Brian Herbert - Paul of Dune

“One drop of it,” Paul had said. “So small… just one drop.”

Even so, it had been enough to plunge him into a coma so deep that he’d lain like a corpse for weeks, in suspended animation. Finally, with the help of both Chani and Jessica he had broken through that impasse, and had emerged able to detect and convert poisons. But that sort of manipulation required great effort and conscious volition.

Alia came rushing back in. Clutching a plaz container, she squirmed past the two medics who were only now entering with emergency-response kits. Alia arrived first, dropping to her knees and extending the jar to Chani. When the Fremen woman unsealed the lid, the bitter alkaloid stench rose up, so powerful it stung her eyes. The Water of Life was perhaps the most potent of toxins known to humankind. But right now, it was what Muad’Dib needed.

Chani touched her finger to the liquid, withdrew a single drop, and gently brushed Paul’s pale lips in a loving gesture, a faint caress. She knew that if she gave him too much, his body would not be able to counteract the chemical; he would go into a deep coma and his valiant heart would stop beating.

After the kiss of the poison, she sensed a new rigidity in his body. The blood finally stopped flowing, but she couldn’t sense him breathing anymore. His eyelids no longer fluttered.

One of the Suk doctors nudged her aside. “Lady Chani, you must let us tend him. We are his only chance.”

The other smelled the poison. “What is that? Take it away! We have no use for Fremen folk medicines.”

The first doctor shook his head. “So much blood. He can’t possibly survive this.” They knelt, felt for a pulse, applied monitors and talked quietly between themselves. “We are too late. He no longer lives.”

There were moans from the guards, while Stilgar looked ready to explode. Irulan actually wept, causing Chani to wonder if the tears were false or real.

Seeking calmness within, Chani simply said to the doctors, “You are mistaken. Muad’Dib survives, but his life is below the threshold of your detection.” When he had undergone the same thing before, many Fremen had also believed him dead. “With the Water of Life, I bought you time. Work your medicine, patch the wound.”

“Lady Chani, there is no point —”

“Do as I command! His body already knows how to fight off the effects of the coma. Act quickly, before the window of opportunity closes.”

ON THE FLOOR of the dining hall the doctors set to work, calling for assistants, more surgical tools, even blood transfusions that would do little if Paul’s heart refused to pump.

Feeling helpless, angry, and vengeful, Irulan watched, an outsider as the pivotal events transpired around her. Chani, Alia, and Stilgar formed a cordon around the wounded Emperor, keeping her away. Irulan did not understand the mystic Fremen ritual Chani had applied, saving Paul by giving him poison, but she did not protest. It certainly could do no harm.

Irulan could not venture close to the Count and Lady Margot either, who by now faced a dozen murderous guards waiting for any excuse to attack. She doubted the couple would survive the next hour if Paul died, and if he died, she would not bother to protect them.

Using a delicate cellular sealant and tissue grafting applied with probes and surgical instruments that were far more precise than an Ixian needlewhip, they attempted to repair the grievous damage caused by the sharp blade.

Irulan did not know how long the silence and tension would last.

One of the Suk doctors mumbled, as though expecting no one would hear him, “This is work more suited for a mortician than a surgeon.” In nearly an hour they had seen not the faintest signs of life. Nevertheless, the doctors worked feverishly until it was clear they had done all they knew how to do.

It was up to Paul now.

At the sight of her husband suffering, Irulan felt stunned and despondent. Princess Irulan’s mother and all her Bene Gesserit instructors would have been surprised at her automatic reaction. She wondered where the cool and politically savvy schemer within her had gone.

For a frightened moment, she considered whether or not she actually felt a flicker of love for him. But that was not a sentiment she could share with anyone — probably not even with him, if he survived.

Her devotion to him was less appreciated than that of a pet. But love? She wasn’t sure.

Beyond her personal concerns, Irulan was shaken by the realization of the horrendous political turmoil that was sure to follow the death of Muad’Dib. With so many factions struggling for the throne — including, surely, her own father trying to reclaim his place — the galaxy would be ripped apart in yet another horrific civil war. When added to the damages of the continuing Jihad, could humanity survive?

Her husband’s first heartbeat came so suddenly and unexpectedly that it startled the two doctors. Then a few seconds of silence, followed by another heartbeat.

And a third. The gaps between beats grew shorter and shorter, and finally the monitors showed a slow but steady pulse.

The Emperor Paul-Muad’Dib came back to life, still weak and barely holding on. Irulan felt fragile herself after the ordeal; her own heart thumped rapidly. This was Muad’Dib — of course he lived!

His eyes flickered open, and that was all Irulan needed to see. She wiped away her tears, and then they flowed anew. Tears of joy? Yes, she decided, and of anger that anyone had attempted this against her husband.

WHEN PAUL FINALLY sat up, his black tunic torn open and soaked with blood, Count Fenring switched off his personal shield and surrendered. His shoulders sagged, and he extended the bloodstained dagger, hilt first. “It appears I have nothing to gain by continued resistance, hmmm?”

Korba, now braver, grabbed the dagger out of Fenring’s hand. The guards rushed forward and seized both the Count and his Lady, binding them in shigawire and removing them from the banquet room. During the distraction of the arrest, Korba surreptitiously slipped the ornate Imperial knife up his own sleeve.

Irulan saw him do it, and knew there was no danger in it. She wondered where the well-traveled weapon would eventually wind up, if it would be stored as a holy relic somewhere or sold to a particularly devout (and wealthy) patron.

Paul insisted on getting to his feet. The doctors helped him, but he preferred to lean on Chani, placing his other hand on Alia’s shoulder. Irulan stood stiff-backed and gazed at him, content in the knowledge that he lived.

After pausing to catch his breath, Paul spoke in a surprisingly strong voice. “Find substitute… quarters for the Count and his Lady. They do not need to be comfortable, but ensure that they are not harmed — until I give specific instructions.”

Wearing shackles and flanked by four burly guards, Count Fenring stood at the foot of the Lion Throne. His once-fine trousers and coat were wrinkled and soiled, while his white silk shirt was torn and still bloody from the attack on Paul.

Paul had recovered miraculously — at least he had made it appear so. Already Irulan was working on the story that would add to the mythology of his life, and the people would believe it wholeheartedly, expecting nothing less from Muad’Dib. It would all be part of the growing legend. Princess Irulan now sat beside Paul’s throne with a writing tablet on her lap, but eyewitness accounts of the events had already gotten out.