Dune_ House Atreides - Brian Herbert [234]
How could Leto ever hope to do the same?
His voice filled the room. “Father, you left large shoes for me to fill.” He drew a deep breath, angrily forcing away his self-pity. He could do no less than his very best, for Caladan and for the memory of the Old Duke.
On calmer dawns, he and Rhombur might have gone down to the practice courtyard to train with knives and shields under the watchful eye of Thufir Hawat. Today, though, Leto had hoped to get more rest, a hope that hadn’t materialized. He’d slept badly, haunted by the weight of decisions that seemed to make the stones of the tall Castle grind together under the burden. Far below, the sea crashed like gnashing teeth—uneasy water that reflected Leto’s churning thoughts.
Wrapping himself in a robe lined with expensive imported whale-fur, he cinched the sash at his waist and padded barefoot down the curving steps toward the main hall. He smelled bitter coffee brewing and the faint hint of melange that would be added to his cup. Leto smiled, knowing the cook would insist on the young Duke receiving an extra boost of energy.
He could hear noises from the distant kitchen, food-prep units being primed, breakfast being prepared, old-fashioned fires being stoked. The Old Duke had always preferred real crackling fires in some of the rooms, and Leto had continued the tradition.
When he passed on bare feet through the Hall of Swords on the way to the banquet hall, he stopped upon encountering an unexpected person.
The young stableboy, Duncan Idaho, had removed one of Paulus’s tall and ornately carved ceremonial swords from the rack. He held it, point downward, resting against the flagstoned floor. Though the long weapon was nearly as tall as the ten-year-old, Duncan gripped its pommel with determination. The inlaid rope pattern on the hilt gave him all the leverage he needed.
Duncan spun around, startled at being discovered here. Leto’s voice caught in his throat in time to squelch a chiding speech. He meant to demand what the boy was doing here, unsupervised and without permission. Then Leto saw Duncan’s wide eyes with the tracks of tears running like salty tributaries down his face.
Embarrassed but filled with pride, the young man stood up straighter. “I am sorry, m’Lord Duke.” His voice was full of sorrow and much deeper than any child’s had a right to be. He looked down at the sword and then through the arched columns into the dining hall, where the portrait of dashing Paulus Atreides hung on the far wall. The hawkish patriarch stared from the painting with burning green eyes; he wore his gaudy matador clothes as if nothing in the universe could knock him from his intended course.
“I miss him very much,” Duncan said.
Feeling a lump in his throat that gradually expanded to become a leaden weight in his chest, Leto approached the boy.
Paulus had left his mark upon many lives. Even this youth who worked with the bulls, a mere boy who had somehow managed to outwit Harkonnen hunters and escape from Giedi Prime, felt the loss like a mortal wound.
I am not the only one who still feels the pain of my father’s death, Leto realized. He clasped Duncan’s shoulder, and in silence they spoke more than hours of conversation could have communicated.
Duncan finally pulled away and leaned on the tall sword as if it were a crutch. His flushed skin returned to its normal tone, and he drew a deep breath. “I came . . . I came to ask you a question, m’Lord, before you go to Kaitain.”
Pots clanged in the distance, and servants moved about. Before long, someone would come up to Leto’s room bearing a breakfast tray. They would find his room empty. “Ask,” he said.
“It’s about the bulls, sir. With Yresk gone now, I’ve been tending them every day, me and some of the other stableboys—but what do you mean to do with them? Will you fight the bulls just like your father?”
“No!” Leto said quickly, as a bolt of fear shot through