The Winds of Dune - By Brian Herbert & Kevin J. Anderson Page 0,2

know, without delay.”

The Qizara fumbled with his story. “You know of the ghola who was a gift to Muad’Dib from the Tleilaxu and the Guild? He turned out to be a weapon, an assassination tool created from the slain body of a faithful Atreides retainer.”

Jessica had heard of the ghola grown from Duncan Idaho’s dead cells, but had always assumed him to be some sort of exotic performer or Jongleur mimic.

“Hayt had the appearance and mannerisms of Duncan Idaho, but not the memories,” the priest continued. “Though programmed to kill Muad’Dib, his true personality surfaced and defeated the alter ego, and through that crisis he became the true Duncan Idaho again. Now he aids the Imperial Regent Alia.”

At first, the idea amazed her—Duncan, truly alive and aware again?—then her focus returned to the most pressing question. “Enough distractions, Isbar. I need more details about what happened to my son.”

The priest kept his head bowed, which muffled his voice. “They say that through prescience, Muad’Dib knew the tragedies that would befall him, but could do nothing to prevent what he called his ‘terrible purpose.’ That knowledge destroyed him. Some say that at the end he was truly blind, without any future sight, and he could no longer bear the grief.” The Qizara paused, then spoke with greater confidence. “But I believe, as do many others, that Muad’Dib knew it was his time, that he felt the call of Shai-Hulud. His spirit is still out there on the sands, forever intertwined with the desert.”

Gurney wrestled with his sorrow and anger, clenching and unclenching his fists. “And you all just let him walk off into the dunes, blind?”

“That’s what blind Fremen are compelled to do, Gurney,” Jessica said.

Isbar straightened. “One does not ‘let’ Muad’Dib do a thing, Gurney Halleck. He knows the will of God. It is not for us to understand what he chooses to do.”

Gurney would not let the matter drop so easily. “And were searches made? Did you attempt to find him? Was his body recovered?”

“Many ’thopters flew over the desert, and many searchers probed the sands. Alas, Muad’Dib has vanished.” Isbar bowed reverently.

Gurney’s eyes were shining as he turned to Jessica. “Given his skills in the desert, my Lady, he might have survived. Paul could have found a way.”

“Not if he didn’t want to survive.” She shook her head, then looked sharply at the priest. “What of Stilgar? What is his part in this?”

“Stilgar’s loyalty is beyond question. The Bene Gesserit witch, Korba, and the Steersman died by his hand. He remains on Dune as liaison to the Fremen.”

Jessica tried to imagine the uproar that would occur across the Imperium. “And when did all this happen? When was Paul last seen?”

“Twenty-seven days ago,” Isbar said.

Gurney roared in astonishment. “Almost a month! By the infinite hells, what took you so long to get here?”

The priest backed away from the man’s anger, bumping into members of the entourage. “We needed to make the proper arrangements and gather a party of appropriate importance. It was necessary to obtain a sufficiently impressive Guild ship to bring this terrible news.”

Jessica felt pummeled by blow after blow. Twenty-seven days—and she hadn’t known, hadn’t guessed. How had she not sensed the loss of her son?

“There is one more thing, my Lady, and we are all disturbed by it,” Isbar added. “Bronso of Ix continues to spread lies and heresy. He was captured once while Muad’Dib was alive, but he escaped from his death cell. Now the news of your son’s death has emboldened him. His blasphemous writings demean the sacred memory of the Messiah. He distributes treatises and manifestos, seeking to strip Muad’Dib of his greatness. We must stop him, my Lady. As the mother of the Holy Emperor, you—”

Jessica cut him off. “My son is dead, Isbar. Bronso has been producing his tracts for seven years and you haven’t been able to stop him—so his complaints are hardly news. I have no time for trivial conversation.” She rose abruptly. “This audience is at an end.”

Yes, I am haunted by memories from my past, but not all of them are sad. I recall many joyous times with Paul Atreides—Paul, not Muad’Dib, mind you. As I consider those times now, I feel like a man who has been served many fine banquets.

—GURNEY HALLECK, “Memories and Ghosts,” Unfinished Songs

Scenting prey, the gaze hounds bayed, and Gurney ran with them. The cool air of that afternoon burned his lungs as he crashed through the underbrush, subconsciously trying to run