Some people consider facts to be dangerous things that must be locked away and carefully guarded. But I consider mysteries a far greater threat. We should seek answers wherever possible, regardless of the consequences.

—GILBERTUS ALBANS, secret Erasmus dialogues

The skimcraft returned to the desert sietch just after dawn. Still on high alert from the previous night’s attack, Naib Sharnak’s guards swept out to surround the craft, weapons drawn, ready to fight. They were battered and bruised, still in shock, grieving for lost comrades.

Ishanti emerged from the skimcraft, baffled by their behavior. “I just returned from Arrakis City where I made my report to Combined Mercantiles.” She scowled at them. “You know who I am. You act like frightened desert mice.”

Sharnak himself came out to meet her. “They struck us in the night, causing great damage and killing six. We managed to drive them off, but they’re still out there.” He shook his head. “We thought you might be their reinforcements.”

“Who attacked? Another spicing operation? A military force?” Her eyes widened. “Was it the two pursuing Vorian and me?”

Sharnak seemed embarrassed as he admitted, “Yes, only two of them.”

One of the young fighters blurted out, “They were demons that could not be killed! We slashed and stabbed them with knives, pummeled them with fists, and they brushed it all aside.”

Sharnak gave a sage nod. “I fear they will come back.”

“A Naib should show no fear,” Ishanti said with a scolding tone. “Yet I know how monstrous those two are.”

Sharnak looked grim. “The attackers were looking for Vorian Atreides. He brought down the calamity on us, and his fate will be determined by the sietch.”

“His life is in my hands,” Ishanti said. “I rescued him.”

“Now he owes a debt to our tribe: six Freemen dead, five wounded—and there may be more casualties if the attackers return.”

Ishanti showed her annoyance. “Take me back into the caves. I have troubling news that Vorian Atreides needs to know.”

*   *   *

VOR WAS RESTLESS in his stone-walled chamber while two young and anxious Freemen waited outside the opening, their hands on the hilts of their daggers. He considered guards redundant. Where would he go? He wanted to be alone to ponder the implications of what Andros and Hyla had said.

They claimed to be General Agamemnon’s offspring? The idea was so unexpected that he had been crippled by shock, and now Vor was ashamed. He still had his personal shield; perhaps if he had fought harder, breaking free of the Naib’s orders and throwing himself against his “siblings,” the innocent tribe members might not have been killed.

The desert people had every right to hold him accountable. His long and eventful life might end here in an isolated desert settlement where no one in the Imperium would ever know what had happened to him.

How he missed Mariella and his friends and family on Kepler, although he had accepted the fact that he might never see them again. All the people from that part of his life now joined the ever-growing lists of aches and regrets, from Leronica and that branch of his past, even to Xavier Harkonnen and young Abulurd. Xavier in particular had been treated badly by history, and Vor was the only one who knew the truth, that his friend’s death had been heroic.…

A long time ago, when they’d worked as a team, Vor and Abulurd had planned to correct that injustice as soon as the thinking machines were defeated at Corrin. But after Abulurd betrayed him and nearly lost the Battle of Corrin because of his cowardice, Vor had refused to follow through on those plans, and as a consequence Xavier was still portrayed as a monster in the official records. Vor felt guilt for that. Abulurd deserved his punishment, but Xavier was merely a scapegoat in the politically driven Jihad.…

Yes, after his long life, Vor knew he needed to atone for many things, and he did not make excuses or ignore his responsibilities. He tried to do what was right and necessary—and hope that the two things were the same more often than not.

The twins had come hunting for him. Did they want to recruit him, or kill him? Vor had assassinated their father, but the cymek general had deserved to be executed, and Vor would not accept even a momentary flicker of guilt about that, even if the strange children of Agamemnon demanded revenge.

Vor heard someone approaching. The young guards outside the door stood at attention and acknowledged Ishanti and Naib Sharnak. Vor turned to face them as they entered.

The desert woman crossed her arms over her chest and did not defer to the tribal leader. “Sounds as if you’ve been busy while I was gone, Vorian Atreides.”

“I did not intend to be, but the killers followed us here.”

“One day they will come back,” the Naib said, “and we could better prepare ourselves if we understood who they are.”

“I already told you what I know.” But the Freemen had been away from the League for so long that they didn’t understand the power and fear General Agamemnon had wielded; they didn’t understand the indelible mark he had made on human history. He lowered his voice. “Again, I never intended to bring any harm to your people.”

“Your intentions do not bring back the spirits of those slain.” The Naib shot a sharp look at Ishanti. “And you are the person who brought him here, uninvited. There are those who mutter that you should be cast out in the desert along with this man.”

Ishanti gave a rude snort. “Let them try. Let them openly accuse me, and I’ll answer in my own defense. If they’re too frightened to do that, then their whispers are no more than the mutterings of a lone wanderer on the sand. I stand by Vorian Atreides. I believe he is honorable.”

Vor appreciated her support. Ishanti was rough and leathery, and the desert had scoured the beauty from her. Unwed and independent, she was an anomaly among the Freemen, and he wondered if she might actually be flirting with him. What did Vor care about her age? He had already spent a lifetime with each of two wives, and loved them even as their bodies grew old and infirm. But so soon after leaving Mariella, he had no interest in romance, wasn’t sure he ever would again.

Naib Sharnak continued, “We Freemen can defend ourselves—but this is not our battle. It has never been our battle, and I refuse to waste the blood of my people on your enemies. I have decided to cast you out into the desert, stranger, for our own safety.”

Ishanti looked indignant. “Give him supplies and a chance.”

The Naib didn’t care, one way or the other. “So long as you pay for them, Ishanti. To me, it is not imperative that he dies—simply that he leaves.”

“First, you should hear what I discovered in Arrakis City.” Ishanti looked at Vor. “I dug through the records of Combined Mercantiles, and found that no rival company claims responsibility for the attack on the spice operations.”

“I told you,” Vor said. “If those two are the children of Agamemnon, they were hunting me. They don’t care about politics or melange harvesting.”

“True … but another man approached me in the city, asking detailed questions about Vorian Atreides, as well.”

Naib Sharnak made a sound of disgust. “Just how many people are after you?”

Ishanti added, “And why? What have you done?”

“I’ve done plenty, but I’m still at a loss.” Had Agamemnon released yet another murderous offspring to track Vor down? “Tell me about the man trying to find me.”

“He was young and water-fat, no more than twenty-five years. Blond hair and a goatee, like nobles wear. He was blatant, even clumsy, when he asked about you. If he was a spy, he wasn’t much of one.”

Vor didn’t know anyone that young, and it didn’t sound like anyone from Kepler.

Ishanti turned to the Naib. “If dangerous people are hunting for Vorian Atreides, we should find out who they are before we banish him into the desert. What if they come out here?”

The Naib considered this for a moment, and nodded. “We must be prepared to defend ourselves.”

Ishanti said quickly, “I’ll take care of it.”

*   *   *

IN HIS WEEKS in Arrakis City, Griffin had spent most of his money, and so far his search had yielded nothing. He had only sufficient funds for two more nights of lodging, and barely enough for food and water. Though he had tried to be frugal, he’d spent too much on fruitless bribes.

The specter of Vorian Atreides had loomed over generations of the Harkonnen family, and he was amazed that the man’s name evoked no reaction here. The people on Arrakis were so concerned with their daily toil that they cared little for a figure in a war that had begun almost two centuries ago.

Griffin refused to touch the final stash of credits he had set aside to buy passage off the planet. He would not compromise there: He had no intention of being stranded on Arrakis, whether or not he found Vorian Atreides. Two more days … and he would go home.

He missed Lankiveil. He had done what Valya asked, tried his best, but it had not gone well, and House Harkonnen might have to delay, or even abandon, its plan of vengeance.

Feeling no need to socialize, Griffin took his meals in his room. He was also wary of venturing out into the streets after sunset.

A furtive signal at his door surprised him, and he wondered who could possibly wish to speak to him, especially this late at night. However, he knew he had spread his name widely, planting tiny seeds of bribes with promises of more to come—though he had little money left. He hoped it was someone responding to his inquiries.

He opened the door to see three people in desert garb, their faces cloaked by dark scarves and hoods. “We have questions for you,” said the person in front, a woman. The voice behind the scarf was raspy and harsh.

He saw her eyes, noted something about her … and then recognition came. “I spoke with you at the spice administration building.”

Without invitation, the three desert people pushed into his room. “You ask too many questions, and we want to know why.”

The young men with her sprang forward. One grabbed Griffin’s arms, and the other tugged a dark hood over his head. He fought back with a strength and speed that surprised them, bruising one, knocking another to the floor—then someone pressed a needle-jet against his neck, and the idea of struggling evaporated into blackness.