Dune

And we trained her, that’s what he’s saying, Mohiam thought. Well . . . Irulan’s a divided coin. Was there another way to spend such a coin?

“Will you put Chani’s child on the throne?” the Reverend Mother asked.

“On my throne,” Paul said. He glanced at Alia, wondering suddenly if she knew the divergent possibilities in this exchange. Alia stood with eyes closed, an odd stillness-of-person about her. With what inner force did she commune? Seeing his sister thus, Paul felt he’d been cast adrift. Alia stood on a shore that was receding from him.

The Reverend Mother made her decision, said: “This is too much for one person to decide. I must consult with my Council on Wallach. Will you permit a message?”

As though she needed my permission! Paul thought.

He said: “Agreed, then. But don’t delay too long. I will not sit idly by while you debate.”

“Will you bargain with the Bene Tleilax?” the ghola asked, his voice a sharp intrusion.

Alia’s eyes popped open and she stared at the ghola as though she’d been wakened by a dangerous intruder.

“I’ve made no such decision,” Paul said. “What I will do is go into the desert as soon as it can be arranged. Our child will be born in sietch.”

“A wise decision,” Stilgar intoned.

Alia refused to look at Stilgar. It was a wrong decision. She could feel this in every cell. Paul must know it. Why had he fixed himself upon such a path?

“Have the Bene Tleilax offered their services?” Alia asked. She saw Mohiam hanging on the answer.

Paul shook his head. “No.” He glanced at Stilgar. “Stil, arrange for the message to be sent to Wallach.”

“At once, m’Lord.”

Paul turned away, waited while Stilgar summoned guards, left with the old witch. He sensed Alia debating whether to confront him with more questions. She turned, instead, to the ghola.

“Mentat,” she said, “will the Tleilaxu bid for favor with my brother?”

The ghola shrugged.

Paul felt his attention wander. The Tleilaxu? No . . . not in the way Alia meant. Her question revealed, though, that she had not seen the alternatives here. Well . . . vision varied from sibyl to sibyl. Why not a variance from brother to sister? Wandering . . . wandering . . . He came back from each thought with a start to pick up shards of the nearby conversation.

“...must know what the Tleilaxu . . .”

“...the fullness of data is always . . .”

“...healthy doubts where . . .”

Paul turned, looked at his sister, caught her attention. He knew she would see tears on his face and wonder at them. Let her wonder. Wondering was a kindness now. He glanced at the ghola, seeing only Duncan Idaho despite the metallic eyes. Sorrow and compassion warred in Paul. What might those metal eyes record?

There are many degrees of sight and many degrees of blindness, Paul thought. His mind turned to a paraphrase of the passage from the Orange Catholic Bible: What senses do we lack that we cannot see another world all around us?

Were those metal eyes another sense than sight?

Alia crossed to her brother, sensing his utter sadness. She touched a tear on his cheek with a Fremen gesture of awe, said: “We must not grieve for those dear to us before their passing.”

“Before their passing,” Paul whispered. “Tell me, little sister, what is before?”

I’ve had a bellyful of the god and priest business! You think I don’t see my own mythos? Consult your data once more, Hayt. I’ve insinuated my rites into the most elementary human acts. The people eat in the name of Muad’Dib! They make love in my name, are born in my name—cross the street in my name. A roof beam cannot be raised in the lowliest hovel of far Gangishree without invoking the blessing of Muad’Dib!

—BOOK OF DIATRIBES

FROM THE HAYT CHRONICLE

“You risk much leaving your post and coming to me here at this time,” Edric said, glaring through the walls of his tank at the Face Dancer.

“How weak and narrow is your thinking,” Scytale said. “Who is it who comes to visit you?”

Edric hesitated, observing the hulk shape, heavy eyelids, blunt face. It was early in the day and Edric’s metabolism had not yet cycled from night repose into full melange consumption.

“This is not the shape which walked the streets?” Edric asked.

“One would not look twice at some of the figures I have been today,” Scytale said.

The chameleon thinks a change of shape will hide him from anything, Edric thought with rare insight. And he wondered if his presence in the conspiracy truly hid them from all oracular powers. The Emperor’s sister, now . . .

Edric shook his head, stirring the orange gas of his tank, said: “Why are you here?”

“The gift must be prodded to swifter action,” Scytale said.

“That cannot be done.”