to Giulia’s comment and that victorious smile on Nouis’s face. Did he think it was a date?

Giulia narrows her eyes at me for a long moment. She sighs.

“Go on, out with it,” she commands. I give her a sour look, to which she only raises her eyebrows.

“What’s wrong. You’re all…” Giulia waves a hand at me like that was enough description. I shrug.

“You really think it’s a date?” I say in response.

“Yeah,” Giulia and Michelle answer at the same time. I bite my lip.

“What if I ruin our friendship? He lives in Kavas; I live here. How could things work? He is the heir to our biggest banking rival on this continent; he’s technically our competition. He’s?—”

“He’s also one of your oldest friends,” Guila says softly, “and he’d never do anything to make you uncomfortable. Besides, you’ve said yes to dinner, which should tell you something about how you feel about him.”

Michelle holds out her glass for the two of us. “Well then, here’s to a great day.”

I tap my glass to hers and Giulia’s, smiling.

“And hopefully a great night too.”