God Emporer of Dune by Frank Herbert

Nayla took a trembling breath.

“It’s all right, Nayla,” Siona said. “I don’t care where you draw your strength, just as long as you believe.”

Nayla managed a smile, then grinned. She had never been more profoundly stirred by the wisdom of her Lord. I may speak the truth and it works only for my God!

“Let me show you what I’ve found in these books,” Siona said. She gestured at some sheets of ordinary paper on the table. “Pressed between the pages.”

Nayla stepped around the table and looked down at it.

“First, there’s this.” Siona held up an object which Nayla had not noticed. It was a thin strand of something . . . and what appeared to be a . . .

“A flower?” Nayla asked.

“This was between two pages of paper. On the paper was written this.”

Siona leaned over the table and read: “A strand of Ghanima’s hair with a starflower blossom which she once brought me.”

Looking up at Nayla, Siona said: “Our God Emperor is revealed as a sentimentalist. That is a weakness I had not expected.”

“Ghanima?” Nayla asked.

“His sister! Remember your Oral History.”

“Oh . . . oh, yes. The Prayer to Ghanima.”

“Now, listen to this.” Siona took up another sheet of paper and read from it.

“The sand beach as gray as a dead cheek, A green tideflow reflects cloud ripples; II stand on the dark wet edge. Cold foam cleanses my toes. I smell driftwood smoke. ”

Again, Siona looked up at Nayla. “This is identified as `Words I wrote when told of Ghani’s death.’ What do you think of that?”

“He . . . he loved his sister.”

“Yes! He is capable of love. Oh, yes! We have him now.”

=== Sometimes I indulge myself in safaris which no other being may take. I strike inward along the axis of my memories. Like a schoolchild reporting on a vacation trip, I take up my subject. Let it be . . . female intellectuals! I course backward into the ocean which is my ancestors. I am a great winged fish in the depths. The mouth of my awareness opens and I scoop them up! Sometimes… sometimes I hunt out specific persons recorded in our histories. What a private joy to relive the life of such a one while I mock the academic pretentions which supposedly formed a biography.

-The Stolen Journals

MONEO DESCENDED to the crypt with sad resignation. There was no escaping the duties required of him now. The God Emperor required a small passage of time to grieve the loss of another Duncan . . . but then life went on . . . and on . . . and on….

The lift slid silently downward with its superb Ixian dependability. Once, just once, the God Emperor had cried out to his majordomo: “Moneo! Sometimes I think you were made by the Ixians!”

Moneo felt the lift stop. The door opened and he looked out across the crypt at the shadowy bulk on the Royal Cart. There was no indication that Leto had noticed the arrival. Moneo sighed and began the long walk through the echoing gloom. There was a body on the floor near the cart. No need for deja

vu. This was merely familiar.

Once, in Moneo’s early days of service. Leto had said: “You don’t like this place, Moneo. I can see that.”

“No, Lord.”

With just a little prodding of memory, Moneo could hear his own voice in that naive past. And the voice of the God Emperor responding:

“You don’t think of a mausoleum as a comforting place, Moneo. I find it a source of infinite strength.”

Moneo remembered that he had been anxious to get off this topic. “Yes, Lord.”

Leto had persisted: “There are only a few of my ancestors here. The water of Muad’Dib is here. Ghani and Harq-al-Ada are here, of course, but they’re not my ancestors. No, if there’s any true crypt of my ancestors, l am that crypt. This is mostly the Duncans and the products of my breeding program. You’ll be here someday.”

Moneo found that these memories had slowed his pace. He sighed and moved a bit faster. Leto could be violently impatient on occasion but there was still no sign from him. Moneo did not take this to mean that his approach went unobserved.

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