The Winds of Dune (49 page)

She threw herself prone in the path, wary but curious, and the whirling funnels circled her, their progress stalled. The small tornadoes were stunning to behold, with hypnotic rainbows of morphing color, like crystalline life-forms. Additional funnels circled and danced over a nearby conservatory building, the only shelter in sight, knocking loose some of the plaz panels.

Lurching to her feet and keeping her head low, Jessica ran toward the building, darting through the dark spaces between the funnels. As she went through, the winds clawed at her, trying to drag her one direction or another, but she struggled to the conservatory. Just as she ducked into the doorway, a loose plaz panel shot past her and shattered against the hard wall.

Inside the building, she looked up through gaps in the ceiling where roof panels were broken or missing. The predatory whirlwinds kept circling until a loud, percussive noise sounded, and the funnels abruptly disappeared. Blue sky appeared overhead, leaving the garden grounds strewn with broken plants and debris.

“Quite a show,” said a female voice. “Residual psychic energy. It’s been doing that around here recently.”

Jessica saw a brown-haired woman with creased skin and sepia eyes, weary eyes . . . a familiar face from long ago. She caught her breath, so surprised that it took her a moment to recognize the woman. “Tessia?
Tessia!
”

Rhombur’s wife had aged perceptibly, as if she had barely emerged alive from a personal crucible. She came forward to take Jessica’s hands
in her own. Tessia was shaking, either from fear or from exhaustion. “No need hide your surprise. I know what’s happened to me.”

“Are you all right? We sent so many inquiries, but no one would say what had happened to you. The Sisterhood turned down my requests for information. How long have you been . . . awake? And after what happened to poor Rhombur, Bronso broke off all contact with House Atreides for the past twelve years.” She wondered if Tessia even knew how the cyborg prince had been killed in Balut’s Theater of Shards.

And what did she mean by residual psychic energy? Had the Sisters been tampering and testing, developing new skills? A weapon? And would that weapon be used against Paul? Jessica didn’t trust them.

Before she could ask, two Bene Gesserit proctors rushed along the walkway in the aftermath of the bizarre windstorm. Seeing them, Tessia drew Jessica farther into the dimly lit conservatory. “This is my velvet-lined prison. I have recovered, but not entirely in the way the Sisters expected. I’m the only person ever to emerge from the hell of a guilt-casting.” She glanced around uneasily.

Only a few rumors had leaked out about the Bene Gesserit guilt-casters, and most people did not believe in their existence. “We thought the Ixian technocrats had used some sort of weapon on your mind.” Now Jessica understood what had happened to Rhombur’s wife on that night in the Grand Palais. If not for the consequences of the guilt-casting, Bronso would never have had a falling out with his father, would never have fled with Paul, and on and on, ripples upon ripples. Hard resentment seeped into Jessica’s words. “Rhombur sent you here in hopes you could be saved.”

Tessia shook her head. “It was Reverend Mother Stokiah—a weapon from their psychic arsenal. My own Sisterhood crushed me and took me from my husband . . . and now he is dead.” Her voice hitched, and Jessica heard the wind suddenly pick up outside.

“What did they want that was so important? What was worth such a tremendous cost?”

“A little thing, actually. They wanted me to be a breeding mother, but I defied their commands, and so they punished me. It did me no good to resist. They needed only my body, only my womb. Not my mind. Even while I was unconscious, they impregnated me. My body gave them the children they wanted.” Her voice held heavy bitterness. “ ‘I am Bene
Gesserit: I exist only to serve.’ At least Rhombur didn’t live long enough to find out about it. He never knew. Oh, how I miss him.”

Jessica could not conceal her revulsion. What the Sisterhood had done to this woman, her friend! And now those same women were trying to convince Jessica to destroy Paul? These same women wanted to make her their Mother Superior? If she accepted their offer, she could put an end to breeding abuses . . . but to accept their terms would make Jessica a monster.

Tessia continued in a dreamy voice, as if her mind were far away. “It took years. I saved myself . . . I found my own way out of the darkness where their guilt-caster threw me.”

Jessica’s stomach knotted. “Does Bronso know where you are now? Can he help?”

“I’ve managed to smuggle out several messages. He knows what has happened to me, but what can he do? He is barely a figurehead on Ix these days. He has no real power and could never stand against the Sisterhood. He is as trapped as I am.” She shook her head. “It’s the fall of House Vernius.”

Jessica hugged the other woman, held her close for a long time. “I wish I could get you out of here, but that is not in my power.”

However, if she were Mother Superior, she could do so. . . .

Tessia smiled mysteriously. “Someday, I will find a way. I have already escaped from the mental prison they imposed on me, and oh, they would love to know how I did it. Now they test their techniques on me, alternately showing me compassion and then pummeling me with guilt. Even their guilt-casters don’t understand.”

“They continue to experiment on you?”

“Medical Sister Yohsa constantly tries to deconstruct my mind and build it back up the way the Sisterhood wants it, not the way I want it. But I know ways to deflect their attempts. Those mental defenses are mine, and I won’t surrender them—not after what they did to me.”

Tessia looked from side to side. By the whisper-rush of wind in the courtyard, Jessica heard what must have been another small, strange tornado, and the sharp cries of Bene Gesserits scattering in alarm. Apparently, the residual psychic energy was not completely under control.

Leaning close, Tessia whispered. “What do they want from
you,
Jessica? And will you give it to them? If not, you could be a target yourself. Have you defied them? You will—I know you. Then the guilt-casters will come for you.” Tessia’s voice came out in a desperate flood as she clutched Jessica’s shoulders. “Listen to me! You must block your thoughts and prepare yourself ahead of time. Build up a bastion of powerful memories, a shield of good things. Have it
ready
at the forefront of your mind. Use it to guard yourself. They will not suspect you can stand against them, even for a moment. Guilt-casting is a psychic storm, but it can be weathered.”

Jessica knew she might need the information. “Teach me how—please.”

Tessia touched her own forehead, closed her eyes, and released a long sigh. “Let me show you what you need to know.”

The very act of breathing is a miracle
.

—teaching of the Suk School

A
n unusually warm wind blew in from the sea. Gurney had been hoping for heavy rain to discourage the crowds arriving for the scheduled rally, but as he looked up at the patches of blue sky, the clouds seemed to be scattering.

Jessica had been right to warn him about what the people might do. Mayor Horvu and his enthusiastic followers did not begin to comprehend the poisonous snake with which they were playing. In the name of Duke Leto, though, Gurney would try to use a compassionate, paternal touch. If it would only work. . . .

Wearing his best noble outfit for the occasion, Gurney stood scowling with a small group of local officials on a raised suspensor platform at the edge of Cala City’s largest park. Over the past hour, an enthusiastic and boisterous crowd had gathered on the expanse of grass and starry flowers.

He wished he’d learned exactly what the clumsy rebels had in mind. With his disarming, often oblivious, smile, Mayor Horvu promised that this would be a peaceful demonstration, and Gurney wasn’t sure what to do about it. He had called in soldiers to keep order, should some of the crowd become unruly.

After Jessica’s complaints of damage done by pilgrims in previous
months, Paul had stationed Imperial security forces on Caladan. Though Gurney didn’t know the men well, they had been efficient and dedicated, as far as he could determine, but they were still offworlders. Today, especially, perhaps a more objective security force was best. . . .

Consumed with self-importance, Horvu had issued himself and his followers an unrestricted permit, according to the rules of the town charter. This seemed like a conflict of interest to Gurney, but the Mayor happily clung to outdated images of the way local politics worked in relation to the Imperial government.

“The people of Caladan know what they are doing, Earl Halleck,” the priest Sintra had said. Though pleased to see how many people had come to the rally, he was bothered that Gurney had chosen to bring armed guards rather than join them in their cause. “You have served House Atreides for a long time, my Lord, but you were not born here. You cannot possibly understand true Caladan issues.”

Gurney was surprised at how efficiently this demonstration was organized, since Horvu and his followers were not known to have these skills. It was almost as if they had outside help. As the size of the crowd in the park increased, Gurney grew increasingly anxious. His soldier guards might not be able to impose order if the throng got out of hand.

Gurney looked around for Horvu. He doubted the old Mayor would be much of a firebrand, but that didn’t make him any less problematic. Gurney didn’t want Paul’s homeworld to become another battlefield. Large groups of people, especially those with an agenda, were too malleable, their moods too easily swayed, their emotions too quick to turn. He’d seen the armies of Muad’Dib driven to frenzy because their passionate sense of rightness made them deaf to any concerns except the ones being pumped into them. If the local crowd got out of hand, that could in turn trigger his Imperial soldiers into uncontrollable, violent retaliation on behalf of Muad’Dib.

His soldier guards were veterans, but they did not know the character of these families who had been here for generations, the good-hearted people of Caladan who were now being misled by a Mayor who had no common sense.

As he looked out at the restless crowd who believed they had found an easy solution that their beloved Paul Atreides would honor, Gurney tried to recall the way he used to be: strong, valiant, and assertive in
causes that mattered, writing heroic ballads for the baliset, going off to fight for House Atreides wherever duty sent him. His missed those days, but knew he could never go back to them. Sometimes now, he liked to spend time with his music as an escape, a refuge that made him forget the horrible realities from his past.

Several weeks ago, while sharing a pint of kelp beer with the patrons of a public house, he had picked up his instrument and begun to strum. The bartender had called across the heads of the crowd in the pub, “It’s time for you to sing us a new song, Gurney Halleck. How about ‘The Ballad of Muad’Dib’?”

People had chuckled, urging him on, but Gurney resisted. “That story is not yet finished. You’ll just have to wait, men.”

In reality, it wasn’t a song he had any interest in writing. Though Gurney would never utter his opinion to anyone, he felt that “Muad’Dib” had fallen too far from glory to be worthy of such heroic words. It left him with a feeling of loss, on a personal level.

Paul may be the Emperor Muad’Dib,
Gurney thought.
But he is not Duke Leto
.

Now part of the crowd made an opening on the grassy expanse, and Gurney saw the mayor making his way through, waving at people as he approached the suspensor platform. When Horvu stepped onto the lowered platform, he scolded Gurney, as if he were a child, “Earl Halleck, you will have to remove your soldiers. What kind of message does this send?” He scowled at the armed men stationed prominently around the park. “We’ve already sent our proclamation to the Emperor on Arrakis. This is just a celebration, a reinforcement of our resolve.”

“If it’s just a celebration, then go to the pubs and eating establishments,” Gurney suggested. “If you disperse now, I’ll even buy the first round for everyone.” He didn’t think the offer would work.

Sintra shook his head. “The people are quite pleased with how they have stood up to fanaticism and bureaucracy. Give them their moment of triumph here.”