Chapter Text
The conquest of Mailiv having ended, your family’s return to Caladan should be a relief.
You know better.
One of the most powerful among the Great Houses of the Landsraad, your family has long been absent from your home world of Caladan. You’ve had to grow in your time on Mailiv. Toil, war, ingratiating yourselves to the people—it had been the emperor’s order. Despite your privileged upbringing, you have known hardship in your past, and your return to Caladan raises questions of your future: if you are to be married, or if you are to join the Bene Gesserit, as they have long wished.
Mailiv is a dark world, with sunlit days that last the length of a kitten’s yawn. Your first day back on Caladan is spent reveling in the light and the temperate breeze. In the following days, you’re swept up in assisting your mother with reopening the house, and making the necessary arrangements.
You father has insisted on giving a banquet. It is a show of what he considers the proper return of the house of Alrion.
You mother is pleased. She has missed finery and luxury in your time on Mailiv—where you’d made shows of living like the common folk, dressing plainly and dwelling in what she deemed a hovel. She has ordered new wardrobes for all of you. She’s insisted that it’s necessary—that you have grown out of the clothing that you wore when you were last on Caladan, that the fashions have changed in the time since you’ve been off-world.
But you suspect your mother’s motives. She hardly takes such actions without a multiplicity of purposes. It was just so with your father, and the banquet. This is not simply about reintroducing you all to Caladan.
This was about your ability to wed a great son of the Landsraad—perhaps even a Harkonnen.
--
He hardly recognizes you.
The last time that Duke Leto Atreides saw you, you had been a sharp and surly youth, bound for a rebellious planet.
You have managed to bloom in the dark of Mailiv.
Your sharpness has not dulled by any degree; from what he can see, you are a blade hewn by the whetstone. Your poise, your ease and strength in the midst of what has become, invariably, a room full of strangers to you, the way that you seem to shine in the dim of your surroundings—
You are a stalwart gem, one that could seal a breach between two of the highest houses of Caladan.
Your father seems to know the same, but doubts your willingness. Leto has always valued your father’s honesty and counsel; an older statesman, he had been a guiding hand as Leto came up through the ranks. Your mother is your father’s second wife; you are their only child, and he is well-aware of your potential and brilliance.
“She has been tested in battle,” He tells Leto, “She has come through, but not unscarred.”
Leto hums, nodding, “Hard-fought and hard-won.”
“Yes,” Your father agrees, “...I fear she will be restless here.”
Leto’s brow furrows, “How so?”
“She’s known tumult for years now. To return to the quiet of the life that she knew before may not be possible.”
Leto chances another glance in your direction. You’re surrounded by your peers—potential suitors, no doubt, and rivals, curious of their newfound competition.
“She seems to take it well.”
Your father shakes his head, reaching for a glass from a passing tray.
“She learned to play a part while off-world,” He excuses.
“Your wife has a plan for her?”
“...Proposals. A couple,” Your father grimaces with the truth of it, “I still have yet to hear them out—though I do not anticipate the girl taking them well, even if one should make it past me.”
“She has no designs on marriage,” Leto surmises.
“And is strong-willed, stubborn. The campaign afforded her liberties that she would not have taken if she had stayed here without us, and taken a place with the Bene Gesserit. I believe she would sooner chew her arm off than offer her hand—and consider it a small price for her freedom.”
As if you can hear them across the cacophonous room, your eyes flit and catch on Leto’s. He holds your gaze, and is surprised when you stall in averting yours. Leto sees someone lean in, murmur in your ear, and you turn your head just enough to indicate that they have your attention. But you watch him still. He sees your eyes narrow slightly, calculating. You take in his garb, his stance, his expression. And then you blink and turn your head fully from him.
Your father has begun speaking again, but Leto has hardly caught it. He turns his head a little toward your father, hears him ask how young Paul progresses in his training and studies—And a genuine smile grows on Leto’s face as he turns fully toward him to answer.
--
You think about the look that the Duke fixed you with for the rest of the evening. You can’t shake it; his eyes were penetrating and dark, and had held you, entranced.
You remember Duke Leto Atreides as a strong man—powerful, brilliant, and, in your few interactions, kind. From what you heard at the party, Atreides is as clever and popular as ever—though he does still have his enemies.
It is no wonder. All those that gain popularity gain enemies.
You absently listen to your mother’s chatter about the success of the evening—the compliments that had wafted your way, the praise that she received for her skill for hosting. You quietly thank your hand-maid for her help in preparing, and express your appreciation to the housekeeper for her diligence throughout the banquet. Your mother brims with pride as they excuse all themselves, leaving you for the evening.
You cannot sleep.
His look is behind your eyes when you close them.
When the house is silent, you stand and dress. You slip into the dark clothing that you wore on Mailiv—the thick, plain fabric kept you warm in the glacial climbs there. You strap a sheathed kindjal around your hips, keeping the blade safely hidden under your long coat. The breeze that slips over you as you leave the house is refreshing. You sigh, reaching out and sliding your fingers along the lush greenery that lines the path away from your home.
--
The river orchards are as calming as you remember. They stand in the shadow of Caladan castle; they were your favorite place to read, to wander and sulk in your time before you left the planet. A light rain has begun to fall on your walk over. You haven’t brought along a hat; your coat has no hood; you’re happy to feel the drops wash over you.
But you have a feeling that you’re being followed.
You keep your steps even, your breathing level—and when your nerves are steady, you reach for your blade, whirling around and brandishing it in an instant. Your blade clashes with another, and your heart jumps at the brief flash that’s ignited, lighting up the Duke’s face. The two of you hold cautiously still for a long moment before you draw away, lowering your weapons. You tuck your knife away again, eyeing Atreides as he does the same.
“The Duke wanders untethered by guards,” You observe. He tips his head to the side.
“The gem of Alrion is armed as though she is still a stranger on hostile ground,” He counters.
Gem.
The moniker makes your hand curl tightly around the hilt of your kindjal, and you have to fight the urge to glare at the head of the Atreides. You know that your houses have long held an alliance, and a differing when you shouldn’t be out in the first place would horrify your family. You turn from the Duke, from his piercing gaze, and continue on your way. You expect it to end there.
But he falls into step beside you. You keep your eyes set firmly ahead of you, though you’re itching to turn and gawk. You’d only observed the man at a distance that afternoon. Even the brief illumination by your blades in such close quarter hadn’t been enough to truly take him in by, though it did bring a brief lumination to the deep pools of his eyes.
“What brings you to the orchards?” He asks.
“...Restlessness,” You answer him truthfully; the source of feeling needn't be divulged. You glance up at the Duke, then:
“I am surprised to find you unattended.”
“The orchards are swept for intruders regularly.”
You nod a little, “And am I considered an intruder?”
The Duke’s chuckle is quiet; a reassurance of, “Of course not, my lady,” Follows swiftly behind.
“Armed as I am?” You press.
“Prudent as you are,” He asserts.
The two of you pass the remainder of your walk in silence, listening to the sound of the rain and the wind rustle the orchard around you. When you return home, you’re drenched from the constant drizzle, and sleepy. The sound of the wind lulls you to sleep; as you close your eyes, you see the Duke’s eyes boring into yours, the depths lit by the clashing of steel.
--
When you next see the Duke, you’re stunned to find him standing with your previous arms master, Callum, at the side of your training grounds.
Callum had trained you when you were young, and had taught you the fighting techniques that had aided you in the conquering and submission of Mailiv. As the Mailivians had fallen in line, your blade had been set away, and your hands taken up softer tools—bolts of cloth to cover those that needed it, bricks to aid in rebuilding what had been lost and broken, shovels and rakes to till at soil to bring food to those that had lost greatly in the conflict.
You hadn’t been welcomed with open arms on Mailiv, and rightly so—but it had been a gradual learning for your family and for the people, what coexistence would mean. As peace had settled, as your father had left the majority of the government’s rule to the people, your existence on Mailiv had become far less contentious.
You’d almost come to enjoy your time on the planet.
But you had missed rougher work, at times. You had missed working at your blade—something that your father had deemed unnecessary once the conflict had settled. It had no longer been needed, and he had contended that your show of its use would put the people on edge. So you’d ceased—to wear it, to practice.
When you’d returned to Caladan, you’d taken it up again, and gladly. You don’t know how long the Duke has been lingering there; you only know that you’re sheened in sweat, out of breath, and likely look a fright.
But you hear the singing of steel behind you, just to your right, and you turn, stepping back and toward it, raising your own blade without hesitation.
The Duke’s presence be damned—your lesson will not stop because he’s arrived, and your sparring partner will surely see to that.
--
When you walk the river orchards next, you hear someone clear the throat behind you. Your stomach flutters like a bird's wings; you don’t turn to see who it is, as you know well enough.
“Unguarded a second time, Your Grace?” You ask, marking only one set of footsteps.
“I am, though it may be unwise, considering the competence that you exhibited the other day.”
A little thrill of pride cuts through your nerves as the Duke falls into step beside you.
“I take it you find yourself as restless as you were in your first days back on Caladan?” He asks. You shrug a shoulder.
“Not always. But there are some nights that take me longer to rest my head than others.”
You take a chance, turning your head to meet his eye, asking, “And you? What rouses Duke Atreides at this late hour?”
He sets his eyes forward, and you allow yourself to take in his sharp profile.
“I’ve been made aware of...A task that may be put to myself and my family,” He tells you.
“What sort of task?”
The Duke seems to weigh his words for a moment before answering, “The sort that may yet deepen the trenches between my house and that of another.”
You don’t need him to state the house—you knew well enough of the rift between the houses of Atreides and Harkonnen. Your mother told you, once, that the Bene Gesserit had expected the Lady Jessica to give Atreides a daughter, one to wed a Harkonnen son and to mend the rift. But Paul had been the child borne of their union, no child had followed—and Duke Leto had so badly wanted a son.
“Do you wish them deepened?” You ask.
“It is not what I wish that concerns me at the moment—it is what the powers that work above us do.”
To imagine a man like this answering to authority is to picture a god bowing to a wave—one would surely outlast the other, but it is the show of the bow that matters. You know well enough that even the most influential of the Landsraad has a master to answer to, the head of the Atreides included.
“Powers above considered,” You concede, “Is this task set in stone?”
“No.”
“And were it not so ordered, is it something that you would choose to pursue?”
“...Perhaps.”
You turn to look ahead as he has, considering; your lips twist with these shadows of knowledge.
“‘Bureaucracy destroys initiative’,” You sigh.
--
Leto hums softly at that; he can't help himself. The phrase is one that Lady Jessica has uttered before—a Bene Gesserit conviction.
“‘Who enjoys appearing inept?” He counters as he glances at you; something in his weary chest warms at the smile that graces your lips.
“Who, indeed,” You murmur.
The two of you fall into silence for some time. Leto doesn’t mind it; he doesn't care for meaningless chatter, has never enjoyed the company of those that feel that they need to fill silence. When you turn to depart, Leto catches you by the shoulder.
“I should appreciate it if this...Unnamed errand should remain between us.”
Leto sees surprise and intrigue flash quickly across your features before you give him a short nod and turn fully from him. His hand falls from your shoulder, and he watches your retreating form.
Tomorrow, Lady Jessica will mention this errand to your housekeeper, who will undoubtedly mention it to your mother, then to you; how the news reaches your father, if it reaches him, and how it is subsequently raised to Leto will be a fascinating little trail for him to trace. Your father never could lie, or hide shock or disquiet well, and Leto knows the little ways in which he tries to shield a falsehood. He hates to do this, to trick you, but—
“We shall test your mettle yet, gem,” He murmurs as you disappear into the darkness.
--
“My wife tells me of an errand—” Your father tells him days later, at a meeting at Caladan castle.
His wife—your mother. You are not mentioned, not once, and when Leto asks if you’ve any knowledge of the rumor, your father balks, proclaiming that you have been kept in the dark. When Leto’s eyes dart to you, he finds your attention set on a book, your face carefully neutral, fingers curled around the binding.
But when you do lift your eyes to him, when you shoot him a wink, lightning-fast before looking down again, Leto finds himself fending off a smile.
--
You don’t walk with the Duke every evening. You savor his company when you do.
Of those who you’ve become reacquainted with on Caladan, you find yourself surrounded by gossips, and Bene Gesserits in-training, and suitors that have yet to make offers for your hand to your mother (and who surely will not meet with her approval). You can hardly make it through a conversation with your peers without fearing you may spill some detail that feels inconsequential to you, but may be the unraveling of your house to them.
You don’t always speak when you are with the Duke; when you do, you find yourself listening closely to the low, calming way that he speaks. You tell yourself that you’re simply taking in whatever wisdom he has to offer, but a covetous part of you knows better. You don't push him for too many details on the errand that he may be sent on, regardless of the curiosities prying at your mind. Though, perhaps the few questions that you do ask aren't nearly as subtle as they should’ve been, because one evening, he asks you,
“What have you ascertained?”
When you turn a confused frown up at him, he meets it with an amused tip of his head. You huff, facing forward again, wracking your mind for what you have managed to cobble together over the last few weeks. An errand—a task important enough to come down from a power above Atreides—
“The Emperor is considering sending you on a task similar to that which he sent my father on—Subjugation, or...Perhaps the overseeing of a vital resource.”
When Atreides doesn’t answer you, you glance at him and find him nodding.
“And the planet?” He prods.
“...You mentioned the deepening of a trench between that of your family and another’s.”
“I did.”
“It is no secret that the Harkonnen are no friends of yours—and have been stockpiling spice for over twenty years now.”
When Leto says nothing, you look at him again, and find that his stride has slowed. You stop just a few steps ahead of where he does, frowning.
“...The Bene Gesserit will be happy if you join their ranks,” He tells you, and you turn from him, unable or unwilling to hide your scoff. Lately, you’ve been bombarded by Reverend Mothers, with their platitudes and goading and riddles.
“You are a quick one,” The Duke adds, and you know that he means all that he’s said as a compliment. You know the respect he has—for the order, and for his own sworn concubine, his Bene Gesserit lady.
“You offered enough clues for even the daftest of people to put the picture together. If you’d only yelled it plainly, I could’ve found it in the dark,” You answer sullenly.
“You underestimate your own cleverness and overestimate others,” The Duke argues—he’s closer now, you can hear him just a couple of steps behind.
“Others underestimate themselves,” You disagree, “I know well enough what I’m capable of.”
“Capability aside, what is it that you want?”
“From what?”
“From Caladan. From life.”
You balk. It is too personal a question from a man that you hardly feel you know—too close to yourself, to your heart, which he seems to set fluttering when he’s nearby.
And it is a question that you don’t know how to answer. It stoppers the words in your throat; it curls your hands into fists as you turn a sharp look at the Duke. But he meets your silent fury with a calmness, and waits, eyes dark and deep in the cool night.
“...What I want isn’t important,” You say finally, “We all have our place, what’s expected of us. How we all manage that place—That errand,” You bite the word out, you want it to sting him, “Is all that matters.”
You skirt around the Duke without bidding him a goodnight.
--
You don’t return to the river orchards for weeks.
Your restless nights are spent pacing the halls of your cavernous home, your kindjal strapped to your hip. Some nights, you reach for your coat, and then step away from it, and away from the door, and take another lap around the halls.
It’s a muddling of emotion that stops you from returning to the river orchards— a muddling of irritation, lust, anger, worry.
You’re angry at the Duke for asking such a question of you, irritated that he would, as if you’ve any choice over your life’s direction when he must know full well that do you not. You worry that you’ve angered a powerful man—a good friend of your family’s.
You want him. You’ve come to yearn for the quiet evenings that you spend in his company, walking at his side, discussing training, fighting techniques, your time on Mailiv, Caladan’s politics, its people. You’re entranced by his passion for his homeworld, his love for his son, his abiding fondness for Lady Jessica.
It is a muddling that holds you hostage in your home, that makes you curse his name as you pace about at night, that makes you whimper for him in the darkness as you touch yourself and think of him.
It is a muddling that overpowers you, silences you, when you see him next. You avoid the man’s eye when you hear him enter the room, listen to him greet the others, your parents.
When his trousers come into your field of vision, when he murmurs, “My lady,” Respectfully, you feel utterly muddled. Your eyes flit up for a millisecond, just high enough to take in the metallic threads of the hawk symbol on his uniform before you lower them again, and counter with an obliging murmur of, “Your Grace.”
It’s just loud enough for him and the surrounding party to hear; it’s quick enough after his greeting that you won't be marked as standoffish by the onlookers, or scolded by your mother for seeming cold in front of the suitor. It’s someone that she has approved for you that’s been brought in this evening—and dragged from end to end of the room, introduced to guests as though you’re matched already, as though they’re waiting for you to pounce on him—like he’s some rabbit staked out in a clearing, and you, a Valye wolf scouting him from the distance—awaiting the perfect moment to strike.
You’ve forgotten the boy’s name as it is—that is how he acts, like a boy, like he’s hardly out of leading strings, despite his being a full five years older than you. You find him tiresome; his conversation revolves around sport, nothing more. But your mother tells you that he is from a good family, and that he seems pleased with you, and expects the conversation to end there.
You are the daughter of a powerful house. This is your errand. How you manage this—that is what matters.
--
That is what should matter, but you have never been able to abide stupidity.
When he makes remarks on your father’s singular success on the taking of Mailiv—on his triumph without aide, the ease of the subjugation, the silence of the subjects, the settling of the trade so quickly—your eyes flit to the offender.
You have scars from the so-called ease of that subjugation; you have seen the rippling effect of the conflict through all levels of the society, the clash of their social structure and the jockeying for position.
You can feel your heart pounding with rage in your chest; your stomach sloshes, a swirling, choppy sea of upset. You know that your mother is staring you down, a look of warning, but you cannot bring yourself to cede to it. You’re certain your father has cast you a look as well, as you can hear him trying to shift this green boy from the topic of Mailiv, and quickly.
But he holds to it, and sinks his teeth in, insisting, “A simple task for a great house, undertaken by a great man—”
“To take a planet is no pretty thing.”
That the words leave you with any steadiness at all is a shock; you’re certain you would shake apart if you were not seated, if you were not wrapped in your silks and finery—in the beautiful things that your mother has ordered to entice this naïve fool.
You learned to play a part on Mailiv, but you cannot bring yourself to lie, to hide your true nature, not now. Not in front of these people, not in front of the Duke, and not for the sake of this idiot. You suddenly feel like a marionette pulling desperately at your strings.
You know that you’ll catch hell for it later, but you rise and excuse yourself, leaving the room with a calculated precision that you do not feel.
You’re undressing as you rush down the hall, turning onto the servant’s stairway before kicking off your shoes. It will take your mother at least five minutes to excuse herself—you’ve a small window in which to disappear. You tug at the fastenings of your dress, leaving a telling trail of popped buttons and torn bits of fabric. When you reach your bedroom, you yank open your wardrobe and hurriedly shake yourself out of your dress. Your breath is pushed out in harsh pants now, the rough, roiling sea of your stomach making you unsteady. But you school yourself, pulling on a thick pair of pants and a heavy sweater. Glancing outside, you can see that it’s raining heavily. You bend down, grabbing a pair of boots. You crouch down, sliding them on and lacing them quickly. You curse as you fumble, hands trembling as they do up the laces.
You can hear footsteps coming up the steps—the clicking of heels, and it can only be your mother.
You hurriedly grab the belt of your kindjal, along with your coat, and rush over to your window. You throw it open and peer outside. Looking down, you can see quite the drop—but you can step from the sill to the gutter and slide down from there. You toss your coat and kindjal down onto a hedge before you slip one leg out.
You must take care—it’s already soaked out, and one wrong step, one miscalculation could spell disaster. You slide the other leg onto the ledge and shift over, reaching out with one hand for the gutter. You curl your fingers around the back of it, fitting your hand between the metal and the stone before bracing your foot against the ledge. You hear the door to your bedroom, and you know that you haven’t another moment to hesitate. You hurriedly push off of the ledge, wincing as you clasp for the gutter with your other hand. Your boots scrape and scrabble for purchase against the metal spout as you slip down, your hands clasping and bumping roughly along the downpipe.
Your foot slips as you reach the ground, and it sends you tumbling to the ground. You land with a hiss of pain, and tip your head up to the darkening sky, still spilling rain. Before you can catch sight of anyone, you roll onto your stomach and stumble up, hands scrabbling for your coat and blade, and hurry down the path, away from the house.
--
When the rain stops, it’s late. Your clothing is damp; you’re tired, and shivering just a touch as the breeze pushes through the river orchards. You’ve settled beneath a tree; everything within you is at once dulled and sharp. Your brain is alight with speculation, with what your mother will say when you return home—the disgrace, the expense—with what your father will say—the disobedience, the ignominy—with what Leto must think.
Surely you seemed no more mature than that idiot, hurrying away as you did.
Your fingers tighten around the blade of your kindjal, chilled and pruney and raw. You’ve been tightening and untightening your grip for the last hour, just to make sure that you can still feel it—But when a branch snaps beside you, you spring. It is instinct–you don’t mean to pounce as you do—but there you are with your knife at Leto Atreides’ throat.
He holds carefully still, watching you critically.
You mean to lean away faster, but he speaks first: “To take a life is no pretty thing.”
And you almost want to dig the kindjal’s tip into his throat just a touch, just for the sting, just to draw a drop, just to wound him for a second—but you’ve already acted childishly enough in front of his man. You draw the blade away and scramble back, your legs sluggish and shaking as a newborn foal’s as you rise fully to your feet, moving away from him.
You make no answer to his tease, unable to draw one up. You need no lesson, no warning against the consequences of killing. You have taken life—you have done things to ensure your own survival, so why should this afternoon have been any different?
You tuck the kindjal away again, hands flexing as you continue on your way—any way, any way away from him, from what you have done.
But he follows, as he has before. He doesn’t bother to leave a distance between the two of you, despite the fact that you just had a blade to his throat, despite the fact that you feel as testy as a blinded viper, prepared to strike out at him should he jest again.
Mercifully, he remains silent.
“...How bad was it?” You ask finally; your voice croaks with the question, after hours of disuse and rough pulls of damp air.
“From which?”
“Any.”
“...I’m not sure he’ll rush to ask for your hand.”
You laugh at that a little; you can’t help it.
“Good,” You nod, “Though that was hardly my goal.”
“What was?”
“I…I’m not sure I had one. I was…” You hesitate before you shake your head, “—I was unable to keep my mouth shut.”
“Rightly so.”
You’re quiet for a moment, a shiver wracking through you as a harsher breeze pushes through the orchard. You know what you’ll have to answer to when you get home—and the sooner you go, the sooner it’ll end.
“Are you cold?” He asks.
“A little,” You admit. You glance over and see the Duke beginning to shrug out of his coat, and you order, “Don’t.”
He stills, and you shake your head, averting your gaze you fold your arms across your chest.
“I need to go home,” You add more quietly, though you don't want to. You begin to turn away from him, and still when you feel his hand on your arm. You glance back at him, and your stomach flips as his other hand lifts to cup your jaw. You raise your head to meet his gaze, hesitant.
Leto holds your gaze for a long moment. His thumb smooths over the line of your jaw; the pad is rough, and you’re unable to hide your slight tremble.
“Whatever they tell you,” He says softly, “Whatever they warn...You were not wrong.”
“I know.”
“Good,” The Duke’s approval is soft and warming. He leans in, brushes a kiss along your cheekbone. Your eyelids flutter as he murmurs, “Now hurry home, gem, before you freeze.”
--
You’re given scoldings, the likes of which you’ve never received—for your actions, your disappearance, your state when you return home, the flurry in which you left the house—but they hardly make a dent.
How could they?
He was so—close.
So soft, and quiet, and compassionate—and his beard had been just a little bristly before his lips had pressed sweetly against your skin.
You’re buzzing with him as you lay your aching head down.
You can feel the warmth of his lips, his beard; you remember the soft murmur of his voice.
If you had tipped your head toward his, if you’d rushed in—
No.
No, you had committed far too many transgressions that day already.
You just sink back against your pillows, and relive that moment over and over—and remember his unflinching steadiness as you held the tip of your blade to his throat.
Had he known that you wouldn’t hurt him? Did he trust that of you?
--
Whatever plans your mother has for your future, for your next public showing, for an outward atonement and a show of finesse, the likes of which you have failed to display—they are staunchly halted when your father receives a missive from the general he left in charge of affairs on Mailiv.
There has been an uprising—a small, but determined band set to unseat those that your father left to oversee the Emperor’s interests on the planet. Their faction is impoverished, but they seem to have been flushed with funds; your father suspects a Harkonnen hand at the spigot. It necessitates his return, and yours. Before you were loved by the people there, you led battalions. You will be expected. You know that your parents have had a divergence in opinion when your father informs you that your mother will be staying on Caladan. You’ve questions about it, of course—but they’re dwarfed by the news that yourself and your forces will be joined by that of the house of Atreides.
It is a boon. Your men fight well, are capable, but the Atreides army is the most capable on Caladan.
As you pack your things, you mark that your heart is pounding in your chest. You don’t know why—you know what awaits you on Mailiv, and it’s a fair deal less combative than it was last time. But perhaps it’s less what waits for you on the planet’s surface and more who accompanies your party this time.
What has enticed the Atreides family to join you, you cannot imagine. Perhaps the Duke looks ahead to the errand he may yet be sent on to Arrakis; perhaps he does it as a favor to your father, a deal done, hands shaken in a back room that you know nothing of.
Perhaps what unsettles you the most, what makes your heart pound as it does, is the last thing that the Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohaim said when she visited the home. She had arrived for a meeting with your father, and then spoken to you. Maybe she had heard of your abrupt departure from your last appearance—or perhaps she knew something that you did not. But she had fixed you with such a look behind her veil before departing as swiftly as she had arrived. A shiver had wracked through you almost violently as she had gone, and you have yet to shake yourself of the uneasy feeling that she’d left you with.
She’d said just one thing to you—an old Bene Gesserit axiom:
“When we try to conceal our innermost drives, our entire being screams betrayal.”