Soul Bound, page 17
“Best not mention this again,” I say to them as Tahira gets Serra’s other side. “Pretend it didn’t happen.”
“Of course, signora.”
We manoeuvre Serra into a carriage, Tahira and Royah looking out the window as we rattle along on our journey. The closer we get to the Garden, the more beautiful the world becomes. Art pours from every crevice, vivid murals and intricate cobblestones in gorgeous patterns. Sounds and smells leak from over the painted walls and homes, mingling like a cacophony of genius on the breeze.
We stop outside the Garden gates, and stagger down the path with a now unconscious Serra. I couldn’t have asked for a more vivid display of brilliance. The workshops are all open and busy. Statues, art, music, genius of every kind is on display everywhere you look. The leaves of the blossom tree in the courtyard are turning a deep ruby. The wandering path winds around the busy artisans.
At Serra’s workshop, I find her key, letting us in. We get her up the rickety stairs, putting her swiftly to bed. Tahira and Royah go back downstairs as I roll her over, take off her shoes and place a bucket by her head.
I sit by her, sighing at her slack, slumbering face. How did I not see this pain sooner? How have I not done anything about it? Am I a bad friend? So self-absorbed with my own issues I’m blind to those I love?
I lean down and press a kiss to her brow.
I’ll speak with her properly when she’s awake, and sober. Right now, she needs sleep.
I head back down the stairs and find the girls looking through Serra’s designs.
“Wow, these are cool!” Tahira grins. “Do they work?”
“Yes. Serra’s brilliant, and not normally a drunk,” I’m compelled to explain. “She’s been through some tough stuff recently.” I look through some of her half-finished work, most of which have large crosses through the designs. I move to her bin, pulling out crumpled papers containing more designs like her firework catapult or traps, torn and discarded. My heart sinks.
“Sounds it,” Tahira says, putting a hand on my shoulder. “War is tough on everyone.”
“She was one of Bellandi’s first targets,” I explain quietly. “She was arrested after the temple blew up. We broke her out, but…”
“Solitary confinement?” asks Tahira with a puckered brow. I nod.
“She was arrested on suspicion of treason,” I answer. Royah sighs.
“That’ll mess with anyone. You know, mind-stilling might help her,” Royah suggests as she wraps a braid thoughtfully around her fingers. “Idris says it helps with his nightmares.”
“It helps with grief,” I agree. “I’ll lend her my books.”
“Doesn’t work for everyone. I never really clicked with it,” Tahira adds, and narrows her eyes at me curiously. “So the mind-stilling, it helps you and Idris to coexist?”
“Some,” I answer honestly. “Idris swears by it, and the exercises do help. But it’s not like the urges vanish. Every interaction is a battlefield. His presence causes me physical pain. Communicating about how we’re handling the bond is essential. Respecting it, respecting ourselves…” I trail off, thinking about how much respect we’ve shown each other lately. I bite my lip, shame flooding my cheeks.
“So what would you suggest, if someone else were to try fighting a Soulhate bond?” asks Tahira.
“That’s tough. A Fated bond is so personal, so unique to the two people it’s between.” I think carefully as I set about cleaning up Serra’s room. “With the Great Rebellion, Idris and I were forced into proximity under duress and given a purpose greater than ourselves. It forced us to the point of make-or-break. To save Halice, we had to be around each other and fight for each other. Logically we never wanted to hurt each other – I’ve never wanted to hurt anyone – but the bond is something feral and entirely consuming. Mind-stilling, in general, is good. It doesn’t erase the bond, or the strength of it. It’s more like … making sure my calm, rational side is in control of my actions rather than my instinct for violence. It takes that edge off the pain. But it’s still a fight.”
Tahira nods slowly, considering that. I almost ask her about the interest, but something tells me it would be too personal. My eyes drop to the dagger on her belt.
“Come on,” I say. “Uncle Ruggie should be able to help with your Dolk.”
We close the door behind us, and I slip the key back under the door. Locked up safe and sound. We walk to Uncle Ruggie’s workshop, barely a few hundred paces away. He’s outside by his forge, a few moulds in boxes on the floor. He looks up as we approach, a grin stretching his time-lined face.
“Renza!” he says, setting down his tools and yanking off the thick gloves on his hands.
“Uncle Ruggie!” I laugh, hugging him tight.
“Oh, good to see you! I heard about the party. Are you alright?” he asks. I nod, and he releases me.
“These are my friends, Royah and Tahira. Tahira has some work for you, if you can?” I say. Tahira hands over her Dolk, pointing to the damaged area. Uncle Ruggie holds it close to his eyes, nodding slowly.
“Hmmm, I see. Yes, I can fix this,” Uncle Ruggie says. Tahira’s eyebrows jump up in shock.
“Are you sure? It’s intricate work.”
“Of course.” Uncle Ruggie waves off the worry with a warm smile. “Come inside. Do you have the stones or will you need replacements?”
“Replacements,” Tahira sighs. “I couldn’t find them when we looked.”
“Come and choose the stones then, I have a wide range you can pick from.” Ruggie invites us inside. I smile and mouth my thanks at Uncle Ruggie as we enter his home. There are boxes and boxes of jewels everywhere, his pieces littering every surface. I walk over to the stove, fill the kettle and place it over a gentle flame. I think all of us could use a cup of tea.
Royah bends over some of the pieces, picking them up with care as she inspects them. A small, awed smile spills over her face. I chuckle to myself, walking to her side.
“He’s talented, right?” I whisper to her. Royah nods, inspecting the most beautiful bracelet formed of intertwined silver and gold rivers studded with diamond clouds and topaz stars.
“Stunning. The detail in the metal work…” Royah sets the box down. “He’s an artisan.”
“Only the best here in the Garden,” I say proudly. “The best and brightest of every ilk. Geniuses each and every one.”
“Anyone here do tattoos?” Royah asks excitedly. “I love learning from other artists.”
“I don’t think so. Tattoos aren’t popular here in the south of the continent, but if you travel to Rhone or Agoa they are much more prevalent,” I answer honestly. “Are you an artist?”
“Yeah.” Royah beams, showing off her arms. “I’ve collected these from artists I’ve met and admired. See this one”—she points to the vivid depiction of butterflies on hothouse flowers that graces her shoulder—“I got it from a master in a city called Alverga. He taught me so much about movement in my pieces.”
“Wow.”
“This one I got while we were in Malaya. They don’t do tattoos over there the way we do in Coari. They only have black and white ink, and their technique takes hours,” she says, pointing to a gorgeous depiction of a dagger wrapped in thorny vines with tiny, delicate flowers that graces the back of her forearm. “So I drew this and did it over time on myself. Non-dominant hand, too.”
“You tattooed yourself?” I gape. Royah chuckles.
“You’re not supposed to. But I had to try their technique, and no one volunteered to be my test subject.” Royah grins. “Most of the crew have been at the mercy of me and my needles at some point.”
“Did you do Idris?” I ask.
“Yeah. He just wanted a straight scorpion tail, nothing else. I wanted to add some flourish but he said no.” Royah rolls her eyes like he was boring. “Why? You want me to get out my needles for you?”
“I’ll pass right now, thanks. But they’re beautiful,” I muse, knowing someone who would love these. An artist who lived only a few doors down. Fate really was playing his games. “Let me show you one of my favourite pieces Uncle Ruggie’s done.”
I head to one of Uncle Ruggie’s cupboards. I sink down, tugging open the draw and riffling through the boxes. I bring out a large flat box and tug off the lid. Nestled in the black velvet bed is the most gorgeous necklace. A bursting bouquet of flowers – tulips, daffodils, crocuses and snowdrops – runs like an explosion of springtime in the most intricate, delicate network of silver.
“It reminds me of flowers in the snow,” I admit. I’ve only seen snow once, when we went to stay up near the mountains on holiday as a child. But I’ve never forgotten it.
“By the great rivers!” breathes Royah, her mouth falling open.
“They’re glass of course, not real jewels. He made this as costume jewellery. An experiment a few years ago. But I still think it’s phenomenal.” I smile. Royah takes the box, holding it up to the light as she watches the sparkle dance.
“If your uncle ever decides to go to Coari, he’d clean up! People would go mad for these,” Royah says. I raise an eyebrow.
“Really?”
“Oh, yeah.” Royah nods. “People wear their wealth in Coari.”
I blink, an idea taking root in my mind.
“What’s the food like in Coari?” I ask, hoping to strike a tone of only mild curiosity.
“Well, Coari is mostly desert, but we have a few great rivers that have large tides,” Royah explains. “The wetlands are rich with all kinds of foods. Wheats, fruits, veg, spices. Why?”
“I love exploring my palate.” I wave off the question, but a plan is beginning to form.
“You and Idris share that in common then.” Royah chuckles, her mind’s eye skating somewhere else. “He was always cooking or eating. Everywhere we went, he had to try everything. It’s a miracle he isn’t the size of a ship!”
“Okay, sorted.” Tahira smiles, coming to join us. “These are incredible.”
“Thank you.” Uncle Ruggie beams.
“Can I buy these?” asks Royah, picking up a box. Inside are a set of earrings, the dangling jewels reminding me of frothy ocean waves rolling over each other.
“Of course,” Ruggie says brightly. “Those are studded with sapphire and aquamarine, set in mother-of-pearl.”
It doesn’t take long for us to finish up business. We walk out of Uncle Ruggie’s house in a bright mood. I pause outside Fausta’s mural. I clear a stray fallen leaf from a nearby tree and whisper a quiet prayer before heading up the path again.
“Thanks for the directions,” Tahira says brightly.
“No problem. Getting lost in Halice can be wonderful, but sometimes the direct approach is best.”
“Oh, I believe it…” Royah trails off, her eyes catching over my shoulder. I spin to see Michelle. She’s frozen on the path, like a rabbit aware she’s been spotted by the wolf. Fate’s Fury, she looks pale.
“Wait,” Royah breathes, pushing past us. Michelle stumbles back, frantically shaking her head.
“No! No, I don’t…” Michelle throws up her hands, shaking her head frantically. “I can’t.”
“Please. I just want to talk,” Royah breathes. Michelle turns tail and runs for home. Royah takes off after her.
Tahira swears as the two of us break into a sprint down the path. Royah is fast, her dark braids flying in the wind. Michelle gets to her home and slams the door shut behind her with such fury that every inch of the wood shudders.
“No, please! Please just talk to me,” Royah begs through the door. “Please let me explain.”
“Go away! Go away!” shouts Michelle over and over again, her voice torn apart with sobs. “I love Giulia!”
“I know. I know that,” Royah says morosely, her face contorted. “I just want to talk. To apologise or explain or … just talk.” Her head drops and her eyes close.
I bite my lip. Michelle is my friend; I love her to pieces and she’s hurting so badly right now. But Giulia is my sister, and she’s hurting, too. How do I help them both? How do I show them both I care?
Tahira sighs, looking at me.
“How is your sister?” she asks tentatively. That is a loaded question. I can’t find the words as a lump forms in my throat. I answer with the only words I can think of.
“Giulia and Michelle are what true love should be.”
I swallow, realising how combative my answer is. But Tahira doesn’t seem to mind.
“Good,” Tahira answers as she considers her friend. “Then they’ll get through this. Royah would never want to get between anyone.”
I sigh, hating how aggressive my words were even more. Royah steps away from the door, her shoulders slumped. She doesn’t look at us; her bright mood has evaporated.
“Let’s go,” she says, wrapping her arms around herself.
“I’m going to stay,” I answer. “But … perhaps we can do dinner? Tomorrow evening, say? If your preparations aren’t finished by then?”
“No, we need two more days,” Tahira says suspiciously. “Dinner tomorrow sounds good. Where?”
“My place? I’ll send the information. Idris can come, too – and feel free to bring your brother. There’ll be plenty of security,” I promise. “Until then.”
I bid them goodbye, and watch them retreat. Maybe this is the answer I’ve been looking for. A new way of looking at the problem.
First, I need to talk to Idris. If he gives me the answers I need, this might just work.
And save us all.
But first things first, Michelle and Giulia.
I turn back to the front door and try the handle. Locked.
“Michelle, it’s just me. They’ve gone. I promise,” I call through the door. No answer.
I sigh and start walking around to the window by the kitchen. I reach down and grab a stick from the ground then use it to nudge the lock open and wiggle the window up. The things I do for my friends!
I clamber into the house.
“It’s just me!” I call as I right myself in the kitchen and close the window. “I am not leaving till we talk.”
Michelle appears at the top of her stairs, looking a terrible state. Her hair quivers with the intensity of her breaths, and she swallows tensely. I force myself to smile.
“Tea?” I offer.
“How’s Giulia?” Michelle begs, tentatively descending the stairs. She holds herself tightly as though it’s the only thing keeping her together.
“Not good.” I decide to answer honestly. “She’s heartbroken and under a lot of stress.”
“She won’t talk to me!” Michelle sobs, fresh tears rolling down her face as her shoulders tremble. “I have tried and tried! She won’t speak to me.”
“She’s not got a lot of space mentally right now, and the pain is so fresh.” I walk closer and try to hug her. Michelle steps back, shaking her head.
“I didn’t do anything, I swear it!” Michelle’s pleads. “That woman is leaving and never coming back. Please tell Giulia.”
“I know.” I try to soothe her. “I know. You two need to talk. Properly.”
“I’m trying!”
“I know!” I talk over her. I take her shoulder and lead her to her kitchen table where we both sit down. “Giulia is so buried in stress right now, I think she’s terrified she’s losing you on top of everything else.”
“She’s not!” Michelle hiccups. “I love her. Nothing has changed for me.”
Is that true? Has nothing changed for her? When I met Idris, everything changed, but then I wasn’t mortal enemies with anyone else. Does the introduction of a Soulmate diminish the love you have for another?
“Tell me,” I say quietly. Michelle lets out a shaky breath and rubs her forehead.
“You wouldn’t get it.”
“Wouldn’t I?” I challenge. “You know anyone else defying a Fated bond?”
Michelle swallows, hesitating.
“You are my friend, Michelle. I want the best for both you and Giulia,” I remind her. “Tell me what’s going on with you. I want to help. Maybe start small. You still love Giulia?”
“Yes!”
“And what do you feel for Royah?”
“I feel … I feel…” Michelle grips her head in anguish.
“It’s okay. You can say it,” I coax gently.
“Drawn to her,” Michelle says, wincing like she said something awful. “But not like Giulia. It’s not … it’s not the way I adore Giulia. It’s more like I met a part of myself I didn’t know I was missing.”
“You want to talk to Royah?”
“Obviously, but it’s not worth losing Giulia! I love Giulia so much I’d rip out my heart and hand it to her if she needed it.”
Michelle drops her head, her shoulders slumping as she breathes deeply. She turns her head a fraction, fixing me with a questioning gaze.
“What if … our understanding of Fated bonds is wrong?” she asks softly.
“Wrong?”
“Wrong,” she breathes. “What if Soulhates aren’t always destined to destroy? What if Soulmates aren’t always destined for romantic bliss?”
“All I know about Fated bonds is that they are unique to the people they occur between,” I say quietly. “What that means for you, Giulia and Royah is for the three of you to decide.”
“I can’t if Giulia won’t talk to me.”
Michelle looks at her hands, her sigh large and heavy as water leaks from her eyes. I rub her back gently.
“I’m hoping things at the bank will start looking up soon,” I admit quietly. “Then she’ll have space to talk and work through her emotions. Don’t give up. You two are special. Don’t lose that.”
“How do I fight for us when she won’t fight with me?” Michelle’s voice crackles.
“She wants to but she’s terrified,” I counter. “So you have to be the one to show her how.”
Michelle swallows, eyes drifting away to a half-finished portrait. I follow her gaze. The image could tear out my throat and stomp on my organs. It depicts a woman raging, the colours bold and brash as they’re delivered to the canvas. Devastation cast in oils.
“Write her a letter,” I say. “I’ll give it to her.”
