“And the ceremony itself?”

“I will conduct it.”

“Will you need assistants, Lord? Artifacts of any kind?”

“The trappings of ritual?”

“Any particular thing which I may not…”

“We will not need much for our little charade.”

“Lord! I beg of you! Please…”

“You will stand beside the bride and give her in marriage,” Leto said. “We will use the old Fremen ritual.”

“We will need water rings then,” Moneo said.

“Yes! I will use Ghani’s water rings.”

“And who will attend, Lord?”

“Only a Fish Speaker guard and the aristocracy.”

Moneo stared at Leto’s face. “What… what does my Lord mean by aristocracy?”

“You, your family, the household entourage, the courtiers of the Citadel.”

“My fam…” Moneo swallowed. “Do you include Siona?”

“If she survives the test.”

“But…”

“Is she not family?”

“Of course, Lord, she is Atreides and…”

“Then by all means include Siona!”

Moneo brought a tiny memocorder from his pocket, a dull black Ixian artifact whose existence crowded the proscriptions of the Butlerian Jihad. A soft smile touched Leto’s lips. Moneo knew his duties and would now perform them.

The clamour of Duncan Idaho outside the portal grew more strident, but Moneo ignored the sound.

Moneo knows the price of his privileges, Leto thought. It is another kind of marriage—the marriage of privilege and duty. It is the aristocrat’s explanation and his excuse.

Moneo finished his note-taking.

“A few details, Lord,” Moneo said. “Will there be some special garb for Hwi?”

“The stillsuit and robe of a Fremen bride, real ones.”

“Jewelry or other baubles?”

Leto’s gaze locked on Moneo’s fingers scrabbling over the tiny recorder, seeing there a dissolution.

Leadership, courage, a sense of knowledge and order—Moneo has these in abundance. They surround him like a holy aura, but they conceal from all eyes except mine the rot which eats from within. It is inevitable. Were I gone, it would be visible to everyone.

“Lord?” Moneo pressed. “Are you woolgathering?”

Ahhh! He likes that new word!

“That is all,” Leto said. “Only the robe, the stillsuit and the water rings.”

Moneo bowed and turned away.

He is looking ahead now, Leto thought, but even this new thing will pass. He will turn toward the past once more. And I had such high hopes for him once. Well… perhaps Siona…

CHAPTER XXXIV

“Make no heroes,” my father said.

—The Voice of Ghanima, from the Oral History

Just by the way Idaho strode across the small chamber, his loud demands for audience now gratified, Leto could see an important transformation in the ghola. It was a thing repeated so many times that it had become deeply familiar to Leto. The Duncan had not even exchanged words of greeting with the departing Moneo. It all fitted into the pattern. How boring that pattern had become!

Leto had a name for this transformation of the Duncans. He called it “The Since Syndrome”.

The gholas often nurtured suspicions about the secret things which might have been developed across the centuries of oblivion since they last knew awareness. What had people been doing all that time? Why could they possibly want me, this relic from their past? No ego could overcome such doubts forever—especially in a doubting man.