Heretics of Dune by Frank Herbert

“WHY DID YOUR SISTERHOOD NOT BUILD THE GOLDEN PATH? YOU KNEW THE NECESSITY. YOUR FAILURE CONDEMNED ME, THE GOD EMPEROR, TO MILLENNIA OF PERSONAL DESPAIR.”

The words “God Emperor” were not in Chakobsa but in the language of the Islamiyat, where they conveyed an explicit second meaning to any speaker of that tongue:

“Your God and Your Emperor because you made me so.”

Odrade smiled grimly. That would drive Waff into a religious frenzy! The higher he went, the easier to shatter his security.

She did not doubt the accuracy of the Tyrant’s accusation, nor the potential in his prediction that the Sisterhood could end. The sense of danger had led her to this place unerringly. Something more had been at work, too. The worms of Rakis still moved to the Tyrant’s ancient beat. He might slumber in his endless dream but monstrous life, a pearl in each worm to remind it, carried on as the Tyrant had predicted.

What was it he had told the Sisterhood in his own time? She recalled his words:

“When I am gone, they must call me Shaitan, Emperor of Gehenna. The wheel must turn and turn along the Golden Path.”

Yes — that was what Taraza had meant. “But don’t you see? The common people of Rakis have been calling him Shaitan for more than a thousand years.”

So Taraza had known this thing. Without ever seeing these words, she had known.

I see your design, Taraza. And now I know the burden of fear you have carried all these years. I can feel it every bit as deeply as you do.

Odrade knew then that this warning sense would not leave until she ended, or the Sisterhood vanished from existence, or the peril was resolved.

Odrade lifted her light, got to her feet and slogged through the melange to the wide steps out of this place. At the steps, she recoiled. More of the Tyrant’s words had been cut into each riser. Trembling, she read them as they moved upward to the opening.

“MY WORDS ARE YOUR PAST,

“MY QUESTIONS ARE SIMPLE:

“WITH WHOM DO YOU ALLY?

“WITH THE SELF-IDOLATORS OF TLEILAX?

“WITH MY FISH SPEAKER BUREAUCRACY?

“WITH THE COSMOS-WANDERING GUILD?

“WITH HARKONNEN BLOOD SACRIFICERS?

“WITH A DOGMATIC SINK OF YOUR OWN CREATION?

“HOW WILL YOU MEET YOUR END?

“AS NO MORE THAN A SECRET SOCIETY?”

Odrade climbed past the questions, reading them a second time as she went. Noble purpose? What a fragile thing that always was. And how easily distorted. But the power was there immersed in constant peril. It was all spelled out on the walls and stairs of that chamber. Taraza knew without having it explained. The Tyrant’s meaning was clear:

“Join me!”

As she emerged into the small room, finding a narrow ledge along which she could swing herself to the door, Odrade looked down at the treasure she had found. She shook her head in wonder at Taraza’s wisdom. So that was how the Sisterhood might end. Taraza’s design was clear, all the pieces in place. Nothing certain. Wealth and power, it was all the same in the end. The noble design had been started and it must be completed even if that meant the death of the Sisterhood.

What poor tools we have chosen!

That girl waiting back there in the deep chamber below the desert, that girl and the ghola being prepared on Rakis.

I speak your language now, old worm. It has no words but I know the heart of it.

Our fathers ate manna in the desert,

In the burning place where whirlwinds came.

Lord, save us from that horrible land!

Save us, oh-h-h-h-h save us

From that dry and thirsty land.

-Songs of Gurney Halleck, Museum of Dar-es-Balat

Teg and Duncan, both heavily armed, emerged from the no-globe with Lucilla into the coldest part of the night. The stars were like needlepoints overhead, the air absolutely still until they disturbed it.

The dominant smell in Teg’s nostrils was the brittle mustiness of snow. The odor infused every breath and when they exhaled, fat clouds of vapor puffed around their faces.

Tears of cold started in Duncan’s eyes. He had been thinking much of old Gurney as they prepared to leave the no-globe, Gurney with his cheek scarred by a Harkonnen inkvine whip. Trusted companions would be needed now, Duncan thought. He did not trust Lucilla much and Teg was old, old. Duncan could see Teg’s eyes glinting in the starlight.

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