He stood on the balcony, a lonely figure. Late at night, the lights of Arakeen were low and a rising First Moon cast long shadows across the burgeoning city to the desert escarpments beyond. High on the ridge line, a delta of sand creased the broad expanse of the Shield Wall, where Paul had shattered the barrier with atomics to allow attacking sandworms into the basin. The Shield Wall was a natural object that had been blasted in battle by a mere man. A mere man.

The people did not see him as such. The young Emperor returned to bed but lay awake, restless. Countless military campaigns remained to be fought across the galaxy, and Paul-Muad’Dib was their inspiration on the path to eternal glory. Fremen would not let themselves see any frailties in their messiah.

Sometimes his prescient visions were only general impressions, other times vivid images and specific scenes. The Jihad itself had always been like a high mountain range across his life’s path — unavoidable, dangerous. He had tried to deny it initially, but then he had forged ahead, facing the difficulties, the treacherous cliffs, the unexpected storms. He was the guide for the human race, wanting to lead them through safe passes, but knowing he could not avoid every avalanche, flash flood, rockfall, or lightning strike. Race consciousness demanded otherwise.

His own terrible purpose demanded otherwise. No matter what choices he made, a great many would still perish before they reached the promised land beyond.

Paul envisioned an energy-force of pomp, ostentation, and bureaucracy that would grow around him. The signs were already apparent. At first, this would wear the guise of a powerful and necessary machine, but it would eventually metastasize and grow like a cancer. For a time, he knew he must accept the malignancy because it would fuel the Jihad.

Already, Dune was the hub of the new universe. Millions and millions of pilgrims would come here on hajj. Important decisions would be made on this hallowed ground, and from here Muad’Dib’s legions would continue to be dispatched to the farthest reaches in order to enforce his wishes.

From Arrakeen, the newly planned Citadel of Muad’Dib would radiate light all across the galaxy. His palace would be enormous and breathtaking. The people, and history, demanded it.

Old neighborhoods and disjointed slums had already been razed to make room for the colossal structure. After dawn that day, construction was slated to begin.

THE OLD ARRAKEEN Residency would form the core of the huge building, but before long the new palace would swallow all external traces of the original home of House Atreides on Arrakis, once also the long-term base of Count Fenring and Lady Margot. Paul stood with an intense Korba and an exuberant Whitmore Bludd inside a vaulted chamber, watching the reactions of both Chani and Irulan.

Swordmaster Bludd proudly displayed shimmering projection models of the buildings, gardens, and avenues of the future Citadel of Muad’Dib. The plans alone were large enough to fill much of the room. Projection technicians busily put finishing touches on some of the models, monitored by the watchful eyes of assistant architects.

Bludd had done a remarkable job of balancing the wishes and ideas of so many people, while maintaining his personal vision for “humanity’s greatest architectural triumph.” For many years already, he had served as a de facto manager of all of Archduke Ecaz’s holdings, and now he would coordinate the armies of workers, the flow of materials, and the budget (though even the poorest waifs sleeping on the dry streets of Arrakeen willingly offered their last coins to Muad’Dib).

Speaking on behalf of the Qizarate, Korba provided input on four immense temples that would be constructed on the grounds and connected to the main citadel complex blossoming around the old mansion. Even before the first great walls had been raised, he insisted on ornamenting the city-sized structure with religious statuary and various objects of a spiritual nature. “Every facet of the citadel must enlarge the persona and legend of the Emperor Muad’Dib, elevating him to his appropriate stature.”

Glancing at Korba, Paul thought of his remaining Fedaykin, remembering the purity of their devotion. Back when the battles had been straightforward and the enemies clearly identified — Harkonnens, Sardaukar — they had sworn their lives to defend him. Many of those elite fighters were even now engaged in battles of the Jihad — the loyal Otheym, Tandis, Rajifiri, and Saajid. Knowing their skills and bravery, he had reserved his Fremen — a mere fraction of his fighting force — for the most difficult conquests, the bloodiest engagements.

But Korba, though also a Fedaykin, had chosen a different path to glory. Though subtle, the man’s motives were transparent to Paul: While a warrior was just a warrior, the head of a religion wielded a more sustainable power in the ever-widening circle of Muad’Dib’s influence and the increasing number of conquered or allied subjects. By fostering the development of the Qizarate, giving new and zealous priests teachings and rules to enforce, Korba created and held his own moral high ground — in the name of Muad’Dib.

In spite of the sour taste that development left in his mouth, Paul needed all of the energy that religion could provide. And he knew that he, too, had to keep up appearances.

With Chani at his side, Paul walked from table to table and looked over the model structures, focusing on the multiple domes and soaring arches. A cutaway showed where a Celestial Audience Chamber would house his primary throne. “Some of the individual chambers will be so large that kingly palaces could fit inside them. The entire complex is designed to be a vast fortified city, both to protect its inhabitants and to impress outsiders.”

The flamboyant Swordmaster used his own rapier as a pointer to show Irulan how her private gardens would be laid out, including “contemplation offices” where she could continue her writing. Paul noted the pride in the man’s demeanor as he explained his grand dream, and the Princess seemed suitably impressed.

Chani glanced sidelong at Irulan. “Perhaps such things were expected in the old Imperium, but we do not need such a place, Usul. Fremen would consider this sort of extravagance… greedy, in the manner of offworlders.”

“No extravagance is too great for Muad’Dib,” Korba insisted. “The people will settle for nothing less than the greatest work of construction in human history.”

Sadly, Paul knew that Korba was right.

Bludd cleared his throat loudly. “Those were my instructions, and that is what it shall be. From the central core, the rest of the construction will blossom like a beautiful flower in the desert.” Though they had radically conflicting personalities, Korba and Bludd were developing a grudging respect for each other during the early stages of the construction project. A common ambition and goal served as a balancing point between the men.

Paul took Chani’s hand, and said to her, “Such extravagance is necessary, Beloved. The magnificence itself is a lever that can move the most stubborn doubters and the newly converted. Through sheer size, scope, and grandeur, my new fortress must inspire awe in the hearts of everyone who experiences it — even in us, who know its inner workings and design. Especially in us, perhaps, because we have to play our parts well, and I must play mine the best of all.”

He clapped a hand on the fine fabric of the Swordmaster’s waistcoat. “You have my wholehearted approval, Bludd. Yes, this palace will be built according to your plans. With each stone laid and each tapestry hung, we will strengthen the Jihad — and hasten its conclusion. I will make public appearances on my throne and from my balconies overlooking throngs of the faithful. These places must be incomparable in their opulence.

“My private quarters, however, will be simple.” Paul gestured dismissively at the plans for the royal suite that seemed to drip ostentation. “When Chani and I retire to our chambers, there will be only those traditional amenities one might find in a sietch, articles and furnishings that typical Fremen would use. In private we shall remember our roots.”

Bludd and Korba looked at him in alarm, while Irulan came closer. “My Husband, the people expect you to live as an Emperor, not as a tribal chieftain. The entire citadel, including your living quarters, should show all humankind how great and powerful Muad’Dib is. My father’s royal wing in the old Imperial Palace could be a model for you.”

“The simplicity of a sietch is enough for us, in our private quarters,” Chani insisted, and Paul agreed, ending the discussion. His concubine had always been less comfortable in cities, in gigantic and ornate structures. “Even though he is the Emperor, Muad’Dib is still one of the people.”

Yes, he thought. My father would have liked the sound of that.