The Winds of Dune (70 page)

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

T
he 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 newborn 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.

It made her think of the rot of a decaying government. . . .

One of the Fremen women, new to the royal court, had brought a miniature vulture with her to the reception hall—and it perched on her shoulder, where it appeared to be asleep. In a tailored robe that could not hide her heavyset body, the woman drank several tankards of spice beer and cackled too much. Irulan would have found her irritating under any circumstances, and this macabre occasion made it even worse. Alia, though, seemed to like her. The entire celebratory affair was in very bad taste, a display of crudeness that never would have been permitted in her father’s regime.

Had it really been necessary to overthrow the Corrino dynasty and replace it with a Fremen Imperium? Irulan had her doubts. It all seemed like a massive overreaction to the corruptions under Corrino rule.

The woman with the vulture, noticing Irulan’s attention, turned to stare at her. The little carrion bird on her shoulder focused its tiny black eyes in the same direction, as if it considered Irulan prey. The Princess responded with a casual smile and wandered away, trying to disappear among people she did not know.

She filed details in her mind, already thinking of how she would portray the day’s events in her ongoing, obligatory chronicle. Undoubtedly, Alia would insist that Irulan launch a new and vigorous campaign to refute Bronso’s manifestoes, although many additional critical voices had begun to appear on planets scattered around the Imperium. On two isolated worlds, men looking like Bronso and claiming to be him had made very public appearances, denouncing the excesses of the Regency. . . . Perhaps they were Face Dancers, or just brave individuals. Rumors had continued to circulate that Paul was not really dead; no doubt, dissidents would make the same unfounded claims about Bronso of Ix. His legacy, or notoriety, would continue long after his death.

Yes, Alia would insist that Irulan write her slanted accounts, but the Princess had decided to demand a concession. Since the Regent had refused Jessica’s request to take the twins back to Caladan, Irulan must become their strong foundation here. She would insist on spending more time with little Leto and Ghanima. Raising Paul’s children would be her most important mission.

After Jessica departed, surely she would want familial reports of the twins’ progress, objective descriptions of what was happening in Arrakeen. Perhaps the relationship of the two women could be strengthened, restoring what had once been a clear friendship. Cut off from her family, husbandless and surrounded by people who could easily turn into enemies, Irulan longed for someone she could trust . . . even if only through correspondence. Maybe that person was the Lady Jessica.

But Jessica was Alia’s mother, too—not just Paul’s. Irulan would have to walk a fine line.

On the Citadel grounds, Irulan worked her way across a square crowded with officials, priests, sycophants, merchants, uncomfortable-looking Fremen, scarred veterans from the Jihad flaunting their medals,
and a few wide-eyed townspeople who did not appear to belong there at all. She looked for Jessica, but one servant informed her, “The Mother of Muad’Dib has retired to her quarters, to celebrate privately.”

Irulan decided to slip away as well, to find much-needed solitude and quiet in her chambers, with the security seals engaged.

Before she could leave, a man appeared in front of her, blocking her passage. He had brightly colored clothing, a high collar, jewels on his wrists, and complex folds in his voluminous robe. “Majesty,” he said in a low voice, “please accept this gift in honor of lost glory and our hopes for the future.”

From the folds of fabric he produced a message cube, which he placed into her hands, activating it as he did so. Then he slipped back into the crowd.

Immediately, words began flowing across the face of the cube, from her father. She memorized them as quickly as they appeared and vanished, synchronized with her eye movements.

“
It is time to make our move, my Daughter. Muad’Dib is gone, his heirs are mere infants, and the Regency flounders. At long last, House Corrino is poised to retake the Lion Throne, and we demand your assistance
.

“
Never forget that you are a Corrino. We are counting on you
.”

Stunned, she watched the words dissolve. The message cube crumbled into brittle debris in her hand. Paul was gone now, and what obligations did she truly have toward Alia—who had thrown her into a death cell? But the Corrinos could not lay sole claim to Irulan’s loyalty either.

Irulan decided she would have to keep her options open.

She brushed the remnants of the message from her palm and watched the lightweight fragments flutter to the polished floor of the reception hall, where they scattered in the barely noticeable air currents.