“Duke Leto!”
Startled, he noticed the woman who stood beside the life-support pod, wrapped in Bene Gesserit robes, surrounding herself with dark colors like shadows. Tessia’s drawn face was leached of its sharp humor and quiet loveliness, drained of life.
He wondered how long Rhombur’s concubine had maintained her vigil here. Jessica had told him of Bene Gesserit techniques that allowed Sisters to remain awake for days. Leto realized that he didn’t even know how much time had passed since he’d been pulled from the smashed wreckage of the cockpit chamber. From the haggard look on Tessia’s face, he doubted she had rested a moment since the disaster.
“I . . . I came to see Rhombur,” he said.
Tessia took a half step backward, and pointed toward the pod. She did not assist Leto, and he finally made it on his own to the plazchrome side of the vessel. He leaned heavily against the cool, polished metal seams.
Breathing hard, Leto bent his head but kept his eyes closed until the dizziness passed and the pain subsided . . . and until he built up his nerve to look upon what had happened to his friend.
He opened his eyes. And recoiled in horror.
All that remained of Rhombur Vernius was a smashed head and most of a spinal column, part of a chest. The rest— limbs, skin, some organs— had been ripped away by the force of the blast or crisped to cinders by engulfing flames. Mercifully, he remained in a coma. This was the torn mass of flesh he had seen on the deck of the skyclipper.
Leto tried to think of an appropriate prayer from the O.C. Bible. His mother would have known exactly what to say— though she had always resented the presence of the Vernius children. Lady Helena would claim this was a righteous punishment from God, because Leto had dared to take in the refugees from a sacrilegious House.
Life-support systems and power packs kept Rhombur alive, trapping his tormented soul inside this scrap of body that still clung to his existence.
“Why?” Leto said to himself. “Why did this happen? Who did this to him? To Victor? To me?”
He looked up and saw Tessia’s stony expression. She must be using all of her Bene Gesserit training just to contain her own anguish.
Although she’d been an arranged concubine, Rhombur had genuinely loved her. The two had allowed their match to blossom into what it could be— unlike Leto’s relationship with Kailea, and unlike his parents, whose marriage had never engendered true affection.
“Thufir Hawat and Gurney Halleck have been at the crash site for days,” Tessia said. “They are investigating the wreckage to determine the responsible party. You are aware of the bomb?”
Leto nodded. “Thufir will find the answers. He always does.” He forced the words from his mouth, driving himself to ask the question he dreaded most. “And Victor’s body—?”
Tessia looked away. “Your son was . . . found. The guard captain, Swain Goire, immediately preserved as much as possible . . . though I can’t think what purpose that might serve. Goire . . . loved the boy, too.”
“I know he did,” Leto said.
He stared down at the strange red-and-pink shape inside the life-support pod, unable to recognize his friend. So closely did the chamber resemble a coffin that Leto could almost envision pulling away the wires, sealing the top, and burying it. Maybe that would be best.
“Is there anything we can do for him— or is this just a futile exercise?”
He could see the muscles bunch in Tessia’s cheeks, and her sepia eyes hardened, blazing with cold fire. Her voice dropped to a breathless whisper. “I can never give up hope.”
“My Lord Duke!” The night nurse’s alarmed voice carried a scolding tone as he entered the room. “You must not be up, sir. You must recover your strength. You are grievously injured, and I cannot permit you—”
Leto lifted a hand. “Don’t speak to me of grievous injuries as I stand here beside the life-support pod of my friend.”
The nurse’s gaunt face flushed, and he nodded jerkily on a long thin neck, like a wading bird’s. But he touched Leto’s sleeve with a delicate, scrubbed hand. “Please, my Lord. I am not here to compare wounds. My aim is to see that the Duke of House Atreides heals as quickly as possible. That is your duty, too.”
Tessia touched the life-support pod, and her gaze met Leto’s. “Yes, Leto. You have responsibilities still. Rhombur would never permit you to throw everything away because of his condition.”
Leto allowed himself to be guided out of the room, taking careful steps as the night nurse led him back to his bed. He knew intellectually that he must regain his strength, if only to enable him to understand the disaster.
My son, my son! Who has done this thing?
• • •
Locked in her chambers, Kailea wailed for hours. Refusing to speak to anyone, she did not come out to see the Duke, her brother, or anyone else. But in truth, she could not face herself, the monstrous guilt, the unredeemable shame.
It would be only a matter of time before Thufir Hawat and his relentless investigation uncovered her culpability. For now, no one had expressed any suspicions against her . . . but soon the gossip would begin, whispered along the cool stone halls of Castle Caladan. People would wonder why she was avoiding Duke Leto.
And so, after learning the schedule of medications— and determining when Leto would be least likely to detect the murderous guilt in her eyes— Kailea unbolted the door of her chambers and walked unsteadily toward the infirmary rooms. At dusk, the light visible through stone-framed windows had turned the cloud banks coppery in the sky, like her hair. But she saw no beauty in the sunset, only shadows inside the walls.
Medical technicians and the doctor bustled about, making way for her, backing out of the room to give her privacy with the Duke. The sympathy on their faces tore at her heart.
“He has suffered a relapse, Lady Kailea,” the doctor said. “We’ve had to administer more drugs for his pain, and now he may be too sleepy to say much.”
Kailea stood with forced hauteur. Her puffy red eyes dried as she steeled herself. “Nevertheless, I will see him. I shall stand by Leto Atreides as long as I am able, trusting that he knows I am there.”
The doctor courteously found something else to do outside the room.
Her footsteps leaden, one hesitant pace at a time, Kailea moved closer to the bedside. The room smelled of injuries and pain, of medicines and despair. She looked down at Leto’s bruised, burned face and tried to recall her anger toward him. She thought again of the terrible things Chiara had told her, the myriad ways Leto Atreides had betrayed all of her hopes, destroying her dreams.
Still, she remembered vividly the first time they had actually made love, practically by accident after the Duke had been drinking too much Caladan ale with Goire and the guards. Laughing, Leto had spilled a mug on himself, and then ambled out into the hall. There he encountered Kailea, who’d been unable to sleep and had been prowling the Castle. Noting his condition, she’d scolded him gently and led him into his private chambers.
She had intended to help him into bed and then leave. Nothing more, though she had fantasized about it many times. His own attraction for her had been so plain, for so long. . . .
After all they’d been through, how could she possibly have convinced herself to hate him?
As she stared at him now, lying injured and motionless, she recalled how he had loved to play with his son. She had refused to see how much he’d adored the boy, because she hadn’t wanted to believe it.
Victor! She squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her hands against her face. Tears flowed over her palms.
Leto stirred and half awoke, focusing on her with groggy, red-rimmed eyes. It took him a long moment, but finally he recognized her. His face seemed free of walls and the hardness of leadership, showing only naked emotion. “Kailea?” he said in a drawn-out croak.
Not daring to respond, she bit her upper lip. What could she possibly say? He knew her too well . . . he would know!
“Kailea . . .” H
is voice filled with absolute anguish. “Oh, Kailea, they’ve killed Victor! Someone has killed our beautiful son. Oh, Kailea . . . who could have done such a thing? Why?”
He struggled to keep his gray eyes open, fighting the fog of drugs in his system. Kailea jammed her fist into her mouth, biting on the knuckles until blood flowed.
Unable to face him any longer, she whirled and fled the room.
• • •
In a rage, Swain Goire strode up the long steps to the isolated tower chambers. Two Atreides House guards stood outside the entrance to Kailea’s private rooms.
“Step aside,” Goire commanded.
But the guards refused to move. “The Lady Kailea has given us orders,” said the Levenbrech-ranked officer on the left, flicking his gaze away, afraid to oppose his commanding officer. “She wishes to be alone in her grief. She has not eaten or accepted any visitors. She—”
“Who gives you orders, Levenbrech? A concubine, or the commander of our Lord Duke’s troops?”
“You, sir,” answered the soldier on the right, looking at his companion. “But you put us in an awkward position.”
“You’re dismissed, both of you,” Goire barked. “Go now. I will bear the responsibility.” Then he said in a softer voice, as if to himself, “Yes, I bear the responsibility.”
He threw open the door, strode inside, and slammed it behind him.
Kailea wore a pale old sleeping garment. Her coppery hair hung in disarray, and her eyes were red and puffy. She knelt on the stone floor, forsaking the chairs, ignoring the cold wet draft from the open window. The fireplace lay gray and dark in the palpable gloom of the chamber.
Red scratches etched parallel lines on her cheeks, as if she had tried to claw out her eyes but had lost the nerve. With a shadowed gaze she looked up at him, her expression filled with pathetic hope as she saw someone who might offer sympathy.
Kailea raised herself from the floor, little more than a ghost of herself. “My son is dead, my brother mangled beyond recognition.” Her face looked like a skull. “Swain, my son is dead.” She took a step toward him and extended her hands, as if hoping for comfort. Her expressive mouth twisted in a parody of a pleading smile, but he stood rigid.
“My armory key was stolen,” he said. “Taken from my uniform belt shortly after Leto announced his plans for a ducal procession.”
She stopped barely a meter from her lover. “How can you think of such things when—”
“Thufir Hawat will learn what has happened!” Goire roared. “I know now who took the key, and I know what it means. Your actions condemn you, Kailea.” He shuddered, wanting to tear her heart out with his bare hands. “Your own son! How could you do this?”
“Victor is dead,” she wailed. “How can you think I planned that?”
“You meant to kill the Duke alone, didn’t you? I saw your panic when you learned that Rhombur and Victor had joined him in the skyclipper. Most of the household already suspects your hand in this.”
His eyes blazed and his muscles tightened, but he remained immobile as a statue. “And you have made me responsible, too. Skyclipper security was my duty, but I was slow to realize the importance of the missing key. I kept convincing myself I had only misplaced it, refused to consider other possibilities . . . I should have raised an alarm.”
He hung his head, continued to speak while he stared at the floor. “I should have confessed our affair to my Duke long before this, and now you have soaked my hands with blood, as well as your own.” His nostrils flared as he looked at her in revulsion, and his vision turned crimson. The room spun around him. “I betrayed my Duke many times, but this is the worst of all. I could have prevented Victor’s death if only . . . ah, poor, sweet child.”
Kailea’s clawlike hands darted forward and grasped the hilt of the dueling dagger at Goire’s waist. She snatched it out of its sheath and held it up, her eyes glazing. “If you are so miserable in your guilt, Swain, then fall on your knife like a good warrior, like a loyal Atreides soldier. Take it. Thrust the blade into your heart so that you can no longer feel the pain.”
Dully, he looked at the outstretched dagger, but refused to move toward it. Instead, after a long intense moment, he turned away . . . as if taunting Kailea to plunge the blade into his back. “Honor demands justice, my Lady. True justice— not an easy way out. I will face my Duke with what I have done.” He looked over his shoulder as he strode toward the doorway. “Worry about your own guilt.”
She held the dagger in her hands as Goire left. After he closed the door, he heard Kailea wailing, pleading for him to come back. But the captain closed his ears to her cries and marched purposefully from the tower.
• • •
When Kailea demanded to see her lady-in-waiting, Chiara scuttled into the room, terrified but not daring to tarry. Wind whistled through the open tower window, along with the sounds of surf crashing against the rocks far below. Kailea stared out into the distance, the breezes whipping her pale garment like a funeral shroud around her.
“You . . . summoned me, my Lady?” The old woman hovered close to the doorway, allowing her shoulders to slump in an appearance of meek submission. She wished she had thought to bring a tray of spice coffee or Kailea’s favorite sweetmeats, a peace offering to calm the animal fires within the distraught woman.
“Shall we discuss your foolish plan, Chiara?” Kailea’s voice sounded hollow and frighteningly cold. She turned, and her expression carried death.
The lady-in-waiting’s instincts told her to flee the Castle, to disappear into Cala City and take a transport back to Giedi Prime. She could throw herself upon the mercy of Baron Harkonnen and boast about how much anguish she had caused the Duke, albeit with only partial success.
But Kailea held her paralyzed, like a snake mesmerizing its prey.
“I . . . I am terribly sorry, my Lady.” Chiara bowed, then began to grovel. “I mourn for the innocent blood that was shed. No one could have foreseen that Victor and Rhombur would join the procession. They were never supposed to—”
“Silence! I want none of your excuses. I know everything that happened, everything that went wrong.”
Like a steel trap closing, Chiara clamped off further words. She felt a deeper nervousness, sensing how alone they were in this chamber. If only the guards had remained at their posts as she’d ordered, if only Chiara had thought to arm herself before coming here.
So many things had been unforeseen.
“As I think back over the years, Chiara, I recall so many comments you made, all those insidious suggestions. Now their meaning grows clear, and the weight of evidence is an avalanche against you.”
“What . . . what do you mean, my Lady? I have done nothing but serve you since—”
Kailea cut her off. “You were sent here to sow discord, weren’t you? You have been trying to turn me against Leto since the day we met. Who do you work for? The Harkonnens? House Richese? The Tleilaxu?” Sunken eyes and scarred cheeks dominated her blank and emotionless face. “No matter, the result is the same. Leto has survived . . . and my son is dead.”
She took a step toward the old woman, and Chiara used her most compassionate voice like a shield. “Your grief is making you think and say terrible things, my dear. This has all been a dreadful mistake.”
Kailea stepped closer. “Be thankful for one thing, Chiara. For many years I considered you my friend. Victor died swiftly and painlessly, unsuspecting. For that, I grant you your own merciful death.”
She yanked out the dueling dagger she had taken from Swain Goire. Chiara lurched backward, raising her fingers in a warding gesture. “No, my Lady!”
But Kailea did not hesitate. She drove forward, plunging the blade deep into Chiara’s chest. She withdrew and struck again to be sure she had pierced the traitorous woman’s heart. Then she let the knife fall with a clatter to the floor as a gurgling Chiara sagged like a pile of rags onto the tiles.
Blood splashed the eerily beautiful blue obsidian wall, a
nd Kailea straightened, looking at her own dim reflection there. She stared for a long moment, not liking what she saw.
With ponderous steps, Kailea went to the open window. The biting cold numbed her skin, and yet all of her flesh felt wet, as if with blood. Holding the stone edges of the windowsill, she stared out into the cloud-laden sky to the distant horizon made smooth by the seas of Caladan. Below, the foaming infinity of waves snarled around the base of the tall cliff.
The marvelous stalactite city inside the crust of Ix shone in her memory. It had been so long since she’d danced in the reflective halls of the Grand Palais, showing off her finest merh-silk dresses. She had stood with her brother and the Pilru twins looking out upon the immense grotto where Heighliners were built.
Like a prayer, Kailea Vernius brought to mind everything she had read and all the images she had seen of the Imperial Court at Kaitain, the spectacular palace, the tiered gardens, the chime kites. She had longed to spend her life in the dazzling glamor that should have accompanied her station— Princess of a Great House of the Landsraad. But in all her life, Kailea had never achieved the heights or the wonders that she desired.
Finally, leaving only dark memories behind her, she climbed onto the windowsill and spread her wings to fly. . . .
Humans must never submit to animals.
— Bene Gesserit Teaching
Though Abulurd formally retained the title of subdistrict governor of Lankiveil, in name at least, Glossu Rabban controlled the planet and its economy. It amused him to let his father keep the title, as that didn’t change who was really in power.
What could the old fool do anyway, holed up in a cliffside monastery?
Rabban despised the planet’s dreary skies, cold temperatures, and primitive people with their smelly fish. He hated it because the Baron had forced him to spend years here after his botched mission on Wallach IX. But mostly, he hated the place because his father loved it so much.
Secure on Lankiveil, Rabban finally decided to inspect the remote spice stockpile they’d hidden decades before. He liked to check the hoards periodically, to be certain they were secure. All records had been erased, all witnesses eliminated. No proof existed that the Baron had secreted away so much melange during his early tenure on Arrakis.
Dune: House Harkonnen Page 61