Brian Herbert - Paul of Dune

At first, Irulan seemed to think that her Bene Gesserit seduction techniques would let her slip easily into Paul’s bed and produce an heir binding the Corrino and Atreides bloodlines — almost certainly at the orders of the Bene Gesserit Sisterhood. But thus far in his reign he had been immune to her tricks. Chani possessed all of his heart and all of his love.

Thwarted in her primary goal, Irulan followed instead the basic tenet of the Sisterhood: adapt or die. Thus she had worked to find a new function for herself in the government, and quickly achieved her own fame by publishing The Life of Muad’Dib, Volume 1. It was rapidly written, swiftly published and distributed, and wildly popular. Most of Paul’s Fremen warriors carried well-read copies of her book.

Here, at the downfall of Kaitain, however, the Princess could play a more traditional role.

Crowds followed him everywhere, expecting him to issue some profound announcement at any moment. They had already gathered in front of the Palace.

Perfectly regal and requiring no escort, Irulan came up the polished steps from the plaza level to where Paul stood at the first landing. Stilgar remained at the base of the waterfall of stairs, looking up toward the royal pair. With all the Imperial pride she could manage, Irulan took her place at Paul’s side, dutifully slipping her arm through his. “You summoned me, my Husband?” She seemed exceedingly wary, angry at the destruction she saw around her.

“I needed you here. This is likely to be the last time you will see Kaitain.”

“This is no longer my Kaitain.” She looked around the Palace, clearly unable to reconcile what she saw with what she remembered. “This is a raped and pillaged corpse of what was once the grandest of cities. It will never be the same.”

Paul could not deny her statement. “Wherever Muad’Dib goes, nothing is the same again. Didn’t you write that in your book?”

“I wrote the story you told me. As I interpreted it, of course.”

He gestured toward the crowd. “And here is more of the tale.”

As a special honor, Paul had already given instructions to Kaleff and Orlop, and at his signal they trotted up the stairs, streaming the long banners of his fighting forces: green-and-white, green-and-black. Paul stared out at the sea of faces as the shouts rose to a deafening tumult, then diminished to an anticipatory silence.

“This is Kaitain, and I am the Emperor.” He clasped Irulan’s hand, and she stared stonily ahead. They both knew the reason she had to be there. “But I am much more than the successor to the Padishah Emperor, Shaddam Corrino IV. I am Muad’Dib, and I am unlike any force the galaxy has ever seen.”

Behind them, fire began to catch hold inside the Imperial Palace. Pursuant to his orders, loyal fighters had set blazes at dozens of flashpoints inside the great structure. He had seen this in his visions, and had fought against it, but he had also seen the obligation, the powerful tool of the symbolism here. These fires, at least, would burn out quickly.

Most of the noble Houses had no love for Shaddam and his excesses. Now they would be terrified of Paul-Muad’Dib. The sacking of Kaitain should be enough to shock the rest of the Landsraad into submission, to stop the need for the Jihad before it spread further. He sighed, because his terrifying visions had told him that nothing could stop the full multi-planet iteration of the fanatical war that he had set in motion. He could only make a limited number of choices that would prove most beneficial in the long, long run.

Oh, the immensity of the burden on his shoulders! Only he could see through the curtains of bloodshed, pain, and sorrow. How humanity would hate him… but at least they would survive to hate him.

The crowds watched in awe as flames began to consume the giant Palace. The conflagration grew in force and brilliance, so that Paul stood looking on from the edge of an inferno.

Beside him, Irulan trembled. “I shall never forgive you for this, Paul Atreides. The Corrinos will never forgive you.” She said more, but her words were drowned out by the background roar of the crowd and the crackling of the growing fire.

He leaned close and said with great sorrow, “I did not ask for anyone’s forgiveness.” Then Muad’Dib turned to the crowd again and shouted as the fire grew more intense. “This Palace was a symbol of the old regime. Like everything else about the decadent old Imperium, it must be swept aside. Kaitain is no longer the capital. Dune is our capital now. And in Arrakeen I command that a new Palace be built, one to dwarf the grandest works of all previous rulers.”

Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the legacy of Shaddam IV going up in fire and smoke. The construction of his own new palace would require great sacrifices, an unparalleled workforce, and unimaginable wealth.

Even so, he had no doubt whatsoever that his grand vision would be accomplished.

Shaddam Corrino glared at the face that looked back at him from the gold-framed mirror, noting the clear signs of age beyond his actual years. His father, the vulturish Elrood IX, had been 157 years old when Shaddam and Fenring had finally poisoned him. I am less than half that old!

Age implied weakness. Only a few years ago, there might have been some gray hairs mixed with the red, though not enough for him to notice. But since his exile to this dismal world, the gray had become much more prominent. Perhaps it was caused by some taint in the air or water. He had considered coloring his hair, but could not decide whether that would make him appear stronger, or merely vain.

Back when he was the Padishah Emperor, Shaddam had prided himself on his youthful appearance and energy; he’d had many court concubines and several disappointing wives since the death of Anirul. But, sadly, all of that was gone, and he felt as if most of the life had been sucked out of him. Now, simply seeing the lines on his face made him feel tired. Even melange could not prolong his life forever, perhaps not even long enough for him to regain the Lion Throne. Nevertheless, four of his daughters had accompanied him into exile, and they would bear grandchildren for him, even if Irulan did not. One way or another, the Corrino line would endure.

An Atreides upstart dares to call himself Emperor!

He feared that Irulan had become one of them, though he could not be certain of her role. Was she an insider who could help him, or a willing participant who had betrayed her father? Was she a hostage? Why would she not improve the lot of her own family? And that damnable book she had written, glorifying the “heroic” life of Paul-Muad’Dib Atreides! Even the witches were in an uproar over that.

No matter. He could not imagine that the usurper’s government would endure, based as it was on religious nonsense and primitive fanaticism. The Landsraad wouldn’t stand for it, and though many noblemen already cowered, the rest would stand together. Soon enough, they would call him back to the throne to restore order. More than ten thousand years of history and eighty-one Corrino emperors since the end of the Butlerian Jihad, a galactic Imperium spanning uncounted star systems… now being overrun by unsophisticated desert people who still called themselves tribes! It sickened him. From Golden Age to Dark Age in a single reign.

And here am I, ruling a world nobody wants.

Shaddam left the mirror and its disappointing image, going instead to a large faux window, with a view transmitted from external imagers. The Salusan sky was sickly orange, dotted with the dark shapes of carrion birds that were constantly on the alert for scant prey.