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
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.
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
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
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:
Brian Herbert (at right), the son of Frank Herbert, is the author of multiple
