Paul knew exactly what he had created here. For so long, he had been forced by prescience to use violence as a tool in order to achieve what needed to be done. And violence was an effective and powerful tool. But now it seemed that the slippery instrument had turned, and the violence itself was using him him as its tool. A dark part of him wasn't sure if he would be able to control what he had unleashed. Or if he even wanted to. as its tool. A dark part of him wasn't sure if he would be able to control what he had unleashed. Or if he even wanted to.

True morality and honor can never be codified into law, at least not for every eventuality. A n.o.bleman must always be prepared to select the high road, thus avoiding the pitfalls of shadowy paths and spiritual dead ends.

-CROWN PRINCE RAPHAEL CORRINO

"They are reasonably good fighters," Bashar Zum Garon admitted as he looked at the trained group of gholas that the Tleilaxu presented in an enclosed arena in Thalidei. "No match for my Sardaukar or Muad'Dib's Fedaykin, but I do see considerable skills out there. Emperor Shaddam may find them acceptable for his secret army."

"Ah, hm-m-m-m," Count Fenring said, sitting next to Margot in the spectator seats of the combat area. "That was a nice parry from the tall, bearded one." They watched a hundred uniformed soldiers engage in practice matches with an array of simulated weapons that left marks on their opponents to show "kills" and "wounds." They were using swords, stunners, knives, darts, and projectile simulators.

"And the man in red just made a decent thrust against his opponent, but they're half a step slow," Lady Margot pointed out.

Dr. Ereboam nodded knowingly. "When we have finished honing them, they will successfully compete against Sardaukar and Fedaykin, because they begin with the same raw material. Their minds remember nothing of their past lives, but their bodies remember their training. Our battlefield harvesters take cells from fallen warriors, even intact bodies if they are reparable. These gholas have the same muscle reflexes and superior potential as the most celebrated fighters. They are are the most celebrated fighters." the most celebrated fighters."

"Hmmm, I would submit that any soldier who does not survive survive a battle is not, ahh, by definition, the best fighter." a battle is not, ahh, by definition, the best fighter."

The albino researcher scowled. "These are the best of the best, those who not only possessed superior skills, but who died bravely. These resurrected fighters can become a spectacular army for Emperor Shaddam - an army that Muad'Dib knows nothing about. They appear on no census rolls, their names no longer exist. Provided we can smuggle them to Salusa Secundus, they will seem to have appeared out of thin air."

Garon nodded seriously. "I will inform the Emperor of what you offer. As gholas, none of them fear death. Yes, they can be fierce, indeed."

Though Fenring was loathe to partic.i.p.ate in any more of Shaddam's schemes that were bound to fail, he had to admit that this one showed a certain measure of promise. He feared, however, that the fallen Emperor would never truly understand how different and formidable a foe Muad'Dib was, with his fanatical armies that felt no sense of self-preservation.

Count Fenring and Lady Margot knew their own plans for Marie were much more likely to succeed than Shaddam's tiresome schemes to restore himself to power. Even at her young age, Marie had outwitted and outfought the deranged Thallo. The Tleilaxu were quite dismayed after the disaster, but Fenring did not need their flawed Kwisatz Haderach candidate for his own success.

Yes, the little girl's skills were developing nicely.

Fenring watched as a mock town appeared at the center of the enclosed arena; building facades emerged from places of concealment in the floor. The ghola soldiers divided into two squadrons designated by red or blue waist sashes, then faced off on the faux town streets and alleys, firing marker darts at one another. None of them spoke a word.

"My Marie could defeat the whole pack of them down there," Count Fenring mused. "You'll have to do better than that, Doctor."

Ereboam let out a shrill, scoffing sound. "Against so many trained opponents she would not stand a chance!"

"Oh, she would stand a chance all right," Lady Margot agreed. "But perhaps saying she could kill a hundred warrior gholas is a bit too boastful. I am confident she could eliminate a dozen of them, however."

"Yes," Fenring said, correcting himself. "Make it fifteen."

Bashar Garon seemed deeply disturbed by the suggestion. "That little girl? Against hardened warriors? She can't be more than seven years old."

"Ahh-hm-mm, she is six," Fenring said. "And her age is not the question here, only her skill level." He lowered his voice, adding a dangerous undertone. "Perhaps I should send her her to Shaddam's court. Our dear Emperor would find her far more difficult to kill than my dear cousin Dalak." to Shaddam's court. Our dear Emperor would find her far more difficult to kill than my dear cousin Dalak."

He had not loved Wensicia's husband, or even known him well, but the fool had indeed been a member of Fenring's family. When Garon reported the "unfortunate incident" of Dalak's death - first telling Shaddam's lie, then admitting to the dishonorable truth - the Count had been extremely annoyed. He could not ignore the insult, even for the sake of his supposed childhood friend. For his own part, the Bashar remained offended by many of Shaddam's recent actions, and Dalak's murder was only one of them.

One more reason not to a.s.sist Shaddam, one more reason to despise the man's inept.i.tude. Fenring had half a mind to expand his plot and exterminate the Corrinos as well as Muad'Dib. Kill them to the last man, woman, and child. Burn their planets. Wipe them off the map of the universe.

Maybe later. With Marie on the throne, it would be done. Everything in its time. Everything in its time. Muad'Dib was the true enemy. Shaddam was just... irrelevant. Muad'Dib was the true enemy. Shaddam was just... irrelevant.

"Why don't we let the child demonstrate her abilities against Dr. Ereboam's ghola soldiers?" Fenring said, intentionally taunting the albino researcher. Right now, he needed an outlet for his rage. Marie waited nearby, alone in a game room. Since killing Thallo, she no longer had a playmate.

"Do you seriously wish to pit your girl against a dozen trained ghola soldiers?" Garon asked, in disbelief.

"Fifteen," Fenring said. He knew that in private training sessions she had already proved herself more than capable of handling such a challenge. "Mmm, yes, that should be fair enough."

MARIE'S EYES FLASHED dangerously as she was led into a small indoor combat arena. She had been told it was time to play. Fenring felt a rush of adrenaline as he smiled at her, feeling complete confidence in the sweet little girl.

Lady Margot seemed just as eager. "Now you shall see what a Bene Gesserit child can do when seasoned with my husband's advice, and a dash of Tleilaxu Twisting techniques. She has a far broader skill set than any previous a.s.sa.s.sin."

Fifteen uniformed ghola fighters chosen by Ereboam had already been sent into the combat room and armed with real weapons, at the insistence of the Fenrings. The Count patted Marie on her blonde head and handed the girl a dagger. "This is all you should need, hmmm?" He bent down to kiss her forehead.

"It's all I need."

Margot kissed her daughter's cheek before sending her into the enclosed arena. The muscular, fully grown soldiers faced Marie, looking at the girl in uneasy confusion as the door sealed, leaving the observers outside.

"Now," Margot said, using the implacable command of Voice, "extinguish all the lights. She will fight in complete darkness."

"Hmm-ah, yes," Fenring agreed, his eyes sparkling. "That should make it more of a challenge."

THE COUNT COULD see that Bashar Garon was alarmed to hear a flurry of commotion on the combat floor - darts flying and weapons clashing, cries of surprise and pain from the ghola fighters. Several screamed as they died. The darkness remained absolute.

He smiled to himself and gripped Lady Margot's hand on her lap. He felt her pulse quicken. "Just a little controlled violence," Fenring said to the Sardaukar commander, as if to ease Garon's concerns.

"But they are so many and she is so small," the Bashar said.

Men continued to cry out, and then everything fell eerily silent. Thirty seconds later, the lights went back on.

On the floor, Marie stood looking up at the viewing area. Motionless bodies lay at her feet - the best fighters that the Tleilaxu had to offer. At some point she had discarded her dagger; the girl was speckled with blood on her hands, feet, and face. Count Fenring was still struck by how small and innocent she looked. He couldn't have been prouder. "Amazing," Garon said.

"A waste of our best gholas," Dr. Ereboam added bitterly.

"Perhaps you need to start with better genetic material," Lady Margot said with an edge of sarcasm.

Fenring watched the other Tleilaxu Masters conferring among themselves in their rude, secret tongue. He didn't care what they were saying. Their body language revealed enough.

Marie had functioned with deadly precision, synthesizing the wealth of teachings she had been given. With a thrill of fear, he wondered if the girl might be able to best even him. Fenring turned to his wife and saw that her eyes held a sheen of unshed tears. Joyful tears, he thought.

He said tersely, "She is ready."

A written "fact" is considered innately more true than spoken gossip or hearsay, but physical doc.u.ments have no greater claim to accuracy than an anecdote from an actual eyewitness.

-GILBERTUS ALBANS, Mentat Discourses on History Discourses on History

The Imperium reeled from the impact of the violence in the Celestial Audience Chamber, and the people's reactionary anger displayed itself in increasingly deadly raids on new planets. The jihadis demanded retribution on Muad'Dib's behalf, and many innocent populations paid the price.

Worse, Irulan watched Paul turn a blind eye to the unjust bloodshed.

No one of importance paid any attention to the death of her sister. Rugi was merely a name on a list of casualties, and few people remarked on the fact that she was the youngest daughter of the Padishah Emperor, a man once described as "the Ruler of a Million Planets." The spotlight of history focused only upon Muad'Dib and the ever-mounting violence around him. House Corrino had become no more than a footnote in history... just as Swordmaster Bludd had vowed not to be.

But Irulan could not drive away the memory of holding her sister's body in her arms, and she allowed herself a flash of hatred for Paul, because he had not cared about her grief. Had not even noticed noticed it. it.

Preoccupied with his new crackdowns and increased security after the threat, Paul did not acknowledge her her universe of pain. How hardened he had become! How brutal, steely, and inflexible. Perhaps those were valid traits for the revered G.o.dlike leader of a galaxy... but not for a human being. She could not help but feel bitter. universe of pain. How hardened he had become! How brutal, steely, and inflexible. Perhaps those were valid traits for the revered G.o.dlike leader of a galaxy... but not for a human being. She could not help but feel bitter.

According to reports, her father had wailed with grief when he learned the news. He had fooled few people with his crocodile tears, but he had certainly gained some sympathy. Poor Shaddam had dutifully sent his youngest and "most beloved" daughter to attend the Great Surrender ceremony, and Muad'Dib had allowed her to be killed! Her father was certainly shrewd to use the tragedy to build momentum, possibly as a lever in another bid for power.

The Corrino Princess suspected that he had already sent emissaries to find Earl Thorvald, calling upon familial connections, asking the brother of her father's "dear but regrettably lost" fifth wife, Firenza. Irulan thought he might even succeed, for a while at least.

Irulan once again took control over her emotions, using her Sisterhood training to discover a resolve that allowed her to balance her conflicting roles. She was not permitted direct influence in the government. She was not a true wife. She was not Paul's lover.

But she was still his wife, and the daughter of an Emperor.

Paul knew her worth, from her writing ability to her knowledge of politics. She had nearly finished writing his early-life ordeals during the War of a.s.sa.s.sins, and, like Scheherazade, Irulan would continue to make herself indispensable. His followers devoured any glimpse into his life, his philosophy, his vision for them, for Dune, and for all inhabited planets. His mother, after all, had been a Bene Gesserit. He knew full well the value of mythmaking.

Irulan's quarters, with the adjacent offices, solarium, and enclosed dry-climate garden, had been specifically designed to be conducive to her writing. She had plenty of light, meditation areas, uninterrupted concentration, secretaries if she needed them. By Muad'Dib's command, historical doc.u.ments were surrendered to her; friends of House Atreides, eyewitnesses to events, even former rivals were strongly encouraged to grant the Princess any interviews she desired.

Irulan promised herself that one day she would also tell the story of her own upbringing in the Imperial household and find a way to make the death of poor Rugi meaningful. With each pa.s.sing day the next ma.n.u.script neared completion....

Three Fedaykin guards marched into the enclosed garden where she sat at a small table surrounded by shigawire spools and a reader, filmbooks, and clean spice paper on which to take notes. She looked up, surprised to see Paul himself coming toward her.

Other than the silent guards, they had no audience, so she felt no need to be overly formal. "Husband, it is quite an unexpected event when you decide to visit me in my private wing."

"I have paid too little attention to your writings," he said in a voice as flat as the blade of a Sardaukar's dagger. "There is great unrest, and I am anxious for you to release the next chapter of my story. Nevertheless, I must be careful about what you publish. This time, I will read it more closely."

"To censor it?" She feigned indignation, but she had never expected to complete the work without interference.

"To read it. You know well enough what you should and should not say. I trust you that much."

Paul stood before her waiting, not at all relaxed, while Irulan remained seated at her table surrounded by the paraphernalia of the project. The three guards seemed decidedly uncomfortable that she did not throw herself to the ground and abase herself before him. She smiled at this. "I think you should appoint me your official Minister of Propaganda."

"You already serve the role - and you do it well." His eyes narrowed. "Though I am not entirely certain why you do it. You are a ghanima, ghanima, a prize I won in battle. You cannot revere me as a husband, and I don't think you l.u.s.t after power for its own sake. What is your real motive?" a prize I won in battle. You cannot revere me as a husband, and I don't think you l.u.s.t after power for its own sake. What is your real motive?"

"I am a scribe of history, my Husband."

"No historian is without an agenda. That is why no genuine truth is ever recorded. Is it your wish that I believe you are loyal to me - to the exclusion of your family and the Sisterhood - that you wholeheartedly accept your role? You have no hidden agenda, no scheme?"

Irulan looked down at her notes, giving herself a chance to marshal her thoughts. "Ask yourself that question, Paul Atreides. Function as a Mentat. Why would I remain secretly loyal to House Corrino, to my father? He failed. Why would I follow the secret instructions of the Bene Gesserit? They failed, too. Where do I have the most to gain? As your loyal wife. your loyal wife. Look at me, ask the question, and decide for yourself where I should invest my efforts." She watched him follow the logic. Look at me, ask the question, and decide for yourself where I should invest my efforts." She watched him follow the logic.

He bent over the table, picked up a few pages from the stack of papers on which she had been writing, and skimmed them, his eyes darting with the speed of static electricity. Then he picked up the entire ma.n.u.script.

"Before long, I will depart. I feel the need to ... go on a meditative retreat after the recent terrible events. In the meantime, Korba will read this."

Irulan gave him a mirthless smile. "Korba sees what he wants to see."

Paul handed the ma.n.u.script to one of the guards, who took it as if the pages contained either holy scripture or incriminating evidence. "Yes, he is predictable. But useful because of that."

And so am I, so am I, Irulan thought. Irulan thought.

PART VI Young Paul Atreides 10,187 AG

In the jungles of Caladan, Paul Atreides learned the value of ferocity, of going after his enemies instead of letting them pursue him. From our current perspective, this must be seen as one of the factors that made him the most aggressive Emperor in the long history of the Imperium. He accepted the necessity of pursuing his enemies and killing them without a modic.u.m of compa.s.sion or regret.

In his first experience of actual war, joining his father on the battlefields of Grumman, Paul saw how violence could infect men with irrationality, how hatred could extinguish reason. And he came to understand that the most dangerous enemy is not the man with the most weapons, but the man with the least to lose.

-A Child's History of Muad'Dib by the PRINCESS IRULAN by the PRINCESS IRULAN

A sharp edge does not automatically make a sword a good weapon. Only the wielder can do that.

-Swordmaster credo

When he and Duncan rejoined the Atreides troops on Ecaz before the combined force departed for Grumman, Paul proudly wore a new Atreides uniform. After surviving in the wilds of Caladan, the young man took care to present himself properly to his father, without looking like a popinjay or a cadet who had never felt dirt under his fingernails. Paul had noticed that none of the veterans, such as Duncan and Gurney, looked overly overly polished. They had a hardened, professional appearance, and their weapons were worn from use and frequent cleaning. Not gaudy, but perfectly serviceable. polished. They had a hardened, professional appearance, and their weapons were worn from use and frequent cleaning. Not gaudy, but perfectly serviceable.

He and Duncan went to the landing field outside the Ecazi Palace, where the Atreides and Ecazi armies prepared for their primary strike against Hundro Moritani. This combined fighting force would be more than enough to crush the Grumman leader and avenge those who had been killed by the Viscount's ruthless schemes.

Paul and Duncan found Duke Leto standing in the shadow of the Atreides private frigate. The young man couldn't wait to tell him what he had been through. He wondered if the Duke would shed a tear upon learning of his mother's death....

Leto surveyed his troops from the base of the embarkation ramp. In an instant, Paul noted the extra shadows around his father's eyes. The scars on the n.o.bleman's heart had never healed from the deaths of Victor and Kailea, and the tragedy of his friend Rhombur. The murder of Ilesa had opened fresh wounds and, studying his father now, Paul saw a new haunted look. Duke Leto had been through his own ordeal here on Ecaz.

He embraced Paul, but seemed hesitant to show his relief and joy. He smiled at the Swordmaster. "Duncan, you've kept my son safe."

"As you commanded, my Lord."

As the clamor of activity continued around them, with soldiers checking weapons and hustling aboard frigates, following their sub-commanders, Paul and Duncan told their stories. In turn Leto told them how he had killed Prad Vidal by his own hand. He seemed to take no pride in it. "That is what a War of a.s.sa.s.sins is all about, Paul. Only the correct combatants face death, not innocents."