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Body and mind are two phenomena, observed under different conditions, but of one and the same ultimate reality. Body and mind are aspects of the living being. They operate within a peculiar principle of synchronicity wherein things happen together and behave as if they are the same . . . yet can be conceived of as separate.

In the rainy late morning Duncan Idaho waited with his classmates on yet another training ground, yet another island in the sprawling chain of isolated classrooms. Warm droplets poured down on them from the oppressive tropical clouds. It always seemed to be raining here.

The Swordmaster was sweaty and fat, dressed in voluminous khakis. A red bandanna cinched around his enormous head made his mahogany-red hair spike upward in rain-dampened points. His eyes were hard little darts, a brown so dark the irises were difficult to distinguish from the pupils. He spoke in a high, thin voice that squeaked out of a voicebox buried beneath enormous jowls.

When he moved, though, Swordmaster Rivvy Dinari did so with the grace and speed of a raptor in the final arc of a killing blow. Duncan saw nothing jovial about the man and knew not to underestimate him. The roly-poly appearance was a carefully cultivated feint. “I am a legend here,” the huge instructor had said, “and you will come to know it.”

In the second four years of the Ginaz curriculum, the trainees numbered less than half of those from the first day when Duncan had been forced to wear a heavy suit of ar-

mor. A handful of students had already died in the merciless training; many more had resigned and departed. “Only the best can be Swordmasters,” the teachers said, as if that explained all the hardships.

Duncan defeated other students in combat or in the thinking exercises that were so essential to battle and strategy. Before leaving Caladan he had been one of the best young fighters for House Atreides— but had never imagined he knew so little.

“Fighting men are not molded by coddling,” Swordmaster Mord Cour had droned, one afternoon long ago. “In real combat situations, men are molded through extreme challenges that push them to their limits.”

Some of the scholarly Swordmasters had spent days lecturing on military tactics, the history of warfare, even philosophy and politics. They engaged in battles of rhetoric rather than blades. Some were engineers and equipment specialists who had trained Duncan how to assemble and disassemble any kind of weapon, how to create his own killing devices out of the most meager supplies. He learned about shield use and repair, the design of large-scale defensive facilities, and battle plans for large- and small-scale conflicts.

Now, the drumming rain beat its inescapable cadence on the beach, the rocks, the students. Rivvy Dinari didn’t seem to notice a single droplet. “For the next six months you will memorize the samurai warrior code and its integral philosophy of bushido. If you insist on being oil-slick rocks, I will be rushing water. I will wear away your resistance until you learn everything I am able to teach you.” He shifted his piercing gaze like staccato weapons fire so that he seemed to address every student individually. A raindrop hung on the end of his nose, then fell away to be replaced by another one.

Unintimidated, the ill-humored lordling Trin Kronos interrupted the rotund man. “Honor will win no battles for you unless every combatant agrees to abide by the same terms. If you bind yourself with nonsensical strictures, Master, you can be beaten by any opponent willing to bend the rules.”

After hearing that, Duncan Idaho thought he understood some of the brash, provocative actions Viscount Moritani had taken during his conflict with Ecaz. The Grummans didn’t play by the same rules.

Kronos shook his head, flinging rainwater away. “Tell that to the dead soldiers on the losing side.” His friends standing next to him muttered their congratulations at his riposte. Though soaked and bedraggled, somehow they all maintained their haughty pride.

Dinari’s voice grew more strident. “Would you give up all human civilization? Would you rather become wild animals?” The enormous man stepped closer to Kronos, who hesitated, then backed away into a puddle. “Warriors of the Ginaz School are respected across the Imperium. We produce the finest fighters and the greatest tacticians, better even than the Emperor’s Sardaukar. And yet do we need a military fleet in orbit? Do we need a standing army to drive off invaders? Do we need a stockpile of weapons so that we can sleep well at night? No! Because we follow a code of honor and all the Imperium respects us.”

Kronos either ignored or failed to notice the murderous edge in the Swordmaster’s eyes. “Then you have a blind spot: your overconfidence.”

Silence hung for a long moment, broken only by the constant tattoo of pattering rain. Dinari put a ponderous weight into his words. “But we have our honor. Learn to value it.”

It was pouring again, as it had been for months. Rivvy Dinari ambled between the ranks of trainees; despite his bulk, the Swordmaster moved like a breeze across the muddy ground. “If you are eager to fight, you must rid yourself of anxiety. If you are angry at your enemy, you must rid yourself of anger. Animals fight like animals. Humans fight with finesse.” He impaled Duncan with his dart-sharp gaze. “Clear your mind.”

Duncan did not breathe, did not blink. Every cell in his body had frozen to a standstill, every nerve locked in stasis. A wet breeze caressed his face, but he allowed it to blow past him; the constant downpour drenched his clothes, his skin, his bones— but he imagined that it flowed through him.

“Stand without any movement— not the blink of an eye, nor any swelling of your chest, nor the tiniest twitch of a single muscle. Be a stone. Remove yourself from the conscious universe.”

After months of Dinari’s rigorous instruction, Duncan knew how to slow his metabolism to a deathlike state known as funestus. The Swordmaster called it a purification process to prepare their minds and bodies for the introduction of new fighting disciplines. Once achieved, funestus gave him a sensation of peace unlike any previous experience, reminding him of his mother’s arms, of her sweet, whispering voice.

Wrapped in the trance, Duncan focused his thoughts, his imagination, his drive. An intense brilliance filled his eyes, but he maintained his hold and refused to blink.

Duncan felt a sharp pain in his neck, the prick of a needle. “Ah! You still bleed,” Dinari exclaimed, as if it were his job to destroy as many candidates as possible. “So, too, will you bleed in battle. You are not in a perfect state of funestus, Duncan Idaho.”

He struggled to achieve the meditative state in which the mind commanded its chi energy, remaining in a state of rest while totally prepared for battle. He sought the highest level of concentration, without the contamination of unnecessary and confusing thoughts. He felt himself going deeper, heard Rivvy Dinari’s continuing verbal onslaught.

“You carry one of the finest blades in the Imperium, the sword of Duke Paulus Atreides.” He loomed over the candidate, who struggled to maintain his focus, his serenity. “But you must earn the right to use it in battle. You have acquired fighting skills, yet you have not demonstrated mastery over your own thoughts. Overintellectualizing slows and dulls reactions, dampens a warrior’s instincts. Mind and body are one— and you must fight with both.”

The corpulent Swordmaster glided around him, slowly circling. Duncan fixed his gaze ahead.

“I see every tiny crack of which even you are not aware. If a Swordmaster fails, he doesn’t just let himself down— he imperils his comrades, disgraces his House, and brings dishonor upon himself.”

Duncan felt another needle prick his neck, heard a satisfied grunt. “Better.” Dinari’s voice faded as he moved along to inspect the others in turn. . . .

As the relentless rain streamed down on him, Duncan maintained funestus. Around him the world grew silent, like the quiet before a storm. Time ceased to hold any meaning for him.

At Dinari’s call, Duncan’s consciousness began to float, as if he were a boat in a fast-moving river, and the bulky Swordmaster had him in tow. He submerged and continued forward, pushing through metaphorical water toward a destination that lay far beyond his mind. He had been in this mental stream many times . . . the journey of partus as he went to the second step in the sequence of meditation. He washed away all that was old so he could begin anew, like a child. The water was fresh and clean and warm all around him, a womb.

Duncan accelerated through the liquid, and the boat that was his soul tilted upward. The darkness diminished, and presently he saw a glow above him, becoming brighter. The sparkling light became a watery brilliance, and he saw himself as a tiny mote swimming upward.

At Dinari’s second cry, Duncan surged out of the metaphorical water back into tropical rain and sweet air. He gasped for breath, and coughed along with the other students— only to find himself entirely dry, his clothes, his skin, his hair. Before he could express his astonishment, the rain began to soak his clothes again.

With clasped hands, the obese Swordmaster gazed at the gray heavens, letting raindrops pour over his face like a cleansing baptism. Then he tilted his head down and gazed from face to face, showing supreme pleasure. His students had reached novellus— the final stage of organic rebirth required before they could begin a complex new teaching.

“To conquer a fighting system you must let it conquer you. You must give yourself to it totally.” The loose, wet ends of Swordmaster Dinari’s red bandanna, tied behind his head, drooped down his neck. “Your minds are like soft clay upon which impressions may be made.”

The Swordmaster said solemnly, “Bushido. Where does honor begin? Ancient samurai masters hung mirrors in each of their Shinto temples and asked adherents to look deeply into them to see their own hearts, the variegated reflections of their God. It is in the heart where honor is nurtured and flourishes.”

With a meaningful glance over at Trin Kronos and the other Grumman students, he continued. “Remember this always: Dishonor is like a gash on a tree trunk— instead of disappearing with age, it enlarges.”

He made the class repeat this three times before he went on. “The code of honor was more valuable to a samurai than any treasure. A samurai’s word— his bushi no ichi-gon— was never doubted, nor is the word of any Swordmaster of Ginaz.”

Dinari finally smiled at them, showing pride at last. “Young samurai, first you will learn basic moves with empty hands. When you have perfected these techniques, weapons will be added to your routines.” With his black-dart eyes, he looked at them all sharply enough to make them afraid.

A week later, the exhausted students retired to cots inside their tents on the rugged north shore. Rain spattered their shelters, and trade winds gusted all night long. Fatigued from the rigorous fighting, Duncan settled down to sleep. Tent fittings rattled, metal eyelets clanked against rope ties in a steady rhythm that made him drowsy. At times, he thought he would never be completely dry again.

A booming voice startled him. “Everyone out!” He recognized the timbre of Dinari’s voice, but the big man’s tone conveyed something new, something ominous. Another surprise training exercise?

The students scrambled out of the tents into the downpour, some clad in shorts, some wearing nothing at all. Without hesitation, they lined up in their usual formations. By now they didn’t even feel the rain. Glowglobes bobbed in the wind, swaying at the ends of suspensor tethers.

Still dressed in khakis, an agitated Swordmaster Dinari paced in front of the class like a stalking animal. His footsteps were heavy and angry; he didn’t care that he splashed in the muddy puddles. Behind him, the engine of a landed ornithopter whined as its articulated wings thumped in the air.

A red strobelight on top of the aircraft illuminated the figure of the slender, bald woman Karsty Toper, who had met Duncan upon his first arrival on Ginaz. Wearing her usual black martial-arts pajama, now rain-soaked, she clutched a glistening diplomatic plaque that was impervious to moisture. Her expression looked hard and troubled, as if she were barely able to contain disgust or outrage.

“Four years ago, a Grumman ambassador murdered an Ecazi diplomat after being accused of sabotaging Ecazi fogwood trees, and then Grumman troops engaged in a criminal carpet-bombing of Ecaz. These heinous and illegal aggressions violated the Great Convention, and the Emperor stationed a legion of Sardaukar on Grumman to prevent further atrocities.” Toper paused, waiting for the implications to sink in.

Karsty Toper stepped forward, holding up her crystal document like a cudgel. Rain streamed down her scalp, her temples. “Before removing his Sardaukar from Grumman, the Emperor received promises from both sides agreeing to cease all aggressions against one another.”

Duncan looked around at the other students, seeking an answer. No one seemed to know what the woman was talking about or why the Swordmaster seemed so angry.

“Now, House Moritani has struck again. The Viscount reneged on the pact,” Toper said, “and Grumman—”

“And Grumman agents have kidnapped the brother and eldest daughter of Archduke Armand Ecaz and publicly executed them.”

The gathered students muttered their dismay. Duncan could tell, though, that this was no mere lesson in inter-House politics for them to learn. He dreaded what was about to come.

On Duncan’s right, Hiih Resser shifted uneasily on his feet. He wore shorts, no shirt. Two rows back, Trin Kronos appeared to be smugly satisfied at what his House had done.

“Seven members of this class are from Grumman. Three are from Ecaz. Though these Houses are sworn enemies, you students have not permitted such enmity to affect the work of our school. This is to your credit.” Toper pocketed her diplomatic plaque.

The wind whipped the tails of Dinari’s bandanna around his head, but he stood as sturdy as an enormous oak tree. “Though we have not been part of this dispute, and we avoid Imperial politics altogether, the Ginaz School cannot tolerate such dishonor. It shames me even to spit the name of your House. All Grummans, step forward. Front and center!”

The seven students did as they were told. Two (including Trin Kronos) were nude, but stood at attention with their companions as if they were fully dressed. Resser looked alarmed and ashamed; Kronos actually raised his chin in indignation.

“You are faced with a decision,” Toper said. “Your House has violated Imperial law and dishonored itself. After your years here on Ginaz, you understand the appalling seriousness of this offense. No one has ever been kicked out of this school for purely political reasons. Therefore, you may either denounce the insane policies of Viscount Moritani, here and now— or be expelled immediately and permanently from the academy.” She pointed toward the waiting ornithopter.

Trin Kronos scowled. “So, after all your words about honor, you ask us to give up loyalty to our House, our families? Just like that?” He glared at the fat Swordmaster. “There can be no honor without loyalty. My eternal allegiance is to Grumman and to House Moritani.”

“Unjust cause?” Kronos stood flushed and indignant in his nakedness. “It is not my place to challenge the decisions of my Lord, sir—nor is it yours.”

Resser looked straight forward, did not glance at his fellows. “I choose to be a Swordmaster, sir. I will stay here.” The redhead fell back into line beside Duncan, while the other Grummans glared at him as if he were a traitor.

Prompted by Kronos, the remaining six refused to yield. The Moritani lordling growled, “You insult Grumman at your own peril. The Viscount will never forget your meddling.” His words were full of bluster, but neither Swordmaster Dinari nor Karsty Toper seemed impressed.

The Grummans stood proud and arrogant, though obviously disturbed to be put in such a position. Duncan sympathized with them, realizing that they, too, had selected a course of honor— a different form of honor— since they refused to abandon their House, regardless of the accusations. If he were thrust into a choice between the Ginaz School and loyalty to House Atreides, he would have chosen Duke Leto without hesitation. . . .

Given only minutes to dress and gather their possessions, the Grumman students boarded the ’thopter. The wings went to full extension, then began a powerful flapping rhythm as the craft flew through the rain over the dark water until its red strobe faded like a dying star.