your grandmother.” Leto picked up his breakfast bowl before looking at Harah’s dark and wind-creased face. He shook his head. Then: “How do you know it’s not ourselves we honor?”
Harah met his taunting stare without flinching, said: “My eyes are just as blue as yours!”
Ghanima laughed aloud. Harah was always an adept at the Fremen challenge-game. In one sentence, she had said: “Don’t taunt me, boy. You may be royalty, but we both bear the stigma of melange-addiction—eyes without whites. What Fremen needs more finery or more honor than that?”
Leto smiled, shook his head ruefully. “Harah, my love, if you were but younger and not already Stilgar’s, I’d make you my own.”
Harah accepted the small victory easily, signaling the other attendants to continue preparing the chambers for this day’s important activities. “Eat your breakfasts,” she said. “You’ll need the energy today.”
“Then you agree that we’re not too fine for our grandmother?” Ghanima asked, speaking around a mouthful of gruel.
“Don’t fear her, Ghani,” Harah said.
Leto gulped a mouthful of gruel, sent a probing stare at Harah. The woman was infernally folk-wise, seeing through the game of finery so quickly. “Will she believe we fear her?” Leto asked.
“Like as not,” Harah said. “She was our Reverend Mother, remember. I know her ways.”
“How was Alia dressed?” Ghanima asked.
“I’ve not seen her.” Harah spoke shortly, turning away.
Leto and Ghanima exchanged a look of shared secrets, bent quickly to their breakfast. Presently they went out into the great central passage.
Ghanima spoke in one of the ancient languages they shared in genetic memory: “So today we have a grandmother.”
“It bothers Alia greatly,” Leto said.
“Who likes to give up such authority?” Ghanima asked.
Leto laughed softly, an oddly adult sound from flesh so young. “It’s more than that.”
“Will her mother’s eyes observe what we have observed?”
“And why not?” Leto asked.
“Yes. . . . That could be what Alia fears.”
“Who knows Abomination better than Abomination?” Leto asked.
“We could be wrong, you know,” Ghanima said.
“But we’re not.” And he quoted from the Bene Gesserit Azhar Book: “It is with reason and terrible experience that we call the pre-born Abomination. For who knows what lost and damned persona out of our evil past may take over the living flesh?”
“I know the history of it,” Ghanima said. “But if that’s true, why don’t we suffer from this inner assault?”
“Perhaps our parents stand guard within us,” Leto said.
“Then why not guardians for Alia as well?”
“I don’t know. It could be because one of her parents remains among the living. It could be simply that we are still young and strong. Perhaps when we’re older and more cynical . . .”
“We must take great care with this grandmother,” Ghanima said.
“And not discuss this Preacher who wanders our planet speaking heresy? ”
“You don’t really think he’s our father!”
“I make no judgment on it, but Alia fears him.”
Ghanima shook her head sharply. “I don’t believe this Abomination nonsense!”
“You’ve just as many memories as I have,” Leto said. “You can believe what you want to believe.”
“You think it’s because we haven’t dared the spice trance and Alia has,” Ghanima said.
“That’s exactly what I think.”
They fell silent, moving out into the flow of people in the central passage. It was cool in Sietch Tabr, but the stillsuits were warm and the twins kept their condenser hoods thrown back from their red hair. Their faces betrayed the stamp of shared genes: generous mouths, widely set eyes of spice addict blue-on-blue.
Leto was first to note the approach of their Aunt Alia.
“Here she comes now,” he said, shifting to Atreides battle language as a warning.
Ghanima nodded to her aunt as Alia stopped in front of them, said: “A spoil of war greets her illustrious relative.” Using the same Chakobsa language, Ghanima emphasized the meaning of her own name—Spoil of War.
“You see, Beloved Aunt,” Leto said, “we prepare ourselves for today’s encounter with your mother.”
Alia, the one person in the teeming royal household who harbored not the faintest surprise at adult behavior from these children, glared from one to the other. Then: “Hold your tongues, both of you!”
Alia’s bronze hair was pulled back into two golden water rings. Her oval face held a frown, the wide mouth with its downturned hint of self-indulgence was held in a tight line. Worry wrinkles fanned the corners of her blue-on-blue eyes.
“I’ve warned both of you how to behave today,” Alia said. “You know the reasons as well as I.”
“We know your reasons, but you may not know ours,” Ghanima said.
“Ghani!” Alia growled.
Leto glared at his