04 God Emperor of Dune by Frank Herbert

-The Stolen Journals

LETO LAY without his cart on the high, sheltered balcony of his Little Citadel tower, subduing a fretfulness which he knew came from the necessary delays putting off the date of his wedding to Hwi Noree. He stared toward the southwest. Somewhere off there beyond the darkening horizon, the Duncan, Siona and their companions had been six days in Tuono Village. The delays are my own fault, Leto thought. I am the one who changed the place for the wedding, making it necessary for poor Moneo to revise all of his preparations. And now, of course, there was the matter of Malky. None of these necessities could be explained to Moneo, who could be heard stirring about within the central chamber of the aerie, worrying about his absence from the command post where he directed the festive preparations. Moneo was such a worrier! Leto looked toward the setting sun. It floated low to the horizon, faded a dim orange by a recent storm. Rain crouched low in the clouds to the south beyond the Sareer now. In a prolonged silence, Leto had watched the rain there for a time

which had stretched out with no beginning or end. The clouds had grown out of a hard gray sky, rain walking in visible lines. He had felt himself clothed in memories that came unbidden. The mood was hard to shake off and, without even thinking, he muttered the remembered lines of an ancient verse. “Did you speak, Lord?” Moneo’s voice came from close beside Leto. By merely turning his eyes, Leto could see the faithful majordomo standing attentively waiting. Leto translated into Galach as he quoted: “The nightingale nests in the plum tree, but what will she do with the wind?” “Is that a question, Lord?” “An old question. The answer is simple. Let the nightingale keep to her flowers.” “I don’t understand, Lord.” “Stop mouthing the obvious, Moneo. It disturbs me when you do that.” “Forgive me, Lord.” “What else can I do?” Leto studied Moneo’s downcast features. “You and I, Moneo, whatever else we do, we provide good theater.” Moneo peered at Leto’s face. “Lord?” “The rites of the religious festival of Bacchus were the seeds of Greek theater, Moneo. Religion often leads to theater. They will have fine theater out of us.” Once more, Leto turned and looked at the southwest horizon. There was a wind there now piling up the clouds. Leto thought he could hear driven sand blustering along the dunes, but there was only resonant quiet in the tower aerie, a quiet with the faintest of wind hiss behind it. “The clouds,” he whispered. “I would take a cup of moonlight once more, an ancient sea barge at my feet, thin clouds clinging to my darkling sky, the blue-gray cloak around my shoulders and horses neighing nearby.” “My Lord is troubled,” Moneo said. The compassion in his voice wrenched at Leto. “The bright shadows of my pasts,” Leto said. “They never leave me in peace. I listened for a soothing sound, the bell of a country town at nightfall, and it told me only that I am the sound and soul of this place.” As he spoke, darkness enclosed the tower. Automatic lights came on around them. Leto kept his attention directed outward where a thin melon slice of First Moon drifted above the clouds with orange planet-light revealing the satellite’s full circle.

“Lord, why have we come out here?” Moneo asked. “Why won’t you tell me?”

“I wanted the benefit of your surprise,” Leto said. “A Guild lighter will land beside us out here soon. My Fish Speakers bring Malky to me.”

Moneo inhaled a quick breath and held it a moment before exhaling. “Hwi’s . . . uncle? That Malky?”

“You are surprised that you had no warning of this,” Leto said.

Moneo felt a chill all through his body. “Lord, when you wish to keep things secret from. . .”

“Moneo?” Leto spoke in a softly persuasive tone. “I know that Malky offered you greater temptations than any other. . .”

“Lord! I never. . .”

“I know that, Moneo.” Still in that soft tone. “But surprise has shocked your memories alive. You are armed for anything I may require of you.”