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Chapter Text

"See that princess standing there, so haughty and confident. They say she has pretensions of a literary nature. Let us hope she finds solace in such things; she'll have little else. / That princess will have the name, yet she'll live as less than a concubine—never to know a moment of tenderness from the man to whom she's bound. While we, Chani, we who carry the name of concubine—history will call us wives."

—LADY JESSICA IN DUNE
BY FRANK HERBERT

"You will realize that you love me once I have died," Paul Atreides said into the silence. 

The Emperor reclined in his chair, the bright moon of Arrakis shining through the windows and accentuating the black and white of his figure. 

His words startled Irulan, who sat at her desk, fingers creasing the yellow page of an ancient book. 

This night, he came to her study for advice; he only ever sought her out in the dead of night, while Chani was stationed in the desert for her long sietch visits. The night made him restless, as he was used to sleeping through it in the Fremen way, hiding from his enemies and the sun alike. 

Emperors, however, were forced to convene in the light of day. 

The princess could never sleep either, which led to these sporadic meetings in her study. Paul came to Irulan now to discuss the siege on Galacia, as she had intimate knowledge of the planet and its ruling family, but his ramblings had taken a sharp turn. 

For the two years since they married, their conversations had been confined to the weather and machinations of statecraft. 

Irulan assessed her husband, checking his head for damage and blue-on-blue eyes for a sheen. But he looked fine on the surface.

Has she ever heard the word 'Love' spoken aloud? Irulan could not recall. She saw it spelled out across her mind in faint letters, reminding her of old, earthly dramas. Her parents certainly never said that word to her. So where did it come from?

The princess smiled, a mask of precise muscle control. "You see it wrong, My Lord. I will love you because you are dead." 

His gaze finally met hers.

Thousands had been killed for less insolence. Irulan had grown reckless, but she was past the point of caring; her tongue was the last thing she owned.

The Emperor gave her a rare laugh, a dry exhalation. There was a flash of amusement in his eyes before he turned back to the window. "Perhaps. I can't see clearly beyond the grave like a true prophet should."

"If you cannot see it, then why would you say such a thing?"

"Because…I feel it. When I give my body to the desert, you will give me every tear your eyes can produce. Such a waste of moisture. Such foolish, off-worlder sentimentality."

Sentimental? 

Irulan had been called that before, mostly by her Bene Gesserit Mother, but she rejected the term vehemently in her mind. Her histories were objective, emotionless, and so was she. To be a good historian, one must remove oneself from the narrative, forgoing all personal attachment that would impose bias. 

Keep every muscle in its place. The Fremen had their superstitions about the sanctity of tears, and Irulan had her neuroses about stilling her face in the prana-bindu fashion, drilled into her by her Mother. If she showed no emotion, then she would feel nothing.

"Have you been partaking this evening?" Irulan asked. But he did not look high on spice; in fact, Paul seemed painfully present.

"I am drunk on Time, Princess."

Never Empress. 

She was an unloved wife and an uncrowned one at that. Irulan's casual plotting with the Reverend Mother and her band of high-achieving, deep-space misfits was nothing more than a balm to her ego; the Emperor could be everywhere at once and was not easily fooled. Her feeding Chani a contraceptive was a shameful habit born of insecurity, the need to build a legacy. Does Paul know that she is conspiring against him? Does he care?

"A heady sensation, I'm sure," Irulan intoned. "Tell me, my Lord Husband, when you give your body to the desert, who will rule the universe?"

He twiddled his thumbs like the petulant boy-Emperor he was. "Would you want the throne for yourself?" 

The princess guffawed—her control slipping in the face of this effrontery. Does he truly not realize that his stolen seat is her birthright? 

Then he smiled sharply, and Irulan realized he had been joking. Toying with her, making a jest of her inheritance, which was violently stolen by his hand. 

His goal had been to unsettle her from the start of this conversation. 

Prophets knew better than anyone that speaking a thing often manifested its existence. Irulan loving him would be convenient, certainly; it would halt any murder plots that she was uniquely positioned to facilitate.

"If you think I will ever relent in my hatred…" Every nerve in Irulan's body twitched, aching to snap like hundreds of snakes coiled under her skin. "Then you are blinded by fantasies of some imagined future."

Paul continued to stare out the window, observing the shifting sands. "Blinded…yes. My desires and aversions cloud my vision, distort them. What comes to pass is never what I intend, and I can change none of it…all that I try…it only leads to more dire outcomes."

He had never spoken to her so earnestly. Something must have been weighing heavily on him, and he didn't have his concubine to confide in.

"Is my love a desire or an aversion?" Irulan asked.

She allowed herself a moment of self-importance, which she had denied herself for so long. Irulan had had to reprogram herself. Her existence had become a Litany of: You are not his wife, but his prisoner, he will never spare a tender glance in your direction—his real wife is Chani, your only husband is History.

Paul looked at her. Really looked at her. His eyes were tender like the jagged edge of a cliff. 

"It is a fact," the Emperor said coolly.

Irulan shriveled. 

It was a difficult pill to swallow: failing at the one thing she was created to do. She would never give birth. What remained of the Golden Lion throne was now little more than an ornament, collecting dust in the palace of a foreign godhead.

The Emperor was unfathomably cruel, declaring that somehow, someday, he might have her love. But she would never have his. 

"Get out." Irulan's Voice stretched to its limit, the force of her buried emotions projecting each syllable.

It was the wrong pitch, but the Emperor obeyed.

Their wedding day had been a solemn affair. 

The Great Houses were in the midst of a rebellion, so everyone in attendance was either Fremen, the remaining friends of Paul Atreides, or worshippers of Maud’Dib.

As Irulan entered the colossal hall of Arrakeen, supplicants parted like the Red Sea.

She walked alone, with no music or honors. Only silence and heavy stares. Her lungs could not expand properly, and it took all of her prana-bindu training to remain calm. The muscles in her throat contracted, struggling to keep her chin raised, even with the stiff collar holding it up.

Even though they were both heavily veiled, she caught Reverend Mother Mohiam's stare.

If Irulan could count anyone as being on her metaphorical side of the aisle, she supposed it would be the Bene Gesserit Sisterhood, though she never trusted or loved them or excelled in their black art.

Irulan's father and true sisters were not allowed to leave Salusa Secundus. When the princess had quietly hinted at the matter to her betrothed during the rehearsal, the new Emperor only turned and walked away, as if the sound of her voice was poison. His indifference was worse than hatred.

The royal wedding ceremony required female family members to dress the bride, and for her father to escort her down the aisle, placing her hand in that of her husband. Breaking from tradition, Irulan had been clothed and prepped by two Fremen women who muttered insults in a language she scarcely identified as Chaboska. Either by instruction or their own malice, they laced Irulan so tightly into her dress that she couldn’t draw a full breath. 

Her wedding dress was not beautiful—lacking the one small detail Irulan always consoled herself with. At least she could always look beautiful. 

But this garment was a stiff beige fabric, severely cut up to her chin, feeling like fetters around her neck and wrists. And to solidify her image as a captive, a metallic corset was layered over the simple gown.

No jewelry. Hair capped and pulled into a flat knot, a long tan veil covering her entire torso.

What did the crowd see when they looked at her? Irulan wondered. She knew the Bene Gesserit saw her only as a broken tool.

‘Please Him,’ Reverend Mother Mohiam hissed in her mind. ‘Spread your legs at the soonest opportunity, trap him inside you, and prove your worth, girl. Imprint. Secure the genes.’

Straight to the point, as always. Irulan felt the hysterical urge to laugh, though her dress would never allow it. Like everyone, her ‘sisters’ were more invested in the Kwisatz Haderach than a prisoner bride. Forcing a sexual imprint on an omnipotent prophet meant certain death.

So Irulan would make no such attempts.

As the princess trekked through the throng, she observed the nearing strangers at the altar.

The indignities were never-ending. His Fremen concubine (Chani, Irulan believed she was called) looked far more like the bride. Her bronze dress flowed freely down her figure, revealing much of her rich brown skin, with rings braided into her dark curls. 

The girl did not smile. No one seemed happy to be there, least of all the bride and groom.

Directly across from Irulan stood the man who brought her family to ruin. Paul Atreides. 

He wore a sharp, all-black military uniform, not a hair out of place on his head. Beams of the deadly Arrakis sun were artfully arranged to make his olive skin shine.

Everything about this scene was manufactured around a specific message: Paul Muad'Dib Atreides was a conqueror to be worshiped, and House Corrino, of the last Padishah Emperor, had fully surrendered to his rule.

This ceremony was little more than a signing of documents.

Irulan looked beyond her groom's shoulder and made eye contact with his lover, Chani. Her eyes were blue pits of disdain. 

Yet, the girl stood above this show of force, wiry arms crossed, letting nothing show on her face.

Under her hard exterior, Irulan knew there was no sympathy or respect for her. She understood, just as she understood the ire of the Fremen servants who dressed her, that her father had oppressed these people for generations. All she could hope for was their apathy.

Paul Atreides was another matter.

This was the first time Irulan had seen him up close; the weeks leading up to the wedding had been spent in solitary confinement. His eyes were a faded teal color, once green, now tinted from prolonged exposure to spice. But as he stared down at her from under his hawk-like brow, they were pitch black.

The rites were kept brief. An Orange Catholic priest spoke for approximately ten minutes, but Irulan heard none of it.

All she could hear was the rapid pounding of her heart as she drew in shallow breaths. The princess struggled to hold her groom's desolate stare as a pedestal rose from the ground, presenting them with a blood-red pomegranate.

If it hadn't been Paul Atreides, Irulan told herself, then it would have been Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen. That one was monstrous… But at least she would have had a chance of exerting some sort of influence over him. Feyd-Rautha was bound by worldly desires. The creature standing before her was not.

Another break from tradition: they did not feed the seeds to each other's mouths, but rather handed them over without so much as grazing gloved fingers. The sour taste coated Irulan's tongue.

Seeing the Emperor chew was disturbingly human, so bizarre that Irulan forgot to blink.

He was her husband now.

Faintly, she heard a round of hesitant applause, but Irulan was determined to distance herself from reality. She described her feelings to herself, words that would later be etched in her personal diary: Sterile. Crushed. Colorless. Lost.

Irulan stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Paul Atredies, facing the crowd. She flinched and looked up at him when she heard the whisper of his voice, but his lips were sealed, the aquiline profile of his face unmoving.

She gnashed her teeth at the violation, pomegranate seeds stuck to her molars.

He whispered into her mind: 'This is the only time you stand by my side. You are a political object; my true wife stands behind us.'

Irulan already knew these things. But wasn't he the epoch of romance for reminding her less than a minute after their nuptials?

The wedding reception boasted a slightly less dire mood.

Irulan remained seated at the farthest corner of the head table, far from Paul and Chani, who presided over the center. No one spoke to her; the seats next to hers were empty, as if she were the carrier of a disease.

Social quarantine. Was this to be her fate?

Irulan took small bites of what she assumed was Fremen cousine, leaves wrapped around some sort of meat, but it was too rich with spice for her palate. Her dress and corset only allowed her to eat a handful of olives.

She didn't mind the solitude, a chance to collect her thoughts and steel her nerves. What sickened Irulan was the dance she was forced to witness.

Her new husband took the hand of his concubine. Across the room, Gurney Halleck began strumming his basilet.

Paul bestowed a smile on his real bride, whirling her into his arms as the room looked on in amazement. Chani had obviously never danced in a formal capacity, so she laughed softly as she stumbled over her feet, allowing him to lead her completely.

Irulan wouldn't have stumbled. She soaked in her petty jealousy.

It was the dance she was jealous of; dancing was one of the rare activities Irulan found true pleasure in.

Paul pulled Chani close, muttering something in her ear that made the girl blush.

The sight was ripped straight from the pages of an old romance novel. It made Irulan's dinner creep up her throat.

Only weeks prior, on that fateful day of her father's defeat, Chani had run from her lover.

As Irulan would discover years later, the Fremen people called her Sihaya, Desert Spring. Indeed, she was a rare blossom amidst the apocalyptic landscape of Arrakis, and not easily plucked. Paul had chased her down and repented, spilling his blood on Chani's thorns, shedding sacred tears as he pleaded for her return. Still in love with the boy she met in the desert, Chani reluctantly uprooted her life for him, but only with the promise that he would never spare his wife (in name only) so much as a tender glance.

Irulan had no choice but to be uprooted, and the only moisture shed at the loss of her freedom was her own. One cannot cry over a thing that never existed. 

But the princess did cry that night, her chest heaving as she ripped the unlaced dress from her body, the first tear falling only after she dismissed the last servant from her chambers.

When she had imagined her wedding night as a young girl, it was full of soft caresses by candlelight, a warm mouth latching onto hers like a missing puzzle piece. Irulan pictured a man not unlike the late Leto Atreides as featured in the portrait on Kaitain, the man her father wished she had been old enough to marry.

But her father betrayed the man he thought was so perfect. And now Irulan was married to his tyrannical son.

Her wedding night was spent alone in her modest bedroom, with guards posted outside her doors and the windows sealed shut. Irulan tossed and turned on her thin mattress, rubbing her small, cold hands up her arms. She cradled her own face, ran her hands through her hair.

It had been 54 days since someone touched her skin.

Two years had passed since the wedding. Irulan rarely saw her husband, and that was fine with her. She was forced to adapt, forced to grow up as quickly in this palace as she was in her father's.

Irulan found comfort in the dust pluming from book pages, the faint hum of a recorder poised at her lips, and in the endless carriers of History that came and went from Arrakeen.

The princess chronicled what she learned, never what she felt—because she felt nothing. This was by design.

Irulan’s initial and most frequent contact was with Gurney Halleck. He did not trust her, of course, but they bonded over their shared love of poetry and music. 

A week or so after the wedding, once she was permitted to leave her rooms freely (followed by servants who tracked her every move), she had come upon this Warmaster Halleck, who was mostly a mystery to her then. He had stood near the launchpad and addressed a small unit of Feydakin.

When he had noticed the princess lurking on the outskirts, Gurney Halleck nodded in greeting and continued his conversation/speech more stiffly than before. Hungry for stimulation, she had committed his every word to memory. Then he had quoted the ancient philosopher Epicurus: “If Death is, then I am not. Why should I fear that which can only exist when I do not?” 

Irulan had drawn a sidelong glance as she stepped closer to him. Then, so quietly that only Halleck could hear, she had finished the quotation as she recalled it. “Men are oppressed with slavish fear. Religious tyranny has held dominion too long.”

Gurney Halleck had turned all the way towards her—shocked.

No more than a word had been exchanged between them before this. Thankfully, Irulan's endless days of solitary confinement had allowed her to perfect a variety of entreaties, which would allow her to acclimate to this harsh environment.

So when the new bride of his Duke, now Emperor, had asked to interview him, the old man warily agreed.

Other than her scattered interactions with the Warmaster, Irulan's only other acquaintance was the woman-child Alia. But Irulan had never enjoyed what the younger (but impossibly ancient) princess had to say.

Then there was the concubine Chani. Recently, she had been exchanging heavy looks with Irulan from a distance. Her expression had transformed over the years from fierce resentfulness to disinterest to a muted sort of scrutiny.

It started at a state dinner.

The Council had tasked Irulan with getting close to Lord Colus of Galacia, spying on his movements, deciphering his truths, and seducing him if possible. It had taken her two years to be trusted with any sort of active political maneuver.

Two years too late, Irulan thought. The Empire was in desperate need of diplomacy that no Fremen warrior could offer. If one kills anything that breathes wrong, there will be no one left to rule over.

But Irulan’s mission failed the moment the Emperor and his concubine entered the dining hall. 

Chani's stare swept over the pale faces of the off-worlders before landing pointedly on the princess.

A shock of blue pinned Irulan to her chair. 

She mistrusted her eyes as she watched Chani depart from the Emperor’s side, casually striding over in Irulan’s direction. Then she claimed the seat next to the princess.

Paul matched Irulan's expression of disbelief, but could say nothing as he was surrounded by politicians: agents of the Spacing Guild and foreign dignitaries whom he was obligated to impress.

A desert scent of cinnamon and sandalwood tingled in Irulan's nostrils.

“I feel that I have been cruel to you these past years,” Chani said by way of greeting. "I admit that I felt threatened by your presence, and let this dictate my attitude towards you… But I would like for us to become better acquainted, if we are to remain in such close proximity to one another."

An unwanted feeling surfaced in the princess: Guilt. 

Because for the past two years, Irulan had been feeding this girl a contraceptive, undermining her at every turn. She did so at the Bene Gesserit's behest—as she was raised—but this did nothing to diminish Irulan's sudden discomfort.

For once, the princess struggled for words. Chani blinked over at her with owlish blue eyes, innocent and yet hardened, like twin sapphires. 

Plates of steaming food were set before them, but neither woman paid them mind.

“You do not owe me anything,” Irulan replied. 

“No. But I am curious about you. I don’t think you are as cruel as people assume.”

The princess raised a plucked brow. “By people, you mean him.”

Chani did not answer, but she didn’t have to. 

Irulan had been too egotistical to approach her competition first. How odd that this Fremen girl, forged in constant battle, would be more diplomatic than a Corrino. Assuming that she has no ulterior motives…

Carefully, Irulan considered what to say next. She needed a way in—a context to get closer to this vital cog in the imperial machine. 

"As you likely know," she began, "I am fond of History. In particular, I've always been fascinated by the Fremen culture and way of life: its traditions, and past, but mostly its people." Irulan had Chani's full attention now, and it made the blonde shift in her seat. This girl is an unknown variable; how to proceed without risk of offense? "But you see, the records are severely lacking in first-hand Fremen accounts. Outside voices have dominated the telling of your people's history, twisting the narrative for their own gain. I do not mean to be presumptuous, My Lady—"

"Chani, please. I'm no lady." Chani looked extremely uncomfortable with the address, as if just now realizing her station above Irulan. 

The princess allowed a thin crescent smile to rise on her lips. "Chani. Because you have approached me, I feel emboldened to ask something of you." The Fremen girl nodded once. "I have made contact with several persons here in the palace: Gurney Halleck, a few servants, those visiting from other worlds, and even Princess Alia, on occasion. I interview all who are willing. In order to preserve their histories, stories, or anything they wish to be remembered… 

“I suppose I’m asking for a few minutes of your time. To document your life as a Fremen warrior. As a young girl growing up in a sietch. Or even as a…lover to the Emperor. Any piece of yourself or your culture that you wish to share."

Irulan braced herself for brutal rejection, but the concubine did not look offended. Only thoughtful. Her azure eyes flicked around Irulan's face, searching for something.

The buzzing of voices faded into the silence between them, echoing through the colossal domed ceiling—reminding Irulan that they were not alone. For a few minutes, she had forgotten where she was. A rare pleasure. 

Finally, Chani answered, "If this will build an allyship between us… Then I will agree to try it. But I will not betray any secrets of my people."

"Of course," Irulan replied softly. "You are free to say and do as you please, and leave at any point of the conversation." 

Closer than she had ever been permitted before, the princess studied this elfin-faced girl. There was a kind of beauty in Chani that Irulan had never before seen. 

Later, when Irulan would try to describe her in her diary, her stylus revealed: She radiates like the core of a sun. Source of his power? Her eyes hold Time in depthless liquid blue.

Chani was a startling departure from the frigid women Irulan grew up surrounded by, who she had become.

"Okay," agreed the concubine. "When should we meet?"

"My schedule is far emptier than I would like, or am used to. Tell me a time and date, and we shall meet then."

Chani said tomorrow at midnight, and Irulan agreed, pleased at her expediency. She chose her personal study as the place.

Suddenly flushed at the prospect of probing this girl's brain, the princess stared down at her untouched plate of rabbit and legumes. She was hit with a feeling of uncertainty.

Half of Irulan relished this opportunity to plant seeds of conspiracy in Chani's mind—to tend to her rebellious nature, slowly pruning her against the Emperor with discreet suggestions and proof of his despotism.

No one else sleeps beside him; all it would take is one moment in the night to end his life… Could Irulan master her Voice well enough to influence Chani without disaster? Could she convince her to kill him through mere cunning alone?

But the other, more pressing half of Irulan rejected her instinct to scheme and betray. These instincts were planted at birth by her Mother and the Bene Gesserits, still hissing in the corners of her skull even at this distance. 

The piece of Irulan that belonged only to herself—it swelled at this girl's unexpected acknowledgement. After two years of isolation, only interrupted by scattered academic meetings with strangers, being noticed by Chani felt like waking from a deep sleep.

Irulan scratched her cheek, her neck prickling with the feeling of being watched.

She lifted her gaze.

From across the room, the Emperor's glare burned holes into her flesh.

A look of impassioned suspicion and hatred sifted through his pores—emotions like Irulan had never seen from him. 

The princess shivered.

Then she shot her husband a waning little smile. And turned back to his lover.

Chapter Text

"We became adept, my mother and sisters and I, at avoiding subtle instruments of death. It may seem a dreadful thing to say, but I'm not at all sure my father was innocent in all these attempts. A Royal Family is not like other families."

—IRULAN CORRINO IN DUNE
BY FRANK HERBERT

Paul pressed his knife to Irulan's throat.

"Tell me what you want with Chani," he commanded in the Voice.

Irulan's vocal chords strained against the blade's edge, her lips shaking around each syllable. "J-just a conversation—about the F-Fremen—for my records!" 

I must not fear. Fear is the Mind-Killer…But I am an object…Fear slides off objects like water off glass…I must not fear.

"The Fremen?" Paul’s cool breath washed over her face, making the nerves there twitch. "My jihad? You want to destroy us from the inside out. Admit it!"

"No!" Irulan shouted. But his Voice seized her throat with a flaming noose. Burning. "Y-yes! I don't know—please!"

His knife hovered over her carotid artery. She held her breath. One wrong move and she would impale herself on his blade. 

The Emperor twisted the tip into her flesh. A hot drip of blood rolled down her collarbone. "I know what you are," he said with feigned calm. "I see through your veil of decency… The snake lurking underneath."

His eyes reflected evil, finding it within her like the infinite death-loop of history.

For a millisecond, Irulan thought about letting go—walking into his knife. If only to rob him of the satisfaction.

She stared into his whiteless eyes that would never widen with surprise. If she fell dead at his feet, it would be because he willed it.

“I have allowed you too much freedom,” said the Emperor. 

With one swift movement, he retracted his blade. Irulan's eyes followed the ribbon of her blood gleaming down the enamel-like edge before he sheathed it.

Paul's grip on her shoulder tightened. Irulan registered that he was touching her for the first time. He yanked her away from the wall he had just pinned her against.

The corridor was empty; the Fremen guard assigned to her had disappeared after a glance from the Emperor.

Like an unruly child, Irulan was dragged through the halls, stumbling as she was forced to keep up with Paul's longer strides.

“My Lord, I don’t under—”

“Silence.” 

His Voice sealed her lips.

Irulan could attempt to fight him off in the Weirding Way, which came as easily to her as dancing, but what would be the use? Against a man like him, her only hope would be the element of surprise, and that was impossible.

His firm chest brushed hers, fingernails digging crescents into her flesh. The salt smell of his sweat. Irulan’s image of him shifted from god to man. She didn't know which terrified her more.

The guards stationed outside Irulan's door said nothing as the Emperor shoved her inside.

She stumbled, foot catching on a woven rug. 

Her knees cracked on the ground.

Paul stood over her, eclipsing the exit. His black clothing created the illusion of a floating head: a detached, incandescent star. "Get up."

Unsteadily, Irulan stood, smoothing out her dress and refusing to meet his stare.

She watched from the corner of her eye as the Emperor scanned her living area. Mere nights ago, he had sat in her study, seeking advice to quiet his mind. Now he took in her cluttered surfaces, the half-written documents and recording devices, with a look of disgust.

"In the bedroom," Paul said.

Irulan's mouth went dry. 

Her mother's warnings raced through her mind, but she put one foot in front of the other, relying completely on her prana-bindu to remain calm.

Would he ever consummate their marriage? The princess highly doubted it. She had witnessed his lust aimed at his concubine, but never at her.

Still, Irulan paused at the threshold of her bedroom.

She fingered the bloody pinprick on her throat. There were ways of hurting a woman that had nothing to do with a man’s lust. 

Over her shoulder, the Emperor's face tightened with lethal impatience. So she took two sharp breaths and walked through the door.

Darkness encased her.

Fear cannot touch an object… Be the object… He will pass over me and through me, and when he has gone past, I will turn the inner eye to see its path… When he is gone, there will be nothing… Only I will remain.

Irulan turned, ready to receive his retribution, but the door slammed shut in her face.

Paul stood on the other side of it.

Temporary relief surged through her; at least he would not steal her innocence as violently as he had stolen her birthright.

But her relief was short-lived as a lock clicked into place.

Irulan had never shut this partition door, unaware that it even could lock. 

She rattled the handle, pounded her fists, and slammed her shoulder into the door. But it did not budge. No one came.

Once she gave up, there was silence. 

A glowglobe flickered on at her command and filled the cramped space with green light. The light passed through her, skin made of glass. 

Sitting on her bed, Irulan contemplated the gravity of her punishment. The Emperor withheld from her the comfort of her reading and writing utensils. He had trapped her in this windowless, tomblike chamber with nothing but her own mind for company. 

Being alone with his thoughts was the worst fate Paul could imagine. They were alike in that way.

Irulan clutched her blood-ruby pendant: the only gift her husband would ever give her.

And for the first time in two years, she let herself cry.

“Kindness is the beginning of cruelty,” Usul had once said. 

Then, Chani had no idea what that meant. But now she was starting to understand.

The change had occurred a couple of weeks before the arrival of the Galacian off-worlders.

Chani had stood on a north-facing balcony, looking out over the bled. Beyond the fortified city of Arrakeen, the rolling sands sparkled under the sunset, revealing none of the miraculous changes her uncle, Stilgar, was so convinced were happening. The distant erg was untouched: the same landscape of her childhood, for which she longed to be part of again.

If it weren't for Paul, Chani's days would still be nights spent under the stars, living one mouthful of water till the next. In the open desert, you could see your enemies coming from far away; there were no secret threats. She had no desire to explore this maze of so-called 'sophistication.'

No, the role that Chani was expected to fill had been created for women like Irulan Corrino.

Chani had recognized her by her sun-colored hair. 

The Princess-Empress had been walking the grounds of Arrakeen, treading the line where the city gates once stood, and trailed by a single Fremen guard.

She walked too closely to the sparse crowd lining the palace. Far too close. 

An old man flung himself through the throng and grabbed at the Empress's skirt.

Chani leaned over the balcony railing, hand flying to her crysknife. 

How long would it take her to reach the man? Too long—Irulan would be dead within a second.

But the old man did not whip out a weapon. His knees threatened to buckle, but instead of meeting the ground, Irulan caught him in her arms.

She held the feeble creature close.

When her guard rushed forth to intervene, she waved him off, helping the old man to a shady alcove of the sprawling palace.

From her perch, Chani grit her teeth at the weakness of the Empress's guard. Leaving Irulan to her own devices, he fell back and began keeping the other city-dwellers in line.

How was she allowed to put herself in such intimate danger?

Meanwhile, the old man braced himself on Irulan as he sank to the ground. And when the Empress pulled a canteen from her belt, he held out his hands  

Greedily, the city-dweller took a big swig, then capped the canteen and held it to his chest.

Chani narrowed her eyes. 

This creature had come to the palace begging for water. Begging was one of the most wretched things a Fremen could do, a death sentence awaiting those who tried it. But those who submitted to city-rule had no shame.

Ignorant of this, Irulan folded her rumpled skirt and knelt beside the beggar. 

Again, Chani was astonished by her behavior.

Her discomfort only grew as dusk settled and the two showed no lapse in conversation. From the way his distant mouth moved, the beggar seemed to be spilling all of his worldly troubles into the Empress’s ear. 

As the moon rose, the Fremen guard finally intervened. He roughly yanked the city-dweller to his feet and shoved him away from Irulan. 

But the princess placed herself between them, once again asserting dominance over her guard. 

Then Irulan turned and took the beggar's hand between both of hers. 

Chani wished she could have heard what she said to him, because afterward, the man bowed so low that his head dipped past the Empress's stained knees.

Irulan had been escorted back into the palace. 

But Chani watched as the old beggar man scurried off.

From behind a lump of sand, a young girl appeared, no more than a bedraggled knot from this distance. When the old man—her provider—offered her the canteen, she drank her fill.

Then, boated with the wealth of an Empress, the pair disappeared into the slums of Arrakeen.

Since that night, every time Chani was in Irulan's presence, her eyes snagged on the woman's face. 

She didn't know what she was looking for. Irulan was stoic, emotionless, frigid like the deepest underground cave.

Always alone, rarely speaking.

The Fremen girl's curiosity could not be sated through mere sight. The next step was to approach the princess, and Chani got her chance at one of the political gatherings she hated but was forced to attend.

It was interesting, the way the Empress’s face opened under scrutiny.

When Irulan had asked her to discuss Fremen culture and tradition, to rectify all the untold history, Chani was inclined to believe that she had no ill intent.

Some of the servants, she had said, as if they were worth mentioning amongst her subjects. If she would speak to a beggar for so long… What could she possibly have had to gain from that?

That way of thinking was what led Chani to this midnight excursion, creeping through the lower levels of the palace.

Irulan had given her directions, but she still couldn’t believe she was going the right way. Chani didn’t know if she had ever been in this part of Arrakeen, as she had no reason to visit the barracks, factories, or small domiciles in this area.

The quarters she and Paul shared were near the top of the structure, a collection of ornate rooms, most of which Chani went days at a time without entering.

Her designated section of the palace stood in stark contrast to Irulan’s. She recognized the Empress’s quarters due to the two guards stationed outside the door.

Unseen behind a corner of the passageway, Chani took a moment to second-guess herself.

For two years, Irulan had seemed content to wander like a lone priest in the desert, enduring her penance without any sign of outward defiance. But Paul and his filmbooks had informed Chani well of the dynamics of a royal household—how assassination attempts were like breathing to the Corrinos. 

Would a princess like that be satisfied with an empty life for long? 

No. She had to be biding her time, waiting for a moment of weakness to sink her teeth in.

If that was the case, then let Irulan try. Chani had faced far more fearsome opponents than a water-fat princess with the hands of a child. 

"I'm here to see the Empress," she said to the guards in Chaboska, the last word in Galach.

"Empress?" asked one of the men. His name was Dries, if she remembered correctly; he had dwelled in Sietch Tabr.

"Yes. Let me pass." Chani stepped forward, waiting for them to move. 

But they did not. "W-we apologize, Chani-my lady, but Maud'Dib says no one goes in or out of these doors without his knowledge."

"Then go acknowledge him."

Beads of sweat dotted their hairlines, betraying how terrified they were of disobeying their Mahdi. 

The man she did not know stammered, "We cannot let you pass without His presence." Chani heard the emphasis on 'His,' said with natural reverence.

They obeyed him over her in blind faith, those who were once her brothers. The hierarchy of her life had shifted wildly, and Chani was still adapting to the way people worshipped Paul as the Lisan al-Gaib. 

She straightened, looking down her nose at the guards, who stood shoulder-to-shoulder.

Chani could kill them both easily. That was why Paul chose them for this post; she could kill them both and Irulan too, and face no chance of getting hurt. But Chani hated this war of pointless death: the endless storm of grieving mothers, water spilled and wasted on faraway worlds, never to rejoin the deathstill.

So rather than forcing her way through, the Fremen girl turned and walked away.

She found Paul awake in their quarters.

He stared down at a hologram, his boyish face drawn long in its amber light.

When Chani had left their bed at midnight, Paul had been in a meeting. He required very little sleep, which meant he kept himself occupied day and night, so his thoughts couldn't catch up with him.

Paul looked up at her as she approached, his eyes betraying a bone-deep exhaustion.

"Why has Irulan been locked away?" Chani demanded.

Flicking off his filmbook, he rubbed the corners of his hawkish nose. "Why did you sit with her last night?"

"I didn't know I was chained to your side." She crossed her arms. "What, am I forbidden to speak with anyone but you?"

"Anyone except for her," Paul spat, standing to meet her stare. His face, shielded from the moonlight, was carved in shadow.

He looked hateful, like a Harkonnen. 

Chani thought about telling him this to spur him on, as her beloved was more honest when he was angry, but decided against it. Paul was angry too often these days. "Where did this sudden hatred for Irulan come from?"

"I do not hate her, Chani, it's just—" He curled his fingers into fists. "—She is deceiving you."

Chani lifted her jaw. "Hm. I can decide that for myself. How long do you intend to keep her locked in her quarters?"

"Until she learns her place."

The vitriol on his tongue made her take a step back—he spoke only of his mortal enemies that way. "Her place as Empress of the Known Universe?"

“She is not the Empress, I never crowned her," Paul said, scoffing. "She is nothing but an artifact to keep the Great Houses at bay.”

"And how is that strategy working for you?" Chani's voice was flat. His eyes blackened. "Your wife is not a thing you can toss in a room and forget about! You chose to marry her—"

"I do not choose anything!" he shouted.

Her face burned. "But you do! You create the future with your choices." Before he could argue—descend into abstractions about the nature of time—Chani asked, "What are you so worried that Irulan is going to tell me?"

Wrinkles burrowed into his forehead, and he gripped the back of his chair. "She is a Bene Gesserit witch with Corrino blood. Her words can twist your mind without you realizing it."

What about your blood? She wanted to ask. Your witch-mother? 

"You are far more powerful than she," Chani said. "If I should stay clear of anyone's Voice, it's yours."

Paul's shoulders slumped.

He turned to catch a beam of moonlight, and it cast a soft, familiar glow on his face. "Please, my love…stop fighting. All I do is try to protect you."

Her Usul had a way of baiting her back in. Of reminding Chani of the lanky, noble-born boy who had not even wanted to kill a man who challenged him. She thought of Jamis—the first of thousands to die because Paul lived.

Chani reached out to caress his smooth cheek. He clasped a hand over hers. "I know, but I have always protected myself. You have enough to worry about, Usul."

He dipped his chin in reluctant submission.

"Let me speak with your wife," she said. "And if she tries to use the Voice on me, I will cut her myself."

Kindness is the beginning of cruelty, Chani remembered, thinking of the beggar and his woe. 

If that were true, then Irulan was cruel indeed.

In the dark room, the princess hummed a song her father used to sing. 

Shaddam Corrino IV had a melodious singing voice, but only his closest family knew of it; his eldest daughter had inherited her ear for music and pitch from him.

When her throat resisted, Irulan began to whistle. 

"Whistling gives you wrinkles," her mother had once said. 

What does it matter now? Irulan hoped she would live long enough to get wrinkles.

Every beat of her heart drummed on borrowed time. Sooner or later, the Emperor would decide she was less trouble dead than alive. 

Irulan's hatred for Paul was new. 

She'd never hated the Atreides heir, turned desert prophet, for crushing the Golden Lion throne, for exiling her father and sisters. That was the way of war, and Irulan’s injudicious father had started it. 

That day on Arrakis, when the Fremen had stormed the imperial spacecraft, Irulan had whispered reassurances to her father—it will be alright, she’d said, I will do my duty, so long as you save what remains of our family. She had accepted her marriage to Paul Maud’Dib Atreides with an open heart. 

Irulan had learned to love a great many terrible things for the sake of her sanity, and this boy-conqueror should have been no different. 

Long ago, the princess had accepted her role in life. 

Wife. Mother. Historian (the only thing of her choosing—she only needed the one thing).

All Irulan could claim to be now was a prisoner. 

She pressed her back, covered only by a thin slip, against the cool, bare wall. 

More than anything, Irulan was homesick. 

She missed Kaitain, its rushing fountains, her enormous bedroom with bookshelves for walls, and even the dull interplanetary conferences where she took the minutes, mediating disputes. She missed her dresses, soft undergarments, imported soap, and taking long, hot baths. But most of all, she missed her baby sister, Rugi: the only person Irulan was sure she loved.

Worry stabbed her chest. 

What was Rugi suffering in the harsh world of Salusa Secundus? Had any of their sisters stepped up to care for her?

Rugi would be eight by now. When Irulan had last seen her, her youngest sister had been of an age with Alia Atreides. 

Therefore, every time Irulan looked at the ancient woman-child with her light brown hair and snubby nose, she thought of Rugi.

She remembered her last interaction with Princess Alia and laughed weakly.

The child had been sitting on a bench in a dark corner of the palace. Alia had looked so alone, so lost in her tiny head, all veiled in black. 

A dormant motherly instinct had arisen in Irulan.

“If you ever need someone to speak with… I am bound to this place and will hold no judgment," the older princess had said, almost shyly. "You and I may have more in common than you think, Alia."

Alia had stood and turned her little nose up, headdress wobbling. “And you are too familiar, you superfluous whore.” 

The words were only humorous coming from a girl of six.

Darker memories threatened to surface.

Baron Vladimir Harkonnen stabbed by that same mythical child, Irulan’s father kneeling, her mother bleeding through a crack in the door—

Irulan tried to net her mind into her body, something akin to bindu-suspension, and slowed her breathing way down.

Resting a cheek on her knee, she wrapped her arms around her legs tightly.

And as she often did, Irulan imagined Earth. The mother of humankind—destroyed by her children and then abandoned. 

The princess’s greatest wish was to travel thousands of years into the past, far before she was born, and experience the world built to hold her like a womb.

Footsteps tore Irulan from her state.

She shot to her feet, scrambling to put on a robe and stand against the opposite wall to the door  

A cold blade kissed her thigh, secure in its strap. 

Fear is the mind-killer… I will not let him kill me without first drawing his blood. 

Click. 

The partition door burst open.

Irulan couldn't restrain her quiet gasp, fingertips finding the slit in her clothing, the handle of her knife.

Moonlight flooded inside—and Chani stood in the doorway.

A celestial halo reflected off her dark curls, azurite flesh gleaming like a beacon. 

"Are you alright?" the concubine asked, crossing her arms.

The touch of real concern in her voice was strange.

Irulan forced the corners of her lips upward. The stretched skin tingled, raw from her unconscious biting and picking (How her mother hated that habit). "I am better now that you are here," she said, honestly. "Shall we proceed with our conversation tonight?"

The princess did not want to be alone. If Chani had changed her mind, then Irulan would pay one of the servants to sit in her chambers.

Chani looked unsure, her blue gaze sweeping over Irulan's figure. “If you're tired, we can—”

"I am wide awake, will be for several more hours," Irulan said. "I wish to speak with you now, if you are not too weary yourself, in which case, I would understand entirely."

The concubine hesitated.

Irulan took this time to examine her rival.

She wore jeweled sandals and a pristine white dress that clung to her lean, muscular form. The Fremen girl did not wear the garb with confidence. Irulan remembered the day she had first laid eyes on Chani: the combat attire (which she now knew to be called a stillsuit) had looked like a second skin on her.

She should return to the desert, Irulan thought, and leave me with what is rightfully mine.

The princess's wardrobe on Arrakis had none of the jewels or pretty things she had collected throughout her youth, consisting only of simple tan and grey frocks.

Irulan might have come into this marriage with an open heart, but the Emperor had finally made her despise him.

She hated the power he held over her: the million little ways he could kill her. Through his discardment, Paul had circumvented the possible future in which Irulan could have loved him.

Now there was only hate.

"Okay," Chani agreed.

She strode over to pull out Irulan's desk chair for her, then sat herself in the one across from it.

The Emperor’s concubine had never truly been cruel to Irulan. But sitting here, surrounded by the princess’s meager consolation prizes, Chani was nothing more than a reminder. 

Irulan could never ruin Paul's life on her own; even her hatred for him would remain unrequited.

But Chani was Paul's heart—this mysterious well pulsing with wisdom and vitality. 

And Irulan could be the betrayer: the wife he deserved and believed he had. She could play the role she had been given.

Rip out his heart, if that was what it took.

Taking her seat behind the desk, the princess pressed record on her shigawire transcriber.

“Let us begin.”