Everyone lies, every day of his life. The effect of such untruths is a matter of degree, of purpose, and of benefit. Falsehoods are more numerous than the organisms in all the seas in the galaxy. Why then are we Tleilaxu perceived as being deceptive and untrustworthy, while others are not?

—RAKKEEL IBAMAN, the oldest living Tleilaxu Master

Bronso watched helplessly as his father allowed the witches to take Tessia away to their far-off world. After two seemingly unending, painful days had passed, there was no better option. Though he had attempted every esoteric Suk treatment, Dr. Yueh had been unable to penetrate her mindless state.

Tessia was clearly in pain, in terror, in misery, and she would not wake up. And the Bene Gesserits claimed they could help.

Bronso knew where to place the blame. The technocrats had done something to her mind, he was sure of it. In the past several years, the bureaucratic bastards had tried repeatedly and unsuccessfully to get rid of Bronso’s father. They had sabotaged Bronso’s own climbing gear only a few days ago, in hopes of killing him. Now the enemies of House Vernius had found a way to make his mother vulnerable and strike her down. . . .

The interrogation of an indignant Bolig Avati revealed nothing useful, though the technocrat leader did admit that if Ix were to be “unencumbered by archaic noble traditions,” business would proceed more smoothly. But there was no proof to link him to any of the sabotages or assassination attempts.

While Yueh tried in vain to revive Tessia, a distraught Rhombur gave full investigative authority to Duncan Idaho and Gurney Halleck. Along with loyal House Vernius guards, they searched the Ixian research facilities, studied the test records and prototype apparatus being developed by Ixian research teams, broke down doors to high-security areas—and found one researcher dead.

A man named Talba Hur, a solitary genius with an abrasive personality, lay in his locked lab with a broken neck and his skull crudely bashed in, dead among the cinders of research papers and diagrams. According to the only known records of his work, Talba Hur had been developing a technological means to erase or disrupt the human mind. Such a device might explain what had happened to Tessia.

Rhombur had no proof, no direct suspects . . . and no doubts. But even that didn’t help cure his wife. The damage had been done, and Yueh was unable to do anything to aid her.

Only the Bene Gesserits offered a slender hope, though they seemed to be without compassion. Distraught, Bronso stared as the three dark-robed Sisters whisked his mother away as if she were some sort of package to be delivered. He hated their attitude. The young man had already said goodbye to her, struggling to contain his tears. The Bene Gesserits merely brushed him aside, hurrying her along. Bronso thought he saw a knowing look in their eyes, which he presumed meant they had a particular treatment in mind.

But he wondered if he could truly trust them.

Bolig Avati stood among the party, wearing an expression of studied grief. “My Lord Vernius, perhaps it would be best if you withdrew from public life for a time.” Avati sounded drippingly sincere. “Rest and spend time with your son.”

Bronso wanted to strike the leader of the Technocrat Council. How could the man seize this opportunity to make Earl Vernius loosen his hold even further? Rhombur stood looking lost, devastated, speechless—he did not know what else to do, couldn’t conceive of any alternative. Not bothering to answer Avati, Bronso’s father stared in disbelief as the shuttle’s doors sealed and the vessel withdrew, rising up to the launching area.

Jessica and Paul both watched, keeping their distance but ready to show their support if Rhombur needed them. In light of the turmoil and tragedy, Jessica had suggested that it would be best if Paul returned to Caladan, leaving Bronso alone with his father and their shared grief.

No one could do anything to help. All of Bronso’s preconceptions and assumptions were crumbling. Throughout his life, he had expected his father to solve all problems, to be a decisive leader. Right now, he should have forced the technocrats to confess, or at the very least extract promises from the witches for the treatment they proposed. When could they visit Tessia? When would they know something about the treatment? How would the Sisters take care of her?

But Rhombur remained paralyzed and ineffective—and Bronso seethed at his failure. And now his mother was gone, with no guarantees that he would ever see her again. The young man spent the rest of the day in misery and anger, locked in his quarters, refusing even to see Paul.

When Bronso couldn’t stand it anymore, he burst into his father’s private office to find the patchwork man sitting on a reinforced chair. Rhombur’s scarred face did not easily show a full range of emotions, but he wiped a tear from his natural eye. “Bronso!”

When he saw his father in such despair, most of his anger and frustration dissipated. Just looking at the tapestry of scars and artificial limbs, the oddly matched melding of polymer skin with human flesh—everything reminded Bronso of how much physical and mental pain his father had already suffered.

Bronso faltered, but he still had something to say, and his frustrations overtook all compassion. Over the past year, he had noticed the decline in respect with which influential members of Ixian society regarded his father. At one time, according to the glorious stories, Prince Rhombur had shown uncanny daring and persistence, fleeing into exile while continuing to fight against the Tleilaxu invaders. Or were those merely stories? Now Bronso felt only scorn. Rhombur was no longer a hero in his eyes.

He lashed out. “People walk all over you, don’t they? I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”

Rhombur’s synthetic voice made an unusual sound, a humming in his throat. He seemed too weary to move. “The Sisters said they could help. What else could I do?”

“They said what you wanted to hear—and you believed them!”

“Bronso, you don’t understand.”

“I understand that you’re weak and ineffective. Will there be anything left when it’s time for me to be Earl? Or will the technocrats murder both of us first? Why don’t you arrest them? You know Avati’s guilty, but you let him just walk away.”

Rhombur half rose from his seat, scowled angrily. “You’re upset, but you have no idea what you’re saying.” Daunted, he locked his hands together, kneading them, making the artificial material strain. He hesitated, as if afraid to speak further, and finally said, “Uh, there’s something else I’ve been meaning to tell you, but your mother and I never found the right time. I’m sorry I kept it from you. Now you’re all I’ve got left—until your mother gets better.”

Feeling a sense of foreboding, Bronso lashed out in a clumsy attempt to protect his own feelings. “What? What else don’t I know?”

Rhombur sagged further into his reinforced chair. “After my body was nearly destroyed, I could never father children, could never hope for an heir to House Vernius. Tessia might have returned to the Sisterhood and become a concubine for some other noble.” His voice hitched. “But she stayed with me and insisted on marriage, even when I had nothing to offer. We managed to overthrow the Tleilaxu and regain control of Ix, but I still needed an heir, or House Vernius would vanish after all. And so we—”

He stopped, willing the rest of the words to come. “You see, I had a half brother, a child that my mother bore a long time ago when she was a court concubine to Emperor Elrood IX, before she married your grandfather. At least he had half of my bloodline, so Tessia . . . she obtained, uh, genetic samples. And with my approval she used them.”

“Used them? What are you talking about?” Why couldn’t his father just speak plainly?

“That is how you were conceived. I could not contribute the . . . the sperm, but I could grant my blessing. Artificial insemination.”

Bronso heard thunder in the back of his head. “You’re saying that you aren’t my real father. Why would you say that? And why tell me now?”

“It doesn’t matter, because you are my heir. Through my mother, Lady Shando Balut, you still have my bloodline. My love for you is the same as if—”

Bronso reeled. First, he’d lost his mother, and now this! “You lied to me!”

“I didn’t lie. I am your true father in every way that matters. You’re only eleven. Your mother and I were looking for the right time—”

“And she’s not here. She may never come back, may never recover. And now I learn that you’re not even my father!” His voice was as sharp as a dagger. He turned his back on Rhombur and stormed out of the apartment.

“Bronso, you are my son! Wait!”

But he kept going, without looking back.

Fuming and unable to concentrate, Bronso grabbed his climbing gear and strapped on new traction pads and a suspensor harness. He wanted to run away, but had no destination in mind. Breathing heavily, fighting the clamor in his head, he went to an upper floor of the Grand Palais and opened the slanted plates of transparent plaz. Not caring about anything but movement, he wormed his body through the gap as the processed wind drifted in. Barely bothering to look where he was going, Bronso vaulted out into the vastness of the chamber and scrambled up the sheer wall. He had no fear, nothing to lose.

“Bronso, what are you doing!”

He looked down to the window he’d left open and saw Paul Atreides sticking his head out, looking up. He ignored his friend, kept climbing the wall. He didn’t think he could ever get far enough away.

Moments later, however, he saw Paul ascending with his own set of traction pads and harness, moving awkwardly but making surprising speed. Annoyed, Bronso shouted, “You don’t have the skills for this. One mistake, and you’ll fall.”

“Then I won’t make a mistake. If you stay out here, then I’m staying with you.” As Bronso hung there, Paul caught up with him, panting. “Just like climbing sea cliffs.”

“What are you doing here? I don’t want you with me. I need to be alone.”

“I promised to keep you safe. Our bond, remember?”

Dangling there on the rock wall, Paul looked at him so earnestly that Bronso surrendered and agreed to accompany him slowly, and safely, back to his rooms. “Well, you’ll be free of that promise. You’re going back to Caladan soon—and I’ll still be here with nothing but lies.”

Paul regarded him with calm seriousness. “Then we’d better talk now, while we still can.”

With emotions building up in him, but unwilling to admit his confusion and shame, Bronso said, “On your honor, swear that you will tell no one else what I’m about to say to you. I need to know I can trust you.”

“You should know about Atreides honor.” Paul gave his word, and after they returned to Bronso’s private chambers, with the entrance sealed, they sat together for a long time afterward. Far from anyone else, Bronso explained what Rhombur had told him. Caught up in distant thoughts, the redheaded boy stared out at the twinkling cavern city. “So here we are. My mother is gone, and my incompetent father isn’t really my father. I’m not even truly a Vernius! Ix has nothing to do with me anymore. I don’t belong here.” He ratcheted up his courage. “I’m running away from home, and no one can stop me—not Rhombur, not his guards, no one.”

Paul groaned. “I wish you hadn’t told me what you’re going to do.”

“Why? Are you going to stop me? You swore to keep this secret!”

Backed into a corner of responsibilities, Paul reached the best solution he could. “My promise to you is clear—I won’t turn you in or reveal what you’re doing. But I also made a promise to my father that I would watch out for you. I can’t have you getting yourself lost or killed, so I’m going with you. Now tell me, where are we going?”

“As far away from Ix as we can get.”