Page 31 of Soul Hate
P atchy grey and white clouds swirl across the gentle sky. Market Square is thick with artists and engineers. I stand amongst their creations, watching their mastery unfold.
Could it only be four days ago that this square was the site of such bloodshed? The grime has been scraped from the perfect pale stone, the bodies collected, the damage repaired. Not a trace of the gratuitous violence remains.
Spotless.
Yet the city is different. Changed. Its gentle soul forever marred by bloody handprints.
I run a finger over the tight bandage on my thigh and the scar that’s neatly forming there.
Scars, in all their forms, are beautiful. The marks of wars won. Of battles survived.
Scaffolding wraps around the ugly square Watchtower as the repairs are carried out. Repairs and improvements, of course. Because this spotless space chews away at my mind. Because we can’t sweep this under the rug and forget. We can’t ever forget what we almost lost.
Or what we did to take it all back.
Some people didn’t make it of course. The Holy Militia are a highly trained force. The Di Maineri family are sponsoring a monument to the lost heroes of Halice to sit in this square. They should never be forgotten—their sacrifice gave our city exactly what it needed.
Every single member of the Garden is contributing something to make it astonishing. All the colours of the rainbow I’m told. But it’s not enough. People need to remember it all. The heroes.
And the villains.
So up on that scaffolding, amongst the builders and stonemasons are several artists, painting a rendition of what people have been calling the Great Rebellion. Of the people rising up to save their city, of Idris and me standing on the roof, hands joined in victory. But also of Bellandi, hanging from the roof, meeting his untimely end.
“That’s a public building you’re defacing. Spectacularly, I might add.”
I smirk, not turning to the sound of that deep voice. Itching crawls up my fingers and my throat goes tight. It’ll always be there, this physical reaction to his presence. It’ll never leave. But now somehow … it’s become so familiar. Not easier, not better, nowhere even close to comfortable. But familiar. Likable.
Because when he’s here, I have an ally.
And somehow that makes it all a fraction more bearable.
He turns, us both standing back-to-back as we look around the square. Inches apart, goosebumps race up and down my arms. I close my eyes and let out a shaky breath, taking a moment to let the sensation of Idris’s presence rush over me.
“So, why the grim painting?” Idris’s voice is soft, his words meant only for me. I open my eyes, gaze turning back to the half-finished art.
“People need the reminder of what we do to traitors in Halice.”
“Well, it’s certainly a message. As is the wagon sent to the Holy Mother. Filled with art depicting the rebellion … along with the rotting, beheaded corpse of Bellandi.”
“She needs to know what happened here. She needs to see the results of her work.”
“It’s not de-escalating conflict.”
“I don’t care.” Those words rip at my throat as they leave my tongue. “Just so long as she knows better than to try again. So long as everyone knows better.”
“Everyone?” frowns Idris.
“Why do you think the Garden is so busy?” I shift, straightening my tunic. “I’m sending depictions and stories to every country you can name. Sending some of our best storytellers on commission to spread the truth amongst the people.”
“That could appear aggressive.”
“In their next sermon, every preacher on the continent will be talking about the horrendous slaughter of the Church inside Halice. They’ll carve a false narrative about us being vicious heathens, painting the Holy States as innocent victims and scapegoats. I won’t have that. People need to know the truth. Even if they don’t acknowledge it, they’ll have heard it and unconsciously be aware of what the Holy States is willing to try.”
“Which could bring us allies. Particularly if they think they could be next on the Holy States’ chopping block.”
“We’re going to need allies to fight off the Holy States. They were our best trading partner. Obviously we need to diversify. To fight a war we need money; to get money we need trade. To get trade, we need allies.”
Idris chuckles, shifting behind me. My heart jumps as I feel the tips of his warm fingers brush against the outside of my hand. Hot sparks streak through my bones as my breath hitches.
“Playing politics already. You’re clearly feeling better.”
“Everything is politics, Idris. Don’t you know that by now?”
“I’ll consider you a master to learn from.”
“Going to name-drop me in the future?”
“Are you kidding? When I was in Halice I fought in a revolution alongside the great and powerful Renza Di Maineri.”
I snort. “And don’t you forget it.”
“Never,” he promises. His fingers wrap more securely around mine, the warmth of his touch sets my pulse throbbing in my ears. A smile flirts with the corners of my mouth. The bustling square keeps moving. No one bothers to stare at us anymore. No one is worried that we’ll leap at each other’s throats. They believe we can do this, and finally so do I.
“I do have one question. Why’d it take so long for you to ring the bells?”
“Ah that.”
“You had ages!”
“Bellandi removed the ropes,” Idris snorts. “I had to run around trying to link them all up again.”
I laugh, pressing my free hand to my face. Of course he did.
“How’s the leg?” Idris asks carefully, joined hands reaching softly for it. The loose red dress hides the thick bandages quite nicely. The moment my fingers press against the muscles, aching shoots up to my stomach. “Sore.”
“It was a nasty gash. How are the stitches?”
“I’ll live. You?”
“Nothing lasting.”
“Good.” I mean it.
Fate might disagree.
“Why are you really here, Idris?” I push. He clearly isn’t going to spit it out without a little nudge.
“I hear you’re working on a new budget,” he says. “Reallocating funds.”
“You don’t think it’s valid? Our city has just been robbed blind. Don’t you think a reassessment and redistribution has merit?”
“I didn’t say that!” Idris laughs. “But you’re being sneaky, trying to put extra money into the Garden’s Fund.”
“It’s hardly sneaky. It’s right there in the paperwork.”
“We just started a war with the Holy States. We need to fully fund the Guard—we can’t be weak for the next attack.”
“Agreed. But we also need weapons. We don’t have numbers. We don’t have land. So we need another advantage. We need a surprise, just like our traps. That money is for weapons research.”
“Tricks and traps need the element of surprise. Next time we won’t have that.”
I pause, turning that over for a minute. “So I can’t count on your vote?”
Idris laughs, his back presses deeply against mine and he tightly squeezes our joined fingers. Goosebumps race up my arms and bitterness strokes the length of my tongue. I lean into that feeling, those fiery waves that come when I lean my head back, pressing into the warmth of his back.
“I guess I’ll have to defeat your bill in the High Chamber, Di Maineri.”
“Bring it on, Patricelli.”
A moment passes between us. I swallow, forcing out the words I know need to be said.
“Halice has a long way to go, to become safe again…” I start, trailing off.
Idris pauses for a moment before answering. “I know.”
“So we should be focused, on Halice. Focused on our work.” I clear my throat, before continuing, “No distractions.”
Idris doesn’t answer for a moment, but I know he understands my meaning. Then I hear a small, amused scoff. He turns to look at me. I take a deep breath to slow my pulse as I turn around. He reaches forwards, tracing the tips of his fingers slowly from my elbow to my wrist. Stars fly in their path, my heart throbbing in my throat.
Idris gives a small smirk.
“As you wish,” Idris answers, a quiet, patient challenge thick in his words. Without another word, he turns and walks away. I watch him retreat for a moment before turning back to the work happening around me. I barely see the people though, the ghost of Idris’s fingers still bringing goosebumps to my arm.
I’m in trouble. In more ways than one. But I’m Renza Di Maneri. I can handle a bit of trouble.