Breathless with anticipation, Liet-Kynes forced himself to move methodically, to make no errors. Though excited about racing for Faroula’s hand, if he did not prepare properly for the mihna challenge, he could find his death instead of a wife.

Heart pounding, he dressed in his stillsuit, fitting it out to retain every drop of moisture, checking all the connections and seals. He rolled his pack, including extra water and food, and took the time to inventory the items in his Fremkit: stilltent, paracompass, manual, charts, sandsnorkel, compaction tools, knife, binoculars, repair pack. Finally, Liet gathered the Maker hooks and thumpers he’d need to summon a worm for the trek across the Great Flat and Habbanya Erg to Habbanya Ridge.

The Cave of Birds was an isolated stopping point for Fremen on their travels, for those with no permanent sietch. Faroula must have departed two days earlier, summoning her own worm as few Fremen women could do. She would know the cave was empty. She would be there waiting for Liet, or Warrick— whoever arrived first.

Liet bustled around the room adjacent to his parents’ chambers. His mother heard the frantic movements even at such a late hour and moved the hangings aside. “Why are you preparing for a journey, my son?”

He looked at her. “Mother, I am off to win myself a wife.”

Frieth smiled, her thin lips turning up on her tanned and weathered face. “So Faroula has issued the challenge.”

“Yes— and I must hurry.”

Moving with quick, deft fingers, Frieth rechecked the fastenings on his stillsuit and tied the Fremkit to his back as Liet unfolded charts printed on spice paper so that he could review geography known only to the Fremen. He studied the topography of the desert, the rock outcroppings, the salty basins. Weather records showed where wind patterns and storms were likely to strike.

Warrick had a head start, he knew, but his impetuous friend would not have taken as many precautions. Warrick would rush into the challenge and trust his Fremen skills. But unexpected problems took time and resources to resolve, and Liet invested these few additional minutes to save time later.

His mother kissed him briefly on the cheek. “Remember, the desert is neither your friend nor your enemy . . . simply an obstacle. Use it to your advantage.”

“Yes, Mother. Warrick knows that, too.”

Pardot Kynes was nowhere to be found . . . but then, he rarely was. Liet could be gone and return again to Red Wall Sietch before the Planetologist even understood the importance of his son’s contest.

When he emerged from the moisture-sealed sietch doors to stand on the rugged ridge, Liet took in the vista of sweeping sands lit by the rising moons. He could hear the throbbing beat of a distant thumper.

Warrick was already out there.

Liet rushed down the steep path toward the open basin, but paused again. Sandworms had broad, well-defined territories, which they defended fiercely. Warrick was already calling a great beast, and it would be a long time before Liet could lure a second worm into the same area.

Knowing that, he hiked higher instead, crossed the saddle of the ridge, and descended the other side of the mountains, picking his way toward a shallow basin. Liet hoped he could summon a good Maker there, a better one than his friend obtained.

As he climbed down the rugged slope, using hands and feet, Liet studied the landscape ahead and found a long dune that faced the open desert. That would be a good place to wait. He planted a thumper downslope and set it working without a delayed timer. He’d have several minutes to plow through the loose sand up the backface of the dune. In the darkness, it would be difficult to see the oncoming ripples of wormsign.

Listening to the thump, thump, thump of the device, he removed tools from his kit, stretched out the telescoping whiprods and Maker hooks, then strapped the goads to his back. Always before, when he’d called worms, there had been spotters and helpers, people to assist him should difficulties arise. But for this challenge, Liet-Kynes had to do everything himself. He completed each step according to the familiar ritual. He fastened cleats to his boots, removed the ropes— and hunkered down to wait.

On the other side of the ridge, Warrick would already be mounted and racing across the Great Flat. Liet hoped he could make up for lost time. It would take two, perhaps three, days to reach the Cave of Birds . . . and much could happen in that time.

He dug his fingertips into the sand and sat absolutely motionless. The night had no wind, no sounds other than the thumper, until finally he heard the static hiss of moving sand, the rumble of a leviathan deep beneath the dunes attracted by the steady beat of the thumper. The worm came closer and closer, with a crest of sand in front of it.

“Shai-Hulud has sent a big Maker,” Liet said with a long sigh.

The worm circled toward the thumper. Its huge, segmented back rode high, encrusted with debris; the wide ridges were like canyons.

Liet froze in awe before scrambling across the slipping sand, holding Maker hooks in both hands. Even through his stillsuit nose plugs, he smelled sulfur, burned rock, and the potent, acrid esters of melange that oozed from the worm.

He raced along as the beast swallowed the thumper. Before the worm could bury itself again, Liet lashed out with one of the Maker hooks, securing its glistening end into the leading edge of a ring segment. With all his strength he pulled, spreading the segment to expose pinkish flesh too tender to touch the abrasive sands. Then he held on.

Avoiding irritation to the stinging wound between its segments, the worm rolled upward and carried Liet with it. He reached out with his other hand, slapping down a second Maker hook and embedding it deeper along the segment. He pulled again to widen the gap.

The worm rose in a reflex action, flinching from this further annoyance.

Normally, additional Fremen riders would open more ring segments, but Liet was alone. Digging his cleats into the hard flesh of Shai-Hulud, he climbed higher, then planted spreaders to keep the segment open. The worm rose out of the sand, and Liet tapped with his first goad to turn the worm around and head onto the sprawling plain of the Great Flat.

Liet held his ropes, finished planting his hooks, and finally stood to look back at the sinuous arc of the worm. The Maker was huge! An air of dignity hung about this one, a sense of great antiquity that went to the very roots of the planet itself. Never before had he seen such a creature. He could ride this one for a long time, at great speed.

He might yet have a chance of overtaking Warrick. . . .

His worm raced across the shifting sands as the two moons rose higher. Liet studied his course, using the stars and constellations, following the tail of the mouse pattern known as Muad’Dib, “the one who points the way,” so that he always knew his direction.

He crossed the rippling track of what might have been another great Maker plowing across the Great Flat— likely Warrick’s own worm, since Shai-Hulud rarely traveled on the surface unless provoked. Liet hoped that luck was on his side.

After many hours, the race took on a monotonous familiarity, and drowsiness filled him. He could doze if he lashed himself to the worm, but Liet didn’t dare. He had to remain awake to guide the leviathan. If Shai-Hulud strayed from the direct course, Liet would lose time— and he could no longer afford that.

He rode the monster all through the night until the lemon color of dawn tinged the indigo skies, washing away the stars. He kept an alert eye for Harkonnen patrol ’thopters, though he doubted they would come so far below the sixty-degree line.

He rode through the morning until, at the hottest point of the day, the enormous worm trembled, thrashed, and fought every attempt to keep it going. It was ready to drop from exhaustion. Liet dared not push it any harder. Worms could be ridden to death, and that would be a bad omen, indeed.

He steered the long, slithering beast toward an archipelago of rock. Releasing the hooks and spreaders, he sprinted along the ring segments and leaped to safety seconds before the lumbering worm wallowed into the sand. Liet dashed toward the low rocks, which were the only strip of dark coloration in a monotony of whites, tans, and yellows, a barricade that separated one vast basin from another.

He huddled under a camouflaged, heat-reflective blanket and set a timer from his Fremkit to allow himself one full hour of sleep. Though his instincts and external senses remained alert, he slept deeply, regaining energy.

When he awoke, he climbed over the barrier of rocks to the edge of the vast Habbanya Erg. There Liet planted his second thumper and called another worm— a much smaller one, but still a formidable creature that would take him farther on his journey. He rode through the afternoon.

Toward dusk, Liet’s sharp eyes picked up a faint coloration on the shaded sides of the dunes, a pale, gray-green where tendrils of grass wove their roots to stabilize the shifting sands. Fremen had placed seeds here, nurtured them. Even if only one out of a thousand sprouted and lived long enough to reproduce, his father was making progress. Dune would be green again, one day.

During the hypnotic thrumming of the worm’s passage, hour after hour, he could hear his father lecturing: “Anchor the sand, and we take away one of the wind’s great weapons. In some of the climatic belts of this planet, the winds don’t top a hundred klicks per hour. These we call ‘minimum-risk spots.’ Plantings on the downwind side will build up the dunes, creating larger barriers and increasing the size of these minimum-risk spots. In that way, we can achieve another tiny step toward our goal here.”

Half-asleep, Liet shook his head. Even here, all alone in this vast wasteland, I can’t escape the great man’s voice . . . his dreams, his lectures.

But Liet had hours left to travel. He had not seen Warrick yet, knew that there were many routes across the wasteland. He did not relent or decrease his speed. Finally, he made out a wavering dark smudge on the far horizon: Habbanya Ridge, where lay the Cave of Birds.

Warrick left his last worm behind and sprinted with renewed energy up the rocks, using his hands and temag boots to climb an unmarked trail. The rocks were greenish-black and ocher-red, baked and weathered by the harsh storms of Arrakis. Blowing sands had scoured the face of the cliff, leaving pockmarks and crannies. He couldn’t see the cave opening from here— nor should he be able to, since the Fremen could not risk outside eyes spotting it.

He had traveled well and called good worms. He had never rested, feeling the need to reach Faroula first, to claim her hand . . . but also to outperform his friend Liet. It would make a good story for their grandchildren. Already, the Fremen sietches would be talking of the great worm race, how Faroula had issued such an unusual challenge for her ahal.

Warrick climbed hand over hand, finding footholds and fingerholds, until he reached a ledge. Near the camouflaged opening, he found a narrow, scuffed footprint from a woman’s boot. Faroula’s, for certain. No Fremen would have left such a mark accidentally; she had intended to leave that trace. It was her message that she was there, waiting.

Warrick hesitated, drew a deep breath. It had been a long journey, and he hoped Liet was safe. His blood-brother might be approaching even now, since tall rocks blocked Warrick’s view of the surrounding desert. He didn’t want to lose his friend, not even over this woman. Fervently, he hoped there would not be a fight.

But he still wanted to be first.

Warrick stepped inside the Cave of Birds, forming a clear silhouette near the edge of the opening. Inside the rough rock cavern, the shadows blinded him. Finally, he heard a woman’s voice, silken words sliding along the walls of the cave.

“It’s about time,” Faroula said. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

She didn’t say his name, and for a moment Warrick remained motionless. Then Faroula came to him, elfin-faced, her legs and arms long and lean and muscular. Her overlarge eyes seemed to bore into him. She smelled of sweet herbs and potent scents other than melange. “Welcome Warrick . . . my husband.” Taking his hand, she led him deeper into the cave.

Nervous, struggling for the right words, Warrick held his head high and removed the stillsuit plugs from his nostrils while Faroula worked at the fastenings of his boots. “Here I redeem the pledge thou gavest,” he said, using the ritual words of the Fremen marriage ceremony. “I pour sweet water upon thee in this windless place.”

Faroula picked up the next phrase. “Naught but life shall prevail between us.”

Warrick leaned closer. “Thou shalt live in a palace, my love.”

“Thy enemies shall fall to destruction,” she promised him.

“Surely well do I know thee.”

“Truly well.”

Then they spoke together, in unison. “We travel this path together, which my love has traced for thee.”

At the end of the blessing and the prayer, they smiled at one another. Naib Heinar would perform a formal ceremony when they returned to Red Wall Sietch, but in the sight of God and in their own hearts, Warrick and Faroula had become married. They stared into each other’s eyes for a long time, before withdrawing deeper into the cool darkness of the cave.

Liet arrived panting, his boots skittering pebbles along the path as he climbed to the opening of the cave— only to stop when he heard movement within, voices. He hoped it was just that Faroula had brought a companion with her, a maidservant perhaps, or a friend . . . until he recognized the second voice as a man’s.

Warrick.

He heard them complete the wedding prayer, and knew that according to tradition, they were married and she was now his friend’s wife. No matter how much Liet longed for Faroula, despite the wish he had made upon seeing the mysterious white Biyan, she was lost to him now.

Silently, he turned and left the ledge to sit in the rock shadows sheltered from the sun. Warrick was his friend, and he accepted defeat gracefully and privately, but with the deepest sadness he could imagine. It would take time and strength to get over this.

Liet-Kynes waited for an hour, staring across the desert. Then, without venturing inside the cave, he climbed back down to the sand and summoned a worm to take him home.