The shuttle from the Heighliner set down on Kaitain. From the viewing lounge of the craft, Paul watched the hordes of victorious Fedaykin commandos presenting themselves on the landing field. He could hear the din even over the engines. In a perverse dichotomy, the screaming crowds and cheering soldiers at the spaceport only reinforced the feeling that he was alone.

On Caladan he had briefly hoped to feel like one of the common people again — as his father had always insisted a Duke should be — only to be reminded that he was irrevocably different. As it must be. He was no longer simply Paul Atreides. He was Muad’Dib, a role he had assumed so easily and perfectly that he was not always entirely certain which was the mask and which was his real personality.

Wearing an implacable expression, he took a deep breath and flung his long faux-stillsuit cape behind his shoulder. He moved with Imperial grace down the ramp to stand before the cheering mob. The Fedaykin closed ranks around him to form an extravagant escort. A conquering hero.

The resounding wave of shouts and cheers nearly pushed him backward. He understood how tyrants could allow themselves to feel infallible, buoyed by a swell of overconfidence. He was acutely aware that with a word, he could command all of these fighters to slaughter every man, woman, and child on Kaitain. That troubled him.

In his childhood studies, he had seen countless images of the glorious capital, but now he noticed a dark stain of smoke across the sky. The towering white buildings had been gutted by fire, majestic monuments toppled, government halls and lavish private residences ransacked. From ancient history, Paul was reminded of barbarians sacking Rome, ending one of humanity’s first titanic empires and bringing about the start of centuries of Dark Ages. His detractors were saying that about his own regime, but he was doing only what was necessary.

Stilgar presented himself to his commander in a stained and battle-scuffed uniform. Marks that must have been dried blood showed prominently on his sleeves and chest. A wound on the naib’s left arm had been bound and dressed with a colorful, expensive scarf that might have been torn from a rich noble, but Stilgar used it as a gaudy rag. “Kaitain has fallen, Usul. Your Jihad is an unstoppable storm.”

Paul gazed out across the war-torn former capital. “Who can stop a storm from the desert?”

Even before launching his Jihad, Paul had known there would be far too many battlefields for a single commander to oversee. How he wished Duncan were still alive to participate in a succession of precise military strikes with Stilgar, Gurney Halleck, and even several flinty-eyed Sardaukar commanders, who had shifted their loyalty to the man who had conquered them. In the wake of their astonishing defeat on the plain of Arrakeen, Shaddam’s elite soldiers had been shaken to the core, and many had transferred their loyalty to the only military commander who had ever bested them. Though Sardaukar fervor did not spring from religious passion, it was fanaticism nevertheless. And useful. Wisely, though, Paul had not asked any of the Sardaukar to participate in the sacking of Kaitain.

“When will Irulan arrive?” Paul asked Stilgar. “Did she receive my summons?”

“The Guild informs me that another Heighliner is bringing her within the day.” His voice carried an unmistakable note of distaste. “Although why you want her I cannot imagine. Chani is bound to be incensed.”

“I do not want Irulan, Stil, but she is necessary, especially here. You’ll see.”

Stilgar was joined by Orlop and Kaleff, the sons of Jamis. “Let us show you, Usul!” said Orlop, who had always been the more talkative brother. “This planet is full of miracles and treasure. Have you ever seen the like?”

Paul didn’t want to dampen the boys’ enthusiasm by telling them he had seen so many things, both wondrous and horrible, that his eyes were weary. “All right, show me what has gotten you so excited.”

In the center of the once-magnificent city, Fremen warriors had torn down Landsraad banners and smashed the stained-glass crests of noble houses. As conquerors, the soldiers had chased the terrified citizens, taking some prisoner, killing others. It had been a wild blood orgy, and though violent, was reminiscent of the spice orgy a Sayyadina would host when Fremen felt the need to celebrate in their sietches. Looking around, Paul knew that trying to control these victory celebrations would only make matters worse in the long run. It was a price he had to accept, and the worst was already over….

He had his own advisers, though he longed for the wise counsel of Duke Leto, Thufir Hawat, or Duncan Idaho… all long dead. He was sure Duke Leto would have disapproved of what had happened here. Nevertheless, Paul had learned to make his own decisions. I have created a universe in which the old rules do not apply. A new paradigm. I am sorry, Father.

Paul saw the damage done to the Landsraad Hall, the museums, and the off-planet embassies. The old domed rock garden erected by House Thorvald as a wedding gift to Emperor Shaddam had been blown up, and now lay in a pile of wreckage. Paul couldn’t conceive what his fighters had been trying to accomplish. It was destruction for its own sake.

In the public square seven garroted men with cords still tied around their purple throats had been strung upside down to dangle like macabre trophies in an arbor. Judging by their fine clothes, they were noble leaders who had not surrendered with sufficient promptness. Paul felt a dark twinge of anger; such lynchings would make his job of forging alliances, or at least a peace, with the Landsraad even more difficult.

A group of yelling, laughing Fremen came running out of the Landsraad Hall, carrying long pennants. He recognized the varied colors of House Ecaz, House Richese, and House Tonkin. The Fremen didn’t know any of the historically great families, nor did they care. As far as they were concerned, the Landsraad itself had teetered, fallen, and splintered into disarray.

“Not even Shaddam would want this place back now,” Paul muttered to himself.

Fremen carried makeshift baskets and satchels full of booty. In the melee, they’d discarded priceless historical artifacts. Four muscular warriors had thrown themselves into a wide, shallow fountain adorned with statuary and dancing jets of water. They drank water until they were sick and splashed in the pool as if they had finally found paradise.

Kaleff came running up, his face sticky with juice. Cradled in his arm, he held half a dozen perfectly round portyguls, an orange fruit with a hard rind and sweet flesh. “Usul, we found an orchard out in the open — trees just standing there, lush and green and full of fruit… fruit for the taking! Here, would you like one?” He extended the oranges.

Paul accepted one, bit through its bitter rind, and squeezed the crisp citrus juice into his throat. He supposed these were Emperor Shaddam’s portyguls, and that made the fruit taste even sweeter.

WHEN THE SECOND Heighliner arrived, bringing an icily reticent Irulan, Paul asked for her to be brought to him at the steps of the old Imperial Palace. He had guessed she would be very shaken to come here and see this. But he needed her.

Shaddam’s daughter wore a gown of rich blue in a style that had once been the height of Imperial fashion. Her golden hair was done up in ringlets that draped down her long neck. She had performed her duties with considerable grace after her father’s defeat; she was not hungry for power herself, but she was intelligent enough to see and acknowledge the new realities.

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.