No contemporary can decide the worth of my son’s actions. Muad’Dib’s legacy will be judged on a scale that extends longer than a single lifetime. The future makes its own decisions about the past.

—LADY JESSICA, Duchess of Caladan

Knowing that Alia now faced the turbulent aftermath of Paul’s death, Jessica decided to depart for Dune—to be with her daughter and help in any way she could. She sent a formal message to the Qizara Isbar, telling him that she and Gurney Halleck intended to leave Caladan as quickly as possible. The priest’s delegation scrambled to accommodate her wishes.

The military-augmented Guildship remained in orbit, and Gurney arranged for them to ride in a lavish old Atreides frigate from the private spaceport hangar. This ornamented workhorse vessel had been put into service by Old Duke Paulus, and Jessica remembered that Leto had used it during their initial journey to Arrakis. Everything we do brings the baggage of history with it, she thought.

As Gurney issued curt instructions to the pilot, the obsequious priest appeared in the empty bay, bowing deeply. “The Heighliner crew awaits your pleasure, my Lady. In Muad’Dib’s name, we already diverted the vessel to Caladan so that we could deliver our sad news to you. The needs of the delayed passengers are not more pressing than yours.”

“Passengers? I had assumed this was a special military ship commandeered by the Qizarate.”

“Now that the Jihad has been declared over, many of the military vessels have been placed back into service as passenger ships. We took the first available vessel after Regent Alia instructed me to bring you word of Muad’Dib’s death. What other business can possibly be so important? All those other people can wait.”

Gurney dropped a heavy pack on the frigate’s ramp, muttering to himself. Though not surprised by the offhanded show of power, Jessica was alarmed that Isbar would simply divert an entire ship with a crowded cargo hold and a full roster of passengers. “Well, let us be quick about it.”

Isbar stepped closer, and Jessica could see the hunger in his eyes, the blind awe. “May I ride with you in the frigate, my Lady? As the mother of Muad’Dib, you can teach me much. I would be your rapt pupil.”

But she had no need of sycophants. She didn’t want this priest as her pupil, rapt or otherwise. “Please travel with your own party. I require solitude for my prayers.”

Disappointed, Isbar gave a solemn nod and backed out of the hangar, still bowing, as Jessica and Gurney climbed aboard the frigate. The ornate hatch sealed them inside. Gurney said, “Paul would have despised that man.”

“Isbar is no different from the other priests that have formed a power structure around Muad’Dib, and around his legacy. My son was trapped by his own mythos. As the years went by, it became apparent to me—and to him—how much had slipped out of his control.”

“We removed ourselves from the equation, my Lady,” Gurney said, then quoted a familiar saying, “ ‘Those who do nothing but observe from the shadows cannot complain about the brightness of the sun.’ Perhaps we can make amends now, if Alia is inclined to permit it.”

During the flight up to the Heighliner, Jessica tried to relax while Gurney took out his baliset and began to strum softly. She feared he had already composed a memorial hymn for Paul, and she wasn’t ready to hear that. To her relief, he merely played a familiar tune that he knew was one of her favorites.

She looked at his craggy face, the patchy blond hair that was going gray, the prominent inkvine scar. “Gurney, you always know the right piece to perform.”

“From practice, my Lady.”

Once docked aboard the Heighliner, Jessica and Gurney left the comfort of the frigate and went out into the common areas. In nondescript clothing, they drew no attention to themselves as they entered the promenade. Isbar had already told her his version of Muad’Dib’s death; Jessica wanted to hear what the people were saying.

Some passengers never left their private vessels inside the great hold, but many of those who faced long passages with many stopovers and roundabout routes busied themselves in the Heighliner’s communal decks, visiting restaurants, drinking establishments, and shops.

She and Gurney crossed the vast open decks, looking at the wares for sale from numerous planets. Some vendors had already created items to commemorate the reign and death of Muad’Dib; she found it disturbing, and Gurney pulled her away. He led her to a brightly lit drinking establishment that was all plaz, crystal, and chrome, crowded with noisy patrons. Arrayed on the wall were colorful liquors, specialties from countless planets.

“This is the best place to eavesdrop,” Gurney said. “We’ll take seats and let the conversations come to us.” With a glass of black wine for herself and a frothy, bitter beer for him, they sat facing each other, comfortable in their closeness. And listened.

A race of itinerant people, the Wayku, served as staff aboard all Guildships; they were a silent, oddly homogeneous race, well known for impersonal solicitousness. Barely noticed, dark-uniformed Wayku stewards walked about among the patrons, clearing tables, delivering drinks.

The main topic of conversation involved the death of Muad’Dib. Debates raged at table after table about whether Jessica’s son had been savior or monster, whether the corrupt and decadent Corrino rule was preferable to the pure but violent reign of Paul-Muad’Dib.

They don’t understand what he was doing, she thought to herself. They can never understand why he had to make the decisions he did.

At one table, a heated argument degenerated into shouts and threats. Chairs were cast aside and two men rose, red-faced, yelling insults. One hurled a knife, while the other activated a personal shield—and the fight continued until the man with the shield lay dead from a slow thrust. The crowd in the bar had watched without attempting to intervene. Afterward, Guild security men came to remove the body and to arrest the befuddled-looking murderer, who could not seem to believe what his rage had led him to do.

While others were focused on the commotion, Jessica watched the silent Wayku stewards circle the tables. She saw one of them surreptitiously deposit printed sheets on several empty tables, then glide away. The move was so smooth that if she hadn’t been paying close attention, she never would have spotted it.

“Gurney.” She gestured, and he slid his chair back to retrieve one of the documents. He’d seen the same thing, brought it back. The title said, The Truth About Muad’Dib.

His expression darkened. “Another one of those scurrilous propaganda leaflets, my Lady.”

Jessica skimmed the flyer. Some statements were so outrageous as to be laughable, but others pointed out the excesses that Paul had allowed in his Jihad, emphasizing the corruption in Muad’Dib’s government. These had the ring of truth. Bronso of Ix had been a thorny problem for years, and the man was so very good at what he did that he’d become a veritable legend.

Jessica knew that neither Paul’s worst critics nor his most ardent admirers fully understood her son. Here in the bar, a man had just been killed for adhering to his beliefs, thinking that he understood Paul’s motives and intentions. Muad’Dib’s calling was infinitely complex, his goal too tangled, subtle, and long-term for anyone, even her, to comprehend fully. She accepted that now.

Gurney crumpled the leaflet, threw it aside in disgust, while Jessica shook her head, wishing it could have all been different. Still, Bronso served his purpose, as did they all.