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crest of the mountains. Drifting out of the cave, the smell of cool, rock-moist
air was like a refreshing breath.
Kynes plucked out his nose plugs and inhaled deeply, gesturing for his wife to
do the same, though she seemed reluctant to shuck her desert survival instincts.
Then she grinned in amazement as she looked deep into the shadows. "I smell
water, my husband."
He took her arm. "Come with me. This is something I want you to see."
As they rounded a sharp corner whose purpose was to block light and evaporation
from the grotto, Kynes gestured magnanimously to indicate the Eden he had made
in Plaster Basin.
Yellow glowglobes hovered at the ceiling. The air was rich with humidity,
redolent with the scents of flowers, shrubs, trees. The sweet sound of running
water chuckled from narrow grooved troughs. In a carefully arranged appearance
of randomness, flower beds burst with magenta and orange blossoms.
Irrigation systems trickled droplets into algae-packed tanks, while fans stirred
the air to keep the moisture level constant. The grotto was alive with
flittering patches of color, butterflies, moths, and bees, heady with the
treasure of pollen and nectar around them.
Frieth gasped, and for a moment Kynes saw through the porcelain mask of her
face, saw much more than he had ever noticed before. "This is paradise, my
love!"
A hummingbird hovered in front of her with a tiny blur of wings, then darted off
again. In their own euphoria Fremen gardeners moved about, tending the plants.
"One day gardens like this will grow all across Dune, out in the open air. This
is a showcase with growing crops and plants and open water, fruit trees,
decorative flowers, green grasses. We have here a symbol for all Fremen, to
show them my vision. Seeing this, they'll understand what they can accomplish."
Moisture ran down the walls of the cavern, touching parched rock that had known
nothing but thirst for uncounted eons. "Even I did not truly comprehend,"
Frieth said, ". . . until now."
"Do you see why all this is worth fighting for? And dying for?"
Kynes walked around, inhaling the scents of the leaves, sniffing the perfume of
the flowers. He found a tree from which dangled orange globes of ripening
fruit. He plucked one, large and golden. None of the workers would question
his right to the fresh produce.
"A portygul," he said, "one of the fruits I was talking about back at Red Wall
Sietch." He gave it to Frieth as a gift, and she held it reverently in her
tanned hands as the greatest treasure she had ever been offered.
Kynes waved expansively at the enclosed grotto. "Remember this well, my wife.
All the Fremen must see this. Dune, our Dune, can be like this in only a few
centuries."
Even innocents carry within them their own guilt in their own way. No one makes
it through life without paying, in one fashion or another.
-LADY HELENA ATREIDES,
her personal journals
Immediately after hearing the announcement of the first Imperial coronation
ceremony in almost a century and a half, House Atreides began work on their
family preparations. From dawn until the fall of darkness, the servants in
Castle Caladan went from wardrobe to storeroom, gathering the clothing,
trinkets, and gifts necessary for the formal journey to the Imperial Court.
Meanwhile, Leto wandered through his rooms, trying to refine his plan and decide
the best way to obtain a dispensation for Rhombur and Kailea. The new Emperor
Shaddam must hear my plea.
His protocol advisors had bickered for hours over the proper colors of capes,
armbands, and merh-silk tunics . . . whether the jewelry should be gaudy or
understated, expensive imported Ecazi stones or something simpler. Finally,
because of his memorable times with Rhombur, Leto insisted on wearing a small
coral gem suspended in a transparent sphere filled with water.
Kailea desperately wanted to go. Visiting the Palace on Kaitain, where her
mother had once served the Emperor, had been a lifelong dream of hers. Leto
could see the longing in her green eyes, the hope on her face, but still he had
no choice but to forbid it. Rhombur had to accompany the entourage, to make his
family's case, but if they failed, the Vernius heir could be executed for having
left his sanctuary. Kailea's life would be forfeit as well.
If their mission succeeded, though, Leto vowed to take Kailea to the capital
world himself, a glamorous vacation that would be all she imagined it to be.
Now, in the quiet hour before dawn, he paced back and forth on the wooden floors
of his upper room, listening to the old beams creak. It was the comforting
sound of home. How many times had other Dukes paced the same floor pondering
decisions of state? Duke Paulus had undoubtedly done so time and again,
troubled as he was by uprisings of the primitives in the southern continent or
by requests from the Emperor to put out brushfire rebellions on outer worlds.
In those times, Paulus Atreides had first blooded his sword, and had become a
comrade-in-arms with Dominic Vernius.
Throughout his years the Old Duke had served with talent and finesse, knowing
when to be hard and when to be lenient. He had employed the ingredients of
dedication, ethics, and economic stability to create a population devoutly loyal
to and proud of House Atreides.
How could Leto ever hope to do the same?
His voice filled the room. "Father, you left large shoes for me to fill." He
drew a deep breath, angrily forcing away his self-pity. He could do no less
than his very best, for Caladan and for the memory of the Old Duke.
On calmer dawns, he and Rhombur might have gone down to the practice courtyard
to train with knives and shields under the watchful eye of Thufir Hawat. Today,
though, Leto had hoped to get more rest, a hope that hadn't materialized. He'd
slept badly, haunted by the weight of decisions that seemed to make the stones
of the tall Castle grind together under the burden. Far below, the sea crashed
like gnashing teeth -- uneasy water that reflected Leto's churning thoughts.
Wrapping himself in a robe lined with expensive imported whalefur, he cinched
the sash at his waist and padded barefoot down the curving steps toward the main
hall. He smelled bitter coffee brewing and the faint hint of melange that would
be added to his cup. Leto smiled, knowing the cook would insist on the young
Duke receiving an extra boost of energy.
He could hear noises from the distant kitchen, food-prep units being primed,
breakfast being prepared, old-fashioned fires being stoked. The Old Duke had
always preferred real crackling fires in some of the rooms, and Leto had
continued the tradition.
When he passed on bare feet through the Hall of Swords on the way to the banquet
hall, he stopped upon encountering an unexpected person.
The young stableboy, Duncan Idaho, had removed one of Paulus's tall and ornately
carved ceremonial swords from the rack. He held it, point downward, resting
against the flagstoned floor. Though the long weapon was nearly as tall as the
ten-year-old, Duncan gripped its pommel with determination. The inlaid rope
pattern on the hilt gave him all the leverage he needed.
Duncan spun around, startled at being discovered here. Leto's voice caught in
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