Hunters of Dune - Brian Herbert [107]
At least the powindah women had finally granted him his son, his copy. Scytale might achieve continuity after all.
The boy was with him now in the portion of the ship that had once been Scytale’s prison. Since revealing the last of his secrets, Scytale’s restrictions had been eased, and he could move about wherever he wished. He could observe the other eight ghola children undergoing whatever training the Bene Gesserit considered necessary. Reluctantly placed in charge of the young gholas, Proctor Superior Garimi had offered to instruct his son as well, but Scytale refused, not wishing to have him contaminated.
The Tleilaxu Master gave his son private instruction to prepare him for his great responsibility. Before the elder incarnation died, a great deal of important information needed to be passed on, much of it secret.
He wished he had the witches’ ability to Share their memories. Human downloading, he called it. If only he could awaken his son that way, but the Sisterhood kept that particular secret to themselves. No Tleilaxu had ever been able to determine the method, and such information was not for sale. The witches claimed it was a power they held as women, that no male could ever achieve it. Ridiculous! The Tleilaxu knew, and had proved, that females were as unimportant as the pigment on a wall. They were just biological vessels to produce offspring, and a conscious brain was not necessary for that process.
Alone, he faced the challenge of teaching the boy the most sacred rituals and cleansings. Though he spoke in whistles and whispers, using a coded tongue that no one except Masters should be able to speak, he still feared the witches could understand him. Years ago, Odrade had tried to entrap him by speaking that ancient language to prove she deserved his trust. To Scytale it only proved that he should never underestimate their wiles. He suspected that the witches had installed listening devices in his quarters, and no powindah must be allowed to hear the deep mysteries.
Desperation had painted him into smaller and smaller corners. His body was dying, and this child was his only option. If he did not take the risk that some of his words might be overheard, then those holy secrets might die with him. Wondrous knowledge, vanished forever. Which was worse, discovery or extinction?
Scytale leaned forward. “You carry a great burden. Few in our glorious history have ever borne such a responsibility. You are the hope of the Tleilaxu race, and my personal hope.”
The familiar boy seemed both intimidated and eager. “How am I to do it, Father?”
“I will show you,” Scytale said in Galach, before again reverting to the old language. The boy had shown an exceptional aptitude for it. “I will explain many things, but it is only a preparation, a foundation for your understanding. Once I restore your memories, you will know it all intuitively.”
“But how will you restore my memories? Will it hurt?”
“There is no greater agony, and no greater satisfaction. It cannot be described.”
The boy responded quickly, “The essence of s’tori is to comprehend our unknowability.”
“Yes. You must accept both your inability to understand and your importance in keeping the keys to such knowledge.” Old Scytale sat back on his cushion. The boy was already nearly as tall as he was. “Listen while I tell you of lost Bandalong, our beautiful, sacred city on holy Tleilax, where our Great Belief was founded.”
He described the glorious towers and minarets, and the secret chambers where fertile females were kept to produce the desired offspring, while others were converted into axlotl tanks for Tleilaxu laboratory needs. He talked about how the Council of Masters had quietly preserved the Great Belief through so many millennia. He explained that the sly Tleilaxu had fooled the evil outsiders by pretending to be weak and greedy so that all Tleilaxu would be seriously underestimated, a ploy to sow the seeds