The Winds of Dune (12 page)

Back on Caladan, Jessica had fallen into a routine of tending her courtyard garden alone each morning for an hour or two, to contemplate the day’s obligations. Now, under a daybreak sky colored beige with dust and the canary yellow of the brightening sunrise, Jessica visited one of the sealed dry-climate gardens within the Citadel of Muad’Dib. The plants required very little water—some through natural selection, others by intentional hybridization. They had grown twisted hard branches, thick-skinned leaves, sharp spines, and thorns, impenetrable defenses against the harshness of the environment.

Upon hearing of Paul’s death, she had rushed to Dune, but her thoughts had been about more than the loss of her son. An entire empire was at stake, a government that would survive or fall depending on the decisions Alia made. In all the times Jessica had thought about Paul’s legacy, and how his actions and words were being distorted by popular belief, she had not pondered what might happen to the Imperium
without Paul
. What was the legacy of House Atreides for the children, Leto and Ghanima?

Her thoughts were interrupted when three men and a woman entered the dry-climate garden, seeking her out. They were an odd mix: Each wore a strikingly different outfit, and their facial features and skin
tones left no doubt that they came from four different worlds, races, and cultures. They bore the look of governmental delegates.

Jessica rose, standing beside a modified cholla cactus whose bent limbs looked as if they had frozen in the act of flailing. The cactus provided a shield as she faced her visitors, though surely they had passed through stringent security measures to get this far.

“We apologize for arriving unannounced, my Lady, but we hoped for privacy and candor,” said the delicately built woman with porcelain white skin; blue-black hair hung to her shoulders. She seemed as stiff and formal as her diction. Jessica knew her: Nalla Tur from the Tupile Alliance. “We come to speak to you not only as the mother of Muad’Dib and the mother of the Imperial Regent, but also as the Duchess of Caladan.”

The tall, gaunt man next to her had rich brown skin, red beads in his hair, and dull rounded gems set into the flesh of his cheeks. He spoke in a deep baritone voice. “We must talk to you of Landsraad matters. I am Hyron Baha from Midea. Regent Alia has ignored our many messages, but we hope that you can make our words heard.”

Jessica massaged a soreness on the back of her own neck as she spoke cautiously. “Even if I agreed to speak on your behalf, you think too much of my power. I have no formal position here. I merely came for the funeral of my son, and I will go back to Caladan as soon as I can.”

Nalla Tur answered in a brisk voice, “You are still a member of the Landsraad, by virtue of your rulership of Caladan. Whether or not you choose to attend Landsraad meetings in the new hall on Kaitain, you have legal responsibilities to the reconstituted Houses.”

“I have many responsibilities. What is it you ask—and on whose behalf?”

The third speaker was a squat and solid man who seemed to be made entirely of muscle adapted to a high-gravity world. Andaur, she guessed, from the man’s accent. “We four are members of formerly exiled noble Houses who took refuge behind Guild shields on Tupile. During the last year of Paul-Muad’Dib’s reign, he signed a treaty that effectively granted us amnesty and allowed us to return to the government without fear of trial or execution.”

“Now the entire Landsraad—or what’s left of it—is shut out,” said the dark-haired woman.

Hyron Baha crossed his arms over his chest, tossed his bead-studded strands of hair. “We have been in session on Kaitain with the representatives of ninety-eight other Houses, but the Regent grants the Lands-raad no real power. And now she has demanded that we surrender our atomics. Clearly, she means to disarm us all.”

“What if we need to defend ourselves against an outside enemy? The Landsraad families are entitled to their atomics!” said the fourth representative, an obese, olive-skinned man with a shrill voice. Jessica didn’t recognize him, nor did he introduce himself.

She made a placating sound. “There has been no outside enemy for ten thousand years. Maybe my daughter is more worried about intransigent Houses. Atomics haven’t been used against populations for centuries, so of what use are they to you? Given the past conspiracies against my son, Alia has legitimate concerns about having atomics turned against her.”

The shrill-voiced man said, “And is it better to place them in the hands of unruly Fremen fanatics? Look at the damage already done in the Jihad!”

Jessica could not dispute that, but there were things she could not say to this group. She showed no reaction, though they looked for one in her.

“We are talking about the Landsraad.” Nalla Tur sounded impatient. “For millennia, we provided checks and balances against supreme Corrino rule. By virtue of our rights and long-standing tradition, we
must
be part of the current government. Even Muad’Dib knew the wisdom in letting the Landsraad continue. The Regent Alia should not rule without us.”

Jessica didn’t accept all of their arguments. “Muad’Dib has been gone only a month. You expect the entire government to change back to the way it was so swiftly?”

The stocky man from the high-gravity planet sounded conciliatory. Yes, his accent was definitely from Andaur. “Your son paid only lip service to the reconstituted Landsraad, and the Regent is even less receptive to shared governmental responsibilities. We need your help. We cannot allow Alia to become a tyrant.”

Jessica scowled. “A tyrant? You should choose your words carefully in my presence.” She made a warning gesture and accidentally bumped
her hand against the spines of the enhanced cholla cactus, drawing blood from her palm.

“Apologies, great Lady, but we only seek the best for all concerned, and we need your help desperately.”

“I will speak with my daughter when the opportunity arises, as both her mother and—as you say—as a Landsraad representative. But she is the Regent, and I can’t guarantee that she will listen to either.”

Hyron Baha bowed formally, letting the red beads in his hair dangle in front of his face. “We’ve all been affected by the Jihad, Lady Jessica. We all know the human race will be generations recovering from the last few years. We should not let it grow worse.”

Jessica glanced down at her hand, then at the cactus.
For every move I make, there will be sharp hazards
, she thought,
and caution cannot protect me from all of them
.

Paul was a reflection of our father, Duke Leto the Just. I, however, am not a reflection of only our mother, Jessica, but of all the mothers before me. From that vast repository of Other Memories, I am the beneficiary of great wisdom.

—
ST. ALIA OF THE KNIFE

J
essica felt she needed to pay her respects to Paul in a more private manner; it was neither a Bene Gesserit nor a political need, but the need of a mother to say goodbye to her son. Thanks to Stilgar, she would also soon attend a traditional, solemn, and secret Fremen memorial ceremony for Chani . . . but Alia did not know about that.

After breakfast, Jessica told her daughter that she wanted to go out to Sietch Tabr to visit the place from which Paul had walked off into the dunes, releasing his body to the desert planet, while leaving his memory firmly ensconced in legend.

Alia smiled at her uncertainly, her expression that of a daughter longing for acceptance from her mother. Despite possessing wisdom beyond her years, Alia was physically a teenager, growing into her body, discovering the world with her own senses. “I’ll go with you, Mother. It is a pilgrimage we should make together . . . for Paul.”

Jessica realized that she had been thinking primarily of herself and her son, giving inadequate consideration to Alia.
Have I always brushed my daughter aside, without realizing it?
Jessica had lost Duke Leto, and now Paul—leaving her with only Alia. Jessica chastised herself for the slight, then said, “I’d be glad to have you accompany me.”

They made quick preparations for an informal journey out to the
sietch, neither of them wanting to make this into a grand procession of sycophants and wailing priests. Now that the public funeral was over, Alia seemed to understand her mother’s need for privacy; maybe the girl felt it herself as well.

The pair dressed in the simple garb of pilgrims so they could walk to the public landing areas without anyone remarking on their presence. Duncan would meet them at the pad, where he had readied an ornithopter for the flight across the desert.

Moving through the Arrakeen streets, Jessica immersed herself in the sights and sounds, sensing the clamoring energy of the populace: all those minds and souls generating a collective power that drove the human race forward. Here she and Alia were merely another mother and daughter, indistinguishable from others in the crowd. She wondered how many of those parents felt awkward around their children. Other teenage girls had entirely different troubles than the ones that weighed so heavily on Alia’s mind.

“When I learned you were coming here,” the girl said suddenly, “I looked forward to talking with you, hearing your advice. Paul valued your opinion, Mother, and
I
value you as well. But I know you don’t approve of some of my initial decisions as Regent. I am only doing what I believe is necessary and what Paul would have wanted.”

Jessica’s reply was noncommittal. “Paul made many decisions that troubled me, too.” Despite her second-guessing of her son’s leadership, she had come to realize that he did indeed see a much larger picture, a vast landscape of time and destiny with only a very faint and treacherous path through it. He had a terrible purpose that few others could grasp. He had been
right
and knew it so firmly that his mother’s disapproval had not swayed him in the least. In retrospect, Jessica realized that Paul had done some of the same things for which she now resented Alia. Maybe she had a blind spot where her daughter was concerned. “I’m worried, both as a mother and as a human being. I can’t help but fear that you are about to slide off the edge of a precipice.”

Alia’s response was filled with confidence. “My footing is sure, and I’m pragmatic.”

“And I have no interest in ruling the Imperium. There doesn’t need to be friction between us.”

Alia laughed, touched her mother’s sleeve. “Of course there is friction between us, for we are too much alike. I have all your memories within me.”

“Only my memories up to the moment of your birth. I’ve learned and changed much since then.”

“And so have I, Mother. So have I.”

At the edge of the spaceport, they passed a bazaar that had sprung up as a temporary camp of vendors and their wares. Over the course of decades, it had grown and evolved into a permanent fixture in Arrakeen. Polymer tarps formed artificial ceilings to shield pilgrims and curiosity seekers alike from the unrelenting sun. Large intake fans sucked in air and filtered out every drop of wasted moisture.

Fortune-tellers sat at booths, staring at ornate and colorful cards, doing readings from the enhanced Dune Tarot, with illustrations drawn to include recent events and the tragic loss of Muad’Dib; the artwork on the card of the Blind Man was particularly eerie. Most of the merchants, Jessica saw, offered religious icons, holy relics, and other “sacred” paraphernalia—all sorts of garbage—to which they had applied dubious “authentications” of their significance.

“This cloak was worn by Muad’Dib himself!” a man shouted, then named a price astronomical enough to “prove” the item’s provenance. Half a dozen vendors claimed to possess the original Atreides signet ring and accused one another of being liars. Alia, of course, had the genuine ring locked away back at the fortress citadel. Other salespeople hawked items supposedly touched by Muad’Dib or blessed by him or—for the bargain-conscious—merely glimpsed by him, as if his gaze imparted some sort of residual holiness.

The sheer tonnage of material in the bazaar was absurd, and this was only one shopping complex. Hundreds more were scattered throughout Arrakeen, and similar markets had sprung up on countless planets. Jessica stared in dismay. “My son has become a tourist attraction. Fodder for charlatans taking advantage of customers who are easily—and willingly—duped.”