Dune

Damned silly idea! she thought. And he knows it. Not rarefied at all. The air was thick with the breathing of those around her, including ones wanting to share her dramatic presence, ones with ideas (sometimes the idea they would be better at her job), ones with offering hands and demanding hands. Rarefied, indeed! She sensed that Teg was trying to tell her something. What?

“Sometimes I must be the autocrat!”

She heard herself saying this to him during one of their orchard walks, explaining “autocrat” to him and adding: “I have the power and must use it. That drags on me terribly.”

You have the power, so use it! That was what this Mentat Bashar was telling her. Kill me or release me, Dar.

Still, she stalled for time and knew he would sense it. “Miles, Burzmali’s dead, but he kept a reserve force here he trained himself. The best of—”

“Don’t bother me with petty details!” What a voice of command! Thin and reedy but all other essentials there.

Without being told, the Proctors returned to the hatch. Odrade waved them away with an angry gesture. Only then did she realize that she had reached a decision.

“Give him back his clothes and bring him out,” she said. “Get Streggi in here.”

Teg’s first words on emerging alarmed Odrade and made her wonder if she had made a mistake.

“What if I will not do battle the way you want?”

“But you said . . .”

“I’ve said many things in my . . . lives. Battle doesn’t reinforce moral sense, Dar.”

She (and Taraza) had heard the Bashar on that subject more than once. “Warfare leaves a residue of ‘eat drink and be merry’ that often leads inexorably to moral breakdown.”

Correct but she did not know what he had in mind with his reminder. “For every veteran who returns with a new sense of destiny (‘I survived; that must be God’s purpose’) more come home with barely submerged bitterness, ready to take ‘the easy way’ because they saw so much of it in the stresses of war.”

They were Teg’s words but her belief.

Streggi hurried into the room but before she could speak, Odrade motioned her to stand aside and wait silently.

For once, the acolyte had the courage to disobey Mother Superior.

“Duncan should know he has another daughter. Mother and child live and are healthy.” She looked at Teg. “Hello, Miles.” Only then did Streggi remove herself to the rear wall and stand quietly.

She is better than I hoped, Odrade thought.

Idaho relaxed into his chair, feeling now the tensions of worry that had interfered with his appreciation of what he had observed here.

Teg nodded to Streggi but spoke to Odrade: “Any more words to whisper in God’s ear?” It was essential to control their attention and count on Odrade recognizing it. “If not, I’m really famished.”

Odrade raised a finger to signal Streggi and heard the acolyte leave.

She sensed where Teg was directing her attention and, sure enough, he said: “Perhaps you’ve really created a scar this time.”

A barb directed at the Sisterhood’s boast that “We don’t let scars accumulate on our pasts. Scars often conceal more than they reveal.”

“Some scars reveal more than they conceal,” he said. He looked at Idaho. “Right, Duncan?” One Mentat to another.

“I believe I’ve come in on an old argument,” Idaho said.

Teg looked at Odrade. “See, daughter? A Mentat knows old argument when he hears it. You pride yourselves on knowing what’s required of you at every turn, but the monster at this turning is one of your own making!”

“Mother Superior!” That was a Proctor who did not want her addressed thus.

Odrade ignored her. She felt chagrin, harsh and compelling. Taraza Within remembered the dispute: “We are shaped by Bene Gesserit associations. In peculiar ways, they blunt us. Oh, we cut swift and deep when we must, but that’s another kind of blunting.”

“I’ll not take part in blunting you,” Teg said. So he remembered.

Streggi returned with a bowl of stew, brown broth with meat floating in it. Teg sat on the floor and spooned it into his mouth with urgent motions.