The Imperium reeled from the impact of the violence in the Celestial Audience Chamber, and the people’s reactionary anger displayed itself in increasingly deadly raids on new planets. The jihadis demanded retribution on Muad’Dib’s behalf, and many innocent populations paid the price.

Worse, Irulan watched Paul turn a blind eye to the unjust bloodshed.

No one of importance paid any attention to the death of her sister. Rugi was merely a name on a list of casualties, and few people remarked on the fact that she was the youngest daughter of the Padishah Emperor, a man once described as “the Ruler of a Million Planets.” The spotlight of history focused only upon Muad’Dib and the ever-mounting violence around him. House Corrino had become no more than a footnote in history… just as Swordmaster Bludd had vowed not to be.

But Irulan could not drive away the memory of holding her sister’s body in her arms, and she allowed herself a flash of hatred for Paul, because he had not cared about her grief. Had not even noticed it.

Preoccupied with his new crackdowns and increased security after the threat, Paul did not acknowledge her universe of pain. How hardened he had become! How brutal, steely, and inflexible. Perhaps those were valid traits for the revered godlike leader of a galaxy… but not for a human being. She could not help but feel bitter.

According to reports, her father had wailed with grief when he learned the news. He had fooled few people with his crocodile tears, but he had certainly gained some sympathy. Poor Shaddam had dutifully sent his youngest and “most beloved” daughter to attend the Great Surrender ceremony, and Muad’Dib had allowed her to be killed! Her father was certainly shrewd to use the tragedy to build momentum, possibly as a lever in another bid for power.

The Corrino Princess suspected that he had already sent emissaries to find Earl Thorvald, calling upon familial connections, asking the brother of her father’s “dear but regrettably lost” fifth wife, Firenza. Irulan thought he might even succeed, for a while at least.

Irulan once again took control over her emotions, using her Sisterhood training to discover a resolve that allowed her to balance her conflicting roles. She was not permitted direct influence in the government. She was not a true wife. She was not Paul’s lover.

But she was still his wife, and the daughter of an Emperor.

Paul knew her worth, from her writing ability to her knowledge of politics. She had nearly finished writing his early-life ordeals during the War of Assassins, and, like Scheherazade, Irulan would continue to make herself indispensable. His followers devoured any glimpse into his life, his philosophy, his vision for them, for Dune, and for all inhabited planets. His mother, after all, had been a Bene Gesserit. He knew full well the value of mythmaking.

Irulan’s quarters, with the adjacent offices, solarium, and enclosed dry-climate garden, had been specifically designed to be conducive to her writing. She had plenty of light, meditation areas, uninterrupted concentration, secretaries if she needed them. By Muad’Dib’s command, historical documents were surrendered to her; friends of House Atreides, eyewitnesses to events, even former rivals were strongly encouraged to grant the Princess any interviews she desired.

Irulan promised herself that one day she would also tell the story of her own upbringing in the Imperial household and find a way to make the death of poor Rugi meaningful. With each passing day the next manuscript neared completion….

Three Fedaykin guards marched into the enclosed garden where she sat at a small table surrounded by shigawire spools and a reader, filmbooks, and clean spice paper on which to take notes. She looked up, surprised to see Paul himself coming toward her.

Other than the silent guards, they had no audience, so she felt no need to be overly formal. “Husband, it is quite an unexpected event when you decide to visit me in my private wing.”

“I have paid too little attention to your writings,” he said in a voice as flat as the blade of a Sardaukar’s dagger. “There is great unrest, and I am anxious for you to release the next chapter of my story. Nevertheless, I must be careful about what you publish. This time, I will read it more closely.”

“To censor it?” She feigned indignation, but she had never expected to complete the work without interference.

“To read it. You know well enough what you should and should not say. I trust you that much.”

Paul stood before her waiting, not at all relaxed, while Irulan remained seated at her table surrounded by the paraphernalia of the project. The three guards seemed decidedly uncomfortable that she did not throw herself to the ground and abase herself before him. She smiled at this. “I think you should appoint me your official Minister of Propaganda.”

“You already serve the role — and you do it well.” His eyes narrowed. “Though I am not entirely certain why you do it. You are a ghanima, a prize I won in battle. You cannot revere me as a husband, and I don’t think you lust after power for its own sake. What is your real motive?”

“I am a scribe of history, my Husband.”

“No historian is without an agenda. That is why no genuine truth is ever recorded. Is it your wish that I believe you are loyal to me — to the exclusion of your family and the Sisterhood — that you wholeheartedly accept your role? You have no hidden agenda, no scheme?”

Irulan looked down at her notes, giving herself a chance to marshal her thoughts. “Ask yourself that question, Paul Atreides. Function as a Mentat. Why would I remain secretly loyal to House Corrino, to my father? He failed. Why would I follow the secret instructions of the Bene Gesserit? They failed, too. Where do I have the most to gain? As your loyal wife. Look at me, ask the question, and decide for yourself where I should invest my efforts.” She watched him follow the logic.

He bent over the table, picked up a few pages from the stack of papers on which she had been writing, and skimmed them, his eyes darting with the speed of static electricity. Then he picked up the entire manuscript.

“Before long, I will depart. I feel the need to … go on a meditative retreat after the recent terrible events. In the meantime, Korba will read this.”

Irulan gave him a mirthless smile. “Korba sees what he wants to see.”

Paul handed the manuscript to one of the guards, who took it as if the pages contained either holy scripture or incriminating evidence. “Yes, he is predictable. But useful because of that.”

And so am I, Irulan thought.