Leaving the castle grounds, she climbed a rocky path to a high promontory overlooking the ocean. It was not wise to be in such an exposed, windswept place in an electrical storm, but she needed to see. The sounds of thunder and waves drowned out the drone of any nearby aircraft engine. She shielded her eyes against the wet wind and stared out to the ugly line of storm clouds. All those wild flurries of surface lightning suggested this was more than a normal squall.
Glancing along the headlands, she looked toward the landing field where Paul’s flyer would return. She told herself that Duncan would keep him safe, but the Swordmaster could also be reckless, and Paul always insisted on pushing his limits.
Even hurrying toward the field, alone out here in the storm, Jessica did not feel isolated. She was an important part of House Atreides, of Caladan. She was so much more than a concubine, a mother, or a Bene Gesserit Sister. Leto had left her in charge when he went away for Shaddam’s grand celebration. The Duke and his lady had an unspoken agreement, a bond of trust built over two decades together. Jessica often made decisions in his absence, taking responsibility to ease Leto’s burden. She knew the way the Duke thought and what he would decide.
Black clouds clenched like a threatening fist over the sea. Bright and ominous discharges lashed in all directions. As the stinging wind picked up, icy rain splashed across her cheeks. Paul and Duncan were out there, in danger, too far from shore to be safe. Her heart stuttered. Her son was a talented pilot, and no one was better than Duncan Idaho, but even the best could not always survive the wrath of an ocean storm. She hoped Caladan rescue crews would not merely find floating wreckage after the storm.…
“Come home, Paul,” she whispered.
Before setting off for the airfield, he had stood in front of her, crossing his arms over his chest. “An easy training exercise does not hone my abilities. Only real risk can provide real experience.”
She believed in him.
But now as she thought of their fragile craft out in the storm front, Jessica had to use her Bene Gesserit calming techniques. She had survived great risks too in her training back on Wallach IX. Her proctor, Reverend Mother Mohiam, had made young Jessica endure harsh exercises. The Sisterhood was certainly willing to let an unworthy Acolyte die, as a process of sifting out the absolute best candidates. Jessica had passed all those tests, learned all the intense and esoteric skills the Mother School could teach her.
Afterward, she had been sent to Duke Leto Atreides on Caladan, assigned to him as a concubine. Back then, it had been just another mission, a mission in which she excelled. Jessica had never known that it would become her entire life. She doubted many Bene Gesserit assignments turned out so perfectly.
A searing blue-white bolt of lightning struck a high point on the headlands not far away. She tugged the hood down over her hair and ducked as she ran toward the landing field. She could take shelter in the structures there. She thought—or was it just hope?—that she heard an undertone of engine buzzing behind the wind, but she saw no running lights of a returning flyer.
Paul would survive, she knew it. Duncan would not let him die!
As the thunder rumble intensified, Jessica wondered where Leto was right now. On Otorio, surrounded by other ambitious nobles, the Duke was enduring a different kind of test. Even now, he would be engaged in political skirmishes—dressed in finery, enduring the pomp and excesses of Emperor Shaddam’s gala. Jessica knew how much Leto disliked those pretentions. Though he did not pander, he was politically adept, with many strong friendships and alliances, making him much more influential than most other one-planet Landsraad houses. Even so, at this moment, he was probably drinking fine Tikal champagne, sampling extravagantly expensive hors d’oeuvres, and making empty conversation with other nobles as he represented House Atreides.
She could have been there on his arm, the Duke’s lady, but a bound concubine would not have served what the head of House Atreides required. Because of the tragic death of Ilesa Ecaz just before their wedding ceremony, she knew Leto would resist other marriage prospects, but time was enough to erode any landscape, and politics often outweighed hope. If pressed into a corner, Leto might be forced to put House Atreides before Jessica. Would he ever agree to marry, if the politics were right?
The height of the storm’s fury did not last long, and by the time she reached the shelter of the airfield control centers, the winds had already weakened. Over the sea to the east, the sky finally began to clear. Low on the horizon, a bright slash of blue sky peeked through an opening in the clouds.
Standing at the doorway of a low metal hut, she searched the skies and spotted lights above the gray, choppy water, heard the hum of aircraft engines growing louder. She saw the training flyer swoop in, but it wavered in the air. Had the fuselage been damaged? Was the pilot exhausted? Wounded?
She waited at the edge of the field as the craft came in for a less-than-graceful landing, then she hurried forward as the cockpit doors opened. Paul sprang out exuberant, apparently filled with the excitement inspired by a brush with death. Duncan Idaho followed, walking straight and formal; she knew the Swordmaster well enough to see that even he was alarmed by their ordeal.
Jessica chastised in a low voice, “You should not have risked him like that, Duncan.”
The Swordmaster clearly had no way to argue. He lowered his gaze and searched for words, but Paul broke in, “We came back, Mother! And I learned so many techniques in that one hour…” He wiped a hand across his eyes as raindrops spattered his face. “After all, someday I may have to fly into a terrible storm, and you will be glad I have this experience.”
Anyone is capable of committing murder against another person, or against himself.
—THUFIR HAWAT
At the Bene Gesserit Mother School on Wallach IX, an ancient woman lay wheezing on her medical bed, crushed by the weight of visions and age. Lethea, a former Kwisatz Mother of the order, could see the entire gestalt of the Sisterhood’s vast breeding program; she understood every thread, bloodline, dead end, and hope, far more than any other Sister.
She lay dying, heavily dosed with the spice melange, kept alive long past her normal life span through horrendous artificial life support. But the Bene Gesserit considered it imperative that she remain alive, for Lethea had a unique and vital talent for the Sisterhood, a skill that was difficult to pass on to others.
The woman was also dangerous, unstable, irrational.
Mother Superior Harishka had just entered the isolated third-floor chamber in the medical wing that kept Lethea safe—and protected other Sisters from her. The Mother Superior passed a young Acolyte guarding the barricaded door, and they exchanged whispers, careful not to disturb the old woman locked inside.
With a silent command, Harishka nodded to the door, and the Acolyte opened the barrier. The Mother Superior entered the rank-smelling chamber, gliding over the dark wood floor toward the expansive bed where Lethea slept. The ancient woman had a surprisingly young face, but the rest of her body was withered and frail, and age spots and wrinkles covered her hands. Harishka had seen images of her friend from decades ago. Lethea was a former breeding mistress who rose through the ranks to head the entire program, and she still retained a shadow of her former beauty.
A stout Sister slid into the room holding a small imaging device. She moved closer to record Lethea’s expressions and any words she might utter if she emerged from her catatonic state.