After he returned from Sietch Tabr, Paul announced he would receive visitors in the extravagant Celestial Audience Chamber, which was still not entirely completed.

Over the past few years, the temporary throne room in Shaddam’s former hutment had lost its luster for him, so Paul decided to hold audiences in the new space instead, despite the fact that Bludd was still not satisfied with all the finishing touches — moldings, fine filigree, stonework, intricate sculptures, elaborately painted ceilings and walls. The Swordmaster insisted on finishing some of the perfectionistic interior work himself, permitting no one to help him.

Countless alcoves were only partially filled with statuary, usually renditions of Paul or of his Atreides ancestors. Fremen tapestries above the throne depicted colorful scenes from battles of the Jihad. Bludd had announced that some of these scenes would be replicated as ceiling frescoes, encircling the base of the high dome, when it was complete.

The previous day, Paul had walked the scaffolds that were in place high above the throne, where the finest artists in the realm continued to work feverishly on their commissions. Even as he held court now, they were up there painting, voices and movements hushed reverently in the presence of Muad’Dib.

He had been shaken by the blind and suicidal devotion that those workers from Omwara had demonstrated, facing a sandstorm to show their faith. For generations, House Atreides had inspired tremendous loyalty as embodied in Gurney Halleck, Duncan Idaho, Thufir Hawat, and many others. But that loyalty had been supportive, not reckless. What had those workers accomplished by dying out there on the dunes? How had their sacrifices served Muad’Dib?

Although the ever-growing religion around him was an engine that drove the necessary force of his Jihad, it might easily slip beyond his control. Religions could be extraordinarily effective, but they could also be irresponsible… and he was at the heart of both possibilities. The people saw only him, and not the corona of consequences around his every action.

Now, dressed in a flowing brown-and-gold robe instead of the comfortable, dusty stillsuit he had worn in Sietch Tabr, Paul took his seat on the large temporary throne placed there during the construction. Eventually, he would bring in the oversized Hagal quartz seat, the legendary Lion Throne from the Corrino dynasty. For the time being, even though the throne would serve as a reminder of what he had taken from his enemies, Paul preferred not to inspire thoughts of Shaddam IV. He looked around the huge chamber as the audience took standing positions according to their rank and connections.

Wearing a loose green gown adorned with a gold-braided collar, Chani entered through a side door, followed by three Fremen women in pale gray robes designed to conceal weapons. Six-year-old Alia entered briskly in her black robe and came to a stop beside Paul’s throne, as if she were herself a bodyguard.

Given the violence Thorvald’s rebels often inspired, and the ridiculously low price on the heads of Muad’Dib and his family, Paul had assigned powerful female guards to follow and protect Chani, Alia, and even Irulan. His mother was also due to arrive soon for a brief visit, and he would grant her the same protection. He intended to take no chances.

He thought again of the group of fanatic workers standing on the dune top, facing the deadly winds to show their devotion, proving… what? And those men were his supporters.

Hearing a commotion of shouts near the massive entrance doors, Paul saw his Fremen guards scuffling with green-robed prisoners, captive priests from a splinter sect. The guards soon gained control of the situation, though they were forced to use stun goads. Paul watched without commenting on the rough treatment. Knowing what these priests had done, he found it difficult to restrain himself from ordering their immediate execution. That would come in time, he was sure. Some things were unforgivable.

Korba marched toward the throne along a rusty-red spice-fiber carpet that had been laid down only that morning. He had chosen to wear a clean white robe emblazoned with scarlet symbols, pointedly more extravagant than the green robes of the prisoners that the guards nudged along behind him. He no longer looked like a Fedaykin.

The five prisoners had cuts and bruises, and sunken red eyes that looked more dead than alive. Only one of the priests, tall and patrician, appeared defiant. With undisguised contempt, the guards flung the priests to the hard floor. All but one of them had the good sense to remain prostrate; a guard knocked the most rebellious one back down, using a boot kick.

With an elaborate bow, Korba stopped at the foot of the throne. “Exalted Muad’Dib, pillar of the universe, I bring you these disloyal priests of the ancient sect of Dur. They were captured trying to defile the sacred shrine of your father and steal his skull!” Eyes closed as if in prayer (a performance for the rapt audience), he formally pulled his crysknife from its sheath and stood ready with it, poised like an executioner.

Paul could barely control his fury. “Priests of Dur were once well-respected in the Imperium, presiding over ceremonies to marry and crown emperors. And now you attempt to desecrate the shrine of my father? You have become grave robbers? Defilers of the dead?”

Korba waited for a signal from him, but Paul hesitated, uncertain how to deal with this. The priests’ actions were another example of the reckless irresponsibility of uncontrolled religion. But how to control a religion, whether his own or this ancient sect? Would tolerance and mercy help? Or was a stronger grip required? What would his father have advised?

One of the cowed priests, with a paunch that gave him the shape of a pear, struggled to his knees and looked beseechingly at Paul. Sweat ran down his brow into his eyes. “Sire, the charges against me are false and unfair. I do not even know these men — I serve in a different order! They forced me to wear these robes! I was on religious sabbatical.”

“He lies,” Korba said. “His so-called sabbatical was a conspiracy meeting, at which he and these others plotted your overthrow. Any oath of fealty he utters now would not be worth the wind it is written upon.”

Paul glowered at the kneeling man. “I have been tolerant of religions other than my own, but I shall not tolerate the spreading of lies or conspiracies that threaten me — and I tolerate no desecration of my father, the honorable Duke Leto Atreides.” He felt a great weariness settle upon him. “You and your companions must die for this.”

When the guards tried to haul the paunchy man back to rejoin the others, he suddenly sagged in their arms, as if he had fainted. Korba touched the man’s neck, sniffed his breath. “This one is dead.” With a wolfish grin, he cast a scornful look at the other green-robed priests, then faced the crowds gathered inside the Celestial Audience Chamber. “Muad’Dib struck him dead with a glance! No one escapes the gaze of our Emperor.” In the chamber, Paul heard a low chanting of his name.

The defiant, patrician-looking priest got to his feet. “An autopsy would prove that a poison-tipped weapon or dart killed that poor man. Parlor tricks!” He pushed himself two steps forward, even though the guards struggled to hold him back. “There is nothing holy about you. The Priests of Dur call you Paul Atreides the Demon!”

The chamber erupted in wild howling from the insult. “Gouge out their eyes!” a woman screamed, her voice shrill. One of the other priests whimpered, but his companions silenced him immediately.

Paul recalled the War of Assassins in his childhood, the battles on Ecaz and Grumman, the bloodshed and tragedies, and he remembered the great reverence with which he and his loved ones had entombed Duke Leto’s skull. My father’s greatest mistake was not being harsh enough with his enemies.

“All of you shall die for the crimes your misguided religion has inspired,” Paul said, looking at the green-robed men and knowing Korba would make sure their deaths were long and painful. “From this day forward, I hereby remove my sanction of your reckless beliefs. All across my realm, I command that every one of your places of worship be leveled. Henceforth, my Qizarate will carefully reshape your followers so that they find the proper path.” He stood and turned his back to the crowds, ending the audience. “There shall be no more Priests of Dur.”

THE NEXT DAY, in a private room behind the throne, Paul was pleased to welcome his visitors. Lady Jessica and Gurney Halleck were, however, a somber-faced pair. Paul accepted an embrace from his mother and then clasped hands with Gurney. The pair had arrived on the same Heighliner, and he was very glad to see them.

He let down his guard, sighing as he looked at them with deep affection. “Mother, Gurney, I have missed you both. Is everything well on Caladan? On Giedi Prime?”

Gurney looked somewhat abashed, but Jessica gave a quick reply. “No, Paul. Not on either planet.”

Though Gurney was surprised at her blunt answer, he added, “I have made some progress on Giedi Prime, my Lord, but the whole planet throbs with the pain of old wounds. It will be generations before the people begin to stand on their own again.”

Concerned, Paul glanced from one face to the other. “What has happened on Caladan, Mother?”

Jessica looked regal and every bit as beautiful as she must have appeared to Duke Leto. “There have been demonstrations, insults, bold criticism. Defectors from the Atreides guard took charge of Castle Caladan and holed up in it, forcing me to take shelter elsewhere until we could regain control. Entire villages have been burned.”

“Defectors? From the Atreides guard?” Paul had always assumed Caladan would remain a bastion of stability, one of many coins in his pocket. He had so many other problems, in particular the increasingly violent gadfly Memnon Thorvald. He looked at Gurney. “How could this happen?”

“They remember Duke Leto, my Lord. They expected you to be exactly like him.”

Muad’Dib had to deal with practical matters first. “Has the disturbance been quelled?”

“Quelled but not resolved,” Jessica said. “They are upset with you, Paul. You may have expected loyalty, but you’ve done nothing to earn it. I have been there to speak on your behalf for years, but they feel you have snubbed and abandoned them. Caladan is the Atreides home-world, but you have made no visit of state since early in the Jihad.”

Paul drew a deep breath, tried to suppress his anger. “During that visit my armies conquered Kaitain. Kaitain, Mother! I have a war to conduct. Do the people expect me to return to Caladan for dancing and parades?” He paused, then looked more intently at her. “I left you to cany on in my place.”

“True, but I am no Duke Leto — and neither are you.”

“I see.” Paul tried not to sound stung. The radical Priests of Dur had attempted to desecrate the shrine of his father’s skull, but now he wondered if he, as Muad’Dib, might also be desecrating the memory of Leto Atreides.

“I should return there as soon as possible to insure the peace,” Jessica said, “and I would like to take Gurney with me. The people know him. Gurney the Valorous.”

“Gurney has important work to do on Giedi Prime.”

Jessica’s eyes flashed, and her words cut like razors. “How could you think Gurney wanted Giedi Prime? Do you understand so little about human nature? Every day there is a torment for him.”

Paul opened his eyes in surprise. “Is that true, Gurney?”

The other man seemed embarrassed. “You ordered me to do a job, my Lord, so I have done my best. But in truth, there is no planet in all the Imperium that I hate more. It will always be the Harkonnen world to me.”

Paul felt deeply moved. “I am sorry, old friend. I did not mean to increase your pain. You will retain your title to Giedi Prime, and I hope that your name alone will insure that some of the reforms continue. I will give you personnel and financial resources to continue the work there, but in the meantime I grant you leave to return to Caladan, to watch out for my mother’s safety.”

Gurney bowed formally. “My heart is on Caladan, where I served noble House Atreides.”

“Very well, my friend. You have helped my family and me in more ways than I can ever hope to repay,” Paul said. “To Caladan it is. Heal the damage I have inadvertently caused by my neglect.”

Later, after the meeting was concluded, Paul remained by himself in the small chamber. It was quiet in there now, so infinitely quiet….

In a shadowed corner of his mind, he worried that he had not correctly interpreted the hints of long-term prescience, that his own warriors might be precipitating a new Dark Age more grim than humanity had experienced in the frightened times after the end of the Butlerian Jihad. Beyond these walls, his holy war swept over planet after planet. His legions left broken populations and devastation in their wake, decapitated governments, and provided nothing to fill the vacuum. Somehow, he had to put the pieces back together. A problem Alexander the Great never had to face.