Dune_ House Atreides - Brian Herbert [180]
Standing over the child in the nursery, she gently massaged its neck and temple . . . then drew back. A Bene Gesserit did not feel or show love—not romantic love, not familial love; emotions were considered dangerous and unseemly.
Once again blaming the chemical changes in her pregnant body, Mohiam tried to make sense of her feelings, to reconcile them with what she had been taught all her life. If she didn’t love the child . . . because love was forbidden . . . then why not . . . She swallowed hard, unable to form the horrible thought into words. And if she did love this baby—against all dictates—then that was even more reason to do what she was about to do.
Eliminate the temptation.
Was she feeling love for the child, or just pity? She didn’t want to share these thoughts with any of her Sisters. She felt shame for experiencing them, but not for what she was about to do.
Move quickly. Get it over with!
The future demanded that Mohiam do this. If she did not act on the prescient warning, whole planets would die. This new child would be a daughter with an immense destiny, and to ensure that destiny, the other had to be sacrificed.
But still Mohiam hesitated, as if a great maternal weight restrained her, trying to hold back whatever vision had driven her.
She stroked the child’s throat. Skin warm . . . breathing slow and regular. In the shadows Mohiam couldn’t see the misshapen facial bones and sloping shoulder. The skin was pale . . . the baby seemed so weak. She stirred and whimpered.
Mohiam felt her daughter’s breath hot against her hand. Clenching her fist, the Reverend Mother worked hard to control herself and whispered, “I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer . . .” But she was shaking.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw another comeye, glowing purple to pierce the darkness of the nursery room. She positioned her body between the comeye and the child, with her back to the watchers. She looked into the future, not at what she was doing. Even a Reverend Mother sometimes had a conscience. . . .
Mohiam did what the dream had commanded her to do, holding a small pillow over the child’s face until sound and movement stopped.
Finished, still shaking, she arranged the bedding around the little body, then positioned the dead child’s head on the pillow and covered her tiny arms and deformed shoulder with a blanket. Suddenly she felt very, very old. Ancient beyond her years.
It is done. Mohiam rested the palm of her right hand on her swollen belly. Now you must not fail us, daughter.
One who rules assumes irrevocable responsibility for the ruled. You are a husbandman. This demands, at times, a selfless act of love which may be amusing only to those you rule.
—DUKE PAULUS ATREIDES
In the Plaza de Toros, up in the spectacular box seats reserved for House Atreides, Leto chose a green-cushioned chair beside Rhombur and Kailea. The Lady Helena Atreides, who had no fondness for such public displays, was late arriving. For the occasion Kailea Vernius wore silks and ribbons, colorful veils, and a lush, flowing gown that Atreides seamstresses had made specially for her. Leto thought she was breathtaking.
The gloomy skies did not threaten rain, but the temperature remained cool and the air damp. Even from up here he could smell the dust and old blood in the bullring, the packed bodies of the populace, the stone of the pillars and benches.
In a grand pronouncement carried by the news crier network all over Caladan, Duke Paulus Atreides had dedicated this bullfight to the exiled children of House Vernius. He would fight in their honor, symbolizing their struggle against the illegal takeover of Ix and the blood price that had been placed on their parents, Earl Dominic and Lady Shando.
Beside Leto, Rhombur leaned forward eagerly, his square chin on his hands as he gazed down at the packed sand of the bullring. His blond hair had been combed and cut, but somehow it still looked mussed. With tremendous anticipation and some concern for the safety of the Old Duke, they