Now that the Zensunni survivors were well fed and had hope for their future again, Ishmael finally allowed himself to feel a growing satisfaction. Despite its harshness and the daily balance on the edge of survival, life among the desert dwellers of Arrakis began to find natural rhythms. It was not comfortable, perhaps, but much safer than before.

When Jafar and the others led the band of refugees back to the isolated cave settlements, the newcomers had straggled into the sanctuary with expressions of awe and wonder, as if they were arriving in heaven. Standing in cool shadows, the survivors were welcomed by Selim’s outlaw band. Some of the Poritrin Zensunnis accepted food offerings, while others drank deeply of tepid water. Some could do nothing more than collapse in relief.

That night, giddy with contentment, Ishmael studied them all, especially Chamal. He had wanted to weep. Only fifty-seven of the original group remained, a little over half. But they were now free.

In spite of their terrible ordeal, the survivors looked on him as a confident leader, whose vision and faith had kept them together, guiding most of them safely through. Escaping the tyranny of slave masters, he had brought his people halfway across the galaxy in an unproven starship, and helped most of them survive for months— no mean feat on Arrakis.

And the refugees insisted to the band of outlaws that Ishmael deserved their respect as well. Marha, the wife of fallen Selim, held onto her young dark-eyed son El’hiim, not yet a year old, and nodded slowly at Ishmael, appraising him. “We are happy to have a man among us who is so worthy of respect.”

On the first night of their salvation, he stood at one of the cave openings, staring out upon the moonlit desert, marveling at the beauty of the wan light as it washed over the sands. Overhead, pinprick stars twinkled in the clear, dry air.

Then he turned to his rescued people and spoke in a firm, comforting voice. “This is what Buddallah promised us. It may not be what we expected— it is not an easy life here, not a paradise by any measure— but given time, perhaps we can make it better.”

THE SURVIVORS CONTINUED to celebrate, consuming supplies stolen from spice-harvesting caravans or unsuspecting villages that had garnered wealth through trafficking in melange. The Poritrin refugees praised Buddallah and Ishmael, while the outlaws sang songs of Selim Wormrider and shared tales of Shai-Hulud.

Ishmael found himself alone with Jafar deep in the caves. “How did you know of us?” he asked the tall, gaunt man. “We have been seeking help for a long time.”

Jafar narrowed his blue-within-blue eyes, which looked like shadowed pits in his face. “We found a man wandering alone on the sand, barely alive. We saved him, and he asked us to go in search of you.” He shrugged. “We did not know whether to believe him, for the words of a merchant and a slaver are often untrue.”

He led Ishmael to a dim chamber in the heart of the mountain. “I will leave the two of you to talk.” From the opening, Ishmael could barely see a thin man sitting alone under the wan light of a single, small glowglobe. Tuk Keedair.

Jafar whirled in his desert robe and left.

Barely able to believe what he saw, Ishmael stepped forward. “Buddallah does indeed work in strange ways if a flesh merchant who led so many slave raids is responsible for saving Zensunni lives!”

The Tlulaxa man looked gaunt and haunted, his body scrawny, his hair ragged and without its signature braid. When he looked up to see his visitor, Keedair’s face showed neither defiance nor fear, only weariness.

“So, Lord Ishmael of the Slaves, I see you have survived, against all odds. Your god must indeed have great plans for you… or a profound trick up His sleeve.”

“I am not the only one who remained alive despite the best efforts of this planet.” Ishmael stepped farther into the room. “What happened to Rafel and Ingu, and our scout ship?”

Keedair rocked back and forth on the stone ledge that served as his bed. “They are all down in the belly of a worm.” He ran a clawlike hand through his shaggy hair. “Rafel threatened to slit my throat, but instead decided just to turn me loose in the wild desert. I had not gone far before three huge sandworms came in a frenzy. They destroyed the scout ship, devouring every trace.” He looked up, staring at a point somewhere beyond Ishmael. “I wandered for days before Jafar and his men found me.”

Ishmael frowned upon hearing that his son-in-law had turned the former slaver out into the desert, where he would almost certainly die. Had he been trying to take revenge? Had Buddallah punished Rafel because he had decided to take justice into his own hands?

“You must never inform my daughter of this,” he said.

Keedair shrugged. “It was a matter between Rafel and the worm. It means nothing to me.” He extended a sinewy hand. “I give you my word.”

Ishmael made no move to accept the gesture. “You expect me to accept the word of a flesh merchant? The word of the man who attacked my village and sold me into slavery?”

“Lord Ishmael, a businessman who cannot keep his promises soon finds himself without any business.” He used the title not sarcastically, but in deference.

Sensing someone beside him, Ishmael turned to see the large-eyed woman who had been the wife of Selim Wormrider. He had not heard her approach. “What would you have us do with the slaver, Ishmael? The choice falls to you.”

He frowned, uneasy with the responsibility. “Why did you let him keep his life in the first place?”

To Marha, the answer seemed obvious. “To see if he spoke the truth about other Zensunnis who came from a faraway world. But water and food are scarce, and we need no extra mouths in our tribe.”

Inside his cell, Keedair scowled, as if already knowing his fate. “Yes, yes, now that your bellies are full and your throats are no longer parched, you can turn your minds to thoughts of vengeance. You’ve waited long enough for it, Ishmael.”

By now, other Poritrin refugees had gathered in the corridor, searching for Ishmael and hearing the voices. Chamal was there, her face full of questions, and Ishmael did not know how he would decide to answer. Jafar and Marha stood aside to let the refugees peer into the shadowy room, from which the Tlulaxa slaver glared out at them. Many of them grumbled, their anger palpable enough to diminish their joy at being saved.

“Kill him, Ishmael,” implored an old woman.

“Throw him from the cliffs.”

“Feed him to the giant worms.”

Clenching and unclenching his fists, Ishmael stood closest to the captive. He closed his eyes and silently recited his Koran Sutras, hoping that the repeated words of forgiveness and promises of hope would seep into his heart.

“Tuk Keedair, you have already stolen much from me. You have hurt me, robbed me of most of my family, stolen nearly all the years of my life. Now my people are here on Arrakis and they can never leave, can never return to their home planets. When I think of the cost, I cannot help but shudder. But our ordeals here are not your fault.” He sucked in a long, dry breath. “I give you your life back, slaver.”

Surprised murmurs came from the corridor. Even Chamal glared at him in disbelief.

He continued, “It would be a dishonor to kill you now, for you have repaid your debt to us. My people would surely be dead if you had not urged these outlaws to seek us.” Ishmael opened his hands, looking at his distraught daughter. “Make no mistake, I still think of revenge… but I no longer have any right to take it. Those who take things they do not deserve are no better than… slavers.”

The refugees were clearly dissatisfied, even perplexed, but they appeared to accept his decision. Jafar looked at Ishmael with fresh respect, as did Marha, apparently seeing the Poritrin man as a leader for the first time. A real leader…

While the refugees returned to the gathering chambers, Marha took Ishmael aside and led him into the dry, cool night where they could sit together under the profusion of stars. Although many star patterns were different from what he had known on Poritrin, he recognized the constellation of the Beetle and several others. Some things were the same.

“I left my wife somewhere out there.” Up in the cosmic ceiling he did not even know how to find the planet where he had spent most of his life. In a single chaotic lurch, the space-folding ship had hurled them across a whole landscape of stars. “Her name was— is— Ozza. I pray she is still alive, along with our other daughter Falina.”

Marha coaxed the reminiscences from him, let him recall his favorite times with Ozza, how they had been so different at first but had become close companions, until Lord Bludd had separated them out of spite. Ishmael had not seen her in nearly three years.

He sighed. “I will never hold my Ozza again, but there is no point in suffocating with regret. Buddallah has guided me here for a reason, kept these people alive, and brought us all together.”

Marha sat in silence beside him for a long moment, then said, “Now I have a story for you, one that must be remembered by all our people, from generation to generation.” She smiled at him, and her voice softened. “Listen, while I tell you the tale of Selim Wormrider.”