The Winds of Dune

by Brian Herbert

  The priests seemed resistant to Voice, because four of them crowded together, blocking her access. One said, “We have strict orders that the prisoner is to be allowed no visitors before his execution. No food or water. Nothing at all.”

  Jessica let her anger hint that if she grew any more displeased with them, she would order their executions. All of them. “Should I wait and speak to him after he has been executed?” They looked as if they might all wither at once. “I demand a moment of privacy with this Bronso of Ix. I invoke the desert tradition. It is my right to face him.”

  The same priest said, “He is a dangerous prisoner, my Lady. We should have at least two guards accompany you—”

  “I once bested Stilgar himself.” Her look silenced the priest. “I have nothing to fear from this pathetic man.”

  At a signal from the priest, one of the amazon guards unsealed the door and allowed her inside. “Close it! I don’t need an eager audience of gossipers.” The woman left her alone in the death cell with Bronso.

  Although the haggard, copper-haired man was clearly weak and thirsty, he sat straight, as if supported by the throne of House Vernius. It struck her what a tragic and lonely figure Bronso was. And yet he smiled as he recognized her. “I hoped we would have a chance to talk before the end, my Lady.”

  She silenced him with a quick hand signal, then reached into her robes and removed a small device, which she activated. The air pressure seemed to change in the room, and a subsonic thrumming vibrated at the roots of her teeth. “A blanketing field. Now we can speak in complete privacy.” She smiled at the device. “It’s of Ixian manufacture. Alia has many Ixian devices that have never been tested, and I’ve . . . borrowed some of them.”

  “Oh, I recognize that one,” he said with a rueful smile, then looked up at her with red-shot eyes. “But even taking such precautions, you come here at great peril.”

  “You’ve risked much more over the years, Bronso. But don’t worry—I have a legitimate reason to be here.”

  Bronso understood. “They think you have come to spit on me?”

  “Ah, but on Dune, that would be no insult.”

  He just shook his head. “There is nothing you can do for me. I need you to be free, to remain beyond suspicion. I need you to be sure my mother is safe.”

  “She will be, Bronso. I promise.”

  He nodded. “I will not reveal our relationship, or Paul’s plan, no matter how much torture they inflict upon me. If this execution makes me a martyr, well, then even more people will read my treatises. My writings will take on a life of their own . . . and some readers will believe what I say. The truth is a powerful weapon.”

  Jessica took a step closer. “So, Alia has told you the manner of your execution?”

  “Huanui deathstill, while I’m still alive. I don’t imagine it will be very pleasant.”

  With a sudden move, Jessica brought up one of her hands, revealing a silver needle in her grasp. “Bronso, this is the high-handed enemy, the gom jabbar. One prick of the poison on this tip and your miseries will be over—quick and painless.”

  He didn’t flinch. “Alia has sent you as my executioner, then, just as she earlier used Stilgar? It’s to be you? That needle would certainly silence me. You’d have nothing to worry about.”

  “I chose this, Bronso, as a kindness to you, and a reward for your bravery. The others will see it as the act of an outraged mother. Not even Alia would dare punish me for it.” She held the needle only centimeters from his neck.

  Though Bronso was obviously not afraid of the needle, he shook his head. “I thank you from the bottom of my heart, but I cannot let this happen—not only for you, but for my own legacy. Remember, I worked with the Jongleurs. What sort of finale would this be, a quiet and painless death, witnessed only by you? No, I prefer playing my part to the end. Let me finish this show and leave the audience satisfied. You must permit this, my Lady—for the Atreides name, for Paul.” He pushed her hand away, and she lowered the gom jabbar. “Give me a last moment of dignity and worth. I am protecting Paul’s legacy the way I was supposed to watch out for him when we were just boys. By holding to that promise, I honor not only him, but my father.”

  Jessica had not expected him to accept her offer. “Then take what comfort I can offer you.” After secreting the deadly needle in a fold of her robe, she produced a small flask. “I brought water.”

  Trusting her completely, he drained the flask, sighed. “I won’t need that after tomorrow. But thank you.”

  When he was off guard, she embraced him. “I’m grateful to you, Bronso. And so sorry.” In doing so, she brushed the back of his neck with a different needle, leaving just a trace of potent residual chemical—another one of the new Ixian toys that the technocrats gave to Alia in hopes of impressing her. Bronso didn’t even notice. As they drew apart, she thought, I’ve done everything I can for you. Paul’s good and loyal friend, and a true patriot of the Imperium.

  Then Bronso said, “Before you leave, slap me hard across the face. For appearances sake.”

  She concealed the Ixian device in her robe and switched off the blanketing field, then resurrected her infuriated demeanor. “Guards!”

  The door burst open as if the amazons expected to find her under attack. Before they could step into the cell, Jessica swung her open hand, striking Bronso’s face with such force that he reeled to the side. He pressed a hand against his throbbing cheek.

  She sneered at Bronso and spoke for the benefit of her observers. “When you feel the pain of the deathstill, think of me. I have nothing more to say to the prisoner.”

  I have seen enough acrobats and dancers. I have seen amazing pyrotechnic shows and solido-hologram illusions. I have seen audiences swoon, scream, and cheer. But the greatest spectacle of all is Life—and Death.

  —RHEINVAR THE MAGNIFICENT

  At the hour of Bronso’s execution, Lady Jessica sat on a high observation platform, gazing down at the teeming crush of humanity in the square, the hawkers and gawkers, the unseemly carnival atmosphere. Next to the observation dais stood the ominous death-still, portending a slow and horrific end for the despised traitor. This time, there was no chance that the victim was a mere Face Dancer in disguise.

  Jessica had wanted to remain out of sight, to avoid witnessing the execution, but Alia demanded her presence. She had to play her role in this show, just as Bronso did.

  On a high seat next to her mother, Alia seemed exceedingly pleased. Duncan sat at her side, expressionless. While he had grudgingly agreed to trust Jessica and not expose her alliance with Bronso, Duncan would not cooperate in any plan to free the Ixian, even if he did believe the man was following Paul’s true wishes.

  To Jessica’s practiced eye, Irulan appeared sickened, though the crowd would misinterpret her expression as one of disgust. In her position as Muad’Dib’s official biographer and historian, everyone assumed the Princess was impatient to see the end of the malicious gadfly.

  The crowds pressed even closer, and Jessica thought more people had come to see the violence than had attended Paul’s funeral ceremony. Watching the preparations with interest, Alia turned to her mother and spoke in a casual tone. “You should be glad it is almost over, Mother. By insulting Paul, Bronso insulted both of us.”

  Jessica could not disguise her bitter undertone. “And you think Paul would have wanted this? Even after all Bronso has written against him, the two were once close friends.”

  The crowd was getting louder, buzzing with anticipation.

  Alia laughed. “Of course this is what Paul would have wanted. I don’t think you understood my brother very well at all.”

  Two Qizara guards escorted the condemned prisoner toward the central dais, where the gray, slick-walled deathstill stood, its hinged lid thrown back like the hood of a tribal robe. It reminded Jessica of a sarcophagus for a giant. Taken from one of Arrakeen’s many mortuaries, the huanui was round and utilitarian, with tubes, separators, vaporizers, and collectors.
Its sides had been replaced with transparent panels, so that the observers could see the victim’s agonized writhings.

  Bronso walked toward his fate without hesitation or apparent fear, holding his head high. Yes, a true Jongleur show, she thought.

  When Bronso stood facing the transparent walls of the deathstill, he looked at the workings. Although he was fully aware that he would die inside that chamber, his back remained straight. After focusing on the means of his execution, he turned to Alia. “Will I be allowed to speak? Or will you silence me here, just as you tried to silence my writings?”

  Alia’s face darkened. “You have spouted far too many words.” She made a quick gesture, and one of the priest guards strapped a gag across Bronso’s mouth.

  Jessica made no attempt to hide her disapproval. “Alia, by tradition the accused has a right to speak.”

  “He is not accused—he is condemned. And he has said quite enough, in his heretical writings. We have no need to hear more.”

  With a glance, Jessica tried to convey an apology to Bronso, but he did not seem dejected, or even surprised by Alia’s pronouncement. Instead, he nodded to himself and turned his gaze out to the crowd.

  Before Alia could command her guards to wrestle him into the deathstill chamber, a commotion occurred out in the vast throng, accompanied by sounds of unrest and surprise. In the sea of faces, several men stood forth . . . all identical, all with reddish hair. They looked precisely like Bronso Vernius. More appeared, then dozens, then at least a hundred of the doppelgangers.

  As they were recognized, a resonating gasp rippled through the packed crowd. Face Dancers, Jessica was sure—Bronso’s allies. It seemed the gallant Ixian had guessed long in advance that he would someday face this fate; he must have asked the shape-shifters to deliver this last message, should he be prevented from doing so himself.

  When the Bronso lookalikes spoke, their voices boomed out from artificial amplifiers, and their words—in Bronso’s familiar voice—thrummed high into the yellow sky in a vibrating, convulsive harmony. “I am Bronso of Ix, and my final statement will not be silenced. I have opened your eyes and ears. I have diluted your myths with the truth. I have demonstrated that your revered Muad’Dib was Paul Atreides as well. And I have assured you that your emperor was only human, not anyone’s messiah. By showing you who Paul Atreides really was, I have done him a greater service than all of your temples and all of the battles in your Jihad! I die without regret, for even when my body is gone, my words will remain.”

  Alia dispatched her guards, but the hundred or more lookalikes dispersed into the confusion of the crowd. The Face Dancers ducked and moved, altered their features. They yanked off their capes, rags and hoods, and tossed them away, discarding them into the stunned and astonished throng.

  From her vantage, Jessica watched the flurry. The Face Dancers were like moths, slipping away, flitting, mingling, vanishing. Within moments, they were indistinguishable from others in the crowd, and she doubted if any of them would ever be caught. Although the spectators roared in indignation, they were clearly fascinated by the trick that had been played upon the powerful Regent and her priestly guards.

  Trying to regain control of the moment, Alia raised her voice in a shrill command: “Commence the execution.”

  The priest guards cuffed Bronso forward, and he stumbled toward the deathstill. Jessica felt her heart burning with tears that her eyes could not shed, and decided it was time. She had her own trick that Bronso did not expect. In her conscious thoughts she triggered an activation code, then formed words, which she spoke silently deep in her throat and in her mind.

  Bronso. Can you hear me? She saw the prisoner’s unmistakable reaction, as his head jerked in surprise and he looked around.

  Communication by nerve induction, she explained, never opening her mouth. A prototype Ixian technology—extremely expensive, designed for espionage and surveillance. I applied the chemical to you in your cell. I wanted to be there for you. Now.

  Bronso seemed to freeze for a moment. Before him was the yawning mouth of the deathstill, behind him the howling mob. He turned his gaze toward Jessica.

  “He’s an arrogant one,” Alia said. “Look at him glaring at us!”

  Jessica concentrated, formed words inside her throat so that Bronso could hear her distinctly. I am here. Listen carefully. I will guide you in Bene Gesserit techniques. Let me ease your suffering. She could not teach him years of prana-bindu training in only a few thoughts, but she could help him focus.

  “He is brave, Alia,” Duncan said. “See the benign expression on his face.”

  “Gods below, I don’t like this,” Gurney grumbled. “Is this how we show the rest of the Imperium we are civilized?”

  “It is how we keep the rest of the Imperium civilized,” Alia retorted.

  Bronso stood at the deathstill, looking inside. Jessica heard his thought via her own chemical receivers. I feel much calmer now, my Lady. Thank you.

  The guards pushed the doomed man into the hard, smooth embrace of the deathstill, where he reclined willingly. The crowd roared, screaming insults in a babel of languages from the planets of the Imperium. For several seconds, Bronso gazed beatifically at the heavens, until the guards slammed the huanui lid shut, engaged the seals, and clamped down the heavy locks. At a nod from Alia, they activated the simple controls and began the slow extraction from Bronso’s living body.

  All the while, Jessica maintained a steady, reassuring contact with Bronso. There is time for only one more thing, she said silently. Say the words with me.

  She knew there were monitors on his body that were linked to the deathstill, with remote technicians collecting data on the pain and nerve centers of his brain. Alia would be disappointed when she saw the flat, calm readings, very disappointed.

  With enhanced concentration, aided by Jessica, Bronso detached himself from the agony of his shriveling, dehydrating body. She spoke with him through her transmitted thoughts, and in the final focus of his life, he repeated the words with her:

  I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.

  After that, nothing remained. The deathstill completed its work, and Bronso became no more than water, chemical residue . . . and a body of writings that Jessica promised herself would not be forgotten.

  He had given his life for Paul, just as so many other fanatics had . . . but for an entirely different reason. Bronso did it for Paul, Jessica thought.

  We build our own prisons with our conscience and guilt. Exile is in the mind, not in the location, and I’ve come to realize that I can make my plans here on Salusa Secundus as well as anywhere else.

  —COUNT HASIMIR FENRING

  As a Bene Gesserit, Lady Margot Fenring had learned to endure. After spending years on Arrakis when her husband was Imperial Spice Minister, Margot did not see that this exile on Salusa Secundus was any worse. Now, conditions were improving by degrees as ambitious Imperial planetologists continued to work on the barren planet, resuscitating ecosystems that had been knocked flat by atomics millennia ago. Even with Muad’Dib himself gone, their work continued apace.

  She and Hasimir could make do here, for now. And as soon as the ghola armies were ready, the Fenrings would be able to leave again and thrive in a new Imperial court. On Kaitain, she assumed—certainly not Arrakis.

  Years ago, after the failure of their assassination plot using the sweet but murderous Marie, Lady Margot had expected to be summarily executed, but Paul had sent the Count and his Lady into exile instead—as Duke Leto the Just might have done. Unfortunately, the Fenrings were now forced to share the company of Shaddam IV, whom Hasimir had grown to despise.

  The oblivious fallen Emperor still thought the two men were partners, working together for the restoration o
f Corrino glory, but Hasimir no longer regarded Shaddam as the rightful Padishah Emperor, nor even as a friend. The disgraced man was merely a tool, and Margot knew the Count would be happy to discard him at the appropriate moment. First and foremost, the Fenrings were survivors, always survivors.

  Though the couple’s movements were restricted on Salusa, offworld travelers could still visit them. When Margot received word that a transport had come bearing a delegate from Wallach IX, she was pleased to know that the Bene Gesserits still remembered her. Instead of a large delegation, the Sisterhood sent only one old and hard woman, the Reverend Mother Stokiah. Margot did not know her well, but she was intrigued about why she had come.

  Hearing about the visitor, Hasimir raised his eyebrows. “Would you like me to join you, my dear? Hmmm?”

  “I keep no secrets from you, my love, but a Reverend Mother may be uncomfortable having you participate.” She knew he would listen in anyway, from a discreet hiding place.

  Alone in her rooms, Margot prepared spice coffee and spread small pastries on an otherwise bare side table, an intentionally meager buffet to emphasize their frugal situation. The Reverend Mother glided in, wearing traditional black robes that made her look even older than she was.

  Margot had never accepted the role of dowager witch; she preferred to maintain her beauty. Thanks to melange and Bene Gesserit biochemical control, the willowy, golden-haired Margot was still quite lovely to look at; Hasimir had certainly never tired of her. The two were compatible in all ways.

  She greeted the other woman with a gentle bow—enough to show respect, but well short of deference. Margot had been so long removed from the inner politics of Wallach IX that she didn’t even know if the woman outranked her. “Reverend Mother Stokiah. I’ve been hungry for news of the Sisterhood. We are so cut off here, so isolated.”