Paul of Dune hod-1

by Brian Herbert

After pausing to catch his breath, Paul spoke in a surprisingly strong voice. “Find substitute… quarters for the Count and his Lady. They do not need to be comfortable, but ensure that they are not harmed — until I give specific instructions.”

  15

  The most important battles are always waged inside a leader’s mind. This is the true proving ground of command.

  —from The Wisdom of Muad’Dib by the PRINCESS IRULAN

  Wearing shackles and flanked by four burly guards, Count Fenring stood at the foot of the Lion Throne. His once-fine trousers and coat were wrinkled and soiled, while his white silk shirt was torn and still bloody from the attack on Paul.

  Paul had recovered miraculously — at least he had made it appear so. Already Irulan was working on the story that would add to the mythology of his life, and the people would believe it wholeheartedly, expecting nothing less from Muad’Dib. It would all be part of the growing legend. Princess Irulan now sat beside Paul’s throne with a writing tablet on her lap, but eyewitness accounts of the events had already gotten out.

  Consuming great quantities of melange, he had found the energy to appear in court the following morning, where he sat on his throne and made pronouncements — all to prove that Muad’Dib still had the strength to guide his holy empire. Through prescience and plain common sense, Paul knew the havoc that would result if his followers decided to seek unbridled vengeance on anyone they could think of.

  Paul knew he had to remain alive, not just for his own sake, but for the future of humanity. Paul remembered who he had been when he killed Feyd-Rautha here in a much different version of this room — a determined young man with victory in his hand and an empire at his feet. He had accepted his mantle of supreme command then, despite knowing the dark and dangerous slope that lay ahead of him. No one else could have guessed the full extent of what Paul-Muad’Dib would become. No one, not his mother, nor Gurney, nor Shaddam. Not even Chani, who understood him best.

  From the beginning of his rule, Paul could have given the Imperium a glorious but temporary prosperity. Or he could have chosen ultimately to be seen as a ruthless tyrant. He could have made certain decisions to eliminate turmoil for the immediate future, to foster peace, to administer the government in such a way that all his subjects would love him. Had he handled it differently, history would have painted a favorable portrait of him… for a few generations, maybe even for millennia.

  But that way was a dead end.

  In his heart, he would much rather have lived in peace with Chani. Given different choices, he could have been like Duke Leto Atreides, beloved by all, fair to all, wise and honored for who he truly was. Instead, obeying no one but himself and the guidance of his prescience, he had sacrificed his personal happiness and the present to save the future. Thus Paul became not what he wanted to be, but what he needed to be… and what humankind needed him to be.

  As Muad’Dib, he had taken the guilt upon himself by allowing the sacrifice of billions in order to save trillions. And only he fully understood it. He could not place the blame for this on anyone else, and so he accepted the burden and steeled himself to continue doing what needed to be done.

  Now he sat in judgment over Count Hasimir Fenring, boon companion of the fallen Emperor Shaddam IV. This man had tried to kill him.

  “Ah, hm-m-m-m, I suppose this means you will not be offering me your finest wine again?” Fenring infused his words with bravado and impertinent humor, but his demeanor betrayed uncertainty. His large eyes flicked from side to side, taking in the Fedaykin guards, Stilgar, and the bloodthirsty Chani. He seemed to be wondering which one of them would deal the death blow that was sure to come.

  For a moment Fenring focused on Alia, who was seated on the edge of the dais in a black robe. She looked like a tiny executioner, awaiting the command from her brother. She casually kicked her dangling feet. It was a childlike pose like the one she had struck when Shaddam IV sat on this same throne, just before she surprised and killed the Baron Harkonnen.

  In a way, she looked somewhat like dear Marie….

  “Here on Dune, water is more precious than wine,” Paul said. At a small ornate table beside the Hagal quartz throne, he removed the stopper from a jewel-encrusted ewer. He poured himself a small goblet and another for Fenring. Chani took the cup to the prisoner.

  Eyeing it suspiciously, Fenring lifted his heavily shackled hands and accepted the goblet with brave resignation. “So, you’ve decided on poison, hmm-m?” He sniffed the contents.

  Paul sipped from his own cup. “It is pure water.” He took another drink to demonstrate.

  “It is well known that Muad’Dib can, ahh, convert poisons. This is a trick, isn’t it?”

  “No poison — on my honor. Atreides honor.” Paul locked his gaze with Fenring’s. “Drink with me.”

  Alia poured herself a goblet and quaffed it with obvious relish.

  Fenring scowled down at the liquid in his cup. “I served for many years here on Arrakis, so I know the value of water.” He drank from the goblet, then rudely let it clatter to the floor.

  Paul took another sip. “That was the water distilled from Marie’s body. I wanted you to share it with me.” He casually poured the rest of the liquid on the dais and set aside the goblet, upended.

  Doubling over with sudden nausea, the Count shuddered, then jerked at his shackles as if reaching for a weapon he didn’t have.

  Now Lady Margot Fenring was brought into the chamber to stand beside her husband, with Korba and Stilgar behind her. The Count instantly showed worry, as if his wife’s fate concerned him more than his own. In a traditional Bene Gesserit black robe, Lady Margot still projected the hauteur of a noblewoman, despite the lack of opportunity to groom herself.

  At a gesture from Paul, Alia sprang off the dais and stood in front of Marie’s mother, who gazed down at her with a stony expression. His sister held a long needle in her hand, the deadly gom jabbar. Margot Fenring stiffened, but Alia did not strike. Not yet.

  Showing no weakness despite his injuries, remembering how the one-armed Archduke Armand Ecaz had insisted on going to war against Grumman after the wedding-day massacre, Paul rose from the throne and stepped down from the dais onto the polished floor. His motions were slow, deliberate, and charged with lethal intent. He stood directly in front of Fenring.

  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.”

  16

  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 bestselling 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.

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