Page 4 of Soul Hate

T he rainbow leaks through the stained window behind the bishop. His black and white robe flails with each exaggerated gesture as he preaches from his pulpit in the Grand Temple.

“Father Fate guides all our actions. Father Fate dictates life’s every opportunity at His divine discretion.” Spittle flies from his lips, showering the first row with a multicolour spray. The bishop prattles on, his ridiculous hat wobbling like it might fall off.

I close my eyes, head dropping down to pinch the bridge of my nose. My hair acts as a dark curtain as it obscures my boredom from the congregation. A yawn lurks at the back of my mouth.

Halice is technically a city of free religion, a law that was established early on after we gained our freedom from the Holy States. It’s this way in many of the Independent States. But with Father Fate taking such an active part in the lives of so many, and the long history of entanglement with the Holy States, it isn’t surprising that the Holy Faith is still the dominant religion of the continent.

But from what I understand, the demands of the Holy Faith are a lot more relaxed here in the Independent States than in the Holy States. For the citizens of Halice, church attendance is not compulsory, but a free choice. Yet many still regularly attend the weekly service held at the Grand Temple, either out of obligation to Father Fate or for the sake of appearances if nothing else.

I should not have drunk that much last night. A headache buzzes at the back of my skull. Noises are sharper. Lights are harsher. Every second ticking by is like sandpaper scraping at a new layer of my brain. I jump, my father suddenly leaning closer.

“Recovering from last night, Renza?” Amusement hides in Father’s deep voice. I try to suppress the smirk, eyes flickering up to the pulpit again. Given the amount I drank at the dancehall last night, and the fact I crawled into bed only three hours before we got up to come here, I think I’m handling things wonderfully.

“You know me.” I shift on the unforgiving wooden pew, covering my mouth with my hand. “Work hard, play harder. It was worth it.”

I turn to look at my father. My smirk begins to infect my father’s face.

“Father Fate blessed us with his two divine daughters. Sister Love and Sister Hate!” shouts the bishop, making every half-asleep member of the congregation flinch. Our eyes leap back to the preacher as he slams his fist on the polished stone podium. “The two most divine and powerful of human emotions. The Sisters follow their father’s command and bless each of us with our Fated. Our Soulmate and our Soulhate. Those whose lives are woven with our own, those who bring to us the most divine purity of feeling in the world?—”

I keep my voice low, trying not to wrinkle my nose as the bench creaks under me. “Still no Cardinal Bellandi? This guy is?—”

“Enthusiastic?” The same displeasure ripples from Father’s words. “The cardinal has been called back to the Holy States, and is residing in their Capital of Kavas. By personal invitation of the Holy Mother herself.”

The Holy Mother is the head of the Holy Faith, the one true interpreter of the gods’ will on earth. That fact also makes her the de facto ruler of the sprawling and powerful Holy States Empire. All cardinals across the continent look to the Holy Mother for spiritual guidance and instruction.

“Fate’s Fury.” I rub my brow to hide my grimace, eyes turning up to the high painted ceiling. “For long?”

“Doubt it. Word would’ve spread by now.”

A moment of silence passes. Restlessness grows, like the memory of an itch running all over my body. I tap my foot to the floor, searching for a distraction.

“I’ll give the cardinal this,” I whisper to Father, “he gives a blessedly short sermon. While he’s away we should look to capitalise in the High Chamber?—”

“I’m already on it. Why do you think your sister is sitting with Electi Morteselli?”

I throw a sly look over my shoulder. My scan instead catches on Nouis, given he’s only two rows back. His dark hair and angular features are soaked forest green thanks to the window he sits under. He cracks a wicked grin and dares to wink my way. My stomach ripples with warmth. My breath catches in my throat as my pulse races faster. I answer with a flirty smile. My eyes jump a few rows down, skipping past the bright glass depictions and the creamy stone.

My sister’s blonde hair gleams blue and pink under another colourful window. As Father said, Giulia sits with Electi Morteselli, leaning in close to whisper in his ear. The golden sister indeed.

I turn back around, a smirk painted on my lips.

“What’s the plan?” I whisper.

“If you’d gotten here sooner, perhaps you’d know.”

“Don’t play that game if you’re not prepared to lose,” I retort without losing a beat.

A low chuckle radiates from my father’s chest. He covers it with a quick cough. After a minute or two of continued preaching, I lean closer.

“We should push?—”

“The new trade agreement with Nimal,” Father interrupts me. Our eyes meet, agreement sparking between us.

“Excellent.” Cardinal Bellandi has always been an obstacle when building stronger trade relations that weren’t with the Holy States. Without him, we have a real chance of pushing it through.

“What’s more,” Father continues, “before church, I struck a deal with Patricelli for how the first year of taxes from it will be spent.”

“Do tell.”

“We’re going to refurbish the housing near the port. The quality is so low, people get sick all the time. Cleaner, better housing will lead to a healthier, happier people and workforce.”

“Which is good for Patricelli,” I mutter mostly to myself. “They own most of the businesses that move in and out of that port.”

“Hence his agreement. He actually invited us over this afternoon to hammer out details.”

“Us?”

“Me. But I’m inviting you, assuming you’re in?”

Father learnt to ask the hard way. The first time I actively voted against Father, he lost. Father never held it against me. Though losing stung, he claimed it was a balm to know he’d raised a daughter with the strength to act on her own convictions.

That didn’t stop the rest of the city seeing it as just an isolated act of youthful rebellion. After all, I’m an extension of my father, of course.

That attitude has followed me from the first day I set foot in the High Chamber like a curse. I got some nasty comments from rivals in my election season, and the whispers never really stopped.

I’m not a yes-man. I don’t follow blindly where my father walks. But when I’m in the room, all they really see is him. My father casts a long shadow and it’s difficult to find a way free.

“I agree,” I assure Father. With Patricelli, Father and I united on a bill? We could really get this through quickly.

“Excellent. Patricelli’s cooperation should make this easy.”

“Hopefully,” I mutter, thinking about the practicality. The other Electi will want specifics, particularly around the housing and the costs of the project, “I’ll line up an architect for housing plans. I’ll start work this afternoon.”

The bishop slams his hands together. The sharp snapping radiates like lightning over the semi-conscious congregation.

“And now, may we all go in the grace of Fate!” announces the bishop, lifting both hands to the sky.

“Grace of Fate,” the congregation choruses. Chatter fills the temple as people file out. The groaning of the wooden pews punctuates the rising voices as the bishop sprints down the aisle to wish everyone goodbye at the door.

I run a hand up my arm, spinning around. My skin is marching with invisible ants.

My father turns to look at me, eyes wide and relieved. “Fate’s Mercy, let’s hope Bellandi is back before next week.”

I snigger and stand, smoothing out my purple satin tunic. My eye catches on the Patricellis in the opposite pew. It’ll be impossible to avoid them now. They stood at the same time as us.

They’re dressed head to toe in expensive red fabric, fair faces strewn multicolour with streaks of sunshine pouring into the holy space. Their bejewelled shoes clap over the polished tiles as we all ease into the aisle.

“Jacopo,” my father’s face creases with manufactured warmth. “What time should we come by yours this afternoon, to discuss details?”

“Any time after midday.” Jacopo’s gaze flickers to me with a tenseness. “We weren’t expecting you at service today, Signora Renza.”

“Why? I come most weeks,” I ask pleasantly.

Jacopo shrugs, a slither of humour warming his tight words. “I thought you’d be celebrating, as is your … ah … pattern, after your win yesterday.”

“You know me too well, signore.” I fabricate an easy, warm laugh. “I woke early, and felt attendance today would be important. Though I’ll admit, my head doesn’t thank me.”

Jacopo cracks a sly smile.

“The joys of youth. Speaking of which, my son will be joining us this afternoon.”

“Your son?” My father’s response is instantaneous. My heart skips a beat, teeth clamping together. I shake it off, focusing on Jacopo’s response.

“Yes, he’s arriving home this morning. He’s finished his work in Chalgos.”

Chalgos, the floating city. I’ve seen so many depictions in books, I can’t help but envy anyone who’s had the chance to go there. Formed around a lone mountain protruding from the ocean, the population expanded beyond the capacity of the island. Having no other choice and its position generally protected from any real storm hazards, the population built floating buildings and latched them to the mountain. That idea only spread further and further, and now the majority of the bustling city floats. Before winning its independence, Chalgos was half mine, half prison for the Holy States. Now it’s the busiest trading port on the continent, a place known for exceptionally muddy waters around what was legal and illegal trade.

So Patricelli’s son has spent time in Chalgos? Doing what, I wonder.

A shadow of doubt flashes over Jacopo’s face. “He should’ve arrived before the service today, but alas, he was delayed.”

“Fantastic news of his return,” my father lies brilliantly.

“Yes, it’s wonderful to have him home. Do excuse us. We should go meet Idris.”

That name.

All the hairs on my arms rise as if a monster lurks behind me.

“We’ll expect you at midday, Signore Tomas.” Patricelli nods his head towards Father then me. “Signora Renza.”

Patricelli and his wife walk down the aisle without another word. I put a hand on the wooden pew, watching them retreat across the blue and white chequered floor. My pulse is jumping. Pins and needles ripple across my toes like they’re being nipped at by an imaginary frost.

Idris Patricelli. Jacopo’s famed one and only heir is finally returning from his extensive studies abroad.

Only thinking the name has me clenching my fingers to keep them still.

Father and I begin to follow the Patricellis, allowing the space between us to grow with each shallow step. We’re thinking the same thing.

This changes everything.

Jacopo’s not stupid. If his son is coming home, that means he’s already working on a plan to make him an Electi. But who would he target? When an Electi wins their seat, it’s theirs until they abdicate, die or a vote of no confidence is called. Should the other Electi vote that their colleague is no longer fit for the High Chamber, they are forced to abdicate their seat.

Jacopo wouldn’t abdicate his seat for his son. Not when anyone can run for Electi. There’s a slim chance, but it’s still there that someone completely unknown would snap up the seat in the election.

Meaning Jacopo’s going after another seat. He’ll either get them to abdicate or call a vote. It’s probably not Gatorre’s seat. Gatorre won his election by securing the support of the City Guard—and Jacopo hugely supports any bills giving them more money and resources. The two of them are thick as thieves.

Maybe Morteselli? The man is old, and won his election over five decades ago. Perhaps Jacopo knows he wants to step down? Or perhaps he would go after Bellandi or Yaleni? He wouldn’t try coming after Father or me … would he? My stomach churned at the thought.

“We need to seal the Nimal deal tomorrow. No later. We need to discover what Jacopo is planning,” I barely utter the words. Father nods, dark hair glinting as he rakes a hand through it.

“I think it’s time to introduce myself to Idris Patricelli, see if the rumours about him are true. If he’s half as competent as his father, he’s worth our concern.”

“It certainly makes things more interesting,” I agree, clutching at silver linings. Our short strides bring us just paces from the huge arched doors, out into the bright city square. “But competence and experience are wildly different things. I have both in spades, and rapport with every member of the Electi. He’s a stranger.”

As we arrive at the exit, that crawling sensation over my skin increases. I look around me, desperately searching for whatever is causing this discomfort.

“He’s a powerful stranger looking to cut his teeth. Which makes him dangerous.” Father’s face creases, lips thinning. He looks at me confused.

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” I almost bite back. “Why?”

“You’re … bouncing? On edge?” he offers, eyes running up and down as if calculating. “You seem … not yourself.”

“It’s just the hangover,” I dismiss, turning around. It has to be.

“Are you sure? If you want to go home and rest, I can handle Gattore and Jacopo.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” I roll my eyes at him, pulling the ends of my low ponytail over my shoulder to keep my hands busy.

A lazy breeze wipes its cool fingers across my nose. I squint against the over-enthusiastic attention of the sun as we reach the front of the line, and turn to the bishop. I take his hands warmly in mine.

“Bishop Adar, fantastic service. I’ve never felt closer to the gods.” I give his fingers a friendly squeeze. “But I’m afraid I must dash. I do hope you’ll be able to cover for the cardinal again—should business take him away.”

A brilliant smile fills the bishop’s round face.

“Always a pleasure to serve, and a delight to see you, Signora Di Maineri. May Fate bless your steps.”

“Thank you, and yours, bishop.”

I turn around, hopping hurriedly down the first few steps of the Grand Temple. The bells begin to ring, their tune familiarly arrhythmic as they mark the hour. Blue skies toss golden light over every inch of the great square as I search through the crowd for Electi Gattore’s familiar face. Sunshine bounces off the pale stone masonry, spotlighting the bright public murals and the vivid clothes worn by the prestigious congregation.

I stop dead, the task evaporating from my mind. Dread hits me like a fog. I spin on the spot, eyes darting through the crowd.

“Running away so soon?” Nouis seems to materialise beside me. I don’t look at him, keeping my gaze on the bustling crowd. My breath comes quickly. My fingers won’t keep still, each pulse of my heart echoing in my ears.

“Renza?” asks Nouis concerned.

“Sorry. I have … work. We’ll talk … later?” I offer, continuing down a step into the crowd. What work again? I can’t remember.

Nouis walks with me.

“You don’t look … Are you okay? Can I help?” Nouis asks warily. “Who are you looking for?”

“I don’t know,” I sigh, spinning around again. I can feel it. I know it. I just can’t find it.

Whatever it even is.

“Renza?”

“Something’s wrong,” I whisper. The admission sends a frost through my chest.

“What?” The words are sharp, all sense of mischief dropped from Nouis’svoice. He steps closer, his handsome face etched with concern.

“I don’t know. I just … know!” I raise both hands to my hair, spinning around again. My gaze cuts through the crowd of people, some of which are beginning to give me a side eye. Nouis puts a hand on my back to try and get my attention.

“Okay, then let’s leave?” he offers. “I can give you a lift home?”

My ears are ringing with thunder. My fingers spark with discomfort, itching to dig into something, to feel something warm and sticky running over my palms.

At the base of the steps, I spy Jacopo Patricelli and his wife. They’re talking with two young men. One takes me a second to recognise as Alfieri Barone. The other is a fair-haired stranger.

The world slows. Every inch of my skin feels like it’s splitting and peeling. Revulsion wraps a stranglehold around my throat, dragging me closer. My tongue is coated in bile and bitterness.

I take three steps forwards, ringing consuming my mind, my head suddenly turned to wool. My feet move on their own.

“Renza? Renza!” Nouis tries to get my attention in alarm, taking my arm.

That stranger’s face comes into view. His sharp jaw. Glowing creamy skin. Golden hazel eyes snap to mine.

The world goes red.

A brutal scream erupts from my throat and I barrel into my enemy at full speed. I slam him to the ground, smashing his disgusting head against the solid stone. I punch his face, again and again. A satisfying warmth ripples up my arm as my knuckles connect with his jaw, his blood coating my fingers like a soothing balm.

His hands launch forwards, crashing into my face, jarring my chin up and shooting pain through my spine. His backhand goes across my face, sharp stinging ripping across my cheeks.

I shriek as I fall off him. He reaches for me again with both hands, this time aiming for my throat. I knee him in the crotch as hard as I can, watching him buckle and brace himself on the floor. I swipe, my nails going for his eyes. Instead I catch his chiselled cheekbones, carving four gashes. I lunge for him, wrapping my fingers around his throat and clenching tight.

Die! Die! Die!

“Renza! Renza!”

Strong arms wrap around my waist, hauling me away. My bloodthirsty roar rolls between my teeth as I thrash out against the restraints. My nemesis is held back too—the scum. Jacopo and two others grip his arms so tightly their knuckles are white. Blood oozes from his nose, the four gashes on his cheeks leak and crimson drips from his jaw to mar the creamy stone below.

I writhe, fire coursing through my veins. I must destroy him. I need to destroy him. Nothing in this world matters more.

Nouis swears behind me, and I realise it’s him holding me back. That traitor. My father and sister race through the crowd towards us.

“Renza,” shouts my father jumping in front of me, using all his strength to help Nouis hold me back. “Renza, enough! Get her out of here!”

My sister nods, helping Nouis and a member of the City Guard wrestle me back.

“I’ll kill him!” I rail against their grip, teeth gritted. The disgust so sharp it curdles in my brain. “I’ll rip him apart!”

My sister’s slap rockets across my face like dunking me in ice. Gasping, floundering in shock, I stare at her. My heart throbs in my ears and my cheek stings in memory of her touch.

“No, you won’t,” Giulia snaps at me, her perfect face torn with stern anger. My breath is racing and hot as I stare into her eyes. “That’s Idris Patricelli.”

No.

My gaze snaps back to my enemy. Five men are kneeling on him, pressing him flat against the floor in an effort to restrain him. A snarl is etched across his features. Utter hatred pours from his hazel eyes.

Everything blisters. Acid burns my tongue.

“Giulia, get her gone. Now!” shouts my father, walking towards the Patricellis. Giulia steps in front of me, face serious, voice sharp.

“Eyes on me, Renza, eyes on me,” she barks. Her hands go to my face, forcing me to obey. Nouis pulls me back. I stumble and gasp for breath.

The entire world has shifted under my feet. Only one coherent thought stands out from the torrent of rage, disgust and horror running rampant through my body.

I’ve found my Soulhate.