Fear gripped Sheeana. She clutched the bed covers close to her chin while she stared out at those intent faces. Were they going to abandon her in the desert again? She had slept the sleep of exhaustion in the softest bed with the cleanest linen she had experienced in her eight years but she knew everything the priests did could have a double meaning. They were not to be trusted!
“Did you sleep well?” It was the priestess who had spoken first. She was a gray-haired older woman, her face framed in a white cowl with purple trim. The old eyes were watery but alert. Pale blue. The nose was an upturned stub above a narrow mouth and outjutting chin.
“Will you speak to us?” the woman persisted. “I am Cania, your night attendant. Remember? I helped you into your bed.”
At least, the tone of voice was reassuring. Sheeana sat up and took a better look at these people. They were afraid! A desert child’s nose could detect the telltale pheromones. To Sheeana, it was a simple, straightforward observation:
“You thought you would hurt me,” she said. “Why did you do that?”
The people around her exchanged looks of consternation.
Sheeana’s fear dissipated. She had sensed the new order of things and yesterday’s trial in the desert meant more change. She recalled how subservient the older woman . . . Cania? She had been almost groveling the previous night. Sheeana would learn in time that any person who lived through the decision to die evolved a new emotional balance. Fears were transitory. This new condition was interesting.
Cania’s voice trembled when she responded: “Truly, Child of God, we did not intend harm.”
Sheeana straightened the bedcovers on her lap. “My name is Sheeana.” That was desert politeness. Cania already had produced a name. “Who are these others?”
“They will be sent away if you don’t want them . . . Sheeana.” Cania indicated a florid-faced woman at her left dressed in a robe similar to her own. “All except Alhosa, of course. She is your day attendant.”
Alhosa curtsied at the introduction.
Sheeana stared up at a face puffy with waterfat, heavy features in a nimbus of fluffy blond hair. Shifting her attention abruptly, Sheeana looked at the men in the group. They watched her with heavy-lidded intentness, some with looks of trembling suspicion. The fear smell was strong.
“Send them away.” Sheeana waved a hand at the priests. “They are haram!” It was the gutter word, the lowest term of all for that which was most evil.
The priests recoiled in shock.
“Begone!” Cania commanded. There was no mistaking the look of malevolent glee on her face. Cania had not been included among the vile ones. But these priests clearly stood among those labeled as haram! They must have done something hideous for God to send a child-priestess to chastise them. Cania could believe it of priests. They had seldom treated her the way she deserved.
Like chastened bedogs, the priests bowed themselves backward and left Sheeana’s chamber. Among those who went out into the hallway was a historian-locutor named Dromind, a dark man with a busy mind that tended to fasten onto ideas like the beak of a carrion bird onto a morsel of meat. When the chamber door closed behind them, Dromind told his trembling companions that the name Sheeana was a modern form of the ancient name, Siona.
“You all know Siona’s place in the histories,” he said. “She served Shai-hulud in His transformation from human shape into the Divided God.”
Stiros, a wrinkled older priest with dark lips and pale, glistening eyes, looked wonderingly at Dromind. “That is extremely curious,” Stiros said. “The Oral Histories claim that Siona was instrumental in His translation from the One into the Many. Sheeana. Do you think . . .”
“Let us not forget the Hadi Benotto translation of God’s own holy words,” another priest interrupted. “Shai-hulud referred many times to Siona.”
“Not always with favor,” Stiros reminded them. “Remember her full name: Siona Ibn Fuad al-Seyefa Atreides.”
“Atreides,” another priest whispered.
“We must study her with care,” Dromind said.
A young acolyte-messenger hurried up the hallway to the group and sought among them until he spied Stiros. “Stiros,” the messenger said, “you must clear this hallway immediately.”
“Why?” It was an indignant voice from the press of the rejected priests.
“She is to be moved into the High Priest’s quarters,” the messenger said.
“By whose orders?” Stiros demanded.
“High Priest Tuek himself says this,” the messenger said. “They have been listening.” He waved a hand vaguely toward the direction from which he had come.
All of the group in the hall understood. Rooms could be shaped to send voices from them into other places. There were always listeners.
“What have they heard?” Stiros demanded. His old voice quavered.
“She asked if her quarters were the best. They are about to move her and she must not find any of you out here.”
“But what are we to do?” Stiros asked.
“Study her,” Dromind said.
