Remaining out of sight, Hawat followed his Duke down one corridor and then another— until Leto stepped boldly into Jessica’s apartment without knocking.
• • •
Instantly alert from her Bene Gesserit training, Jessica summoned light from a blue glowglobe. The shadowy cocoon retreated around her.
Duke Leto!
Sitting up in the four-poster bed that had long ago belonged to Helena Atreides, she made no attempt to cover herself. She wore a pink nightgown of slick merh-silk, cut low. A faint scent of lavender hung in the air from a pheromone emitter cleverly concealed at the ceiling joint. This night, as always, she had prepared carefully . . . in the hope that he would come to her.
“My Lord?” She saw his troubled, angry expression as he stepped into the light. “Is everything all right?”
Leto’s gray gaze darted around, and he breathed deeply, trying to control the adrenaline, the uncertainty, the determination that warred within him. Beads of perspiration covered his brow. His black Atreides jacket hung askew, as if he had tugged it hurriedly over his shoulders.
“I am here for all the wrong reasons,” he said.
Jessica slid out of bed and draped a green robe over her shoulders. “Then I must accept those reasons and be grateful for them. May I get you anything? How can I help you most?” Though she had waited so many months for him, she felt little triumph— only concern at seeing him so distressed.
The tall, hawk-featured man removed his jacket and sat on the edge of the bed. “I’m in no condition to present myself to a Lady.”
Moving close to him, she massaged his shoulders. “You are the Duke, and this is your Castle. You may present yourself in any manner you please.” Jessica touched his dark hair, and ran her fingers sensually along his temples.
As if imagining a dream, he closed his eyes, then snapped them open again. She drew her finger down his cheek and placed it against his lips to silence any words. Her green eyes danced. “Your condition is perfectly acceptable to me, my Lord.”
When she loosened the clasps on his shirt, he sighed and allowed her to nudge him toward the bed. Mentally and physically exhausted, torn by his own guilt, he lay face-down on the rich coverings that smelled of rose petals and coriander. He seemed to sink into the soft, pliant sheets, and allowed himself to drift away.
Her delicate hands slid across his bare skin, and she worked her fingers into the tight muscles of his back, as if she had done this for him a thousand times before. To Jessica, it felt as if this moment in eternity had always been meant to be, that Leto was destined to be here, with her.
At last, he rolled over to face her. When their eyes met, Jessica saw fire there again, except it did not smolder with anger this time. Nor did it fade. He took her in his arms and pressed his lips to hers in a long, passionate kiss.
“I’m glad you are here, my Duke,” she said, remembering all the methods of seduction the Sisterhood had taught her, but with the realization that she genuinely cared about him, that she meant what she was saying.
“I shouldn’t have waited so long, Jessica,” he said.
• • •
As Kailea wept, she felt more anger at her own failure than sorrow at feeling Leto slip through her fingers. He had disappointed her so much— Chiara had reminded her again and again of her own worth, her noble birthright, the future she deserved. Kailea despaired that these hopes were gone forever.
House Vernius was not entirely dead, and its survival might very well depend on her. She was stronger than her brother, whose support of the rebels was little more than a pipe dream. Deep inside she felt a steely will: House Vernius would only survive through her efforts, and ultimately through the bloodline of her son Victor.
She was determined to gain royal status for him. All of her love, all of her dreams, rested on the boy’s fortunes.
Finally, far into the lonely night, she fell into a fitful sleep.
• • •
In ensuing weeks, Duke Leto sought Jessica more and more often, and he began to consider her his concubine. Sometimes he came into her room without a word and made love to her with feral intensity. Then, sated, he would hold her for hours and talk.
Using Bene Gesserit skills, Jessica had studied him for sixteen months, educating herself in the concerns of Caladan. She knew the daily difficulties Leto Atreides faced in running an entire planet, managing the affairs of a Great House, attending to Landsraad matters, keeping pace with the political and diplomatic machinations in the Imperium.
Jessica knew exactly what to say, precisely how to advise him without pushing. . . . Gradually, he came to see her as more than just a lover.
She tried not to think of Kailea Vernius as her rival, but the other woman had been wrong to push this proud nobleman too hard, trying to bend him to her will. Duke Leto Atreides was not a man to be forced into anything.
He sometimes spoke of his hardening feelings toward Kailea as he and Jessica went for long walks along the cliffside path. “You are within your rights, my Lord.” The young woman’s tone was soft, like a summer breeze over a Caladan sea. “But she seems so sad. I wish something could be done for her. She and I might have become friends.”
He looked at her with a perplexed expression as the wind blew his dark hair. “You’re so much better than she is, Jessica. Kailea feels only venom toward you.”
She had seen the Ixian woman’s deep pain, the tears she tried to conceal, the dagger glares she hurled at Jessica. “Your point of view can be distorted by circumstance. Since the fall of House Vernius, she’s had a difficult life.”
“And I made it better for her. I risked my own family fortune to keep her and Rhombur safe when their House went renegade. I’ve shown her every consideration, but she always wants more.”
“You once felt affection for her,” Jessica said. “She bore your child.”
He smiled warmly. “Victor . . . ah, that boy has made every moment with his mother worthwhile.” For several minutes he gazed out to sea, without saying anything. “You are wise beyond your years, Jessica. Maybe I will try one more time.”
She didn’t know what had come over her, and regretted sending him back to Kailea. Mohiam would have chastised her for that. But how could she not encourage him to think kindly about the mother of his son, a woman he had loved? Despite her Bene Gesserit training, which required keeping a tight rein on one’s passions, Jessica found herself becoming deeply attached. Perhaps too deeply.
But she had another attachment as well, one going back much longer in her lifetime. With her Bene Gesserit reproductive skills, she could have manipulated Leto’s sperm and her eggs during their very first night together, thus conceiving the daughter her superiors had instructed her to produce. Why, then, hadn’t she done as she’d been commanded? Why was she delaying?
Jessica felt an inner turmoil over this issue, that forces within her were warring for control. Clearly the Bene Gesserit were on one side, a whispering presence insisting that she fulfill her obligations, her vows. But what opposed them? It wasn’t Leto himself. No, it was something much larger and more significant than the love of two people in a vast universe.
But she had no idea what it might be.
• • •
The next day, Leto visited Kailea in the tower apartments where she spent most of her time, widening the gulf between them. As he entered, she turned toward him, ready to flare with anger, but he sank down beside her on a settee. “I’m sorry we see things so differently, Kailea.” He took her hands firmly in his. “I cannot change my mind about marriage, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care for you.”
She pulled away, instantly suspicious. “What’s the matter? Did Jessica turn you out of her bed?”
“Not at all.” Leto considered telling Kailea what the other woman had said to him, but reconsidered. If she thought Jessica was behind anything, she wouldn’t accept it. “I have arranged to send a gift to you, Kailea.”
Despite herself, she brightened; it
had been a long time since Leto had brought her expensive baubles. “What is it? Jewelry?” She reached for the pocket of his jacket, where he used to hide rings, brooches, bracelets, and necklaces for her; in earlier days, he had made her search his clothes for new baubles, a game that often turned into foreplay.
“Not this time,” Leto said with a bittersweet smile. “You are accustomed to a family home much more elegant than my austere Castle. Do you remember the ballroom in the Grand Palais on Ix, with its indigo walls?”
Kailea looked at him, puzzled. “Yes, rare blue obsidian— I haven’t seen anything like it in years.” Her voice grew wistful and distant. “I remember as a child, being dressed in my ball gown and looking into the translucent walls. The layers within layers made reflections look like ghosts. Light from chandeliers gleamed like stars in the galaxy.”
“I have decided to install a veneer of blue obsidian in the ballroom of Castle Caladan,” Leto announced, “and also here in your chambers. Everyone will know I did it just for you.”
Kailea didn’t know what to think. “Is this to salve your conscience?” she challenged, daring him to contradict her. “Do you think it’s so easy?”
He shook his head slowly. “I have gone beyond anger, Kailea, and feel only affection for you. Your blue obsidian has already been ordered from a Hagal merchant, though it will take a few months to arrive.”
He went to the door, paused. She remained silent, then finally drew in a long breath as if it required a great effort for her to speak.
“Thank you,” she said, as he left.
A man may fight the greatest enemy, take the longest journey, survive the most grievous wound— and still be helpless in the hands of the woman he loves.
— Zensunni Wisdom from the Wandering
Breathless with anticipation, Liet-Kynes forced himself to move methodically, to make no errors. Though excited about racing for Faroula’s hand, if he did not prepare properly for the mihna challenge, he could find his death instead of a wife.
Heart pounding, he dressed in his stillsuit, fitting it out to retain every drop of moisture, checking all the connections and seals. He rolled his pack, including extra water and food, and took the time to inventory the items in his Fremkit: stilltent, paracompass, manual, charts, sandsnorkel, compaction tools, knife, binoculars, repair pack. Finally, Liet gathered the Maker hooks and thumpers he’d need to summon a worm for the trek across the Great Flat and Habbanya Erg to Habbanya Ridge.
The Cave of Birds was an isolated stopping point for Fremen on their travels, for those with no permanent sietch. Faroula must have departed two days earlier, summoning her own worm as few Fremen women could do. She would know the cave was empty. She would be there waiting for Liet, or Warrick— whoever arrived first.
Liet bustled around the room adjacent to his parents’ chambers. His mother heard the frantic movements even at such a late hour and moved the hangings aside. “Why are you preparing for a journey, my son?”
He looked at her. “Mother, I am off to win myself a wife.”
Frieth smiled, her thin lips turning up on her tanned and weathered face. “So Faroula has issued the challenge.”
“Yes— and I must hurry.”
Moving with quick, deft fingers, Frieth rechecked the fastenings on his stillsuit and tied the Fremkit to his back as Liet unfolded charts printed on spice paper so that he could review geography known only to the Fremen. He studied the topography of the desert, the rock outcroppings, the salty basins. Weather records showed where wind patterns and storms were likely to strike.
Warrick had a head start, he knew, but his impetuous friend would not have taken as many precautions. Warrick would rush into the challenge and trust his Fremen skills. But unexpected problems took time and resources to resolve, and Liet invested these few additional minutes to save time later.
His mother kissed him briefly on the cheek. “Remember, the desert is neither your friend nor your enemy . . . simply an obstacle. Use it to your advantage.”
“Yes, Mother. Warrick knows that, too.”
Pardot Kynes was nowhere to be found . . . but then, he rarely was. Liet could be gone and return again to Red Wall Sietch before the Planetologist even understood the importance of his son’s contest.
When he emerged from the moisture-sealed sietch doors to stand on the rugged ridge, Liet took in the vista of sweeping sands lit by the rising moons. He could hear the throbbing beat of a distant thumper.
Warrick was already out there.
Liet rushed down the steep path toward the open basin, but paused again. Sandworms had broad, well-defined territories, which they defended fiercely. Warrick was already calling a great beast, and it would be a long time before Liet could lure a second worm into the same area.
Knowing that, he hiked higher instead, crossed the saddle of the ridge, and descended the other side of the mountains, picking his way toward a shallow basin. Liet hoped he could summon a good Maker there, a better one than his friend obtained.
As he climbed down the rugged slope, using hands and feet, Liet studied the landscape ahead and found a long dune that faced the open desert. That would be a good place to wait. He planted a thumper downslope and set it working without a delayed timer. He’d have several minutes to plow through the loose sand up the backface of the dune. In the darkness, it would be difficult to see the oncoming ripples of wormsign.
Listening to the thump, thump, thump of the device, he removed tools from his kit, stretched out the telescoping whiprods and Maker hooks, then strapped the goads to his back. Always before, when he’d called worms, there had been spotters and helpers, people to assist him should difficulties arise. But for this challenge, Liet-Kynes had to do everything himself. He completed each step according to the familiar ritual. He fastened cleats to his boots, removed the ropes— and hunkered down to wait.
On the other side of the ridge, Warrick would already be mounted and racing across the Great Flat. Liet hoped he could make up for lost time. It would take two, perhaps three, days to reach the Cave of Birds . . . and much could happen in that time.
He dug his fingertips into the sand and sat absolutely motionless. The night had no wind, no sounds other than the thumper, until finally he heard the static hiss of moving sand, the rumble of a leviathan deep beneath the dunes attracted by the steady beat of the thumper. The worm came closer and closer, with a crest of sand in front of it.
“Shai-Hulud has sent a big Maker,” Liet said with a long sigh.
The worm circled toward the thumper. Its huge, segmented back rode high, encrusted with debris; the wide ridges were like canyons.
Liet froze in awe before scrambling across the slipping sand, holding Maker hooks in both hands. Even through his stillsuit nose plugs, he smelled sulfur, burned rock, and the potent, acrid esters of melange that oozed from the worm.
He raced along as the beast swallowed the thumper. Before the worm could bury itself again, Liet lashed out with one of the Maker hooks, securing its glistening end into the leading edge of a ring segment. With all his strength he pulled, spreading the segment to expose pinkish flesh too tender to touch the abrasive sands. Then he held on.
Avoiding irritation to the stinging wound between its segments, the worm rolled upward and carried Liet with it. He reached out with his other hand, slapping down a second Maker hook and embedding it deeper along the segment. He pulled again to widen the gap.
The worm rose in a reflex action, flinching from this further annoyance.
Normally, additional Fremen riders would open more ring segments, but Liet was alone. Digging his cleats into the hard flesh of Shai-Hulud, he climbed higher, then planted spreaders to keep the segment open. The worm rose out of the sand, and Liet tapped with his first goad to turn the worm around and head onto the sprawling plain of the Great Flat.
Liet held his ropes, finished planting his hooks, and finally stood to look back at the sinuous arc of the worm. The Maker was huge! An air of dignity hung about th
is one, a sense of great antiquity that went to the very roots of the planet itself. Never before had he seen such a creature. He could ride this one for a long time, at great speed.
He might yet have a chance of overtaking Warrick. . . .
His worm raced across the shifting sands as the two moons rose higher. Liet studied his course, using the stars and constellations, following the tail of the mouse pattern known as Muad’Dib, “the one who points the way,” so that he always knew his direction.
He crossed the rippling track of what might have been another great Maker plowing across the Great Flat— likely Warrick’s own worm, since Shai-Hulud rarely traveled on the surface unless provoked. Liet hoped that luck was on his side.
After many hours, the race took on a monotonous familiarity, and drowsiness filled him. He could doze if he lashed himself to the worm, but Liet didn’t dare. He had to remain awake to guide the leviathan. If Shai-Hulud strayed from the direct course, Liet would lose time— and he could no longer afford that.
He rode the monster all through the night until the lemon color of dawn tinged the indigo skies, washing away the stars. He kept an alert eye for Harkonnen patrol ’thopters, though he doubted they would come so far below the sixty-degree line.
He rode through the morning until, at the hottest point of the day, the enormous worm trembled, thrashed, and fought every attempt to keep it going. It was ready to drop from exhaustion. Liet dared not push it any harder. Worms could be ridden to death, and that would be a bad omen, indeed.
He steered the long, slithering beast toward an archipelago of rock. Releasing the hooks and spreaders, he sprinted along the ring segments and leaped to safety seconds before the lumbering worm wallowed into the sand. Liet dashed toward the low rocks, which were the only strip of dark coloration in a monotony of whites, tans, and yellows, a barricade that separated one vast basin from another.
He huddled under a camouflaged, heat-reflective blanket and set a timer from his Fremkit to allow himself one full hour of sleep. Though his instincts and external senses remained alert, he slept deeply, regaining energy.
Dune: House Harkonnen Page 37