The Winds of Dune (3 page)

The muscular gaze hounds, with gold-green eyes, wide set and bright, had vision as acute as an eagle’s, and a keen sense of smell. Protected by thick coats of russet and gray fur, the beasts splashed across brackish puddles, ripped through pampas grass, and howled like a choir performing for the tone deaf. The joy of the hunt was palpable in their actions.

Gurney loved his hounds. Years ago, he had kept another six dogs, but had been forced to put them down when they contracted the bloodfire virus. Jessica herself had given him these puppies to raise, and he resisted placing himself in a risky emotional position again, resolving not to become attached, considering the pain of losing all those other dogs.

That old grief was nothing compared to what he felt now. Paul Atreides, the young Master, was dead. . . .

Gurney stumbled as he lagged behind the hounds. He paused to catch his breath, closed his eyes for just a moment, then ran on after
the baying dogs. He had no real interest in the hunt, but he needed to get away from the castle, from Jessica, and especially from Isbar and his Qizarate cronies. He could not risk losing control in front of others.

Gurney Halleck had served House Atreides for most of his life. He had helped to overthrow the Tleilaxu and reclaim Ix for House Vernius, before Paul’s birth; later he’d fought at Duke Leto’s side against Viscount Moritani during the War of Assassins; he had tried to protect the Atreides against Harkonnen treachery on Arrakis; and he had served Paul throughout the years of his recent Jihad, until retiring from the fight and coming here to Caladan. He should have known the difficulties were not over.

Now Paul was gone. The young Master had walked into the desert . . . blind and alone. Gurney had not been there for him. He wished he had remained on Dune, despite his antipathy toward the constant slaughter. So selfish of him to abandon the Jihad and his own responsibilities! Paul Atreides, Duke Leto’s son, had needed him in the epic struggle, and Gurney turned his back on that need.

How can I ever forget that, or overcome the shame?

Splashing through sodden clumps of swamp grasses, he abruptly came upon the gaze hounds barking and yelping where a gray-furred marsh hare had wedged its bristly body into a crack under a mossy limestone overhang. The seven dogs sat back on their haunches, waiting for Gurney, fixated on where the terrified hare huddled, out of reach but unable to escape.

Gurney withdrew his hunting pistol and killed the hare instantly and painlessly with one shot to the head. He reached in and pulled out the warm, twitching carcass. The perfectly behaved gaze hounds observed him, their topaz eyes gleaming with alert fascination. Gurney tossed the animal to the ground and, when he gave a signal, the dogs fell upon the fresh kill, snapping at the flesh as if they had not eaten in days. A quick, predatory violence.

A flash of one of the bloody battlefields of the Jihad crossed Gurney’s memory vision, and he blinked it away, relegating those sights to the past, where they belonged.

But there were other memories he could not suppress, the things he would miss about Paul, and he felt his warrior self breaking down, crumbling. Paul, who had been such a huge, irreplaceable part of his
life, had faded into the expanse of desert, like a Fremen raider evading Harkonnens. This time, Paul would not be coming back.

As he watched the gaze hounds tear the meat apart, Gurney felt as if parts of himself had been torn away, leaving raw and gaping wounds.

That night, when Castle Caladan lay dark and quiet, the servants retired, leaving Jessica to mourn in private. But she could not sleep, could not find peace in an empty bedchamber that echoed with cold silence.

She felt off balance, adrift. Due to her Bene Gesserit training, the valves of her emotions had been rusted shut with disuse, especially after Leto’s death, after she had turned her back on Arrakis and returned here.

But Paul was her son!

With a silent tread, Jessica glided down the castle’s corridors to the doorway of Gurney’s private chambers. She paused, wanting someone to talk to. She and Gurney could relate their common loss and consider what to do now, how to help Alia hold the already strained empire together until Paul’s children came of age. What sort of future could they create for those infant twins? The winds of Dune—the politics and desert storms—could strip a person’s flesh down to the bone.

Before she knocked at the heavy door, Jessica was surprised to hear strange sounds coming from within—wordless animal noises. She realized with a start that Gurney was sobbing. Alone and in private, the stoic troubadour warrior unleashed his sorrow with an unsettling abandon.

Jessica was even more disturbed to realize that her own grief was not nearly so deep or uncontrolled: It was somewhere far away, out of her reach. The lump inside her was hard and heavy. And numb. She didn’t know how to access the emotions beneath. The very idea upset her.
Why can’t I feel it the way he does?

Hearing Gurney’s private sorrow, Jessica wanted to go in and offer comfort, but she knew that would shame him. The troubadour warrior would never want her to see his naked sentiments. He would consider it a weakness. So she withdrew, leaving him to his own grief.

Unsteady on her feet, Jessica searched within herself, but encountered only hardened barriers that surrounded her sadness and prevented a real emotional release.
Paul was my son!

As she returned to her chambers in the dead of night, Jessica quietly cursed the Bene Gesserit Sisterhood. Damn them! They had stripped away a mother’s ability to feel the proper anguish at losing her child.

The beginning of a reign, or a regency, is a fragile time. Alliances shift, and people circle like carrion birds, hunting for the new leader’s weaknesses. Sycophants tell leaders what they wish to hear, not what they
need
to hear. The beginning is a time for clarity and hard decisions, because those decisions set the tone for the entire reign.

—
ST. ALIA OF THE KNIFE

T
he envoy from Shaddam IV arrived less than a month after Paul vanished into the desert. Alia was astonished at how swiftly the exiled Corrino Emperor acted.

Because the representative was so rushed, however, he had only a sketchy knowledge of the situation. The man knew that the twins had been born, that Chani had died in childbirth, that Paul had surrendered to his blindness and vanished into the sandy wastelands. But he was unaware of the many dire decisions Alia had made since then. He did not know that the Steersman Edric and Reverend Mother Mohiam had both been executed, along with Korba the Panegyrist. The envoy did not know that Shaddam’s daughter Irulan was being held in a death cell, her fate undecided.

Alia chose to receive the man in an interior chamber with walls of thick plasmeld. Bright glowglobes flooded the room with garish yellow illumination, not unlike the lighting in an interrogation chamber. She had asked Duncan and Stilgar to sit on either side of her; the long table’s veneer of blue obsidian made its polished surface look like a window into the depths of a distant ocean.

Stilgar growled, “We have not even announced formal plans for
Muad’Dib’s funeral, and this lackey comes like a vulture drawn to fresh meat. Official Landsraad representatives haven’t arrived from Kaitain yet.”

“It’s been a month.” Alia adjusted the sheathed crysknife that she always kept hanging on a thong around her neck. “And the Landsraad has never moved quickly.”

“I don’t know why Muad’Dib bothered to keep them in the first place. We don’t need their meetings and memoranda.”

“They are a vestige of the old government, Stilgar. The forms must be obeyed.” She herself hadn’t decided how much of a role, if any, she would let the Landsraad nobles have in her Regency. Paul had not actually tried to eliminate them, but he had paid them little attention. “The main question is—considering the travel times, and the fact that we did not dispatch any notice whatsoever to Salusa Secundus—how did their emissary get here so swiftly? Some spy must have rushed off within the first few days. How could Shaddam have already put a plan in place . . . if it is a plan?”

Brow furrowed with thought, Duncan Idaho sat upright in his chair as if he had forgotten how to relax. The man’s dark curly hair and wide face had become so familiar to Alia, who remembered him with a double vision—the old Duncan from the memories she’d obtained from her mother, superimposed over Alia’s own experiences with the ghola named Hayt. His metal, artificial eyes—a jangling, discordant note on his otherwise human features—served to remind her of the new Duncan’s dual origin.

The Tleilaxu had made their ghola into a Mentat, and now Duncan drew upon those cerebral abilities to offer a summation. “The conclusion is obvious: Someone in the exiled Corrino court—perhaps Count Hasimir Fenring—was
already prepared to act
on the assumption that the original assassination plot would succeed. Although the conspiracy failed, Paul Atreides is still gone. The Corrinos acted swiftly to fill the perceived power vacuum.”

“Shaddam will try to snatch back his throne. We should have killed him here when we had him prisoner after the Battle of Arrakeen,” Stilgar said. “We must be ready when he makes his move.”

Alia sniffed. “Maybe I’ll have the envoy take Irulan’s head back to
her father.
That
message would never be misconstrued.” Even so, she knew that Paul would never have sanctioned Irulan’s execution, despite her clear, if peripheral, role in the conspiracy.

“Such an act would have grave, far-reaching consequences,” Duncan warned.

“You disagree?”

Duncan raised his eyebrows, exposing more of the eerie eyes. “I did not say that.”

“I would take satisfaction in throttling that fine Imperial neck,” Stilgar admitted. “Irulan has never been our friend, though she now insists she truly loved Muad’Dib. She may be saying that just to save her body’s water.”

Alia shook her head. “In that she speaks the truth—Irulan reeks of it. She did love my brother. The question is whether to keep her as a tool whose worth has not yet been proven, or to waste her on a symbolic gesture that we cannot retract.”

“Maybe we should wait and hear what the envoy has to say?” Duncan suggested.

Alia nodded and her imposing amazon guards led a statuesque and self-important man named Rivato through the winding passages of the fortress citadel to the brightly lit meeting room. Though the route was direct, the sheer length of the walk had confused and flustered him. Shutting him inside the thick-walled chamber with Alia and her two companions, the female guards stationed themselves outside in the dusty passageway.

Composing himself with an effort, the Salusan envoy bowed deeply. “Emperor Shaddam wishes to express his sorrow at the death of Paul-Muad’Dib Atreides. They were rivals, yes, but Paul was also his son-in-law, wed to his eldest daughter.” Rivato glanced around. “I had hoped Princess Irulan might join us for this discussion?”

“She is otherwise occupied.” Alia briefly considered throwing this man into the same death cell. “Why are you here?”

They had placed no empty chair on the opposite side of the blue obsidian table—an intentional oversight that forced Rivato to remain on his feet as he faced the three inquisitors, and kept him off balance and uncomfortable. He bowed again to hide the flicker of unease that
crossed his face. “The Emperor dispatched me instantly upon learning the news, because the entire Imperium faces a crisis.”