The Winds of Dune by Brian Herbert, Kevin J. Anderson

closest aides and advisers, and on the Qizarate, but also on the masses she ruled. No one knew how she thought or why she made her choices as Regent. And that kept others off guard and unsettled, making them wonder what she might do next, what she was capable of.
    Her unpredictability would make the worst jackals hesitate, for now, and she hoped it gave her the time she needed to secure her hold and gather her strength, before any usurpers could try to rock the seat of government. But she had to be swift, and firm.
    Dressed in a black aba with the red Atreides hawk on one shoulder, Alia waited impatiently. It was midmorning in the second week after Paul’s funeral, and a team of workers were shifting the position of the heavy Hagar emerald throne. “Turn it around. I want my back to the delegation from the Ixian Confederacy as they enter.”
    The workers paused, confused. One man said, “But then you will not be able to see the delegation, my Lady.”
    “No, they will not have the honor of seeing
me
. I’m not pleased with them.”
    Though the technocrats insisted—as they had for years—that Ix had severed all ties with Bronso, she did not entirely believe them. Too many suspicions and questions, too many convenient explanations. While Paul had a certain affinity for Ix, thanks to his childhood memories, Alia did not suffer from such sentimentality. The technocrats would find that Muad’Dib’s sister was a different sort of ruler. Alia needed to keep the Ixian Confederacy unbalanced; it was easier to control power structures when they remained on unsteady ground.
    She had considered this carefully.
    Even when she was alone, Alia frequently chose to spend time pondering the consequences of her decisions. She knew that her mother had much wisdom to impart, but often Jessica’s advice seemed one-sided or limited. Today, at least, Alia would not ask her mother’s opinion. Caladan was known to make people soft and take away their edge.
    Alia had additional advisers as well—Other Memories that unfolded like fractal patterns inside her consciousness in a cacophony of conflicting advice. Often in her private chambers she would consume great amounts of spice, inducing a trance so that she could journey into that Bene Gesserit archive of memories, and stir them up. She did not have the skill to pick and choose among them or locate any particular person as if she were querying a library. The memories came and went, with some presences shouting more loudly than others.
    She let them assail her now, while she brooded about the Ixians’ arrival. Listening to the clamor, she heard one of those past lives rise above the others, a sharp-tongued voice in the archive. A wise old woman who was familiar with many of the challenges that Alia faced. She had, after all, been the Truthsayer to Emperor Shaddam IV . . . Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam.
    Alia spoke to her in a taunting mental tone.
Do you still call me “Abomination,” Grandmother, even when you are one of the voices inside of me?
    Mohiam sounded dry and tart.
By allowing me to advise you, child, you demonstrate wisdom, not weakness.
    Why should I trust the voice of a woman who wanted to kill me?
    Ah, but you were the one who ordered
my
death, child.
    What of it? I also killed my grandfather, the Baron, because he needed killing. How could I do any less for you? Aren’t we taught to ignore or even despise emotional attachments?
    Mohiam sounded pleased.
Perhaps with maturity you have learned from your mistakes. I am willing to help.
    Have you learned from
your
mistakes, Grandmother?
    Mistakes?
The dry rasp of a laugh echoed in Alia’s head.
If you believe me so fallible, why ask me for advice?
    Asking
for advice is not the same as
heeding
it, Grandmother. What do you think I should do with these Ixians?
    I think you should make them squirm.
    Because they continue to secretly support Bronso?
    I doubt very much if they’ve had any knowledge of that renegade for