The Emperor drew his own crysknife and pointed its tip at the Count. The guards moved aside, and Fenring went rigid, every muscle in his body petrified. He stared beyond Paul, as if seeing the death that awaited him there.
“Please do not kill him,” Lady Margot said.
“We die regardless,” Count Fenring said, half to her and half to Paul. “The mob would tear us to pieces anyway, as they did to Swordmaster Bludd.” Now, shaking slightly, he looked at Paul. “Would it help if I were to fall to my knees and plead for you to spare her? She did save your life years ago, by warning you and your mother of Harkonnen treachery.”
“Your own treachery erased that water burden,” Stilgar interjected sharply.
Fenring acted as if he did not hear the naib. “If pleading would help, I’d abase myself in any manner to save the life of my Lady.”
Without answering, Paul circled the Count slowly, considering where to strike the mortal blow.
“You know I am more guilty than she is,” Fenring continued, babbling uncharacteristically. “I did not act out of loyalty to Shaddam, nor was this any Bene Gesserit scheme that my wife encouraged. I speak truly when I say I despise Shaddam, because his foolishness shattered any obligations I once had toward him. He removed any chance for the Imperium to be strong and stable. Imagine the scope of his failure — Shaddam’s rule was so hateful and corrupt that many people prefer even the fanaticism of your followers!”
Paul smiled savagely, but said nothing. He kept circling, pausing, and then continuing.
“It was not a personal thing, ahhh, I assure you. My hatred for you and your rule is purely logical. I needed to excise a particularly aggressive form of cancer for the sake of human civilization. With Muad’Dib removed from the equation, then Marie, myself, or a puppet might have had a chance to restore stability and grandeur.”
Finally, Paul said, “You knew Marie had little or no chance of success, but sacrificed her with the knowledge that you might have a moment of opportunity while feigning grief over her death.”
Fenring’s eyes flashed with anger. “I feigned nothing!”
“He didn’t!” Margot shouted.
Alia waved the gom jabbar in front of her.
Without taking his eyes from the Count, Paul said, “A trick within a trick, and at the precise moment of my weakness you almost succeeded.”
“You are the monster here, not I,” Fenring said. He maintained his resolve, his defiance. Then, turning, he fixed a long, lingering gaze on his wife. “I bid thee farewell.”
“And to you, my darling,” she said, looking at the poisoned needle in Alia’s hand.
If the situation were reversed, Paul knew that the Fenrings would not have granted him or Alia a reprieve. The Fremen side of Paul’s nature wanted to draw blood, and he knew that Alia had the same longing. Her upward gaze hungered for permission to strike with the gom jabbar.
Paul stopped, still holding his milky-white blade. He considered how his father would have dealt with such a situation. Duke Leto the Just. He remembered how the Atreides nobleman had been given that name. Thinking back, Paul recalled his father’s words: “I sentence you to live” he had said before sending Swain Goire off to exile. “To live with what you have done.”
A wave of sadness came over Paul as he considered how often he had made decisions that were different from those his father would have chosen. Paul did not expect Fenring to be wracked with guilt, not after his long history of violence. The Count was no Swain Goire. But execution was too easy, and Paul had had enough of barbarism.
Without warning, he slashed across the front of Fenring’s throat. An exquisitely accurate cut, delivered with precise muscle control.
Lady Margot screamed, lunging against her own restraints. “No!”
The Count staggered, lifting his shackled hands, clutching heavily at his neck. But he came away with only a smear of crimson on his palms.
“By tradition, once drawn, a crysknife should always taste blood,” Paul said. Calmly, he wiped both sides of the wormtooth blade across Fenring’s jacket, and resheathed the weapon.
Still on his feet, Count Fenring gingerly touched fingertips to his throat in astonishment. The precise slash had penetrated only a hairs-breadth. Tiny droplets formed a red necklace on the skin.
“This is not your day to die,” Paul said. “Every time you see that faint scar in the mirror, remember that I could have cut deeper.”
Paul turned his attention to the nobleman’s wife. “Lady Margot, you have lost a daughter, and that is already a terrible punishment for your crime, because I know you truly loved Marie. It is your misfortune to love this man who deserves only contempt.”
His head held high, Paul strode back to his emerald green throne, then raised an arm and made a dismissive gesture. “In ages past, it was said there was a curse on the House of Atreus, my ancient predecessors. Now, I am the one who imposes a curse. Hear this! I exile both of you to Salusa Secundus, where you are to be bottled up with Shaddam Corrino. Permanently. May your loathing for him grow day by day.”
How much of Muad’Dib’s legend is actual fact and how much is superstitious myth? Since I have compiled the information and written the story, I know for certain. By any measure, the truth about Muad’Dib is surprising.
—THE PRINCESS IRULAN, mandatory report to Wallach IX
She sat inside her private chambers, comfortable at the writing desk and deep in thought. These fine rooms no longer felt like a prison to her, or merely a place to store forgotten objects. Though Paul refused to share her bed, Irulan had become more than a trophy won in the old Battle of Arakeen, more than a token wife. Despite the obstacles in her path, she had earned a genuine position in Muad’Dib’s government, and perhaps in history itself. Even Chani could not fill this particular role.
“A story is shaped by the teller as much as by the events themselves.” Irulan remembered the Bene Gesserit aphorism, similar to an old saying the Jongleurs often used. In her hands — and her writing stylus — she had the power to influence what future generations knew… or thought they knew.
Here inside the magnificent Citadel of Muad’Dib, the Princess felt herself pulled in many directions. Her father and the rest of exiled House Corrino, expecting her loyalty, had rejected her for choosing her husband over her own family. Similarly, the Sisterhood still could not believe she would forsake them — refusing their demand that she exert influence over the Emperor, desperately hoping that their long-awaited Kwisatz Haderach was not lost forever to their control.
Irulan was no longer sure where she owed her allegiance. Everyone wanted something from her. Everyone needed something from her. And, she was coming to believe, her husband needed her most of all… in his own way.
Paul-Muad’Dib had died of a grievous knife wound and come back from the other side. Irulan tried to imagine how she would describe this in the next volume of her ever-growing biographical treatment.
I will write that Muad’Dib cannot be killed. And the people will believe that. They will believe me.
How could they not?
Paul had never claimed to love Irulan, had never offered so much as a hint of affection for her, though he had come to respect her knowledge and experience. Seeing him dead and pale in a pool of his own blood had shaken her more than she could have imagined.
The appropriate words were forming in her mind. She would remain here and write, and she would let history decide.
By the holy grace of Muad’Dib.
PAUL OF DUNE
Dune, Frank Herbert’s classic, ended with Paul Muad’Dib in control of the planet Dune. Herbert’s second Dune book, Dune Messiah, picks up the story several years later when Paul’s armies have conquered the galaxy and Paul has become a religious figure. But what happened between Dune and Dune Messiah? What about the details of Paul Muad’Dib’s jihad and the formation of his empire? How did Paul become the prophet he is in Dune Messiah? Following in the footsteps of Frank Herbert, New York Times be
stselling authors Brian Herbert and Kevin J. Anderson are answering these questions in Paul of Dune.
The Muad’Dib’s jihad is in full swing. His warrior legions, led by Stilgar, march from victory to victory. But beneath the joy of victory and the pride of Fremen devotion there are dangerous undercurrents. Paul, like nearly every great conqueror, has enemies and those who would betray him to steal the awesome power he commands….
And Paul begins to have doubts: Is the jihad getting out of his control? Has he created anarchy? Has he been betrayed by those he loves and trusts the most? And most of all, he wonders: Am I going mad?
Paul of Dune is a novel everyone will want to read, and no one will be able to forget.
Brian Herbert (at right), the son of Frank Herbert, is the author of multiple New York Times bestsellers. He has won literary honors and has been nominated for the highest awards in science fiction. In 2003, he published Dreamer of Dune, a moving biography of his father that was nominated for the Hugo Award. In 2006, Brian began his own galaxy-spanning science fiction series with the novel Timeweb. His earlier acclaimed novels include Sidney’s Comet; Sudanna, Sudanna; The Race for God; and Man of Two Worlds (written with Frank Herbert).
Kevin J. Anderson has written dozens of national bestsellers and has been nominated for the Nebula Award, the Bram Stoker Award, and the SFX Readers’ Choice Award. His critically acclaimed original novels include the ambitious space-opera series The Saga of Seven Suns, as well as The Martian Wars, Captain Nemo, and Hopscotch. He also set the Guinness-certified world record for the largest single-author book signing.
www.dunenovels.com
Jacket art by Stephen Youll
Jacket design by Loose Change Studio
Author photo by Janet Herbert
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Table of Contents
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
PART I
PART II
PART III
PART IV
PART V
PART VI
PART VII
PAUL OF DUNE
Paul of Dune Page 51
