For years Liet-Kynes had yearned for beautiful, dark-haired Faroula with all his heart. But when he finally faced the prospect of marrying her, he felt only emptiness and a sense of obligation. To be entirely proper, he waited three months after Warrick’s death, though both he and Faroula knew their betrothal was a foregone conclusion.

He had made a death vow to his friend.

According to Fremen custom, men took the wives and children of those they vanquished in knife fights or single-handed combat. Faroula, however, was not a ghanima, a spoil of war. Liet had spoken with Naib Heinar, professing his love and dedication, citing the solemn promises he’d made to Warrick that he would care for his wife as the most precious of women . . . and accept responsibility for her young son as his own.

Old Heinar had regarded him with his one-eyed gaze. The Naib knew what had transpired, knew the sacrifice Warrick had made during the Coriolis storm. As far as the elders of Red Wall Sietch were concerned, Warrick had perished out in the desert. The visions he claimed to have received from God were obviously false, for he had failed in the testing. Thus, Heinar gave his permission, and Liet-Kynes prepared to marry the Naib’s daughter.

Sitting in his room behind the tapestry hangings of dyed spice fiber, Liet pondered his impending wedding. Fremen superstition did not allow him to see Faroula for two days before the formal ceremony. Both man and wife had to undergo mendi purification rituals. The time was spent in beautification and in writing out statements of devotion, promises, and love poems that would later be shared with each other.

Now though, Liet wallowed in shameful thoughts, wondering if he had somehow caused this tragedy to happen. Was it the fervent desire he’d voiced upon seeing the white Biyan? There, he and Warrick had both wished to marry the young woman. Liet had tried to accept his defeat graciously at the Cave of Birds, suppressing the selfish voice in the back of his mind that had never allowed him to forget how much he still wanted her.

Did my secret wishes cause this tragedy to happen?

Now Faroula would be his wife . . . but it was a union born of sadness.

“Ah, forgive me, Warrick, my friend.” He continued to sit in silence, waiting for time to tick away, until the hour was at hand and the sietch ceremony would begin. He wasn’t looking forward to it, not under these circumstances.

With a rustle of heavy cloth, the door hanging parted and Liet’s mother entered. Frieth smiled at him with sympathy and understanding. She carried a stoppered flask that had been ornately embroidered, stitched together out of skins and then sealed with spice resin to keep it waterproof. She held the flask as if it were a precious treasure, a gift of immeasurable price. “I’ve brought you something, dearest, in preparation for your wedding.”

Liet emerged from his troubled thoughts. “I’ve never seen that before.”

“It is said that when a woman feels a special destiny for her child, when she senses great things will come from him, she instructs the midwives to distill and retain the amniotic fluid from the birth. A mother may give this to her son on his wedding day.” She extended the flask. “Keep it well, Liet. This is the last commingling of your essence and mine, from the time we shared one body. Now you will commingle your life with another. Two hearts, when joined, may yield the strength of more than two.”

Trembling with emotion, he accepted the soft flask.

“It is the greatest gift I could give to you,” Frieth said, “on this important . . . but difficult day.”

Looking up at her, Liet met her dark eyes with an intent gaze. The emotions she perceived in his face were enough to startle her. “No, Mother— you gave me life, and that is a far greater blessing.”

When the betrothed couple stood before the members of the sietch, Liet’s mother and the younger women waited in designated spaces, while the elders stepped forward to speak for the young man. The boy Liet-chih, son of Warrick, waited silently beside his mother.

Pardot Kynes, taking a break from his terraforming work, grinned as never before. It surprised him how proud he felt to see his son getting married.

Kynes remembered his own wedding out on the dunes at night. It had been so long ago, shortly after his arrival on Arrakis, and he had spent much of the time in distraction. Unbetrothed Fremen girls had danced like dervishes on the sand, chanting. The Sayyadina had pronounced the words of the ceremony.

His own marriage to Frieth had turned out well enough. He had a fine son, whom he had groomed to take over his work one day. Kynes smiled at Liet— whose name came from, he suddenly remembered, the assassin Uliet, whom Heinar and the elders had sent to kill him, back when the Fremen had considered him an outsider, a stranger with frightful dreams and ways.

But that assassin had seen the grandeur of the Planetologist’s vision and had fallen on his own crysknife. The Fremen saw omens in everything, and ever since, Pardot Kynes had been provided with the resources of ten million Fremen at his beck and call. Dune’s reshaping— the plantings and the reclamation of the desert— had proceeded at a remarkable pace.

As the couple stood in front of the assemblage, with Liet gazing upon his bride longingly, Pardot felt disturbed at the fixity of his son’s attention, the opening of the young man’s already-wounded heart. He loved his son in a different way, as an extension of himself. Pardot Kynes wanted Liet to assume the mantle of Planetologist when it was time to pass it on.

Unlike his father, Liet seemed too vulnerable to emotions. Pardot loved his wife well enough, as she performed her traditional role as a Fremen companion, but his work was more important than the marital relationship. He had been captivated by dreams and ideas; he felt the passion for restoring this planet to a lush Eden. But he had never been engulfed by a single person.

Naib Heinar performed the ceremony himself, since the old Sayyadina had been unable to travel across the sands. As Kynes listened to the young couple speaking their vows to each other, he felt a strange pall settle over this wedding . . . a heavy worry about his son’s mind-set.

Liet: “Satisfy Me as to Thine eyes, and I will satisfy Thee as to Thy heart.”

Faroula’s answer: “Satisfy Me as to Thy feet, and I will satisfy Thee as to Thy hands.”

“Satisfy Me as to Thy sleeping, and I will satisfy Thee as to Thy waking.”

And she completed the spoken prayer. “Satisfy Me as to Thy desire, and I will satisfy Thee as to Thy need.”

With two sinewy hands, Heinar grasped the palms of the bride and groom, holding them together and raising them up so the entire sietch could see. “You are now united in the Water.”

A subdued cheer rose, which grew in intensity until it became heartfelt, happy, and welcoming. Both Liet and Faroula looked relieved. . . .

Later, after the celebration, Pardot came to see his son alone in a passageway. Awkwardly, he clasped Liet’s shoulders in the semblance of a hug. “I’m so happy for you, my son.” He struggled for the proper words. “You must be filled with joy. You have wanted that girl for a long time, haven’t you?”

He grinned, but Liet’s eyes flashed with anger, as if the elder Kynes had just struck him an unfair blow. “Why do you torment me, Father? Haven’t you done enough already?”

Baffled, Pardot stepped back and released his son’s shoulders. “What do you mean? I’m congratulating you on your wedding. Is she not the woman you’ve always wanted to be with? I thought—”

“Not like this! How can I be happy with this shadow hanging over us? Perhaps it will go away in a few years, but for now I feel too much pain.”

“Liet, my son?”

Pardot’s expression must have told Liet all he needed to know. “You don’t understand a thing, do you, Father? The great Umma Kynes.” He laughed bitterly. “With your plantings, and your dunes, and your weather stations, and your climate maps. You are so blind, I pity you.”

The Planetologist’s mind reeled as he tried to place the angry words into some grid of meaning, like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. “Warrick . . . your friend.” Then he stopped. “He died accidentally, didn’t he, in the storm?”

“Father, you missed it all.” Liet hung his head. “I am proud of your dreams for Dune. But you see our entire world as an experiment, just a test bed where you play with theories, where you collect data. Don’t you see, these aren’t experiments? These aren’t test subjects— these are people. These are the Fremen. They have taken you in, given you a life, given you a son. I am Fremen.”

“Well, so am I.” Pardot’s tone was indignant.

In a husky tone so low that no one else could hear, Liet said, “You’re just using them!”

Pardot, startled, didn’t respond.

Liet’s voice rose in pitch and volume. He knew the Fremen would hear portions of this argument and would be disturbed at the friction between their prophet and his heir. “You’ve spoken to me all my life, Father. When I recall our conversations, though, I only remember you reciting reports from botanical stations and discussing new phases of adapted plant life. Have you ever said a thing about my mother? Have you ever talked to me as a father rather than as a . . . colleague?”

Liet pounded his own chest. “I do feel your dream. I do see the wonders you’ve brought in hidden corners of the desert. I do understand the potential that lies beneath the sands of Dune. But even when you do accomplish everything you wish . . . will you bother to notice? Try to put a human face on your plans and see who will reap the benefits of your efforts. Look at the face of a child. Look into the eyes of an old woman. Live your life, Father!”

Helpless, Pardot sagged onto a bench against a curved rock wall. “I . . . I’ve meant well,” he said, his voice thick in his throat. His eyes brimmed with tears of shame and confusion as he looked at his son. “You are truly my successor. At times I’ve wondered if you would ever learn enough about planetology . . . but now I see I was wrong. You understand more things than I can ever know.”

Liet sank onto the bench beside his father. Hesitantly the Planetologist reached over and placed a hand on his son’s shoulder, more meaningfully this time. In turn, Liet reached up to touch the hand, and looked with Fremen amazement at the tears pouring down his father’s cheeks.

“You are truly my successor as Imperial Planetologist,” Pardot said. “You understand my dream— but with you, it will be even greater, because you have a heart as well as a vision.”