Dune

As was the Fremen custom, the Atreides twins arose an hour before dawn. They yawned and stretched in secret unison in their adjoining chambers, feeling the activity of the cave-warren around them. They could hear attendants in the antechamber preparing breakfast, a simple gruel with dates and nuts blended in liquid skimmed from partially fermented spice. There were glowglobes in the antechamber and a soft yellow light entered through the open archways of the bedchambers. The twins dressed swiftly in the soft light, each hearing the other nearby. As they had agreed, they donned stillsuits against the desert’s parching winds.

Presently the royal pair met in the antechamber, noting the sudden stillness of the attendants. Leto, it was observed, wore a black-edged tan cape over his stillsuit’s grey slickness. His sister wore a green cape. The neck of each cape was held by a clasp in the form of an Atreides hawk—gold with red jewels for eyes.

Seeing this finery, Harah, who was one of Stilgar’s wives, said: “I see you have dressed to honor your grandmother.” Leto picked up his breakfast bowl before looking at Harah’s dark and wind-creased face. He shook his head. Then: “How do you know it’s not ourselves we honor?”

Harah met his taunting stare without flinching, said: “My eyes are just as blue as yours!”

Ghanima laughed aloud. Harah was always an adept at the Fremen challenge-game. In one sentence, she had said: “Don’t taunt me, boy. You may be royalty, but we both bear the stigma of melange-addiction—eyes without whites. What Fremen needs more finery or more honor than that?”

Leto smiled, shook his head ruefully. “Harah, my love, if you were but younger and not already Stilgar’s, I’d make you my own.”

Harah accepted the small victory easily, signaling the other attendants to continue preparing the chambers for this day’s important activities. “Eat your breakfasts,” she said. “You’ll need the energy today.”

“Then you agree that we’re not too fine for our grandmother?” Ghanima asked, speaking around a mouthful of gruel.

“Don’t fear her, Ghani,” Harah said.

Leto gulped a mouthful of gruel, sent a probing stare at Harah. The woman was infernally folk-wise, seeing through the game of finery so quickly. “Will she believe we fear her?” Leto asked.

“Like as not,” Harah said. “She was our Reverend Mother, remember. I know her ways.”

“How was Alia dressed?” Ghanima asked.

“I’ve not seen her.” Harah spoke shortly, turning away.

Leto and Ghanima exchanged a look of shared secrets, bent quickly to their breakfast. Presently they went out into the great central passage.

Ghanima spoke in one of the ancient languages they shared in genetic memory: “So today we have a grandmother.”

“It bothers Alia greatly,” Leto said.

“Who likes to give up such authority?” Ghanima asked.

Leto laughed softly, an oddly adult sound from flesh so young. “It’s more than that.”

“Will her mother’s eyes observe what we have observed?”

“And why not?” Leto asked.

“Yes. . . . That could be what Alia fears.”

“Who knows Abomination better than Abomination?” Leto asked.

“We could be wrong, you know,” Ghanima said.

“But we’re not.” And he quoted from the Bene Gesserit Azhar Book: “It is with reason and terrible experience that we call the pre-born Abomination. For who knows what lost and damned persona out of our evil past may take over the living flesh?”

“I know the history of it,” Ghanima said. “But if that’s true, why don’t we suffer from this inner assault?”

“Perhaps our parents stand guard within us,” Leto said.

“Then why not guardians for Alia as well?”

“I don’t know. It could be because one of her parents remains among the living. It could be simply that we are still young and strong. Perhaps when we’re older and more cynical . . .”

“We must take great care with this grandmother,” Ghanima said.

“And not discuss this Preacher who wanders our planet speaking heresy?”

“You don’t really think he’s our father!”

“I make no judgment on it, but Alia fears him.”

Ghanima shook her head sharply. “I don’t believe this Abomination nonsense!”

“You’ve just as many memories as I have,” Leto said. “You can believe what you want to believe.”

“You think it’s because we haven’t dared the spice trance and Alia has,” Ghanima said.

“That’s exactly what I think.”

They fell silent, moving out into the flow of people in the central passage. It was cool in Sietch Tabr, but the stillsuits were warm and the twins kept their condenser hoods thrown back from their red hair. Their faces betrayed the stamp of shared genes: generous mouths, widely set eyes of spice addict blue-on-blue.

Leto was first to note the approach of their Aunt Alia.

“Here she comes now,” he said, shifting to Atreides battle language as a warning.

Ghanima nodded to her aunt as Alia stopped in front of them, said: “A spoil of war greets her illustrious relative.” Using the same Chakobsa language, Ghanima emphasized the meaning of her own name—Spoil of War.