Paul was a reflection of our father, Duke Leto the Just. I, however, am not a reflection of only our mother, Jessica, but of all the mothers before me. From that vast repository of Other Memories, I am the beneficiary of great wisdom.

—ST. ALIA OF THE KNIFE

Jessica felt she needed to pay her respects to Paul in a more private manner; it was neither a Bene Gesserit nor a political need, but the need of a mother to say goodbye to her son. Thanks to Stilgar, she would also soon attend a traditional, solemn, and secret Fremen memorial ceremony for Chani . . . but Alia did not know about that.

After breakfast, Jessica told her daughter that she wanted to go out to Sietch Tabr to visit the place from which Paul had walked off into the dunes, releasing his body to the desert planet, while leaving his memory firmly ensconced in legend.

Alia smiled at her uncertainly, her expression that of a daughter longing for acceptance from her mother. Despite possessing wisdom beyond her years, Alia was physically a teenager, growing into her body, discovering the world with her own senses. “I’ll go with you, Mother. It is a pilgrimage we should make together . . . for Paul.”

Jessica realized that she had been thinking primarily of herself and her son, giving inadequate consideration to Alia. Have I always brushed my daughter aside, without realizing it? Jessica had lost Duke Leto, and now Paul—leaving her with only Alia. Jessica chastised herself for the slight, then said, “I’d be glad to have you accompany me.”

They made quick preparations for an informal journey out to the sietch, neither of them wanting to make this into a grand procession of sycophants and wailing priests. Now that the public funeral was over, Alia seemed to understand her mother’s need for privacy; maybe the girl felt it herself as well.

The pair dressed in the simple garb of pilgrims so they could walk to the public landing areas without anyone remarking on their presence. Duncan would meet them at the pad, where he had readied an ornithopter for the flight across the desert.

Moving through the Arrakeen streets, Jessica immersed herself in the sights and sounds, sensing the clamoring energy of the populace: all those minds and souls generating a collective power that drove the human race forward. Here she and Alia were merely another mother and daughter, indistinguishable from others in the crowd. She wondered how many of those parents felt awkward around their children. Other teenage girls had entirely different troubles than the ones that weighed so heavily on Alia’s mind.

“When I learned you were coming here,” the girl said suddenly, “I looked forward to talking with you, hearing your advice. Paul valued your opinion, Mother, and I value you as well. But I know you don’t approve of some of my initial decisions as Regent. I am only doing what I believe is necessary and what Paul would have wanted.”

Jessica’s reply was noncommittal. “Paul made many decisions that troubled me, too.” Despite her second-guessing of her son’s leadership, she had come to realize that he did indeed see a much larger picture, a vast landscape of time and destiny with only a very faint and treacherous path through it. He had a terrible purpose that few others could grasp. He had been right and knew it so firmly that his mother’s disapproval had not swayed him in the least. In retrospect, Jessica realized that Paul had done some of the same things for which she now resented Alia. Maybe she had a blind spot where her daughter was concerned. “I’m worried, both as a mother and as a human being. I can’t help but fear that you are about to slide off the edge of a precipice.”

Alia’s response was filled with confidence. “My footing is sure, and I’m pragmatic.”

“And I have no interest in ruling the Imperium. There doesn’t need to be friction between us.”

Alia laughed, touched her mother’s sleeve. “Of course there is friction between us, for we are too much alike. I have all your memories within me.”

“Only my memories up to the moment of your birth. I’ve learned and changed much since then.”

“And so have I, Mother. So have I.”

At the edge of the spaceport, they passed a bazaar that had sprung up as a temporary camp of vendors and their wares. Over the course of decades, it had grown and evolved into a permanent fixture in Arrakeen. Polymer tarps formed artificial ceilings to shield pilgrims and curiosity seekers alike from the unrelenting sun. Large intake fans sucked in air and filtered out every drop of wasted moisture.

Fortune-tellers sat at booths, staring at ornate and colorful cards, doing readings from the enhanced Dune Tarot, with illustrations drawn to include recent events and the tragic loss of Muad’Dib; the artwork on the card of the Blind Man was particularly eerie. Most of the merchants, Jessica saw, offered religious icons, holy relics, and other “sacred” paraphernalia—all sorts of garbage—to which they had applied dubious “authentications” of their significance.

“This cloak was worn by Muad’Dib himself!” a man shouted, then named a price astronomical enough to “prove” the item’s provenance. Half a dozen vendors claimed to possess the original Atreides signet ring and accused one another of being liars. Alia, of course, had the genuine ring locked away back at the fortress citadel. Other salespeople hawked items supposedly touched by Muad’Dib or blessed by him or—for the bargain-conscious—merely glimpsed by him, as if his gaze imparted some sort of residual holiness.

The sheer tonnage of material in the bazaar was absurd, and this was only one shopping complex. Hundreds more were scattered throughout Arrakeen, and similar markets had sprung up on countless planets. Jessica stared in dismay. “My son has become a tourist attraction. Fodder for charlatans taking advantage of customers who are easily—and willingly—duped.”

A flash of anger crossed Alia’s face. “They are liars, all liars. How can they prove any of their claims? They are a disgrace to my brother’s name.”

“Similar men did this on Caladan while Paul was alive, during the worst years of his Jihad. When I could no longer tolerate it, Gurney and I evicted them.”

“Then I should do the same here. The Dune Tarot has always made me uneasy.” Wheels seemed to be turning in Alia’s mind, and she brooded for a moment. “Might you offer me your advice about how to accomplish it?”

The fact that her daughter would ask so openly for her help lightened Jessica’s mood. “Yes, but later. Right now, we are off to the desert to say farewell to my son and your brother. This isn’t a time for politics.”

They walked in silence the rest of the way to the landing pad, where Duncan waited beside an ornithopter, young and healthy in a crisp uniform that made him look as if he had leapfrogged across years from the past.

After they landed at the distant sietch, Jessica stood outside the entrance and gazed out upon the desert. “This is where my grandchildren were born. And where Chani died.”

Duncan had a strange, disturbed look about him, but not the far-off expression of a Mentat engrossed in calculations. “Sietch Tabr is also the place where I tried to kill Paul.”

“And where the ghola Hayt became Duncan Idaho again.” Alia turned, wrapped her arms around him.

Without asking them to accompany her, Jessica followed the winding path out of the rocks and picked her way down to the edge of the sweeping vista of open dunes, the undulating crests and slopes of golden sand. The wind had picked up, a breeze the Fremen named pastaza, strong enough to stir sand and dust but presaging no storm.

Jessica walked out onto the soft warm dunes, leaving prominent footprints as she crested the nearest rise. She gazed past the arid horizon and envisioned the unbroken landscape stretching on forever. She stared at the pristine sands until her eyes ached from the glare, searching for signs of Paul, as if a silhouetted figure might stride back out of the dunes, returning from his sacred journey, his own hajj to Shai-Hulud.

But the winds and the sands of time had erased his footprints, leaving no sign of his passing. The desert was empty without him.