As he continued through the dim tunnels, the Baron looked down at the fascinated face of little Feyd. In the child he saw a future full of possibilities, another heir to House Harkonnen who might outperform his blockheaded brother Rabban. That one, while strong and vicious, didn’t have the devious mind the Baron preferred.
His burly nephew was still useful, though. In fact, Rabban had performed many brutal tasks that even the Baron found distasteful. Too often, though, he acted like little more than a . . . muscle-minded tank-brain.
The motley pair stopped at one cage, where a Laza tiger prowled back and forth, its feline pupils narrowed to slits, its triangular nose flaring as it smelled tender flesh and warm blood. These hungry beasts had been favorites in gladiatorial combat for centuries. The tiger was a mass of muscle, every fiber filled with killing energy. Its keepers fed it just enough to maintain its peak strength . . . keeping the tiger ready to feast on the torn flesh of fresh victims.
Suddenly, the beast crashed into the bars of the cage, its dark lips curled and long fangs bared. The abused tiger hurled itself at the barrier again, reaching out a paw filled with saber claws.
Startled, the Baron backed away and yanked Feyd with him. The child, bobbing on his suspensor globe, continued to drift backward until he struck the wall, which startled him more than the roaring predator itself. Feyd wailed with such exuberance that his face turned purple from the effort.
The Baron grasped the child’s shoulders. “There, there,” he said in a brusque but soothing tone. “Be quiet now. It’s all right.” But Feyd continued to shriek, enraging his uncle. “Be quiet, I said! There’s nothing to cry about.”
The baby felt otherwise and continued his loud crying.
The tiger roared and threw himself against the bars, slashing the air.
“Silence, I command!” The Baron didn’t know what to do. He’d never been instructed in how to handle babies. “Oh, stop it!” But Feyd only cried louder.
Oddly, he thought of the two daughters he had sired with the Bene Gesserit witch Mohiam. During his disastrous confrontation with the witches on Wallach IX, seven years ago now, he had demanded to have his children returned, but now he realized how much of a blessing it was that the Reverend Mothers had raised these . . . immature creatures themselves.
“Piter!” he shouted at the top of his lungs, then strode to a com-panel on the wall. He hammered it with his bloated fist. “Piter de Vries! Where’s my Mentat?”
He shouted until the thin nasal voice of the Mentat responded through the speaker. “I am coming, my Baron.”
Feyd continued to cry. When the Baron grasped him again, he found that the baby had filled and soaked his diapers. “Piter!”
Moments later the Mentat scuttled into the tunnels. He must have been close, shadowing the Baron as he always did. “Yes, my Baron?”
As the child wailed without pause for breath, the Baron thrust Feyd into the arms of de Vries. “You take care of him. Make him stop crying.”
Taken completely unawares, the Mentat blinked his feral eyes at the littlest Harkonnen. “But my Baron, I—”
“Do as I command! You’re my Mentat. You’re supposed to know anything I ask you to know.” The Baron clenched his jowly jaw and suppressed an amused smile at de Vries’s discomfiture.
The Mentat held the smelly Feyd-Rautha at arm’s length, grasping the squirming child as if he were some strange specimen. The expression on the thin man’s face was worth all of the distress he had just gone through.
“Don’t fail me, Piter.” The Baron strode away, his gait dragging a bit from the loss of one suspensor globe.
Behind him in the animal tunnels, Piter de Vries held the howling infant with no clue as to how he should proceed.
The haughty do but build castle walls behind which they try to hide their doubts and fears.
— Bene Gesserit Axiom
Within her private chambers in Castle Caladan, out of Leto’s view, Kailea mourned the death of her father. Standing at a narrow turret window, she placed her fingers against the cold stone sill and stared out at the gray, churning sea.
Dominic Vernius had been an enigma to her, a brave and intelligent leader who had gone into hiding for twenty years. Had he run from rebellion, left his wife to be killed by assassins, surrendered the birthright of his children? Or had he been working behind the scenes all these years in a fruitless attempt to restore House Vernius to power? And now he was dead. Her father. Such a vibrant, strong man. So difficult to believe. With a sinking feeling, Kailea knew she could never go back to Ix, never regain what was rightfully hers.
And in the midst of this, Leto was considering marriage to yet another Ecaz daughter, a younger sister of the one who’d been kidnapped and murdered by Grummans. Leto wouldn’t answer any questions Kailea put to him about this. It was “a matter of state,” he’d told her the night before in an arrogant tone— not a matter to be discussed with a mere concubine.
I have been his lover for more than six years. I am the mother of his son— the only one who deserves to be his wife.
Her heart had become an empty place inside of her, a gnawing black cavity that left her with nothing but despair and shattered dreams. Would it never end? After the elder Ecaz daughter had been murdered, Kailea had hoped that Leto might turn to her at long last. But he still harbored dreams of a marital alliance that would strengthen the political, military, and economic power of House Atreides.
Far below, the black cliffs were wet from mist hurled high by the breakers. Seabirds soared, sweeping insects from the air and plunging in pursuit of fish just beneath the waves. Green discolorations of algae and seaweed clung to notches in the rock; the broken reefs at the shore made the waters foam like a boiling cauldron.
My life is cursed, Kailea thought. Everything that is mine has been stolen from me.
She turned as matronly Chiara entered her private apartments without knocking. Kailea heard the rattle of cups and containers on an ornate tray, smelled the spice-laced coffee the old woman had brewed for her. The lady-in-waiting still moved with a muscular speed and agility that belied her withered appearance. Chiara set the tray down, trying to muffle the clatter, then picked up the fluted coffeepot and poured a rich brown stream into two cups. She added sugar to her own, cream to Kailea’s.
Her heart still heavy, the Ixian Princess took the proffered cup from the woman and drew a delicate sip, trying not to show too much enjoyment. Chiara drank deeply and sat down in one of the chairs, as if she were the equal of the Duke’s first concubine.
Kailea’s nostrils flared. “You take too many liberties, Chiara.”
The lady-in-waiting looked across the edge of her cup at the young woman who should have been a prime marriage prospect to any Great House. “Do you prefer a companion, Lady Kailea, or a mechanical servant? I have always been your friend and confidante. Perhaps you miss the self-motivated meks you once had at your disposal on Ix?”
“Don’t presume to tell me my wishes,” Kailea said in a bleak voice. “I am grieving for a great man who has died by Imperial treachery.”
Chiara’s eyes glittered as she pounced. “Yes, and your mother was slain by them as well. You can’t count on your brother to do anything but talk— he’ll never get back your birthright. You, Kailea”— the matronly woman pointed a big-knuckled finger—“you are what remains of House Vernius, the heart and soul of your great family.”
“Don’t you think I know that?” Kailea turned around again to look out the Castle window. She could not face the old woman, could not face anyone or anything, not even her own fears.
If Leto marries that Archduke’s daughter . . . Angrily, she shook her head. It would be worse than having that whore Jessica in the Castle.
The Caladan sea stretched beyond the horizon, and the skies were veiled with clouds that portended only winter gloom. She thought of her precarious position with Leto. He had taken her under his wing when she was just a girl, protected her after her world was des
troyed . . . but those times were gone. Somehow the affection, even love, that had blossomed between them had withered and died.
“Naturally you fear that the Duke will accept the proposal and wed Ilesa Ecaz,” Chiara added in a sweet voice, compassionate as a long, thin knife. She knew exactly how to prod the sorest spot.
Although preoccupied with Jessica, Leto still came to Kailea’s bed, though infrequently, as if out of obligation. And she submitted to him, as if it were her own duty as well. His Atreides honor would never allow him to cast her out entirely, no matter how his feelings had changed. Instead, Leto chose a more subtle punishment by keeping her close to him, yet preventing her from achieving the glory that should have been hers.
Oh, how she wished for sojourns on Kaitain! Kailea longed to wear fine gowns, intricate and precious jewelry; she wanted to be attended by dozens of maidservants— not just one companion who concealed a sharp tongue with a honeyed voice. Glancing over at Chiara, her attention was caught by the blurred reflection of the old woman’s features, the carefully coiffed hair that enhanced her noble appearance.
Kailea’s gleaming wall of blue obsidian— purchased by Leto at grand expense from Hagal stone merchants— had been a wonderful addition to Castle Caladan. Leto called it her “contemplation surface,” where Kailea could see dim shadows of the world around her and think about their implications. Blue obsidian was so rare that few Houses in the Landsraad displayed even a single ornament— and Leto had procured this entire reflecting wall for her, as well as the stones in the banquet hall.
But Kailea frowned. Chiara said that Leto had merely intended to buy her complacency, to make her accept her situation and silence her complaints.
And now Gurney Halleck had told them that the rare substance actually came from Giedi Prime. Ah, the irony! She knew how the news must sting Leto’s unfaithful heart.
Chiara watched her lady’s expression, knew the often-voiced thoughts that must be passing through her mind . . . and the old woman saw the wedge she needed. “Before Leto can marry this daughter of Archduke Ecaz, you must consider your own dynastic matters, my Lady.” She stood beside the blue obsidian wall, and her reflection was distorted, a twisted figure who seemed trapped within the blurred glow of volcanic glass.
“Forget about your father and your brother— and even yourself. You have a son by Duke Leto Atreides. Your brother and Tessia have no children— so Victor is the true heir of House Vernius . . . and potentially of House Atreides as well. If anything were to happen to the Duke before he could take a wife and produce another son, Victor would become House Atreides. And since the boy is only six, you would be regent for many years, my Lady. It makes perfect sense.”
“What do you mean, if anything ‘were to happen’ to Leto?” Her heart clenched. She knew exactly what the old woman was suggesting.
Coyly, Chiara finished her coffee, pouring herself a second cup without asking permission. “Duke Paulus was slain in a bullfighting accident. You were there yourself, were you not?”
Kailea recalled the frightful image of the Old Duke fighting a Salusan bull in the Plaza de Toros. The tragic event had thrust Leto into the ducal seat years before his time. She had been a teenager then.
Was Chiara hinting that it had not been an accident? Kailea had heard rumors, quickly hushed— but she’d considered it no more than jealous talk. The old woman withdrew, skirting the issue. “It is not an idea to be considered seriously, I know, my dear. I raise it simply for the sake of argument.”
Kailea, though, could not get the insidious thoughts out of her head. She could imagine no other way for a child of her bloodline to lead a Great House of the Landsraad. Otherwise, House Vernius would become extinct. She squeezed her eyes shut.
“If Leto does agree to marry Ilesa Ecaz after all, you will have nothing.” Chiara picked up the tray and made as if to leave. She had planted her seeds and done her work. “Your Duke already spends most of his time with that Bene Gesserit whore. Clearly, you mean nothing to him. I doubt he remembers any promises he made to you in moments of passion.”
Blinking in surprise at the old woman, Kailea wondered how Chiara could possibly know what bedroom secrets Leto had whispered in her ear. But the thought of Duke Atreides caressing young, bronze-haired Jessica, with her generous mouth and smooth oval face, turned her annoyance with Chiara’s impertinence into hatred toward Leto himself.
“You must ask yourself a difficult question, my Lady. Where does your loyalty truly lie? With Duke Leto, or with your family? Since he has not seen fit to give you his name, you will always remain a Vernius.”
The old woman removed the tray, leaving Kailea with her own lukewarm cup of coffee. Chiara departed without saying farewell, without asking if her Lady needed anything else.
Kailea remained in her chamber, looking over trinkets and baubles that reminded her of the terrible losses she had sustained: her noble House and the finery of the Grand Palais, her chances to join the Imperial Court. With a pang in her heart, she saw one of the sketches she had drawn of her hearty father, bringing to mind Dominic’s laughter, how the big bald man had trained her in business matters. Then, with an equal sense of loss, she thought of her son Victor, and all the things he would never have.
For Kailea, the hardest part was coming to the horrible decision. Once she had made up her mind, though, the rest was just . . . details.
The individual is the key, the final effective unit of all biological processes.
— PARDOT KYNES
For years Liet-Kynes had yearned for beautiful, dark-haired Faroula with all his heart. But when he finally faced the prospect of marrying her, he felt only emptiness and a sense of obligation. To be entirely proper, he waited three months after Warrick’s death, though both he and Faroula knew their betrothal was a foregone conclusion.
He had made a death vow to his friend.
According to Fremen custom, men took the wives and children of those they vanquished in knife fights or single-handed combat. Faroula, however, was not a ghanima, a spoil of war. Liet had spoken with Naib Heinar, professing his love and dedication, citing the solemn promises he’d made to Warrick that he would care for his wife as the most precious of women . . . and accept responsibility for her young son as his own.
Old Heinar had regarded him with his one-eyed gaze. The Naib knew what had transpired, knew the sacrifice Warrick had made during the Coriolis storm. As far as the elders of Red Wall Sietch were concerned, Warrick had perished out in the desert. The visions he claimed to have received from God were obviously false, for he had failed in the testing. Thus, Heinar gave his permission, and Liet-Kynes prepared to marry the Naib’s daughter.
Sitting in his room behind the tapestry hangings of dyed spice fiber, Liet pondered his impending wedding. Fremen superstition did not allow him to see Faroula for two days before the formal ceremony. Both man and wife had to undergo mendi purification rituals. The time was spent in beautification and in writing out statements of devotion, promises, and love poems that would later be shared with each other.
Now though, Liet wallowed in shameful thoughts, wondering if he had somehow caused this tragedy to happen. Was it the fervent desire he’d voiced upon seeing the white Biyan? There, he and Warrick had both wished to marry the young woman. Liet had tried to accept his defeat graciously at the Cave of Birds, suppressing the selfish voice in the back of his mind that had never allowed him to forget how much he still wanted her.
Did my secret wishes cause this tragedy to happen?
Now Faroula would be his wife . . . but it was a union born of sadness.
“Ah, forgive me, Warrick, my friend.” He continued to sit in silence, waiting for time to tick away, until the hour was at hand and the sietch ceremony would begin. He wasn’t looking forward to it, not under these circumstances.
With a rustle of heavy cloth, the door hanging parted and Liet’s mother entered. Frieth smiled at him with sympathy and understanding. She carried a stoppered flask that ha
d been ornately embroidered, stitched together out of skins and then sealed with spice resin to keep it waterproof. She held the flask as if it were a precious treasure, a gift of immeasurable price. “I’ve brought you something, dearest, in preparation for your wedding.”
Liet emerged from his troubled thoughts. “I’ve never seen that before.”
“It is said that when a woman feels a special destiny for her child, when she senses great things will come from him, she instructs the midwives to distill and retain the amniotic fluid from the birth. A mother may give this to her son on his wedding day.” She extended the flask. “Keep it well, Liet. This is the last commingling of your essence and mine, from the time we shared one body. Now you will commingle your life with another. Two hearts, when joined, may yield the strength of more than two.”
Trembling with emotion, he accepted the soft flask.
“It is the greatest gift I could give to you,” Frieth said, “on this important . . . but difficult day.”
Looking up at her, Liet met her dark eyes with an intent gaze. The emotions she perceived in his face were enough to startle her. “No, Mother— you gave me life, and that is a far greater blessing.”
• • •
When the betrothed couple stood before the members of the sietch, Liet’s mother and the younger women waited in designated spaces, while the elders stepped forward to speak for the young man. The boy Liet-chih, son of Warrick, waited silently beside his mother.
Pardot Kynes, taking a break from his terraforming work, grinned as never before. It surprised him how proud he felt to see his son getting married.
Kynes remembered his own wedding out on the dunes at night. It had been so long ago, shortly after his arrival on Arrakis, and he had spent much of the time in distraction. Unbetrothed Fremen girls had danced like dervishes on the sand, chanting. The Sayyadina had pronounced the words of the ceremony.
Dune: House Harkonnen Page 56
