Duke Leto was most touched by a wall-sized, hand-stitched quilt that had been crafted by the locals, one square given by each family in the fishing village and merchant district of Cala City. The people had made this with their own sweat and devotion, not because they sought political favors or alliances, but because they loved their Duke. Leto told Paul to learn from it, and demanded that the quilt be kept forever in Castle Caladan.
For days, Paul had watched guests arrive — representatives of prominent noble families. Putting his formal training in etiquette, politics, and protocol to use, he made an effort to meet every guest, noting details about their mannerisms, moods, and other features, so that he could remember them. Paul had been raised to be the next Duke, and would continue to believe that was the case, despite this new marriage.
As a formality, Leto had invited his cousin Shaddam IV, but was not surprised when neither the Emperor nor any important representative from Kaitain bothered to attend, though the Emperor did send a courier with kind wishes and the gift of an ornate set of cutlery. At first, Paul wondered if Shaddam was being petulant that Duke Atreides had not attended his own recent wedding; then he realized that someone as powerful as the Padishah Emperor would never hold such a petty grudge.
His father was kept so busy making arrangements that Paul barely saw him in the hours leading up to the actual ceremony. The morning dawned sunny on Caladan. Town bells rang, and the fishermen flew colorful pennants on their boats to celebrate the Duke’s marriage.
Inside his bedchamber Paul took care in getting dressed. The garments he donned — a black jacket with razor-edge collar and tasteful tails, a white shirt with crisp cuffs, black trousers — had been carefully fitted by the finest tailor on Caladan. The elegant old man even pinned a badge with the Atreides hawk crest on the boy’s chest. When Paul regarded himself in the looking glass, he decided he looked like a child playing dress-up.
But Duke Leto thought otherwise. Paul turned to see his father standing in the doorway, a look of pride on his face. “This is supposed to be my special day, Paul, but you might well steal the show. You look as if you could become Emperor yourself.”
Paul had never been particularly adept at accepting compliments, especially extravagant ones. “All eyes will be on you, Father.”
“No, all eyes will be on Ilesa. It is the bride’s job to be the center of the ceremony.”
“And today, we all have our jobs to do, don’t we?” Paul wasn’t sure if he had intended the comment to sting. Seeing his father’s expression falter, Paul stepped forward and reached up to straighten his collar. “I am ready to meet the guests. Tell me what I can do to assist you.”
The guests had gathered in the grand hall. The costumes, faces, exotic features, and traditional adornments of so many noble Houses made Paul dizzy. Even this tiny representative slice of population demonstrated how widespread the Imperium was, how many different planets and ethnic groups the Emperor ruled. It amazed him that all could come together beneath a single ruler.
Archduke Ecaz was smiling and full of good cheer, his long silver hair held back by a thin circlet. His formal uniform was embellished with ruffles and jewels, so elaborate that he was upstaged only by his wiry Swordmaster Whitmore Bludd.
No matter how Ilesa might be dressed, Paul could not imagine that she would look more beautiful than his mother. He was right. In a long gold-and-black gown, Lady Jessica was breathtaking. He wondered if she had done that intentionally, to remind Duke Leto of all she had to offer.
Thufir Hawat wore an old military uniform, one that featured medals he had earned during his service with Duke Paulus and Earl Dominic Vernius in the Ecazi revolt so many years before. House Atreides had a long-standing history of supporting House Ecaz.
Hawat had once again scanned the grand hall, dispatching his security troops through all public areas. Each wedding guest had been searched in accordance with standard security protocols. None of the nobles took offense, for they would have imposed the same measures upon their own visitors. At every doorway, Atreides soldiers stood beside their Ecazi counterparts.
Duncan Idaho had also dressed for the day. As a Swordmaster, he often played the role of dashing warrior, the Duke’s special fighter and bodyguard; now he wore the formal sword of Old Duke Paulus strapped to his side, a weapon he had carried many times into battle for House Atreides. Paul knew Duncan’s abilities were unmatched, although the two visiting Swordmasters from House Ecaz were also there to show their mettle, if need be.
Despite his attempts to make himself presentable, Gurney Halleck was not designed for formal clothing. His body had been battered too many times, and the inkvine scar stood out on his jawline, defying any attempts at makeup. He was a man more accustomed to work clothes that let him move among the common folk. He was meant to sit with a nine-string baliset on his knee and sing songs to noblemen, rather than pretend to be one of them. But the grin on his face dismissed all awkwardness. Seeing Paul in his outfit, Gurney said, “Young pup, you look like a future director of CHOAM.”
“Oh, I was trying to look like the son of a Duke.”
Duke Leto had chosen his son as best man, and for the honor, Paul had been coached not only by his mother but by official planners and choreographers. Now, one of the choreographers motioned for him to take his place on the garlanded stage that had been erected just for the wedding. Paul walked past the huge potted plants on the stage toward the central podium that held an ancient oversized Orange Catholic Bible, the same book that had been used at the wedding of Paulus and Helena, as well as eighteen generations of Atreides before that. Armand Ecaz stood to one side of the podium with Swordmasters Dinari and Bludd, while Paul joined Duke Leto, Thufir, Gurney, and Duncan on the opposite side.
When he turned to face the room full of strangers, Paul’s eyes fixed upon the large figure of Prince Rhombur, whose cyborg body was mostly covered with a formal suit, though his scarred and surreal face set him apart from the other attendees. Tessia and their reticent son, Bronso, sat on either side of him in the front row. Paul couldn’t interpret the odd grimace on Rhombur’s face for certain, but he thought the Ixian Prince might be grinning.
On cue, the fanfare began, and the audience hushed. Heads turned to look back toward the arched entrance where high fernlike flowers bracketed the doorway. Ilesa entered gracefully, her gown a lavish confection of pearlescent silk, its bodice covered by a spray of shimmering pearls. Her dark hair was done up in an intricate arrangement of small polished seashells.
Paul glanced at his father. Duke Leto wore an astonished expression, as if he had never expected his bride-to-be would look so beautiful.
While everyone watched Ilesa, the robed priest emerged unnoticed from a side alcove to take his position at the podium bearing the ancient book. Though there had been offers from other noble families, and even from important church officials including an Archbishop from Kaitain, Duke Leto had asked one of the most popular local priests to perform the ceremony. Archduke Ecaz had no particular preference in the matter. After the tragedies that had befallen him and the senseless pain the Grummans had inflicted upon his House, he had become decidedly nonreligious.
Ilesa glided forward, smiling. Flanked by the Swordmasters, Archduke Armand watched her, his smile rapturous. Duke Leto stood straight, showing his respect until Ilesa took her place beside him, facing the village priest. As quietly and discreetly as possible, the priest opened the book to the wedding liturgy and set out a crystal bell with which he would begin the ceremony. Leto took Ilesa’s hand in his, and Paul saw that his father was holding his breath.
The priest struck a clear musical tone on the bell. “Friends of House Ecaz, House Atreides, and Emperor Shaddam IV, we welcome you to this moment of happiness.” He struck a second tone.
As the priest began to speak again, Paul heard a snick, followed by a hum. He didn’t want to tear his eyes from the bride and groom, while everyone in the room was listening so intently, but then he heard another s
ound and sensed a faint movement. He concentrated, forcing the background noise to fall away, and pinpointed the source of the sound: the huge Elaccan flowerpots.
Thufir Hawat snapped his head to one side. The old Master of Assassins had heard it as well.
The large hexagonal mosaic tiles had popped loose — extending slightly from the curved pots on some type of axle — and began to spin.
“Duncan!” Paul shouted, not caring that he would disrupt the ceremony.
But Duncan was already in motion. Gurney crouched, dagger in hand, ready to fight, looking for an attacker. Rivvy Dinari and Whitmore Bludd both drew their swords, advancing to protect Archduke Ecaz and Ilesa; Paul had never seen them move so fast.
The decorative hexagonal plates, thin sheets of metal, propelled themselves forward, spinning through the air like circular saw blades. Their edges, which had been mounted into the glazed clay of the pots, were razor sharp.
The air of the hall was filled with whirling blades, executioner discs that flashed toward their targets: everyone in the wedding party, any person who stood on the stage.
Duncan swept the Old Duke’s sword in an arc to strike one of the discs, sending it into the stone blocks of the wall, where it cut a deep gouge before clattering to the ground. Thufir grabbed Duke Leto by the tuxedo collar and pulled him sideways to the floor, diving upon him as another scythelike blade slashed a long rent across the old veteran’s back.
More blades crisscrossed in the air, and the audience began to scream in panic. Like a charging bull, Gurney threw himself toward Paul. “Young Master, down!” Paul had already crouched to dodge the flying blades, and Gurney bowled him over, throwing himself between Paul and one of the deadly plates. At the last instant, Paul grabbed a handful of Gurney’s blond hair and yanked the man’s head. A sharp disc streaked past, missing Gurney’s skull by millimeters, clipping a small lock of hair.
“Ilesa! Save her!” Rivvy Dinari bellowed. “I have the Archduke!” Whitmore Bludd sprang toward the bride, whipping his thin rapier before him. He struck one of the disks, and it caromed off into the ceiling.
Undeterred by the Swordmasters, another of the weapons struck like an executioner’s hatchet into the Archduke’s upper arm, neatly severing it above the elbow. Pushing himself free of Gurney, Paul watched in nightmarish slow motion as the detached limb dropped to the floor, sleeve and all, in a rain of blood.
Dinari roared, realizing his failure. He brandished his sword and stood as a human blockade, spreading himself in front of his grievously wounded master. The Archduke gasped, clutching at his stump.
More spinning blades flew directly at the Ecazi leader. The corpulent Swordmaster smashed one out of the air and sent it ricocheting into the floor. He struck another disk a glancing blow. Then four more blades slammed into his great body with the sound of cleavers cutting into tough meat, embedding themselves deep in Rivvy Dinari’s lungs, cutting through his sternum and slicing his heart in half. The last disc bit deep into his gut. Dinari’s great hulk collapsed to the floor of the stage, but he had intercepted all of the deadly devices aimed toward his master.
With a howl of outrage, Bludd attempted to defend Ilesa. His rapier skewered and flung aside another executioner disc. He reached up with the thin blade to parry one more razor-edged tile, moving with both speed and precision.
He missed.
Though Ilesa was backing away, she couldn’t bend far enough, and the spinning disc slashed her throat. Her delicate hands fluttered up, as if to catch the scarlet spray, but blood fountained from her neck, drenching her beautiful gown in red.
With a roar from his artificial lungs, Rhombur threw himself forward, knocking aside guests in the front row. “Leto!”
Squirming free of Gurney, Paul got to his hands and knees again, intent only on ensuring that his father was safe. Duke Leto, as expected, was shouting orders, organizing an immediate response, telling his guards to smash the deadly pots, calling for medics, showing concern for everyone but himself.
Acting on instinct, as if he could foresee what was about to happen, Paul sprang toward his father. Every instant stretched, drawn out to a long and syrupy timeline. Duke Leto turned, his gray eyes widening as he saw the sharp, whirling edge —
But Paul slammed him aside, and the cutter disk made only a harmless whirring noise as it passed and thudded into a wall. From the corner of his eye, extraordinarily aware of every detail, Paul saw his mother rushing toward the stage.
Like a mechanical ox, Rhombur used his artificial limbs to smash the pots, destroying the targeting mechanisms, preventing the launch of any more razor-edged plates. Duncan struck the last three spinning discs out of the air.
Archduke Ecaz sat on the floor in shock, blood flowing from the stump of his arm, though the severed blood vessels had collapsed, slowing the massive bleeding. He could barely manage to sit upright next to the mangled corpse of the fat Swordmaster.
Whitmore Bludd stood entirely unscathed, though his fine clothes were speckled by droplets of crimson. He stared down in denial at Ilesa, who lay twitching, but already dead, on the stage.
A shimmering hologram arose from the wreckage of the flowerpots. Some small generator that must have been placed there played a microscopic crystal that held a recorded message and the image of Viscount Moritani, dressed in fine clothes fit for a funeral, not a wedding.
“Archduke Ecaz! Please accept this humble tribute from Grumman. I would have been there in person, you see, but I had to attend the funeral of my son. My son! Wolfram would have lived, but for you. You should have given me the gift of a cure. Now I give you the gift of these memories.
“I hope the slaughter is as extravagant as I have imagined. In all probability, you aren’t even alive to hear this. But others are. Heed the cost of making an enemy of House Moritani. By all rights and all that is just, this War of Assassins is mine.”
PART III
Emperor Muad’Dib
10,197 AG
Four Years After the Beginning of the Jihad
If a soldier dies on a battlefield and no one remembers his name, was his service for naught? Muad’Dib’s faithful know better than this, for in his heart he honors the sacrifices they make for him.
—from A Child’s History of Muad’Dib by the PRINCESS IRULAN
Fighting unnoticed beside his fellow soldiers, Muad’Dib wore a ragged uniform that had been cleaned and patchily repaired after being taken from the body of a fallen warrior. Having spent hours in the fight, his knife arm ached, and his ears rang from the explosions and screams. His nostrils burned from drinking in the nauseating cocktail of smells that hung in the air — the acrid discharges of slow explosives, spilled blood, burned flesh, churned dirt.
From so many planetary battlegrounds and so many victories in the four years of the Jihad, the disguised Emperor did not know the name of this world where so many of his followers were dying. During the horrific combat and its aftermath, what did names matter? He was sure this place was little different from the countless others that Gurney and Stilgar had described.
But he had needed to see it for himself, fight with his own hands, spill blood with his own weapons. I owe it to them.
No detailed report from his generals, no council meeting had ever driven home the depths of this hell. Yes, he had escaped with his mother on the night of the Harkonnen takeover of Arrakeen, and yes, he had fought with his Fremen on razzia raids against Beast Rabban, and yes, he had led them to victory against Emperor Shaddam and his Sardaukar. But few of his followers understood the noble goals of this war, especially the common soldiers. Only he could see the whirlwind, and the far worse fate that awaited the human race if his Jihad failed.
As he forged ahead into the future, he saw hazards in every decision, death and pain on every side. It reminded him of the ancient story of Odysseus and his voyage that required him to chart a perilous course between two dangers, the monster Scylla and the whirlpool Charybdis — a pair of water hazards that no one raise
d on Dune could grasp. But here, now, the path ahead seemed less clear, and clouded in a mist of uncertainty. Paul only knew that somewhere beyond this Jihad, perhaps many generations later, lay a safe harbor. He still believed he could guide humankind along the correct, narrow path. He had to believe it.
For those who could not see the large and subtle tapestry of fate, however, this battle was a slaughter of nearly helpless civilians on a formerly peaceful planet.
The reports would call it a victory.
But after years of growing more and more separated from the realities of the Jihad, he had decided he needed more than reports. Reports were not enough to convey what was truly happening across the Imperium… what he had set in motion.
One night inside his quiet, protected Arrakeen quarters that were newly finished by Bludd, he had dreamed of Gurney Halleck, Stilgar, and dozens of other commanders with their legions of Fremen warriors and converts. He valued (and was grateful to) every single one of those men, but he had remained on Dune, perfectly safe, while they fought and died.
Was that enough? He didn’t think so. Duke Leto had personally led Atreides forces against Grumman during the War of Assassins. Paul knew that reading battlefield summaries could never give him the visceral level of understanding that came from experiencing the harsh conditions with his men, the lack of sleep, the explosions, the constant wariness, the blood. He had dispatched vast armies to crush worlds, and the fighters screamed his name as they died for him — while he remained in the comfort of his palace in Arrakeen.
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