The walls of the fortress nunnery were solid stone, but the true coldness in the weaving chamber seemed to emanate directly from his grandmother. Lady Helena Atreides clearly wanted Paul to feel uncomfortable and unwelcome, and so he flustered her by refusing to behave in an awkward manner. He had nothing to gain or lose from the older woman’s companionship, and neither, he supposed, did the Abbess have anything to gain from his. He expected no sudden change to love and acceptance.

Helena’s resentment stemmed from old memories of her husband, Paulus, and perhaps Leto as well, but when she tried to take it out on her grandson, Paul harmlessly deflected her attitude, as though he wore a personal body shield against emotions.

“Our women are hard at work,” Helena had scolded when he entered the upper chamber of the tower one morning, asking to observe their activities. “You must not disturb them.”

Paul did not slink away, though, as she apparently expected him to do. “They are forbidden to talk, Grandmother, and none of them has even looked at me, so obviously I’m not disturbing them.” He peered curiously at all the feverish activity with looms and threads. “Will you please explain what they are doing?”

Thirty women worked at various looms to the percussive sliding and spin of fibers being whisked through grids, shuttles thrown to and fro, patterns tamped and reset. The filaments changed colors, drawn from skeins of yarn, spindles of thread.

The women gathered handfuls of strands that ranged from fine gossamer fibers to thick, slubby twists. The weavers incorporated them into patterns and continued to work in a well-practiced cooperative effort, entirely without conversation. It took Paul several moments to realize that, instead of one giant tangle, there were dozens of different tapestries in production. Some were like rainbows, hues blending into hues, while others were dramatic clashes of threads, intersecting lines, and impossible knots.

“Are they following a grand design?”

“Each Sister makes her own pattern. Since we do not converse with one another, who can say what memories and visions drive us?” Helena’s face looked pinched as she frowned. “The famed abstract tapestries are our nunnery’s most profitable enterprise. They do not have patterns and pictorial representations as typical tapestries do, but these show a different sort of image, one that is open to interpretation. CHOAM pays us handsomely to distribute them across the Imperium.”

“So your religious order is a commercial operation.” This statement also seemed to annoy his grandmother.

“There is always commerce in religion. We recognize that people want the products, and we accept money in exchange for them. Beyond that, this abbey is fairly self-sufficient. We grow most of our own food. You know this, because I have noticed you two poking around.”

Since arriving, he and Duncan had been wandering about the abbey grounds, viewing the cultivated areas on steep terraces outside the thick walls. The dense jungle also yielded fruits, edible leaves, and tubers, as well as game, though Paul couldn’t imagine the Sisters in Isolation going on hunting expeditions. Swain Goire, however, might do it.

“The Caladan primitives are also fond of our tapestries.”

Paul was surprised. “What do they use them for?”

Though the mysterious tribes from the deep jungles had very little contact with the rest of Caladan, Paul had been fascinated to study them in filmbooks. Since his father was the Atreides Duke, Paul wanted to learn all he could about every aspect of this world. Duke Leto, Paulus, and their predecessors had let the primitives lead their own lives on the Eastern Continent without harassment. The Old Duke had issued a statement that whenever the Caladan primitives wished to come to civilization, they would do so of their own accord. History was rife with sad examples of modern ways being forced upon an unwilling people.

Helena drew her brows together. “Who can understand the primitives, any more than they understand our abstract patterns? But they know what they see in the tapestries, and that is all our Sisters could ask for.”

Knowing it would startle, even provoke her, Paul turned to her. “And do you feel isolated from civilization, Grandmother? Will you ever request forgiveness from my father so that you may return to Castle Caladan?”

Helena’s laugh was like breaking glass. “Why would I wish to do that? I have everything I need here, and I am queen of my own domain. Why should I want to be a pawn in someone else’s game?”

Paul looked down at the carefully spaced warp of tapestry strings. A Sister with close-cropped gray hair deftly wove a pink thread into the weft and then a blue one, tying them together to add to her hypnotic kaleidoscope pattern.

His grandmother’s voice sounded sour. “Everything is running perfectly well here. My life has been smooth. I have not thought of either my son or my dead husband in years.” Then, in a startling gesture, Helena reached out with her long-fingered hands, and hooked them like claws in the unwoven threads. She yanked and ripped them free from the loom hooks. “All was in perfect harmony, until you and Duncan came.”

The silent, gray-haired sister working at the loom sat up and looked at the deliberate ruin the Abbess had made of her work.

Paul supposed her gesture was yet another attempt to intimidate him. Instead, he looked at the tangled mess of threads, viewing the colors and knots. “If each woman here creates her own design from her life experience” — he nodded toward the mess — “would I not be correct to interpret that as your life’s pattern?”