Under the leadership of Duke Atreides, the Imperial guards spread out in search patterns throughout the Palace grounds. Leto was anguished to leave a weak and exhausted Jessica alone, but he could not wait beside her while his newborn son was in danger.

He shouted orders and tolerated no hesitation. As he stormed through opulent corridors and confusing mazes of prismatic mirrors, he thought of the ferocity of gaze-hounds who fought to protect their young. Duke Leto would prove that a wronged father could be just as formidable an enemy.

They have taken my son!

Haunted by memories of Victor, he swore by House Atreides that no harm would come to this child.

But the Imperial Palace was the size of a small city, and had been designed with countless hiding places. As the fruitless search continued, Leto tried not to despair.

Piter de Vries was accustomed to having blood on his hands, but now he truly feared for his life. Not only had he kidnapped a noble child, he had killed the Emperor’s wife.

After he had left Anirul’s body behind him, he sprinted down the corridors, his stolen Sardaukar uniform disheveled and spotted with blood. His heart pounded and his head ached, but despite his extensive training, the Mentat could not reassess and develop a new plan for escape. The makeup on his face was smeared, revealing vivid sapho stains on his lips.

The blanket-wrapped infant squirmed in his arms, occasionally crying, but for the most part remained surprisingly silent. Set into a fresh pink face, the young eyes burned with a strange intensity, as if this baby understood something beyond the capacity of a normal infant. He was so much different from the fussy, often-annoying, little Feyd-Rautha.

De Vries tucked the blanket tighter around the tiny body, tempted for a moment to turn the wrappings into a garrote. Suppressing the urge, he ducked into a dimly lit chamber filled with alcoves of trophies and statuettes, a room designed to show off prizes earned by some long-forgotten member of House Corrino who had apparently been a talented archer.

With sudden shock, he looked up to see the silhouette of a black-robed woman who stood like a specter of death in the doorway, blocking escape.

“Stop!” barked Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam, using the full power of Voice.

Her command seized his muscles, paralyzed him in his tracks. Mohiam glided into the trophy room, the diffuse light shining like furnace flames on her fury. “Piter de Vries,” she said, recognizing him through the smeared makeup. “I suspected a Harkonnen hand behind this.”

Struggling to crack the invisible restraint of her command, his mind spun. “Come no closer, witch,” he warned through gritted teeth, “or I will kill the child.” He managed to flex his arms and reassert a minimum of bodily control, but she could always paralyze him again with another utterance.

De Vries knew about Bene Gesserit fighting abilities. He’d just dueled with the Emperor’s wife and had been surprised to defeat her. But Anirul had suffered from some kind of illness; the mental debility had given him an edge. Mohiam would be a much more formidable opponent.

“If you murder the baby, you will die with him,” she said.

“You intend to kill me anyway. I see it in your eyes.” De Vries took a small step forward, brash and defiant, to demonstrate that he had broken her Voice spell. “Why should I not assassinate the Duke’s heir and bring more misery to House Atreides?”

He took a second step, clutching the infant to his chest like a shield. A quick jerk of his muscles could snap the small neck. Even with her Bene Gesserit reflexes, Mohiam could not be certain of stopping him.

If he could just bluff his way past her and escape through the doorway of this forgotten room, he could run. Even holding a child, his muscles could carry him faster than this used-up woman would ever be able to go. Unless she had a weapon under that robe other than a poison needle, something she could throw or shoot. Still, he had to try something….

“This infant is vital to the Bene Gesserit, isn’t he?” de Vries said, stealing a third step. “Part of a breeding scheme, no doubt?” The Mentat watched for any jitter of her facial muscles, instead saw her long fingers flex. Those nails could become razor-sharp claws to slash his eyes, rip out his throat. His heart pounded.

He raised the baby a little higher to protect his face.

“Perhaps if you give me the child, I will allow you to pass,” Mohiam said. “I’ll let the Sardaukar hunters deal with you in their own way.”

She closed the distance and de Vries stiffened, every reflex at the ready, his eyes watching. Should I believe her?

She touched the blankets with strong fingers, her gaze locked on the Mentat’s, but before she could draw the child into her grasp, de Vries whispered hoarsely, “I know your secret, witch. I know the identity of this child. And I know who Jessica really is.”

Mohiam froze as if he had used Voice against her himself.

“Does the whore know she’s the daughter of Baron Vladimir Harkonnen?” When he saw her startled reaction to this revelation, he spoke more rapidly, knowing his deduction had been correct. “Does Jessica realize that she is your daughter as well— or do you witches keep such things secret from your children, treating them like puppets in some genetic master plan?”

Without answering, Mohiam snatched the infant from him. The twisted Mentat stepped back, head held high. “Before you move against me, consider this. Once I learned these things, I compiled full documentation and sealed it where it would be transmitted to Baron Harkonnen and the Landsraad in the event of my death. Won’t Duke Leto Atreides be amused to learn that his beautiful little lover is the daughter of his mortal enemy, the Baron?”

Mohiam set the wrapped baby down next to one of the archery trophies, in a velva-lined alcove under a saffron-colored light.

He continued in a rush, intent on convincing her. “I made copies of these documents and secreted them in various places. You cannot stop the message from going out if I am killed.” De Vries took a confident step toward the door and his avenue of escape. “You dare not harm me, witch.”

With the baby safe, Mohiam turned back to face him. “If what you say is true, Mentat… then I must let you live.”

De Vries gave a sigh of relief; he knew the Reverend Mother could not risk the revelations. Even the slightest chance that he was not bluffing would be enough to stall her so he could get away.

Suddenly, Mohiam lunged at him with the full fury of a wounded panther. She struck out in a blur of kicks and punches. De Vries stumbled backward, trying to defend himself, raising a forearm to intercept a vicious slash with her foot.

His wrist snapped from the impact, but after a quick, icy gasp, he mentally blocked the pain and swung with his other arm. Mohiam threw herself on him again, and he could not counter— or even see— every phase of her attack, a flurry of jabs and kicks and slashing blows.

A hard heel landed at the center of his stomach. A steely fist slammed into his sternum. He felt ribs crack, internal organs rupture. He tried to scream at her, but only blood came out, staining his lips a brighter shade of red than the makeup-smudged sapho.

He lashed out with his foot, trying to crush her kneecap, but Mohiam slipped to the side. De Vries raised his intact arm to block a driving kick, but this only resulted in another broken wrist.

He turned to run, forgoing the fight, leaping toward the doorway and his escape route. Mohiam reached the door first. Her hard heel flashed upward in a blur and drove into his throat. The swift kick snapped the Mentat’s neck like dry kindling. Piter de Vries fell dead to the floor, his expression one of astonishment.

Mohiam stood still, catching her breath. She recovered in only a moment. Then she turned to gather the rescued Atreides baby.

Before walking out of the trophy room, she stood over the crumpled corpse on the floor and allowed a sneer to cross her face for a delicious moment before erasing it. She spat on his dead face, remembering how he had leered over her during the Baron’s rape.

Mohiam knew there was no documentation of the secrets de Vries had discovered. None. All of his terrible revelations had died with him.

“Never lie to a Truthsayer,” she said.