Odnośniki
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- Anderson Poul StraĹź Czasu Tom 1 StraĹźnicy Czasu
- Carpenter Leonard Conan Tom 31 Conan NajeĹşdĹşca
- Felix, Net i Nika Tom 13 KlÄ twa Domu McKillianĂłw
- Clancy Tom Splinter Cell 02 Operacja Barakuda
- Diwow_Oleg_ _Najlepsza_zaloga_Slonecznego_Tom_1
- Sandemo_Margit_ _Saga_o_Czarnoksiazniku_Tom_6
- Benzoni Juliette Katarzyna tom 6
- Tom Easton Silicon Karma
- J.Lynn ZostaĹ ze mnÄ tom 2
- Żona na raty Tom 1
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It was no answer, but an admission of concealment, Irulan saw. It said she
would be told no more than she needed to know.
How could they be certain the ghola was capable of destroying the Emperor?
Irulan asked.
She could just as well have asked if melange were capable of destruction,
the Reverend Mother countered.
It was a rebuke with a subtle message, Irulan realized. The Bene Gesserit
"whip that instructs" informed her that she should have understood long ago this
similarity between the spice and the ghola. Melange was valuable, but it exacted
a price -- addiction. It added years to a life -- decades for some -- but it was
still just another way to die.
The ghola was something of deadly value.
The obvious way to prevent an unwanted birth was to kill the prospective
mother before conception, the Reverend Mother signaled, returning to the attack.
Of course, Irulan thought. If you decide to spend a certain sum, get as much
for it as you can.
The Reverend Mother's eyes, dark with the blue brilliance of her melange
addiction, stared up at Irulan, measuring, waiting, observing minutiae.
She reads me clearly, Irulan thought with dismay. She trained me and
observed me in that training. She knows I realize what decision has been taken
here. She only observes now to see how I will take this knowledge. Well, I will
take it as a Bene Gesserit and a princess.
Irulan managed a smile, pulled herself erect, thought of the evocative
opening passage of the Litany Against Fear:
"I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that
brings total obliteration. I will face my fear . . . "
When calmness had returned, she thought: Let them spend me. I will show them
what a princess is worth. Perhaps I'll buy them more than they expected.
After a few more empty vocalizations to bind off the interview. Irulan
departed.
When she had gone, the Reverend Mother returned to her tarot cards, laying
them out in the fire-eddy pattern. Immediately, she got the Kwisatz Haderach of
the Major Arcana and the card lay coupled with the Eight of Ships: the sibyl
hoodwinked and betrayed. These were not cards of good omen: they spoke of
concealed resources for her enemies.
She turned away from the cards, sat in agitation, wondering if Irulan might
yet destroy them.
= = = = = =
The Fremen see her as the Earth Figure, a demigoddess whose special charge is to
protect the tribes through her powers of violence. She is Reverend Mother to
their Reverend Mothers. To pilgrims who seek her out with demands that she
restore virility or make the barren fruitful, she is a form of antimentat. She
feeds on that proof that the "analytic" has limits. She represents ultimate
tension. She is the virgin-harlot -- witty, vulgar, cruel, as destructive in her
whims as a coriolis storm.
-St. Alia of the Knife as taken from The Irulan Report
Alia stood like a black-robed sentinel figure on the south platform of her
temple, the Fane of the Oracle which Paul's Fremen cohorts had built for her
against a wall of his stronghold.
She hated this part of her life, but knew no way to evade the temple without
bringing down destruction upon them all. The pilgrims (damn them!) grew more
numerous every day. The temple's lower porch was crowded with them. Vendors
moved among the pilgrims, and there were minor sorcerers, haruspices, diviners,
all working their trade in pitiful imitation of Paul Muad'dib and his sister.
Red and green packages containing the new Dune Tarot were prominent among
the vendors' wares, Alia saw. She wondered about the tarot. Who was feeding this
device into the Arrakeen market? Why had the tarot sprung to prominence at this
particular time and place? Was it to muddy Time? Spice addiction always conveyed
some sensitivity to prediction. Fremen were notoriously fey. Was it an accident
that so many of them dabbled in portents and omens here and now? She decided to
seek an answer at the first opportunity.
There was a wind from the southeast, a small leftover wind blunted by the
scarp of the Shield Wall which loomed high in these northern reaches. The rim
glowed orange through a thin dust haze underlighted by the late afternoon sun.
It was a hot wind against her cheeks and it made her homesick for the sand, for
the security of open spaces.
The last of the day's mob began descending the broad greenstone steps of the
lower porch, singly and in groups, a few pausing to stare at the keepsakes and
holy amulets on the street vendors' racks, some consulting one last minor
sorcerer. Pilgrims, supplicants, townfolk, Fremen, vendors closing up for the
day -- they formed a straggling line that trailed off into the palm-lined avenue
which led to the heart of the city.
Alia's eyes picked out the Fremen, marking the frozen looks of superstitious
awe on their faces, the half-wild way they kept their distance from the others.
They were her strength and her peril. They still captured giant worms for
transport, for sport and for sacrifice. They resented the offworld pilgrims,
barely tolerated the townfolk of graben and pan, hated the cynicism they saw in
the street vendors. One did not jostle a wild Fremen, even in a mob such as the
ones which swarmed to Alia's Fane. There were no knifings in the Sacred
Precincts, but bodies had been found . . . later.
The departing swarm had stirred up dust. The flinty odor came to Alia's
nostrils, ignited another pang of longing for the open bled. Her sense of the
past, she realized, had been sharpened by the coming of the ghola. There'd been [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]