Stokiah ignored the refreshments and refused the weak spice coffee. “The Sisterhood has been persecuted for years, stripped of power. During his reign, Muad’Dib cut us off and crippled us, and now his Abomination sister continues that policy—primarily because of your foolish attempt to kill Paul.”
“Because of me?” Margot chuckled. “Come now, Reverend Mother, Paul Atreides held a grudge against the Bene Gesserit all the way back to when Mohiam tested him with the gom jabbar. When has the Sisterhood ever done anything to earn his goodwill?”
“Nevertheless, your foolish assassination attempt against him had little chance of success, and its failure had terrible repercussions. Alia still bears a personal grudge against you, and against us. You may have been exiled here for the past nine years, but the rest of the Sisterhood has been rendered impotent. The Regent seems to hate us even more than her brother did, if that’s possible. We have never been so weak in ten thousand years! You, Sister Margot, may have single-handedly brought about the downfall of the Bene Gesserit order, which has endured since the end of the Butlerian Jihad.”
Annoyance rose within her. “That is absurd.”
When something changed in Stokiah’s demeanor, Margot went instantly on guard. The old woman’s voice became more resonant, her eyes flared, and tendrils of psychic force seemed to ooze from her, insinuating themselves like wet tongues into Margot’s ears and around her chest.
“You must feel the guilt . . . the oppressive weight of the crime you have committed. The Sisterhood sent me here as a guilt-caster to make you feel the horrific consequences of your actions.”
Margot raised her hands and squeezed her eyes shut as the pounding shame and guilt hammered her mind. “Stop! This serves . . . no purpose!”
“Our purpose is punishment, and you must crumble. Your mind will collapse into itself under the weight of what you have done . . . the shame. You shall live in a screaming hell of retribution, from which you will never be released. The Bene Gesserit have little left but our punishments, which we reserve for the likes of you.”
In the years since she’d last had direct contact with the Sisterhood, and since the failure of little Marie’s assassination attempt, Lady Margot Fenring had continued her private studies. But she did not have the same abilities as one of the fabled and highly secretive guilt-casters, did not understand what Stokiah was doing . . . Margot rallied a weak defense to silence some of the screaming voices inside her consciousness. But only temporarily.
The guilt-caster bared her teeth and continued to concentrate, slamming wave after psychic wave against Margot’s mind, battering her crumbling defenses. Margot knew she would fail soon; she had neither the power nor the training to resist this for much longer. Her legs turned to water and she fell to her knees, reeling, struggling. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to scream.
Suddenly the psychic waves crackled and skirled, and the invisible mental hammer seemed to fall to the floor, discarded. Reverend Mother Stokiah raised her hands, clutching her fingers into claws. Her eyes bulged.
Standing close behind the black-robed woman, Count Fenring drove his dagger in harder, then twisted it, withdrew, and stabbed the old woman again, plunging it deep into her heart. Not even a Reverend Mother with control over her internal chemistry could survive such extensive damage.
“Hmmm,” Fenring remarked, gazing at the blood on his hand with interest rather than revulsion. “You appeared to be in a bit of difficulty, my love.” He jerked out the knife, and Stokiah collapsed to the floor in a puddle of black robes and red blood.
“She caught me off guard.” Margot struggled to catch her breath. “It seems the Bene Gesserit would rather turn against their own than develop an appropriate plan to regain their power and influence.”
Fenring pulled a fold of black fabric from Stokiah’s body, used it to rub the blood from his hand and his dagger. “So much for their vaunted skill of visualizing long-term goals. We can no longer consider the Bene Gesserits to be our staunch allies.”
Margot leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. The last echoes of imposed guilt faded from her like ghosts in the wind. The couple stood together and regarded the inert body. “A pity,” she said. “The Sisters could have been helpful when Shaddam finally decides to launch his ghola army.”
“Aaahh, hmm. A pity.” He nudged the dead Reverend Mother with his toe. “You know we will have to send a message to Wallach IX. If we hurry, we can package the body and ship it back before the Heighliner leaves again.”
They decided not to waste time on any sort of embalming or fixative; instead, they wrapped Stokiah’s corpse in airtight packaging. Margot then signed a note, which they affixed to the Reverend Mother’s chest: “I don’t need any more guilt, thank you.”
Low-wage handlers came to pick up the package and deliver it to the shuttle, where Stokiah would be stored in the Heighliner’s cargo hold and eventually returned to the Mother School. The roundabout delivery from Salusa Secundus would take some time, and when the Sisters on Wallach IX opened the package, they would likely be treated to quite a stench.
Had the choice been mine, I would have put Shaddam Corrino to death and Count Hasimir Fenring along with him. However, I will honor my brother’s decision, though it may bring me misery later.
—ALIA ATREIDES, comment reported by Duncan Idaho
Accompanying the somber procession after Bronso’s execution, Princess Irulan walked beside Jessica along a wide swath that the guards had cleared through the crowds, so they could make their way over to the deathstill. Neither she nor Jessica spoke.
Despite her initial re sis tance, Irulan had come to realize that the entire scheme was one that Paul would have devised: He would have set up his own nemesis in order to dismantle the massive power structure of his own legend by whatever means possible. And Bronso had taken the secret with him into the deathstill.
Alia and Duncan, the Imperial Regent and her ghola consort, ascended the steps to the dais where the deathstill sat in the sunlight. Reclaimed moisture condensed on its transparent side panels and circulated through internal vents.
Droplets of humanity, Irulan thought.
The Qizarate had announced a day of rejoicing, a ghoulish celebration, and Alia seemed quite pleased about it. The thunderous cheers grew louder as Alia, Duncan, Gurney, Jessica, and Irulan stepped up to observe what the government had done, the “justice” that had been served. Irulan tried to recall her former anger over all the things Bronso had written, the lies he had told, the bold exaggerations he had concocted. She was not sure if she would have been willing to die—at least not that way—to protect her version of the truth.
A group of priests formed a ring around them on the platform, surrounding the deathstill. The Regent spoke in a loud, resonant voice that carried far beyond the dais. “Princess Irulan, wife of Muad’Dib, you are now free to correct the historical record, to refute the absurd claims of Bronso of Ix, and to strengthen my brother’s legacy for all time.”
Irulan formed her answer with great care. “I will do what is right, Regent Alia.” Jessica glanced at the Princess, but the answer seemed to satisfy Alia, as well as the crowd, judging by the exuberant response.
Though obviously disturbed, Jessica stepped forward so that she reached the deathstill before Alia. She raised her voice to the throng. “Priests, bring us goblets! This is the water of Bronso of Ix, and all of us know what he has done.”
After a flurry of confusion, two Qizaras rushed forward bearing five ornate goblets. Irulan watched Jessica, struggling to understand what she was doing. Gurney Halleck held his tongue, though he seemed deeply concerned.
Alia, however, was delighted by her mother’s suggestion. “Ah! Just as Count Fenring drank of his evil daughter’s water after I killed her—so now we do the same to Bronso.”
The priests formally distributed the goblets, and Irulan accepted hers. Despite the day’s heat and the pressing crowds, the metal felt surprisingly cold in her grip.
>
From the deathstill’s reservoir, Jessica decanted water into her cup and waited while Duncan did the same for himself and Alia. With pointed movements, Jessica also filled the goblets held by Gurney and Irulan. When the Princess hesitated, Jessica said clearly, “It is water, Ir-ulan. Nothing more.”
“The water of the vanquished traitor.” Alia lifted her goblet. “As the enemy of Muad’Dib vanishes, his water rejuvenates us and gives us strength.” She took a long sip.
“Bronso of Ix,” Jessica said, then drank.
Irulan shuddered, suddenly understanding Jessica’s motives. To her, it was not a condemnation, but a toast, a salute to acknowledge his brave, selfless actions, and the terrible sacrifice he had made for Paul and for the legacy of humankind. In a way, it was a counterpoint to the harsh but necessary thing that Jessica had done to the ten foolish rebels on Caladan, so many years ago. But this was not a goblet of poison, merely water. . . .
Irulan drove back her uncomfortable feelings. It is water. The liquid was warm and tasteless, distilled, filtered, pure . . . and not at all satisfying. But she drank it to honor Bronso, as Jessica had intended.
Afterward, Alia commanded that the rest of the traitor’s water be distributed among the highest ranking members of the priesthood, as a sort of communion.
As the crowds began to disperse following the execution spectacle, a commotion erupted in the streets. With great fanfare, a troupe of acrobats began bounding and pirouetting, using suspensor belts to fly high in the air and perform tricks. People laughed and applauded, their good humor hard-edged and barely slaked by the blood of the man they had just seen put to death.
“Jongleurs!” someone called. Jessica watched them come, saw them use the crowd as a springboard. Agile acrobats, seemingly made of an elastic substance, pranced and danced and flew, moving closer to the dais, performing for the crowd as well as for the royal spectators.
At the front strutted an elegant man in an amazingly white outfit. He stood tall, raised one hand, and shouted: “I am Rheinvar the Magnificent, and we have come to perform for you in honor of Paul-Muad’Dib!” With a gracious gesture, he extended both hands toward the platform. “And of course, to honor the Regent Alia, the Princess Irulan, and the lovely Lady Jessica.”
In the midst of polite applause, Jessica recalled something Bronso had said when telling his tale about Rheinvar: Many things have changed . . . only appearances remain the same.
The dignitaries remained to watch as the Jongleurs completed their show. Then Alia directed her priests to pay them handsomely.
You cannot hide forever from grief. It will find you in the wind, in your dreams, in the smallest of things. It will find you.
—The Ghola’s Lament
The festivities after the execution of Bronso left Jessica’s heart heavier still. Knowing that Alia expected her to be there, smiling and pleased with their “victory,” Jessica put in an appearance, a brief one, for as long as she could stand. But as the hedonistic celebrations in the sprawling citadel grew louder and more raucous all around her, she could no longer bear the tension and the grim disgust she felt within her soul.
How could everyone be merry, when something inside her felt so obviously wrong? She needed to be alone.
The Bene Gesserits had hammered their training into her, to exert control over what they believed to be personal weakness, human weakness. They considered themselves such experts on humanity! But their attempts to control it—from prohibiting love to breeding for a Kwisatz Haderach—invariably fell flat. Human beings could never be controlled completely.
If they could see her now, the Sisters would likely have approved of Jessica’s remarkable success at disciplining her emotions since she’d learned of Paul’s death. But her very remoteness from her own feelings left her with a sense that she was incomplete, like a eunuch rendered incapable of a basic biological function.
Jessica had shielded herself for so long from any outpouring of emotions that she had successfully crushed that spark into a cold, gray ash. And to what purpose? On that night long ago, lost in the desert, when she and Paul learned of Duke Leto’s death, she had wept . . . and she’d been greatly disturbed by Paul’s inability to show his feelings. Later, during the Battle of Arrakeen, she had been upset with Paul’s stony reaction upon hearing that Sardaukar had killed his firstborn son. Paul, the brave and victorious commander whose Fremen armies had overthrown an Empire, was unable to weep for that martyred infant.
Now Jessica had become the same type of person, unable to grieve, even for her lost son.
Now, in the Citadel, fleeing the maddening parties and the commotion, she followed an unconscious need that drew her through doorways and down corridors. To her surprise, she found herself at the entrance to the crèche. Something clarified in her mind. My grandchildren, she thought. Young Leto and Ghanima—the future of Arrakis and of House Atreides. She felt a powerful urge to see them, to look into their eyes and search for any hint of those she had lost: Paul, Chani, even her beloved Duke Leto.
By now the uniformed guards at the conservatory doorway let Jessica pass without challenge. She strode through one door seal and then another into the lush greenhouse that had been converted into a nursery. Harah was there, dutiful and loyal, like a lioness defending her cubs. She had wanted nothing to do with Bronso’s execution or the celebrations afterward.
“Harah, I would like to be alone with my grandchildren for a while. Please indulge me?”
Stilgar’s wife bowed, always formal around Jessica despite their years of familiarity. “Of course, Sayyadina.”
The other woman slipped away, leaving Jessica to stare down at the boy and girl, only months old. These two already carried a great potential, as well as a strangeness, within them. Jessica knew that Alia had wrestled with Other Memories and unusual thoughts all her life. What else might these poor babies have to endure?
Although she had been reticent around the twins on previous visits—had only been to see them a few times—Jessica did not hesitate. She lifted one baby into the crook of each arm. “Dear Leto . . . sweet Ghanima.” She leaned over and kissed each child on the forehead, and as she did so she realized it was a rebellion against how she had been raised, never allowed to feel any affection, never allowed to learn it.
Her vision seemed to double, echoing with memories as she recalled holding her infant son Paul for the first time. She’d been exhausted and sweat-streaked, surrounded by Suk doctors, Bene Gesserit midwives, Reverend Mothers, and even Shaddam’s wife, Anirul. Paul had faced danger within hours after his birth, snatched away by a would-be assassin and rescued only later by Mohiam. How ironic that was!
Her words came out as a whisper. “What things must lie in store for you.” She didn’t know what else to say.
The babies gurgled and squirmed in her arms, as if they had established a mental synchronization. Jessica stared into their faces, and detected a ghost of Paul in the lines of their tiny jaws, the shapes of their noses, the set of their bright eyes . . . a biological déjà vu.
Vivid in her mind, Jessica imagined poor Chani lying dead in a birthing room in Sietch Tabr. Jessica knew how much Paul had loved her . . . and she knew herself how awful the pain had been when she learned that her Duke Leto was dead. But with prescience, how many times had Paul seen that same image in his dreams, knowing he could not prevent it? What must that have been like for him? Jessica could only imagine her son without his vision after the stone-burner, could not begin to comprehend how his towering confidence had been crushed by the unimaginable grief of such immense losses. Had Paul believed that he had lost everything? It must have seemed that way.
Jessica had her own part in the blame, too. She had not been there for him, had not offered her strength, sympathy, or understanding. Instead, she had remained on Caladan, turning her back on politics and on her son. Leaving him alone. She had alienated her children and distanced herself from them when they needed her most . . . just as Paul had now left his new
born twins. These two would never know the love of their father or mother.
Jessica held the babies close, and she kissed them again. “I’m sorry, so sorry.” She didn’t know exactly to whom she was apologizing.
Now, in the nursery, her knees felt weak. The babies looked up at her, but she could only see her imagined picture of Paul smothered by immeasurable sorrow as he faced his Fremen destiny and walked off into the dunes, never turning back, never intending to be found. “Now I am free.”
There will be no shrine of his bones, she thought. Not like my Duke.
She hadn’t even been there to say goodbye to her son . . . her beloved Paul.
Her knees gave way, and she sank slowly to the floor of the conservatory. Like a windstorm rushing across the desert, surpassing all expectations, the sadness, the realization, the loss swept over her, and she could not fight it. The unnatural Bene Gesserit strictures meant nothing to her. All that mattered was the grief that she had not known how to express—until now.
Jessica took a gulp of air and let it out in a low, whispered moan. She sobbed, her shoulders shaking, her back hunching. She drew the babies close to her breast, clinging to them as if they were her only anchor against the terrible buffeting storm.
My Paul . . .
The Fremen prohibition against shedding water for the dead meant no more to her now than the foolish commands of the Bene Gesserit. Jessica didn’t know when her tears would ever end, but for now she let them flow as long as they needed to come.
The revelry continued throughout the day at the Citadel of Muad’Dib. No matter where she went, Princess Irulan kept smelling the faint scent of death all around her, as if the seals of many deathstills had failed, letting the odors leak out.
The Winds of Dune Page 43
