The Winds of Dune

by Brian Herbert

  Not there.

  Carrying the pearls, she marched off to the grand ballroom where servants were setting up dinner. She still wore wrinkled and dusty clothing from her day on the streets of Arrakeen, but she did not care about decorum.

  When Alia arrived with Duncan and took her customary place at the head of the table, Irulan laid the pearls on her own dinner plate. “I must commend you on an excellent job of copying, Lady Alia. However, your craftsmen failed to take into account a small scratch on one of the pearls.”

  Rather than being incensed, Alia responded with a wide smile. “You see, Duncan! Irulan is not as easily fooled as you expected. She noticed a flaw that even our experts disregarded.”

  Her new husband wore a slight frown. “I did suggest that we ask her openly for the original, instead of attempting secrecy.”

  Irulan waited for an explanation, and Alia said lightly, “We confiscated the original because it is a relic of House Atreides. It has nothing to do with you, Irulan.”

  “Paul himself told me I could keep it.”

  “You received many items from my brother.”

  “Legitimately. I was his wife.”

  “We both know the truth of that, Irulan. Because of their important religious significance, all of your original keepsakes have been replaced with copies. The true relics will be placed under the care and guard of the Qizarate, and select authorized replicas will be made available to certain devout and generous collectors.”

  Irulan felt anger, but used her Bene Gesserit training to remain calm. “Those were my possessions. Gifts from my husband.” She was edging into dangerous territory, but she set aside her fear and tried to keep her voice steady. “With all due respect, because of my dedication and loyalty, I have earned the right to keep my own things.”

  “Oh, enough melodrama, Irulan Corrino! They were never your things. I don’t see how any of this can matter to you. You are not really an Atreides.” Giving her a dismissive gesture, Alia called for the first course. By now, other diners had halted their conversations, and the usual dinner table murmurings had dwindled to a few tinklings of silverware, glasses, and plates.

  Servants rushed about in a great flurry, serving extravagant salads, lush greens, and succulent raw vegetables grown in moisture-sealed greenhouses inside the Citadel. It was clear Alia wanted to speak no more of the matter.

  In a voice as brittle as dried bone, Irulan asked, “Will the Lady Jessica be joining us for dinner?”

  “My mother has chosen to meditate in her own rooms.”

  Irulan decided to pay a visit to Jessica later in the evening. It was obvious that the other woman had much more to tell her, but Irulan hadn’t been ready to hear it. Irulan ate and then excused herself as quickly as possible.

  When Jessica responded to a subdued knock at the door to her private apartments, she found the Princess standing there alone and troubled. In an instant, she read many things in the younger woman’s expression. “Please come inside for a cup of spice tea.”

  After Jessica had closed the door behind them, Irulan used finger talk to silently explain what Alia had done; her coded words were tentative at first, but she gained energy as she allowed herself to become more upset. She felt a need for secrecy—perhaps irrationally, since Alia had just confirmed what she’d done in front of all the attendees at the banquet.

  Absorbing the new information, Jessica let out a long sigh. Her fingers flashed in subtle communication, acknowledging the potential danger they faced. “My daughter grows increasingly unpredictable, and the challenge before you is great. You walk a dangerous, fine line—just as Paul did when he looked into the future and saw only a treacherous and uncertain path. Alia is the rightful Regent of the Imperium, and we must accept that. But even Alia doesn’t see everything. You have an important role, as do I. As does Bronso of Ix.”

  Irulan was startled. “Bronso has an important role?”

  “Paul understood it before I did, Irulan, and he asked us for help.” She gave a finger sign for added caution. Alia knew every Bene Gesserit code, and if there were hidden spy-eyes. . . .

  Feigning casualness, Jessica sat back against her comfortable cushions, and reached over to pour them tea. Openly, as a diversion, she spoke of how much she missed Caladan and hoped to return there soon; all the while the fingers of one hand flashed subtly with the real message: “You will make your own decisions, Irulan. But in determining what to write, you must first know the truth, in all of its dimensions. Your special duty is to protect Paul’s legacy.”

  Hunching over, hiding her hands in her lap, Jessica continued her quick finger signs. “You must hear the rest of the story about Bronso and Paul. Only then will you understand why Bronso writes what he does. We cannot speak here. I will arrange a safe time and place.”

  Alas, history can be rewritten according to political agendas, but in the end, facts remain facts.

  —Conversations with Muad’Dib by the PRINCESS IRULAN

  After establishing an acceptable pretext that she and Irulan wished to attend a Fremen ceremony at Sietch Tabr the following evening, Jessica specifically requested Gurney Halleck to pilot the ornithopter. Preoccupied with a new set of motions that had been delivered from the latest Landsraad meeting on Kaitain, Alia sent them off without any apparent concern.

  Gurney made the ’thopter preparations with good cheer, meeting the two women in a vehicle bay that was normally used for Regency business and security operations. “The guards assigned us this craft, my Ladies. I have loaded aboard literjons of water, a Fremkit, and other emergency supplies. We are ready to go.”

  Jessica paused, then looked over her shoulder. “We’ll take that one instead, Gurney. I like the look of it better. You can go over the checklist yourself quickly enough.” Any ’thopter that Alia had assigned to them might contain hidden listening devices, and Jessica wanted no one to hear what she was about to reveal.

  Though surprised by the unexpected change, Gurney called for assistance in preparing the second craft. Catching his eye, Jessica made a subtle half-hidden signal with her hand, using an old Atreides battle code to inform him that he was to ask no further questions. A troubled cloud came over the man’s face, darkening the line of his inkvine scar, before he returned to his casual demeanor.

  The mechanics and uniformed guards were thrown into confusion by the sudden change, but Gurney brushed them aside and quickly transferred over the supplies, checked the fuel level, and tested the ’thopter systems, while Irulan and Jessica waited in the vehicle bay. Both of the noble ladies looked out of place.

  When he was satisfied, Gurney opened the door of the craft and extended a hand to help Irulan and Jessica aboard. After they had secured themselves inside, he powered up the engines, extended the stubby wings, and activated the jetpods.

  The craft flew away from the Citadel of Muad’Dib, into the sparkling traffic patterns of the desert night. Both moons shone overhead, widely separated in the sky. Gurney fixed his gaze ahead through the cockpit plaz, guiding them through the thermal turbulence caused by temperatures falling after sunset. They flew up and over the rugged barrier of the Shield Wall.

  Jessica drew a long, deep breath. “I wanted you to be my pilot, Gurney, because I trust you completely. Even if Duncan is the old Duncan, Alia has him too ensnared.” She glanced over at Irulan, who looked willowy and beautiful, though not fragile. “And I’m not certain that I share Alia’s goals in all things. For what I am about to reveal—to both of you—I require absolute privacy. Alia cannot be allowed to know what I tell you.”

  Though he concentrated on his flying, Gurney was troubled. “I am always loyal to you, my Lady, but for a mother to keep such secrets from her daughter, it’s not to my liking.”

  Jessica sighed. “They are secrets about my son, and they concern you as well, Gurney. Back in Arrakeen, there are too many eyes and ears, as there will be in Sietch Tabr. We need time alone. Absolutely alone.” She leaned forward, spoke into his ear over the thr
umming of the articulated wings. “Find us a place to land—a rock outcropping somewhere not too obvious. Once I begin, I’ll want your full attention, and this could take some time.”

  Flying over the open desert, Gurney passed several low ridges, black islands in the sand that he did not find satisfactory. At last he selected a reef of rock far enough outside their anticipated flight path. He circled, then fiddled with the control panel. “I can contrive a minor malfunction in one of the engines so that the ’thopter log shows we were required to land and make repairs.”

  “Good thinking, Gurney.”

  He set them down on the rugged surface, where they were entirely alone. “There, my Lady, I hope this place will serve. I know of no Fremen caches or formal sietches near here. It’s too small to be worth anything.” His glass-splinter eyes were bright, but she saw a dread within them: He did not relish the prospect of what she would have to say.

  Jessica fitted her noseplugs, adjusted her face mask, checked other fittings on her stillsuit. “Come, we will go outside onto the rocks, away from the ’thopter.” She couldn’t be too careful. Saying little, she and her two companions went outside into the quiet desert night.

  Jessica led them to a sheltered overhang of dark rock, where they could still see the ’thopter sitting like a large, ungainly insect where it had landed. Wind whispered around them as they found places to sit on the hard surfaces. “This will do fine,” she said.

  Irulan composed herself, waiting attentively in the shelter of rock. “I’m eager to hear you explain why you seem to keep defending, or at least shielding, Bronso.”

  Gurney perked up. “I would like to know that as well, my Lady, but I refrained from asking questions, as you requested.”

  “You’ll know the hard truth I learned about Paul, and you’ll know why—wrongly—I decided that I had to kill my own son.”

  Before her listeners could recover from what she had said, Jessica drew a long breath, marshaled her thoughts, and spoke openly. “After the death of Earl Rhombur in 10,188, House Vernius remained estranged from House Atreides for a long time. But twelve years later, during the worst excesses of the Jihad, while Paul was Emperor, events conspired to bring the two Great Houses together again. . . .”

  PART IV

  10, 200 AG

  THE REIGN OF EMPEROR PAUL-MUAD’DIB

  It has been seven years since the fall of Shaddam IV, who remains in exile on Salusa Secundus. Two years have passed since Count Fenring’s failed assassination attempt on Paul Atreides.

  Muad’Dib’s Jihad rages across hundreds of worlds, but Lady Jessica and Gurney Halleck have withdrawn to Caladan, hoping to avoid the bloodshed and fanaticism.

  There are those who think that to revere Muad’Dib takes nothing more than the utterance of a prayer, the lighting of a candle, and the casting of a pinch of sand over one’s shoulder. There are those who think that building shrines, waving banners, and collecting trinkets is sufficient. I have even heard of those who slice open their hands to spill blood on the ground because they think this honors Muad’Dib. Why does my son need more careless blood spilled in his name? He has enough of that. If you truly wish to honor Muad’Dib, then do it with your heart, your mind, and your soul. And never assume you know the complete Muad’Dib; there is much about him that can never be revealed.

  —LADY JESSICA, address to pilgrims at the Cala City Spaceport

  Following the fall of Shaddam IV, Paul’s zealous followers had surged across the Imperium for seven years. The prospect of peace seemed as distant as sunshine during Caladan’s months-long stormy season.

  Unable to stomach the absurd distortions spread by the Qizarate and Muad’Dib’s propaganda machine, Jessica had left Arrakis and returned to Caladan, where she kept her opinions private and ruled her people with the assistance of Gurney Halleck.

  But because of the fervor that Muad’Dib inspired, pilgrims followed her—great numbers of them—and clamored for her blessings.

  Before the end of the Corrino Imperium, Caladan had been only a secondary world ruled by a somewhat ordinary Landsraad family. Though the leaders of House Atreides were well liked in the Landsraad, they had never been as wealthy or powerful as House Harkonnen, House Ecaz, House Richese, or others at the front ranks.

  Ruling the Imperium from his distant throne on Dune, Paul-Muad’Dib had not visited his home world in some time, yet pilgrims still came to Caladan, and they kept coming. The Cala City spaceport was not designed to accommodate the relentless traffic that swept down like a raging flood. Veterans of uncounted battles, desperate refugees, and pilgrims too infirm to fight—all went to touch the soil upon which Muad’Dib had spent his childhood, and to take a little of it home with them.. . .

  Jessica glided down a staircase to the main level of Castle Caladan, knowing that a crowd waited inside the audience chamber, where Leto had once listened to the complaints, demands, and needs of his people. More than twenty generations of Atreides had done the same before him. Jessica could not break that tradition now.

  Outside on the winding path that led up from the seaside village, she heard the clink of hammers as stonemasons repaired cobblestones and added gravel. Gardeners uprooted dying shrubs and planted new ones, knowing they would have to repeat the process in less than a month. Despite posted signs and guards patrolling the road, offworld pilgrims pocketed pebbles and plucked leaves from bushes as keepsakes of their visit to holy Caladan.

  Offworlders came in a variety of clothing styles, carrying ribbons with the name of Muad’Dib, holding tiny sacks filled with sand that purportedly came from Arrakis, or collectibles said to have some connection with the Holy Emperor. Most of these items were cheaply made or fraudulent, or both.

  Entering the chamber, Jessica strengthened her resolve when she saw the sheer number of people there. Gurney had arrived early to sort those who wished to present petitions from the larger number of visitors who simply wanted to glimpse the mother of Muad’Dib. Of those who asked to address her directly, Gurney gave precedence to the true Caladan natives, and relegated to the end of the line those who merely wanted to prostrate themselves before her.

  When Jessica walked down the aisle to the front of the room, a hush rippled before her, followed by a curling aftershock of whispered awe. She kept her gaze forward, knowing that if she deigned to notice any particular supplicants, they would reach out their hands or raise up their children for blessings.

  If Reverend Mother Mohiam could see her now! Jessica wondered if her old teacher would be impressed or disgusted. The Bene Gesserits despised and feared what Paul had become, though they themselves had worked for many generations to create a Kwisatz Haderach. Under Muad’Dib’s reign, the Sisterhood had fallen on excessively hard times, and Paul made no secret of how much he resented them. Even so, the women continued to make overtures to Jessica, pleading for her assistance and understanding. So far, she had ignored them. They had done enough damage, as far as she was concerned.

  Beside her elevated chair at the front of the room, Gurney stood like a master at arms. Though he was an earl in his own right and an esteemed hero of many battles, he abdicated authority to Jessica whenever she took her duchy seat. “Very well, let’s begin,” she said. “You people must have more important things to do than stay here all day.” The audience members seemed not to notice her wry humor.

  Jessica recognized the first supplicant who stepped forward, a bearded old man clad in traditional fishing clothes, wearing a medallion on a blue ribbon around his neck. With a potbelly and stick-thin legs, Mayor Jeron Horvu had been the elected leader of Cala City for most of his life, groomed by the Old Duke himself.

  The mayor was obviously distressed. His cheeks were gaunt, his eyes red and weary from lack of sleep. He gave Jessica a quick formal bow, which some in the audience regarded as an insufficient display of reverence. “My Lady, we are besieged. I implore you to help us. Save our world.”

  Many pilgrims looked from side to side with clenched fists
, ready to fight anyone who dared to threaten Caladan . . . not realizing that the Mayor referred to them.

  “Describe exactly what you mean, Jeron.” She leaned forward to encourage him. “I’ve always known you to have the best interests of Caladan and its people at heart.”

  “All these offworlders!” Horvu gestured behind him at the crowds. “They say they come to honor Paul Atreides, the son of our noble Duke, yet they plunder our towns, trample the headlands, muddy the shores! I’m sure they mean well,” he added quickly, trying to placate the angry buzzing that rose in the audience chamber, “but their intentions are irrelevant when everything we hold dear is stripped barren.”

  “Go on, man, be specific,” Gurney prodded. “These others need to hear it.”

  The old man began to tick off items on his fingers. “Just last week, we had to replace three docks down in the harbor because the wood was so badly splintered and weakened from countless people taking slivers as mementos. Simply because Duke Leto Atreides used to dock his boat Victor there!” He rolled his eyes to show how absurd he considered the idea to be.

  “Our inns have been ransacked. Our streets overflow with people who sleep in the gutters, steal things from merchants, and justify their thievery by claiming that ‘Muad’Dib would be generous to all of his followers’! And let’s not forget those charlatan souvenir vendors who sell counterfeit scraps of things they say Muad’Dib touched or blessed. It is well known that they simply gather any items they can find and sell them to gullible pilgrims, who pay sizeable sums, with or without proof.”