Ixians may have provided her.
And the Ones of Many Faces, curse them through eternity, had caused the disaster. Them and their Futars! The ease with which all but that handful of The Weapon had been confiscated! Awesome powers. We must arm ourselves well before we return to that battle. Dama is right.
“That planet—Buzzell,” Great Honored Matre said. “Are you sure it’s not defended?”
“We detect no defenses. Smugglers say it is not defended.”
“But it is so rich in Soostones!”
“Here in the Old Empire, people seldom dare attack the witches.”
“I do not believe there are only a handful of them on that planet! It’s a trap of some kind.”
“That is always possible, Dama.”
“I do not trust smugglers, Logno. Bond a few more of them and test this thing of Buzzell again. The witches may be weak but I do not think they are stupid.”
“Yes, Dama.”
“Tell the Ixians they will displease us if they cannot duplicate The Weapon.”
“But without the Charge, Dama …”
“We will deal with that when we must. Now, leave.”
Logno heard a hissing “Yessssss!” as she let herself out. Even the darkness of the hallway was welcome after the bedchamber and she hurried toward the light.
We tend to become like the worst in those we oppose.
—Bene Gesserit Coda
The water images again!
We’re turning this whole damned planet into a desert and I get water images!
Odrade sat in her workroom, the usual morning clutter around her, and sensed Sea Child floating in the waves, washed by them. The waves were the color of blood. Her Sea Child self anticipated bloody times.
She knew where these images originated: the time before Reverend Mothers ruled her life; childhood in the beautiful home on the Gammu seacoast. Despite immediate worries, she could not prevent a smile. Oysters prepared by Papa. The stew she still preferred.
What she remembered best of childhood was the sea excursions. Something about being afloat spoke to her most basic self. Lift and fall of waves, the sense of unbounded horizons with strange new places just beyond the curved limits of a watery world, that thrilling edge of danger implicit in the very substance that supported her. All of it combined to assure her she was Sea Child.
Papa was calmer there, too. And Mama Sibia happier, face turned into the wind, dark hair blowing. A sense of balance radiated from those times, a reassuring message spoken in a language older than Odrade’s oldest Other Memory. “This is my place, my medium. I am Sea Child. ”
Her personal concept of sanity came from those times. The ability to balance on strange seas. The ability to maintain your deepest self despite unexpected waves.
Mama Sibia had given Odrade that ability long before the Reverend Mothers came and took away their “hidden Atreides scion.” Mama Sibia, only a foster mother, had taught Odrade to love herself.
In a Bene Gesserit society where any form of love was suspect, this remained Odrade’s ultimate secret.
At root, I am happy with myself. I do not mind being alone. Not that any Reverend Mother was ever truly alone after the Spice Agony flooded her with Other Memories.
But Mama Sibia and, yes, Papa, too, acting in loco parentis for the Bene Gesserit, had impressed a profound strength upon their charge during those hidden years. The Reverend Mothers had been reduced to amplifying that strength.
Proctors had tried to root out Odrade’s “deep desire for personal affinities,” but failed at last, not quite sure they had failed but always suspicious. They had sent her to Al Dhanab finally, a place deliberately maintained as a mimic of the worst in Salusa Secundus, there to be conditioned on a planet of constant testing. A place worse than Dune in some respects: high cliffs and dry gorges, hot winds and frigid winds, too little moisture and too much. The Sisterhood had thought of it as a proving ground for those destined to survive on Dune. But none of this had touched that secret core within Odrade. Sea Child remained intact.
And it is Sea Child warning me now.
Was it a prescient warning?
She had always possessed this bit of talent, this little twitching that told of immediate peril to the Sisterhood. Atreides genes reminding her of their presence. Was it a threat to Chapterhouse? No … the ache she could not touch said it was others in danger. Important, though.
Lampadas? Her bit of talent could not say.
The Breeding Mistresses had tried to erase this dangerous prescience from their Atriedes line but with limited success. “We dare not risk another Kwisatz Haderach!”