The Winds of Dune (7 page)

Alia spoke loudly over the thrum of the engines and the whir of moving wings. She seemed energetic, frenetic. “Now that you’re here, Mother, we can proceed with Paul’s funeral. It is a thing that must be done with a grandeur appropriate to Muad’Dib’s greatness—enough to awe the whole Imperium.”

Jessica kept her expression neutral. “It is a funeral, not a Jongleur performance.”

“Oh, but even a Jongleur performance would be fitting, given Paul’s past, don’t you think?” Alia chuckled; it was clear she already had her mind set. “Besides, it is necessary, not just for my brother’s memory, but for Imperial stability. The force of Paul’s personality held our government together—without him, I’ve got to do whatever I can to strengthen our institutions. It’s a time for showmanship, bravura. How can Muad’Dib’s funeral be any less spectacular than one of the Old Duke’s bullfighting spectacles?” When the girl smiled, Jessica saw a familiar echo of Leto in her daughter’s face. “We also have Chani’s water, and when it best suits us, we will conduct a ceremony for her as well, another great spectacle.”

“Wouldn’t Chani have preferred a private Fremen funeral?”

“Stilgar says the same thing, but that would be a wasted opportunity. Chani would have wanted to assist me in any way possible—for Paul’s sake, if nothing else. I was hoping I could count on you to help me, Mother.”

“I am here.” Jessica looked at her daughter and felt complexities of sadness whisper through her.
But you are not Paul.

She also knew things that her daughter did not, some of Paul’s carefully guarded secrets and aspirations, especially how he viewed history and his place in it. Though Paul might have taken himself off the stage, history would not release its hold so easily.

With a slow flutter of wings and the roar of jets, the ’thopter landed on a flat rooftop of the extraordinary citadel complex. Disembarking, Alia strode with confidence and grace to a moisture-sealed door. Jessica
and Gurney followed her into an elegant enclosed conservatory with soaring clearplaz panels.

Inside, the sudden humidity made Jessica catch her breath, but Alia seemed not to notice the miniature jungle of moist, exotic plants that overhung the walkway. Tossing her long hair, she glanced back at her mother. “This is the most secure area of the Citadel, so we converted it into the nursery.”

Two Qizaras armed with long kindjals guarded an arched doorway, but the priests stepped aside without a word to let the party pass. Inside the main chamber, three Fedaykin stood ready and alert.

Female attendants in traditional Fremen garments bustled back and forth. Harah, who had once been nursemaid and companion to Alia, stood like an attentive mother over the twins, as if they were hers. She looked up at Alia, then flashed a nod of recognition to Jessica.

Jessica stepped forward to look down at Leto and Ghanima, surprised by how the two children struck her with a sense of awe. They seemed so flawless, so young and helpless, barely a month old. She realized she was trembling a little. Jessica set aside all thoughts of the Empire-shaking news she had received in the last few days.

As if they were linked, both babies turned their faces toward her simultaneously, opened their wide-set blue eyes, and stared with an awareness that startled Jessica. Alia had looked that alert when she was just a baby. . . .

“They are under close observation for their behavior and interactions,” Alia said. “More than anyone else, I understand the difficulties they might face.”

Harah was forceful. “We do our best to care for them as Chani, and Usul, would have wanted.”

Kneeling, Jessica reached out to stroke the small, delicate faces. The babies looked at her, then locked gazes with each other, and something indefinable passed between them.

To the Sisterhood, babies were just genetic products, links in a long chain of bloodlines. Among the Bene Gesserit, children were raised without any emotional connection to their mothers, often without any knowledge of their parentage. Jessica herself, a ward of the Mother School on Wallach IX, had not been told that her father was the Baron
Harkonnen and her mother Gaius Helen Mohiam. Though her own upbringing among the emotionally stifled Bene Gesserit had been less than ideal, her heart went out to her grandchildren, as she contemplated the turbulent lives that undoubtedly lay ahead of them.

Again, Jessica thought of poor Chani. One life in exchange for two . . . She’d grown to respect the Fremen woman for her wisdom and her intense loyalty to Paul. How could he not have foreseen such a terrible blow as the loss of his beloved? Or
had
he known, but could do nothing about it? Such paralysis in the face of fate could have driven any man mad. . . .

“Would you like to hold them?” Harah asked.

It had been a long time since she’d held a baby. “Later. I just . . . just want to look at them right now.”

Alia remained caught up in her visions of ceremonies and spectacles. “It is a very busy time, Mother. We need to do so much to give the people hope, now that Muad’Dib has gone. In addition to the two funerals, we will soon have a christening. Each such spectacle is designed to remind the people of how much they love us.”

“They are children, not tools of statecraft,” Jessica said, but she knew better. The Bene Gesserit had taught her that every person had potential uses—as a tool, or a weapon.

“Oh, Mother, you used to be so much more pragmatic.”

Jessica stroked little Leto’s face and drew a deep breath, but found no words to speak aloud. No doubt, political machinations were already occurring around these children.

Sourly, she thought of what the Bene Gesserits had done to her and to so many others like her, including the particularly harsh treatment they had inflicted on Tessia, the wife of the cyborg prince Rhombur Vernius. . . .

The Bene Gesserit always had their reasons, their justifications, their rationalizations.

I write what is true about Muad’Dib, or what should be true. Some critics accuse me of distorting the facts and writing shameless misinformation. But I write with the blood of fallen heroes, painted on the enduring stone of Muad’Dib’s empire! Let these critics return in a thousand years and look at history; then see if they dismiss my work as mere propaganda.

—
PRINCESS IRULAN
, “The Legacy of Muad’Dib,” draft manuscript

The quality of a government can be measured by counting the number of its prison cells built to hold dissidents
.’ ” Jessica recalled the political maxim she had been taught in the Bene Gesserit school. During her years of indoctrination, the Sisters had filled her mind with many questionable beliefs, but that statement, at least, was true.

On the day after her arrival in Arrakeen, she tracked down where Princess Irulan was being held. During her search of the detention records, Jessica was astonished to discover just how much of her son’s sprawling fortress was devoted to prison blocks, interrogation chambers, and death cells. The list of crimes that warranted the ultimate penalty had grown substantially over the last few years.

Had Paul known about that? Had he approved?

It was probably wise that Reverend Mother Mohiam had been killed without a drawn-out trial, which would have allowed the Bene Gesserit to disrupt the government. And Jessica did not doubt that the old Reverend Mother was truly guilty.

But Irulan remained locked away, her fate undecided. Having reviewed the evidence herself, Jessica knew that Shaddam’s daughter had been involved in the conspiracy, though her exact role was not
clear. The Princess languished in one of the death cells operated by the Qizarate, but so far, Alia had refused to sign the death warrant.

During her first month as Regent, the girl had already caused enough of an uproar, offended many potential allies, provoked numerous possible enemies. There were larger issues to consider. Alia was wise to delay her decision.

Jessica had first met the Emperor’s eldest daughter on Kaitain in the last months before giving birth to Paul. Since the downfall of Shaddam, Irulan had done much for, and some things against, Paul. But how much against him? Now, however, Jessica hoped she could stop the execution, for reasons both political and personal.

She marched down to the prison levels without an escort, having memorized the route from charts. Standing before the metal door of Irulan’s sealed cell, she scrutinized strange markings on the wall, mystical symbols modeled after the writings of the vanished Muadru race. Paul’s priesthood had apparently adopted the ancient runes for their own purposes.

Outside Irulan’s cell stood two fiercely loyal Qizara guards, implacable priests who had advanced through the religious power structure that had sprung up around Paul, a structure that Alia intended to preserve or even expand. While these men would never defy the direct orders of the Regent, they also viewed Jessica with dread and reverence, and she could use that.

With squared shoulders, Jessica stepped up to them. “Stand aside. I wish to see my son’s wife.”

She expected an argument, or at least resistance, but the priestly guards did not think to question her command. If she had asked them to fall upon their crysknives, she wondered, would they have done that, too? With simultaneous bows, they unsealed the cell door and allowed her to enter.

Inside the dim and stifling room, the blonde Princess rose quickly from the bench on which she sat. She composed herself and straightened her rumpled clothes, even managing a slight bow. “Lady Jessica. I expected you would come to Arrakis as soon as you heard what had happened. I’m glad you arrived before my execution.”

Despite the shadows of the cell, Jessica could see the haunted, resigned look in the Princess’s once green eyes, which were now spiceindigo.
Even Bene Gesserit calming techniques could not assuage the persistent wasting of fear and tension.

“There will be no execution.” Without hesitating, Jessica turned to the priest guards. “Princess Irulan is to be released at once and returned to her former rooms. She is the daughter of Emperor Shaddam IV and the wife of Muad’Dib, as well as his official biographer. These quarters are unacceptable.”

The two guards were taken aback. One of the priests made a warding sign against evil. “Regent Alia has ordered Irulan’s incarceration, pending her conviction.”

“And I order this.” Jessica’s voice was neither flippant nor threatening; she was simply stating a fact, filled with confidence. All other questions hung unanswered in the air, leaving the guards intimidated at the prospect of defying her wishes.

With all the elegance she could muster, Irulan took three steps to meet Jessica at the cell door, but did not cross the threshold. Despite her great stake in the outcome of this small power struggle, her patrician face betrayed no relief, only a distant expression of interest.

As the guards shuffled, neither of them willing to commit to a decision, Jessica continued in a reasonable tone. “There is nothing to fear. Do you believe she would attempt to escape? That a Corrino princess would run into the desert with a Fremkit and try to survive? Irulan will remain here in the Citadel, under house arrest, until Alia can issue a formal pardon.”

Taking advantage of the guards’ hesitation, the Princess stepped out of her cell to stand beside Jessica. “I thank you for your courtesy and your faith in me.”

Jessica remained cool. “I will withhold judgment until I learn more about what role you had in my son’s death.”

They walked briskly away from the priest guards until they were alone and unobserved. Irulan drew a shuddering breath, and Jessica heard the truth in her words when she spoke. “In that cell I’ve had much time to contemplate. Although I did not try to kill Paul . . . in a way I did cause his death. I am at least partly responsible for what happened.”

Jessica was surprised by the easy admission. “Because you failed to expose the conspiracy when you had the chance?”

“And because I was jealous of his love for that Fremen woman.
I
wanted to be the mother of his heirs, so I secretly added contraceptives to Chani’s food. Over the long term, those drugs damaged her, and when she did become pregnant, the delivery killed her.” She looked intensely at Jessica, her indigo eyes intense. “I did not know she would die!”

Jessica’s training automatically damped down her anger, just as it had kept her from expressing her true grief. Now she understood more about what had driven her son, and Irulan. “And in his despair Paul chose to walk out into the desert. He had nothing to hold him back, no loving companion. He didn’t care enough for any person to make him want to live. So that is your fault.”