Without melange, Paul-Muad’Dib could not prophesy. We know this moment of supreme power contained failure. There can be only one answer, that completely accurate and total prediction is lethal.

—Analysis of History: Muad’Dib, BRONSO OF IX

Bronso remained silent during the rough journey from Carthag, closing his eyes and concentrating on the vibrations of the military-transport ’thopter as it flew high above the dunes, casting moonshadows on the open sand below. The thrum of machinery reminded him of the great industries on Ix. He would never see them again . . . had not expected to for years.

Though he longed to know whether Jessica herself had escaped the trap, Bronso refused to ask questions of his captors, refused to utter a word. From now on, his manifestoes would have to speak for him. They were his words, written with a clear mind and a clear conscience. Others would spread them and keep them relevant. Others would continue to raise questions and doubts.

Bronso steeled himself: He would not let any torture-coerced confessions or distortions diminish the work he had done. Yes, he had embellished facts about Muad’Dib, extrapolated them, even spun and bent them to fit, but only to balance the equally false absurdities Alia had encouraged. No matter how vigorously the Qizarate tried to suppress his writings, copies would survive. And over the course of time, the truth would overcome all lies.

But Bronso would not be there to see it. He was certain of that.

At least he had freed his mother, and could rest easily knowing that Tessia would find a home, and peace, on Caladan. Jessica would make sure of that. . . .

Bronso’s death cell in the deep levels beneath the fortress citadel offered no amenities, not even a pallet for a bed. One corner held a small reclamation still for bodily waste. He could tell from the lingering, wafting odor that the still had been used recently, and the seals were old. He did not need to ask what had happened to the cell’s previous occupant.

He tried to sleep on the cell’s hard plazcrete floor. Dim, unfiltered glowglobes provided the only light, denying him any direct awareness of the passage of hours or days, but with the implanted Ixian chronometer on the skin of his forearm, he could mark the exact passage of every interminable second.

Time no longer mattered, however.

With each stirring in the corridors outside the thick-walled cell, he sat up, remembering how Paul had come to him the last time he was here. The Emperor Paul-Muad’Dib himself had dismissed or diverted all the guards, then opened the cell door to let Bronso flee down empty corridors and dusty tunnels.

It made him smile to think of that now. Yes, even all those years after they had been boys together, Paul had remembered his promise. He had protected his Ixian companion—saved his life—by secretly setting him free. Bronso had followed the escape path out to the dark alleys of Arrakeen.

Weeks of public outrage had followed, and an unsuccessful search for traitors in the prison levels of the fortress palace. The hated Bronso of Ix had vanished from the most secure prison on Dune, like a magician, or a demon.

Not long ago, he had escaped execution again when the Face Dancer Sielto had died in Bronso’s place—much to Alia’s embarrassment. Now, though, the young Regent would take no chances. Her priests would interrogate and torture him, try to make him recant while she devised some particularly horrific execution for him. He had humiliated her too many times, and her animosity was personal.

He needed only to remember what Rhombur had endured in his life: the skyclipper explosion, the pain of living with cyborg replacement parts for years, the shock of watching his young son denounce him. And he thought of his mother, crushed by guilt-casting but finally finding her way back to consciousness, waiting for years to be rescued from the Bene Gesserit’s clutches.

If his parents could endure all that, then surely Bronso could tolerate a few hours of pain, knowing it would be over soon enough.

He paced the perimeter of his cell, then forced himself to sit calmly, sure that hidden spy-eyes watched him. He would not slip into empty despair. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.

The temperature in his cell increased, as if the baking sun from outside penetrated even this deep belowground. He perspired heavily. Wasted water. What irony.

If he had sheets of rough spice paper, he could have written his final thoughts, a masterpiece of sorts. He tried to write in the dust on the wall, but his words were unreadable and easily erased.

After his father’s death, the Ixian technocrats had taken everything from House Vernius, bleeding away his family’s power and influence, keeping him as a figurehead, and finally discarding even that. Bronso had given everything he’d had left to Paul Atreides, and at least he had made a difference. The legacy of “Bronso of Ix” would endure far longer than anything “Bronso Vernius” could have accomplished in the Lands-raad.

He sat on the hard surface and stared directly into the glowglobe without blinking, not caring what damage it did to his eyes. Paul had been blinded in a stone-burner blast—so what difference would his own loss of sight make now? Muad’Dib’s fanatics were the blind ones . . . unable to read, or understand, the messages Bronso had written. The glow-globes were far too weak to do any more than make his eyes burn.

His writings had emphasized the unvarnished facts, flaws and all, to hammer home the point that Paul was human, not a god, and just as subject to weaknesses as any man. One day, when he and Paul Atreides were joined in the dust and grit of Arrakis, it would matter little how many people knew why Bronso did what he did. The important part was that some people would heed the message.

However, when some forger—Alia, presumably—co-opted his name and spread an outrageous false manifesto, it marred the purity of Bronso’s purpose. She had wanted to inflame anger against him, to drive people into the comfortable delusions of Irulan’s version of history. That made him angry, but Lady Jessica knew the truth, and he trusted her to help historians navigate through the treacherous waters of fact and fiction.

My ego, he thought. My ego lingers, but I must let it go. . . .

He wished Alia would throw him to the crowds outside. He knew they must be shouting and chanting, demanding his blood. They would beat and trample him, but at least their fury would make the end swift.

“Shall I tell you how you’re going to die?” A female voice filled the cell.

Blinking away the glare from staring into the glowglobe, Bronso turned to see that the cell door was open. He caught a glimpse of three angry-looking amazon guards outside, and young Alia standing there in all of her dark splendor. Only sixteen years of age . . . a few years older than when he and Paul had run away from Ix to join the Jongleurs. The black robe fit her closely, following the contours of her figure; the red hawk of House Atreides adorned one side of her collar. Interesting that she chose to wear the Atreides emblem, rather than the trappings of a fanatical cult.

He rose to his feet, acting aloof. “You are a poor hostess, Lady Alia. Am I to receive no food or water?”

“On Dune, we learn not to waste resources. It’s the Fremen way. Your body’s water will be reclaimed in a huanui deathstill.”

He shrugged. “I know the Fedaykin death chant: ‘Who can turn away the Angel of Death?’ Are you my dark angel, Alia Atreides? On with it then. I have long been prepared to die.”

He wondered how she would react if he told her now that he had reported to Jessica the conspiracy in the priesthood to assassinate Alia and Duncan. Bronso doubted if she would express any gratitude, though . . . and the information would only throw suspicion on her mother.

Alia remained haughty. “Don’t expect pity from me, after all the pain you’ve caused, all your years of trying to destroy my brother’s reputation.”

“All my years of trying to keep him human.” Bronso did not harbor any hope that she would understand, or desire to understand. “You’ve read my Analysis of History and other works, and I know you comprehend the purpose of my writings. You’ve even twisted them to your own ends. Isn’t imitation supposed to be the highest form of flattery?”

Alia shook her head sadly, her expression filled with disappointment. “For seven years my brother and I hunted you. Now . . . you are just a dismal, uninteresting little man.” Straightening, she raised her voice. “We have chosen a style of Fremen execution reserved for only the most heinous criminals. You will be put in the deathstill while still alive. We will draw out the water from your body, bit by bit, leaving your mind aware until the last.”

Bronso did not let her see his expression of revulsion. Fear screamed inside him. But now, at least, he knew. He wiped sweat from his forehead in the excessively hot cell and summoned what little bravado he had left. “You’d best hurry then. At the rate I’m dehydrating in here, there won’t be any moisture left to squeeze out of me.”

She turned and departed, letting the amazon guards seal the cell behind her, leaving Bronso alone with his thoughts. She had wanted to intimidate him and make him fear his fate, but he knew that a cringing, whimpering death for Paul’s greatest critic would only serve to weaken the impact of his writings. He could still help Paul a while longer. He vowed to himself that he would march forth proudly and face the deathstill with his head held high. He was sure Lady Jessica would be watching.