CHAPTER WARNINGS: MENTIONS OF SEXUAL ASSAULT
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Chapter Seven:
Lovers' Paradigm
Part One
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Under an overcast sky, heavy mist rolled off the cliffs and towards the sea. Rhiannon walked the rocky path leading away from the Castle Caladan and the village below it, comfortably unobtrusive in her trousers and long woolen overcoat. Not that she was in disguise, but where she was headed, 'Duchess' was the last thing she intended to be.
Two months had given her ample time to become acquainted with her role as Duchess; by now she knew how and when to cast the role aside. She had walked this path enough to know when it was and wasn't occupied, and knew how long she could get away with being off of Castle grounds without her security before Hawat sent people after her.
Rhiannon also knew that the comm device behind her ear doubled as a tracker, and that the Master of Assassins was monitoring her movements closely. It was a little annoying, but a reasonable concession for this amount of freedom.
Turning her collar up against the sea winds, Rhiannon rounded the bluff and picked her way down the slope towards the lonely house squatting low on the hillside. The house had a well-kept, but battered look about it, with its mismatched storm shutters and chipping paint bleached by salt and wind.
In a small paddock beside the house, an old brown horse snuffled around in the coarse grass. Rhiannon reached into her coat pocket and produced a few apple slices filched from the Castle kitchen, which the horse munched happily while she rubbed his velvety nose.
The door to the laundry shed opened on creaking hinges and a woman bearing a wicker basket of folded linen on her hip bustled out into the yard. She was young—only in her early thirties—but hard work and constant stress had worn frown lines into her lovely face and threaded silver through her raven black hair.
The woman stopped and blinked with surprise to see Rhiannon standing there. Then her face lit up with a dazzling smile that dissolved the additional years.
Miriam 'Mim' Trussell, the daughter of a Guild banker, had been born into a wealthy Caladanian family. When she grew up, however, she had the misfortune of falling in love with a lower class businessman and known swindler. Naturally, her family had disapproved and, when their rebellious daughter eloped, promptly disowned her.
For a few years, Mim had been happy with her life; she moved into her husband's family home outside of Cala City, where she raised their two children while he worked. Over time, her husband lost interest in his wife and children. He moved to Cala City permanently, only sending meager amounts of money when he happened to remember that he had a family.
With nowhere else to turn, Mim was forced to scratch out a living as a seamstress, and often struggled to keep her children clothed and fed. Not anymore, though. Now, her kitchen was well stocked with fresh food and her children wore clothes that fit.
Mim put the basket on the ground and, smiling shyly, came over to lean up and give Rhiannon a kiss. Rhiannon was fairly tall, and Mim was fairly short; Mim had to stand on her toes to do it, which entertained Rhiannon to no end.
"Have I fallen so far in your favor that you visit the horse before you visit me?" Mim pouted, her gray eyes bright and playful.
"I do like horses," Rhiannon conceded, amused. She rubbed the hand not preoccupied with holding Mim to her side along the white blaze on the horse's face. "How long has Arno been favoring that leg?"
"I don't know. I hadn't noticed."
Rhiannon hummed thoughtfully. The mild and grizzled Arno was a far cry from the massive warhorses her father had kept during her youth, but he was enough to make her sentimental.
She pressed a kiss to Mim's temple.
"His shoe may be coming loose. Remind me before I leave, and I'll take a look at it before I go."
Mim looked up at her through her eyelashes. "And when will that be?"
"A few hours. You have me until lunch."
Rhiannon hadn't spoken to her husband about pursuing outside relationships, but was certain that he knew. At their station, discretion was paramount—the last thing House Atreides needed was someone spreading rumors that the Duchess was a whore. No one, not even the servants, could suspect impropriety.
At the same time, Rhiannon wasn't exactly keeping it a secret. If Hawat wasn't keeping close tabs on the people within striking range of those he served, he wouldn't be deserving of his job title.
Hawat, of course, reported everything to Leto.
Mim wasn't the first lover she had taken since her marriage to Leto; Rhiannon had waited a month—a perfectly fair amount of time, in her opinion—for Leto and Jessica to work out their situation enough for him to revisit his relationship with his wife.
When he hadn't, Rhiannon considered the company of others fair game. There had been a few brief encounters with a visiting ambassador—an attractive man with an overbearing wife who gave him even more reasons to keep quiet about bedding a foreign duchess than Rhiannon had—and another with an actor from Jongleur, who also understood discretion.
Leto had said nothing, but had been a bit terse with her for a while afterwards.
She was a little sad to have upset him, but it couldn't be helped. Being celibate for months or years until her husband felt comfortable fulfilling her sexual needs wasn't an option. If he wanted to discuss his feelings with her, she'd happily listen, but otherwise his emotions were his own problem.
"I'll be leaving for Ahmes in a few days," Rhiannon explained as she carried Mim's discarded basket inside. "I'll try to stop by again before then, but if I can't, I'll arrange for someone to come along and check on you in a week or so. If something happens, go to the castle and ask for Mariona. She'll take care of anything you need."
Mim took Rhiannon's hands and guided her into her bedroom. The room was small and practical; within it was a bed covered with handmade quilts, a dresser with a mirror, and a rocking chair occupied by yet another basket of half-finished sewing. Rhiannon sat on the edge of the bed, and Mim sidled into her lap, straddling her.
During the walk, the strong winds had tugged strands of hair free from Rhiannon's updo. Mim gently brushed them away from her face.
"You sound as if you expect to be away for a long time."
Rhiannon smoothed her hands along Mim's spine. "I'm not sure how long, exactly. Conferences are unpredictable. Probably a couple of weeks, though."
Disappointment flickered briefly across Mim's face.
"Such a fabulous life you live," she murmured sadly.
The time they spent together was precious to the hardworking mother. A flare of romance suitable for a filmbook to brighten an otherwise lackluster life.
Sympathetic, Rhiannon leaned in and kissed her soundly, determined to chase away whatever negative thoughts were swimming through her lover's mind.
Their relationship had started the same way that many of Rhiannon's had. During one of Rhiannon's scheduled public outings in Cala City, she'd visited several local businesses. The haberdashery where Mim worked was one of them. It had been sheer luck that Mim had been there that day, at the exact time Rhiannon was; Mim was rarely actually in the store—she, like many of the seamstresses the shop employed, did the bulk of their work at home.
Mim had been shy, beaten down by the years of abandonment and dead ends. But Rhiannon was a keen observer, and she had caught the way the silent seamstress's eyes had followed her—full of the kind of longing that couldn't be explained by envy or simple admiration for the Duchess of Caladan. Rhiannon had found Mim attractive too, and decided to do something about it.
"Tell me what I can bring you back from Ahmes," Rhiannon asked once she had teased the smile and flush back into Mim's lovely face.
"I don't know," Mim mumbled against Rhiannon's lips. Their arrangement was still fairly new, and Mim hadn't yet had the time to get comfortable asking for things. For now, Rhiannon was happy to infer her desires, but she still looked forward to the time when Mim felt secure. "I've never been. What's Ahmes like?"
"I haven't been there either. Fairly warm and sunny, I'm told."
Mim had only ever known the misty seas of Caladan. "That sounds nice."
"Caladan is already too warm for my tastes. I still have too much Ironian ice in my blood. On Ahmes, I may melt."
Mim's quiet laugh warmed Rhiannon through.
This relationship would also end the same way many of Rhiannon's had; the circumstances would change and one or both of them would move on, or they would want more than Rhiannon was able to give. It was always bittersweet, but Rhiannon didn't mind the impermanence.
For a while, at least, she had someone to care for. Because even though she wasn't entirely certain that she was capable of love, it comforted her to know that she could at least make someone feel loved. Free of politics or schemes or violence.
No ulterior motives, only tenderness.
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Viscount Emilian Dering sat across from his daughter as the ground car bumped along the cobblestone roads. Farther into Varvara lands. Farther from home and safety.
Rhia sat primly in her seat. Her long hair cascaded down her shoulders, pulled back at the temples by a diamond encrusted clip. Dressed in the finest silks money could buy, she looked exactly as a young noblewoman should.
She was quiet, which was rare. Even though her poise was immaculate, she practically vibrated with energy. Nervous. Excited. Anxious for a new beginning.
She didn't know that it would more likely be the end.
Since she was eight, she had performed many of the functions as Lady of House Dering. A great burden for someone so young, but she had risen to the occasion. But as she grew older, the limitations of performing duties without the authority began to frustrate her. In the last five years or so, her relationship to her father had become strained. They argued often. Over anything and everything. About her brother, mostly. And politics.
Now twenty, she was ready for a new adventure. Her own Household. Freedom. A title. Perhaps even love.
Guilt twisted in the old patriarch's stomach.
Keeping the truth from her hadn't been easy.
For the first time in many years, he allowed himself to study her features. Memorize them. There was so much of Rhosyn about her—Vidar genes were stubborn. Rhia had the height and lean build. The dark eyes and strong jaw. But it went deeper than that. Hotheaded. Cunning. Fearless. From her mother and her mother's mother, she had inherited a fiery temper, rugged determination, and lethal intellect.
During the negotiations that had ended with Emilian taking Rhosyn as his wife, Rhosyn's father had said, "Her mother's a full blooded Dweller, lad. That's one way to inject a little fire and piss into your bloodline!"
Fire and piss. Rhiannon had absorbed her lessons on politics and military strategy. Now, she regularly outwitted her father's most seasoned advisors. After years of training, she had mastered the sword—preferring the combat style of Clan Vidar; even now, she wore her grandmother's vambraces, swirling gold wlysteel emblazoned with the Vidar crest.
What a waste.
Rhiannon looked away from the window and caught her father watching her. She gave him a rare smile, which he forced himself to return.
Their enemies were becoming more aggressive by the day. House Dering needed the military might of House Varvara to survive.
No matter how much they fought, Emilian loved his daughter. But he also had a young son. His heir was the future, and Emilian had to ensure that the House Dering that young Larion inherited was stable enough to survive another generation.
Survival was expensive, and Rhia was the price.
Hopefully, he would survive the guilt.
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The message came during lunch.
Leto was picking at a plate of smoked fish and vegetables when a courier wearing the official yellow and green uniform of House Adelio found him in the courtyard, led there by Thufir Hawat.
Leto accepted the sealed message cylinder and processed a thumbprint receipt. When the courier had gone, Leto cracked open the cylinder and read the message inside while Hawat took his seat at the small table to wait. When he finished reading, he passed the message to the Mentat.
"Most unfortunate timing, M'Lord," Hawat said. "Baron Adelio writes as though the plans for the Trade Summit will be unaffected. But such an attack will have changed the dynamics considerably. Perhaps, M'Lord, it would be best to forgo the Summit entirely."
Meal forgotten, Leto absently tapped his fork against the table.
"No… I think that would be premature. We'll need to tighten our security for the trip, of course." He paused, considering. "Where is the Duchess? She'll need to coordinate with any changes we make."
Hawat's expression didn't change. "The Lady Atreides visited the village this morning. She seems to be running behind schedule, but she is en route to the castle as we speak."
Though he was no longer hungry, Leto turned his attention back to his plate and stabbed at the fish moodily. Rhiannon had told him from the beginning that she would take lovers if he wasn't up to the task, but he would be lying if he said that there wasn't a small part of him that had hoped that she would wait for him.
Leto could say or do nothing to prevent her from seeking company—he'd given her permission to take lovers even before they met. But it did nothing to soften the shock and hurt he'd felt when Hawat told him of his new wife's conquests. And just when he thought he had made peace with the idea of Rhiannon taking casual lovers, she had started regularly visiting a woman—Leto still hadn't decided how he felt about that—who lived outside of the village below the Castle.
Rhiannon's behavior towards Leto hadn't changed, but he couldn't help but worry. Would she still want to be with him when the time came? What if she fell in love with someone else and no longer wanted to explore her relationship with her husband?
Eventually, Leto realized that he was only upsetting himself over the things that might be, instead of focusing on matters of the present. Deciding that it was in everyone's best interest if he knew as little about his wife's exploits as possible, Leto passed the responsibility of monitoring the Duchess's affairs into Hawat's capable hands, and did his best to think no more of it.
"Yes, well…" Leto started, shaking his head to clear it. "When the Duchess gets back, inform her of the situation and tell her to—"
"Tell the Duchess what?"
Rhiannon, who had seemingly materialized into the center of the courtyard, was striding towards them, tugging off her fine leather gloves and tucking them into her coat pocket. She was composed and graceful as ever, but a few streaks of drying mud marred one of her thighs and the insides of her coat sleeves at the wrist.
"M'Lady." Hawat stood and bowed respectfully. "Shall I send the Commerce Minister a message to inform him that the Duchess will be somewhat late to their scheduled meeting?"
"I've already rescheduled it, but thank you," Rhiannon said brightly. Then, by way of an explanation, added, "I was shoeing a horse."
There were many aspects of having a Duchess that had caught Leto by surprise. Being able to pass off some of his Royal duties, for one; the strange relationship that had developed between the Duchess and the Chief of Security, for another.
Rhiannon and Hawat seemed to be locked in a (hopefully friendly) battle of wits and information that Leto didn't understand at all. He had no idea how it worked or who was winning, but was extremely grateful that he hadn't been asked to take sides.
"That explains the mud," Leto commented, hoping to distract from Hawat's sour expression. Leto offered Rhiannon the message from Baron Adelio, then explained as she read. "House Belgrave has invaded one of the Adelio holdings. House Adelio has declared kanly, but the Summit seems to be going forward as planned."
"It all sounds very dramatic," Rhiannon said absently, still reading. "I take it we're going anyway?"
"A large sum of House Adelio's income is generated by the Summit. If House Atreides backs out, others will too. Octavius is an old friend of my father's. It… wouldn't be right to pull out just when he needs the support."
"Of course, M'Lord." Hawat looked serious. "But the Belgrave invasion was clearly timed to interfere with the Trade Summit. We need to consider the possibility that there may be another attack while the Summit is in session."
Rhiannon, who had settled in one of the empty seats, stole Leto's fork and poached a few of the roasted vegetables off his plate. He pushed the plate closer to her so she could help herself.
"I know Belgrave and Adelio are ancestral enemies," Rhiannon mused, "but what's our relationship to Belgrave? As in, if there is an attack, how likely are we to be targets?"
Hawat's gaze turned inwards, sifting through his vast reservoirs of information.
"Summary: House Atreides has no direct links to House Belgrave. However, in the past the Atreides have lent both fiscal and military aid to House Adelio during conflicts with Belgrave. Projection: House Atreides is likely to be indirectly targeted during an attack, but unlikely to be subjected to direct targeting."
"We'll need to have several solid extraction plans ready." Rhiannon looked at Leto. "You also need to figure out what kind of resources you're willing to pour into Adelio before we get there."
Leto frowned. "I've made no promises to Adelio, and the Baron hasn't asked that I make any."
"All the same. House Belgrave is much larger and more powerful than House Adelio. Your father was Baron Adelio's friend. He will ask. And we'll be much better off if you have your answer prepared."
Surprisingly, Hawat agreed with her. "The eyes of the Landsraad will be on this conflict, M'Lord. I advise caution."
"Agreed," Leto said. "I'll consider our options carefully before I agree to anything. For now, updating our security measures is more pressing." His eyes fixed on Hawat. "Give me an analysis: where are our weakest points?"
Rhiannon settled back to listen, eyes sharp and unblinking.
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Rhiannon Varvara hadn't been a virgin, but she was bleeding anyway. Between her legs, but also her lip, her head, and from a rather deep cut on her thigh.
Physical pains, she could handle. She'd always been tough. Worse than the blood was the confusion. Anger. Humiliation.
She wasn't someone who allowed herself to be bullied; when the encounters with her new husband turned into something she didn't enjoy, she fought back. Even as the days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, she kept fighting.
And every time, Bence Varvara tried to put her in her place. When he couldn't manage her on his own, he brought guards in to help. Had them beat her within an inch of consciousness, or hold her down, or even use her while her husband looked on, amused.
Wife number six was an interesting challenge.
To Count Bence Varvara, it was a game. One that he had played with all five of the wives that had been before Rhiannon. He used them until they broke. And then he got bored, and disposed of them.
But Rhiannon was a survivor.
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Even at night, Arrakis sweltered.
The air was dry in the way that old bones are. Rough and thirsty. It dragged at the skin like sandpaper, clinging to any exposed tissues and begging for a drink.
Not many people dared to go outside without a Stillsuit. Only the ignorant and the rich.
Chantria was neither.
Her skin was soft and supple, water-fat and protected from the harsh wind blowing in from the desert by expensive creams and lotions. But she moved through the darkened streets of Arrakeen with expert precision, clinging to the shadows along the walls and alleys like a cat.
She wasn't rich, but the brothel that employed her was. The revealing chiffon clothes draped about her marked her as an expensive whore, but the symbol tattooed to her wrist in dark ink was a constant reminder of with whom her true loyalties lay.
Chantria didn't always understand her orders. Her Mistress' interest in Arrakis—in the Fremen, specifically—seemed a bit preposterous. But it wasn't her place to direct the master schemes.
The Mistress needed a liaison. A spy. A soldier. Someone clever enough to see what needed to be done, and then had the courage to do it. Tough enough to survive Arrakis. Scrappy enough to survive the Harkonnens. Loyal enough to trust.
Chantria was every one of those things. And more.
When she arrived at the rugged house near the outskirts of the city, the smile Chantria painted on her lovely face was as good as genuine. She was intensely proud of the work she did, and establishing the connections needed to be one of the girls sent to entertain the brothel's Fremen customers had taken time.
Making connections through the Fremen she serviced would be even more difficult, but Chantria was up to the challenge.
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