The Winds of Dune (69 page)

“Because of me?” Margot chuckled. “Come now, Reverend Mother, Paul Atreides held a grudge against the Bene Gesserit all the way back
to when Mohiam tested him with the gom jabbar. When has the Sisterhood ever done anything to earn his goodwill?”

“Nevertheless, your foolish assassination attempt against him had little chance of success, and its failure had terrible repercussions. Alia still bears a personal grudge against you, and against us. You may have been exiled here for the past nine years, but the rest of the Sisterhood has been rendered impotent. The Regent seems to hate us even more than her brother did, if that’s possible. We have never been so weak in ten thousand years! You, Sister Margot, may have single-handedly brought about the downfall of the Bene Gesserit order, which has endured since the end of the Butlerian Jihad.”

Annoyance rose within her. “That is absurd.”

When something changed in Stokiah’s demeanor, Margot went instantly on guard. The old woman’s voice became more resonant, her eyes flared, and tendrils of psychic force seemed to ooze from her, insinuating themselves like wet tongues into Margot’s ears and around her chest.

“You must feel the guilt . . . the oppressive weight of the crime you have committed. The Sisterhood sent me here as a guilt-caster to make you
feel
the horrific consequences of your actions.”

Margot raised her hands and squeezed her eyes shut as the pounding shame and guilt hammered her mind. “Stop! This serves . . . no purpose!”

“Our purpose is
punishment
, and you must crumble. Your mind will collapse into itself under the weight of what you have done . . . the
shame
. You shall live in a screaming hell of retribution, from which you will never be released. The Bene Gesserit have little left but our punishments, which we reserve for the likes of you.”

In the years since she’d last had direct contact with the Sisterhood, and since the failure of little Marie’s assassination attempt, Lady Margot Fenring had continued her private studies. But she did not have the same abilities as one of the fabled and highly secretive guilt-casters, did not understand what Stokiah was doing . . . Margot rallied a weak defense to silence some of the screaming voices inside her consciousness. But only temporarily.

The guilt-caster bared her teeth and continued to concentrate, slamming wave after psychic wave against Margot’s mind, battering her
crumbling defenses. Margot knew she would fail soon; she had neither the power nor the training to resist this for much longer. Her legs turned to water and she fell to her knees, reeling, struggling. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to scream.

Suddenly the psychic waves crackled and skirled, and the invisible mental hammer seemed to fall to the floor, discarded. Reverend Mother Stokiah raised her hands, clutching her fingers into claws. Her eyes bulged.

Standing close behind the black-robed woman, Count Fenring drove his dagger in harder, then twisted it, withdrew, and stabbed the old woman again, plunging it deep into her heart. Not even a Reverend Mother with control over her internal chemistry could survive such extensive damage.

“Hmmm,” Fenring remarked, gazing at the blood on his hand with interest rather than revulsion. “You appeared to be in a bit of difficulty, my love.” He jerked out the knife, and Stokiah collapsed to the floor in a puddle of black robes and red blood.

“She caught me off guard.” Margot struggled to catch her breath. “It seems the Bene Gesserit would rather turn against their own than develop an appropriate plan to regain their power and influence.”

Fenring pulled a fold of black fabric from Stokiah’s body, used it to rub the blood from his hand and his dagger. “So much for their vaunted skill of visualizing long-term goals. We can no longer consider the Bene Gesserits to be our staunch allies.”

Margot leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. The last echoes of imposed guilt faded from her like ghosts in the wind. The couple stood together and regarded the inert body. “A pity,” she said. “The Sisters could have been helpful when Shaddam finally decides to launch his ghola army.”

“Aaahh, hmm. A pity.” He nudged the dead Reverend Mother with his toe. “You know we will have to send a message to Wallach IX. If we hurry, we can package the body and ship it back before the Heighliner leaves again.”

They decided not to waste time on any sort of embalming or fixative; instead, they wrapped Stokiah’s corpse in airtight packaging. Margot then signed a note, which they affixed to the Reverend Mother’s chest: “I don’t need any more guilt, thank you.”

Low-wage handlers came to pick up the package and deliver it to the shuttle, where Stokiah would be stored in the Heighliner’s cargo hold and eventually returned to the Mother School. The roundabout delivery from Salusa Secundus would take some time, and when the Sisters on Wallach IX opened the package, they would likely be treated to quite a stench.

Had the choice been mine, I would have put Shaddam Corrino to death and Count Hasimir Fenring along with him. However, I will honor my brother’s decision, though it may bring me misery later
.

—
ALIA ATREIDES
, comment reported by Duncan Idaho

A
ccompanying the somber procession after Bronso’s execution, Princess Irulan walked beside Jessica along a wide swath that the guards had cleared through the crowds, so they could make their way over to the deathstill. Neither she nor Jessica spoke.

Despite her initial re sis tance, Irulan had come to realize that the entire scheme
was
one that Paul would have devised: He
would
have set up his own nemesis in order to dismantle the massive power structure of his own legend by whatever means possible. And Bronso had taken the secret with him into the deathstill.

Alia and Duncan, the Imperial Regent and her ghola consort, ascended the steps to the dais where the deathstill sat in the sunlight. Reclaimed moisture condensed on its transparent side panels and circulated through internal vents.

Droplets of humanity
, Irulan thought.

The Qizarate had announced a day of rejoicing, a ghoulish celebration, and Alia seemed quite pleased about it. The thunderous cheers grew louder as Alia, Duncan, Gurney, Jessica, and Irulan stepped up to observe what the government had done, the “justice” that had been served. Irulan tried to recall her former anger over all the things Bronso had written, the lies he had told, the bold exaggerations he had concocted.
She was not sure if she would have been willing to die—at least not
that
way—to protect her version of the truth.

A group of priests formed a ring around them on the platform, surrounding the deathstill. The Regent spoke in a loud, resonant voice that carried far beyond the dais. “Princess Irulan, wife of Muad’Dib, you are now free to correct the historical record, to refute the absurd claims of Bronso of Ix, and to strengthen my brother’s legacy for all time.”

Irulan formed her answer with great care. “I will do what is right, Regent Alia.” Jessica glanced at the Princess, but the answer seemed to satisfy Alia, as well as the crowd, judging by the exuberant response.

Though obviously disturbed, Jessica stepped forward so that she reached the deathstill before Alia. She raised her voice to the throng. “Priests, bring us goblets! This is the water of Bronso of Ix, and all of us know what he has done.”

After a flurry of confusion, two Qizaras rushed forward bearing five ornate goblets. Irulan watched Jessica, struggling to understand what she was doing. Gurney Halleck held his tongue, though he seemed deeply concerned.

Alia, however, was delighted by her mother’s suggestion. “Ah! Just as Count Fenring drank of his evil daughter’s water after I killed her—so now we do the same to Bronso.”

The priests formally distributed the goblets, and Irulan accepted hers. Despite the day’s heat and the pressing crowds, the metal felt surprisingly cold in her grip.

From the deathstill’s reservoir, Jessica decanted water into her cup and waited while Duncan did the same for himself and Alia. With pointed movements, Jessica also filled the goblets held by Gurney and Irulan. When the Princess hesitated, Jessica said clearly, “It is
water
, Ir-ulan. Nothing more.”

“The water of the vanquished traitor.” Alia lifted her goblet. “As the enemy of Muad’Dib vanishes, his water rejuvenates us and gives us strength.” She took a long sip.

“Bronso of Ix,” Jessica said, then drank.

Irulan shuddered, suddenly understanding Jessica’s motives. To her, it was not a condemnation, but a
toast
, a salute to acknowledge his brave, selfless actions, and the terrible sacrifice he had made for Paul and for the legacy of humankind. In a way, it was a counterpoint to the
harsh but necessary thing that Jessica had done to the ten foolish rebels on Caladan, so many years ago. But this was not a goblet of poison, merely water. . . .

Irulan drove back her uncomfortable feelings.
It is water
. The liquid was warm and tasteless, distilled, filtered, pure . . . and not at all satisfying. But she drank it to honor Bronso, as Jessica had intended.

Afterward, Alia commanded that the rest of the traitor’s water be distributed among the highest ranking members of the priesthood, as a sort of communion.

As the crowds began to disperse following the execution spectacle, a commotion erupted in the streets. With great fanfare, a troupe of acrobats began bounding and pirouetting, using suspensor belts to fly high in the air and perform tricks. People laughed and applauded, their good humor hard-edged and barely slaked by the blood of the man they had just seen put to death.

“Jongleurs!” someone called. Jessica watched them come, saw them use the crowd as a springboard. Agile acrobats, seemingly made of an elastic substance, pranced and danced and flew, moving closer to the dais, performing for the crowd as well as for the royal spectators.

At the front strutted an elegant man in an amazingly white outfit. He stood tall, raised one hand, and shouted: “I am Rheinvar the Magnificent, and we have come to perform for you in honor of Paul-Muad’Dib!” With a gracious gesture, he extended both hands toward the platform. “And of course, to honor the Regent Alia, the Princess Irulan, and the lovely Lady Jessica.”

In the midst of polite applause, Jessica recalled something Bronso had said when telling his tale about Rheinvar:
Many things have changed . . . only appearances remain the same
.

The dignitaries remained to watch as the Jongleurs completed their show. Then Alia directed her priests to pay them handsomely.