When the ducal wingboat cast off from the docks and moved out into the sea, Leto stood at the bow and turned back to gaze at the ancient edifice of Castle Caladan, where House Atreides had ruled for twenty-six generations.

He could not recognize faces in the high windows, but he saw a small silhouette on a high balcony. Kailea. Despite her resistance to him taking young Victor, not yet two-and-a-half, on this trip, she had indeed come to see them off in her silent way. Leto took heart from that.

“Could I take the helm?” Rhombur’s rounded face wore a hopeful smile. His unruly, straw-colored hair blew in the freshening breeze. “I’ve never piloted a big wingboat before.”

“Wait until we reach open sea.” Leto looked at the exiled Prince with a mischievous smile. “That might be safest. I seem to remember you crashing us against the reefs once.”

Rhombur flushed. “I’ve learned a lot since that time. Uh, common sense, especially.”

“Indeed you have. Tessia has been a good influence on you.” When the mousy-haired Bene Gesserit concubine had accompanied Rhombur to the docks, her arm in his, she had passionately kissed him farewell.

In contrast, Kailea had refused to leave the Castle for Leto.

At the rear of the vee-shaped craft, little Victor giggled, running his hands through the cold spray while the ever-attentive guard captain, Swain Goire, kept watch. Goire kept the boy amused while remaining alert to protect him.

Eight men accompanied Leto and Victor on this happy-go-lucky voyage. In addition to Rhombur and Goire, he also brought with him Thufir Hawat, a pair of guards, a boat captain, and two fishermen, Gianni and Dom, friends of Leto’s from the docks with whom he’d played as a boy. They would go fishing; they would see the seaweed forests and kelp islands. Leto would show his son the wonders of Caladan.

Kailea had wanted to keep her boy locked within the Castle, where Victor would be exposed to nothing worse than a common cold or a draft. Leto had listened to her complaints in silence, knowing that the boat trip was not the root of her objection, merely the current manifestation. It was the same old problem. . . .

Perhaps Chiara’s muttered comments had finally convinced Kailea that Leto was to blame for her unacceptable situation. “I want to be more than an exile!” she had shouted during their last evening together (as if that had something to do with the fishing trip).

Leto stifled the urge to remind Kailea that her mother had been murdered, her father remained a hunted fugitive, and her people were still enslaved by the Tleilaxu— while she herself was a Duke’s lady, living in a castle with a fine, healthy son and all the wealth and trappings of a Great House. “You should not complain, Kailea,” he said, his voice dark with anger.

Though he could not placate her, Leto did want the best for their son.

Now, under cloud-studded skies, they breathed fresh ocean air and cruised far from land. The wingboat cut through the water like a knife blade through jellied pundi rice.

Thufir Hawat stood attentive inside the deckhouse; he scanned the signal-ranging systems and weather patterns, always concerned that some danger might befall his beloved Duke. The Master of Assassins kept himself in powerful shape, his skin leathery, his muscles like cables. His sharp Mentat mind could see the wheels within wheels of enemy plots. He studied third- and fourth-order consequences that Leto, or even Kailea with her shrewd business mind, could not comprehend.

In early afternoon the men cast nets. Though he was a lifelong fisherman, Gianni made it no secret that he preferred a nice big steak for dinner along with good Caladan wine. But out here, they had to eat what the sea provided.

As the nets came up full of flopping, squirming creatures, Victor raced to inspect the beautiful fish with their multi-colored scales. Ever watchful, Goire stood conscientiously next to the child, steering him away from the ones with poisonous spines.

Leto selected four fat butterfish, and Gianni and Dom took them to the galley to clean them. Then he knelt beside his son, helping the curious boy to gather the leftover struggling fish. Together, they tossed them overboard, and Victor clapped his hands as they watched the sleek shapes dart into the water.

Their course took them into floating continents of interlinked sargasso weed, a greenish-brown desert that extended as far as the eye could see. Broad rivers flowed through breaks in the weed. Flies buzzed about, laying eggs in glistening water droplets; black-and-white birds hopped from leaf to leaf, devouring shrimps that wriggled through the warm surface layers. The pungent smell of rotting vegetation filled the air.

When the men anchored in the seaweed, they talked and sang songs. Swain Goire helped Victor cast a fishing line over the side, and though his hooks tangled in the seaweed, the delighted boy managed to pull up several silvery fingerfish. Victor ran into the cabin with the slippery fish to show his father, who applauded his son’s fishing prowess. After such an exhausting day, the boy crawled into his bunk shortly after sunset and fell asleep.

Leto played a few gambling games with the two fishermen; though he was their Duke, Gianni and Dom did nothing to help Leto win. They considered him a friend . . . exactly as Leto wished. Later, when they told sad stories or sang tragic songs, Gianni wept at the slightest hint of sentiment.

Then, far into the night, Leto and Rhombur sat on deck in the darkness, just talking. Rhombur had recently gotten a terse, coded message that C’tair Pilru had received the explosives, but no word as to how they would be put to use. The Prince longed to see what the rebels were doing in the Ixian caverns, though he could not go there. He didn’t know what his father would have done in the situation.

They spoke of Leto’s continuing diplomatic efforts in the Moritani-Ecazi standoff. It was slow, difficult going. They were faced not only with resistance from the feuding parties but from Emperor Shaddam himself, who seemed to resent the Atreides intrusion. Shaddam believed that by stationing a legion of Sardaukar on Grumman for a few years he had already solved the problem. In reality it had only delayed the hostilities. With the Imperial troops gone now, tensions were mounting again. . . .

During a long moment of silence, Leto watched Captain Goire, which brought to mind another one of his friends and fighters. “Duncan Idaho has been on Ginaz for four years now.”

“He’ll become a great Swordmaster.” Rhombur stared across the seaweed desert, where furry murmons set up a bubbly chorus, singing challenges to each other across the darkness. “And after so many years of tough training, he’ll be a thousand times more valuable to you. You’ll see.”

“Still, I miss having him around.”

The next morning Leto awoke into a dewy gray dawn. Breathing deeply, he felt refreshed and full of energy. He found Victor still sleeping, the corner of a blanket wrapped around one clenched hand. In his own bunk Rhombur yawned and stretched, but gave no sign that he meant to follow Leto out onto the deck. Even on Ix, the Prince had never been an early riser.

The wingboat captain had already pulled up anchor. At Hawat’s direction— did the Mentat ever sleep?— they coasted down a wide channel through the seaweed toward open water again. Leto stood on the foredeck enjoying a silence broken only by the hum of the wingboat’s engines. Even the weed-hopping birds were still. . . .

Leto noted strange colorations in the clouds out at sea, a moving clump of flickering lights unlike anything he had seen before. From his seat in the midships deckhouse, the captain increased engine power and the wingboat raced along, picking up speed.

Leto sniffed, detected a metallic scent of ozone, but with an added sourness. He narrowed his gray eyes, ready to call the boat captain. The dense cluster of electrical activity moved against the breezes, darting along low to the water . . . as if alive.

Approaching us.

With a thrill of concern, he stepped backward into the deckhouse. “Do you see it, Captain?”

The older man did not take his eyes from the steering column or the phenomenon racing toward them. “I’ve been watching it for ten minutes, my Lord— and in that time it’s closed half the distance.”

“I’ve never seen anything like that before.” Leto stood beside the captain’s chair. “What is it?”

“I’ve got my suspicions.” The captain’s expression betrayed concern and fear; he yanked the throttle lever and the engines roared louder than ever. “I’m thinking we should run.” He pointed to the right, away from the approaching lights.

Leto brought an edge of ducal command to his voice, stripping away the friendliness he had built over the past day. “Captain, explain yourself.”

“It’s an elecran, Sire. If you ask me.”

Leto laughed once, then stopped. “An elecran? Isn’t that just a myth?” His father, the Old Duke, had liked to tell stories as the two of them sat by an open beach fire, with the night illuminated only by flickering flames. “You’d be amazed at what’s in that sea, boy,” Paulus had said, pointing toward the dark water. “Your mother wouldn’t want me to tell you this, but I think you should know.” He would take a long, thoughtful puff on his pipe and begin his tale. . . .

Now the wingboat captain shook his head. “They’re rare, my Lord, but they do exist.”

And if such an elemental creature was indeed real, Leto knew what destruction and death it could bring. “Turn the boat, then. Set a course away from the thing. Maximum speed.”

The captain slewed them to starboard, churning a white wake in the still water, tilting the deck at an angle steep enough to tumble the men from their bunks below. Leto gripped a cabin rail until his knuckles turned white.

Thufir Hawat and Swain Goire hurried into the deckhouse, demanding to know the reason for the emergency. As Leto pointed aft, the men stared through the mist-specked plaz of the windows. Goire cursed with colorful language he never used around Victor. Hawat’s brow furrowed as his complex Mentat mind analyzed the situation and plucked the information he needed from his storehouse of knowledge. “We are in trouble, my Duke.”

The flashing lights and stormy appearance of the strange creature came closer on their stern, picking up speed, causing steam to boil off the water. The boat captain’s forehead glistened with sweat. “It’s seen us, Sire.” He jammed the engine throttle down so hard it nearly broke off in his hand. “Even in this wingboat we can’t outrun it. Better prepare for an attack.”

Leto sounded the alarm. Within seconds, the other guards appeared, followed by the two fishermen. Rhombur carried Victor, who, frightened by the commotion, clung to his uncle.

Hawat stared aft, narrowing his eyes. “I don’t know how to fight a myth.” He looked at his Duke, as if he had failed in some way. “Nevertheless, we will try.”

Goire rapped on a bulkhead of the deckhouse. “This boat won’t shelter us, will it?” The guard appeared ready to fight anything the Duke identified as an enemy.

“An elecran is a cluster of ghosts from men who died in storms at sea,” said the fisherman Dom, his voice uncertain as he leaned out of the deckhouse while the others went out onto the aft deck to face the creature.

His brother Gianni shook his head. “Our grandmother said it’s the living vengeance of a woman scorned. A long time ago, a woman went out during a thunderstorm and screamed curses at the man who had left her. She was struck by lightning, and that’s how the elecran was born.”

It hurt Leto’s eyes to look at the towering elecran, a squid of electricity formed by vertical bolts of power and tendrils of gas. Lightning skittered across its surface; mist, steam, and ozone surrounded it like a shield. As the creature approached the wingboat, it swelled in volume, absorbing seawater like a great geyser.

“I’ve also heard it can only keep its shape, keep itself alive, so long as it stays in contact with the water,” the boat captain added.

“That information is more useful,” Hawat said.

“Vermilion hells! We’re not getting that bloody thing out of the water,” Rhombur said. “I hope there’s another way to kill it.”

Hawat barked a quick order, and the two Atreides guards drew their lasrifles, weaponry brought aboard at the warrior Mentat’s insistence. At the time, Leto had wondered how they could possibly need such firepower on a simple fishing trip; now he was glad. Dom and Gianni took one look at the threatening knot of energy and scrambled belowdecks.

Swain Goire, with a glance behind him to make sure Victor was with Rhombur, raised his own weapon. He was the first to open fire off the stern of the speeding boat, sending out a hot, pulsing blast of light. The energy struck the elecran and dissipated, causing no harm. Thufir Hawat fired, as did the second Atreides guard.

“No effect!” the Mentat bellowed into the rising buzz. “My Duke— remain in the safety of the cabin.”

Even inside, Leto could feel the heat in the air, smell the burned salt and crisped seaweed. Bolts of primal power crackled through the elecran’s fluid body, and it loomed closer to the wingboat, a cyclone of raw power. With a single strike, it could shatter the vessel and electrocute every person aboard.

“There is no safety, Thufir,” Leto shouted back. “I will not let that thing have my son!” He glanced at the boy, who grasped Rhombur around the neck.

As if to flaunt its power, one crackling tendril bent down and touched the wooden side of the boat like a priest giving a blessing. Part of the craft’s metal trim blasted free as hot sparks danced along every conductive contact. The boat’s engines sputtered and died.

The captain tried to restart the engines, was rewarded with only rasping, metallic sounds.

Goire appeared ready to hurl himself bodily into the crackling mass, if it would do anything to help. As the boat stopped running, the men continued to fire their lasguns at the core of the elecran, though with no more effect than a thrown table knife. But Leto realized they were targeting the wrong place. The boat, with no power, was turning, the bow coming around toward the monster.

Spotting his opportunity, Leto left the deckhouse and ran toward the wingboat’s pointed bow. Hawat cried out to restrain his Duke, but Leto raised a hand to forestall his intervention. Audacity had always been an Atreides hallmark. He had to pray the boat captain’s folk wisdom was not composed entirely of ridiculous stories.

“Leto! Don’t do it!” Rhombur said, clutching Victor tightly to his chest. The boy screamed and squirmed, trying to pummel his way free of his uncle’s grasp so he could run to his father.

Leto shouted at the monster and waved his hands, hoping to distract the thing, act as bait. “Here! To me!” He had to save his son as well as his men. The captain was still trying to start the engines, but they wouldn’t switch on. Thufir, Goire, and the two guards hurried to join Leto on the foredeck.

The Duke watched the elecran swell. As it towered like an oncoming tsunami in the air, the creature maintained only a tenuous contact with the salt water that gave it corporeal existence. A lingering static charge made Leto’s hair rise, as if a million tiny insects were crawling on his skin.

The timing would have to be precise. “Thufir, Swain— point your lasguns at the water below it. Turn the ocean to steam.” Leto raised both arms, offering himself. He had no weapon, nothing with which to threaten the creature.

The fearsome elecran glowed brighter, a crackling mass of primal energy that rose high above the water. It had no face, no eyes, no fangs— its entire body was composed of death.

Hawat barked the order just as Leto dove facefirst to the wooden deck. Two lasguns blasted the water into froth and steam at the base of the crackling ribbon of lightning. Clouds of white mist boiled up all around.

Leto rolled aside, trying to reach the shelter of a high gunwale. The two Atreides guards also opened fire, vaporizing the waves around the flickering creature.

The elecran thrashed, as if surprised, trying to draw itself back down to the seawater that boiled away underneath it. It gave an unearthly cry and struck the boat twice more with spasmic lightning bolts. Finally, when its connection had been completely severed, the elecran lost all integrity.

In a brilliant flashing and sparking explosion, it dissipated into nothing, returning to the realms of myth. A shower of water splattered the deck, tingling and effervescent as if it still contained a shred of the elecran’s presence. Hot droplets pelted Leto. The stench of ozone made breathing difficult.

The ocean became peaceful again, calm and quiet. . . .

During the wingboat’s subdued return to the docks, Leto felt exhausted, yet content that he had solved the problem and saved his men— and, most of all, his son— without a single casualty. Gianni and Dom were already formulating the stories they would tell on stormy nights.

Lulled by the drone of the engines, Victor fell asleep on his father’s lap. Leto stared out at the water curling past them. He stroked the boy’s dark hair and smiled at the innocent face. In Victor’s features he could see the Imperial bloodlines that had been passed to Leto through his mother— the narrow chin, the intense, pale gray eyes, the aquiline nose.

As he studied the dozing boy, he wondered if he loved Victor more than he loved his concubine. At times, he wondered if he still loved Kailea at all— especially during the past difficult year, as their life together had grown sour . . . slowly, inexorably.

Had his father felt the same about his wife Helena, trapped as he was in a relationship with a woman whose expectations were so different from his own? And how had their marriage degenerated so far, to the lowest possible level? Few people knew that Lady Helena Atreides had fostered the death of the Old Duke, arranging to have him killed by a Salusan bull.

Caressing his son gently so that he did not wake, Leto vowed never to let Victor be exposed to such great danger again. His heart swelled as if it would burst with love for the boy. Perhaps Kailea had been right. He shouldn’t have taken their child out on this fishing trip.

Then the Duke narrowed his eyes and rediscovered the steel of leadership. Realizing the cowardice in his thoughts, Leto reversed himself. I cannot be overly protective of him. It would be a serious mistake to coddle this child. Only by facing perils and challenges— as Paulus Atreides had made Leto do— could the young man become strong and intelligent, the leader he needed to be.

He looked down and smiled at Victor again. After all, Leto thought, this boy may be Duke someday.

He saw the dim gray coastline emerge from the morning shore mist, then Castle Caladan and its docks. It would feel good to be home.