'You've only raised another issue.' It was Irulan, leaning forward past Rajia, blonde head set off against Rajia's darkness. 'She has convinced you, but she may have other plans.'
'The Priesthood has -'
'But there are all of these stories,' Irulan said. 'That you're more than just a military advisor, that you're her -'
'Enough!' Agarves was beside himself with rage. His hand hovered near his knife. Warring emotions moved just below the surface of his skin, twisting his features. 'Believe what you will, but I cannot go on with that woman! She fouls me! She dirties everything she touches! I am used. I am soiled. But I have not lifted my knife against my kin. Now - no more!'
Ghanima, observing this, thought: That, at least, was truth coming out of him.
Surprisingly, Stilgar broke into laughter. 'Ahhhh, cousin,' he said. 'Forgive me, but there's truth in anger.'
'Then you agree?'
'I've not said that.' he raised a hand as Agarves threatened another outburst. 'It's not for my sake, Buer, but there are these others.' He gestured around him. 'They are my responsibility. Let us consider for a moment what reparations Alia offers.'
'Reparations? There's no word of reparations. Pardon, but no -'
'Then what does she offer as surety of her word?'
'Sietch Tabr and you as Naib, full autonomy as a neutral. She understands now how -'
'I'll not go back to her entourage or provide her with fighting men,' Stilgar warned. 'Is that understood?'
Ghanima could hear Stilgar beginning to weaken and thought: No, Stil! No!
'No need for that,' Agarves said. 'Alia wants only Ghanima returned to her and the carrying out of the betrothal promise which she -'
'So now it comes out!' Stilgar said, his brows drawing down. 'Ghanima's the price of my pardon. Does she think me -'
'She thinks you sensible,' Agarves argued, resuming his seat.
Gleefully, Ghanima thought: He won't do it. Save your breath. He won't do it.
As she thought this, Ghanima heard a soft rustling behind and to her left. She started to turn, felt powerful hands grab her. A heavy rag reeking of sleep-drugs covered her face before she could cry out. As consciousness faded, she felt herself being carried toward a door in the hall's darkest reaches. And she thought: I should have guessed! I should've been prepared! But the hands that held her were adult and strong. She could not squirm away from them.
Ghanima's last sensory impressions were of cold air, a glimpse of stars, and a hooded face which looked down at her, then asked: 'She wasn't injured, was she?'
The answer was lost as the stars wheeled and streaked across her gaze, losing themselves in a blaze of light which was the inner core of her selfdom.
= = = = = =
Muad'Dib gave us a particular kind of knowledge about prophetic insight, about the behavior which surrounds such insight and its influence upon events which are seen to be 'on line.' (That is, events which are set to occur in a related system which the prophet reveals and interprets.) As has been noted elsewhere, such insight operates as a peculiar trap for the prophet himself. He can become the victim of what he knows - which is a relatively common human failing. The danger is that those who predict real events may overtook the polarizing effect brought about by overindulgence in their own truth. They tend to forget that nothing in a polarized universe can exist without its opposite being present. -The Prescient Vision, by Harq al-Ada
Blowing sand hung like fog on the horizon, obscuring the rising sun. The sand was cold in the dune shadows. Leto stood outside the ring of the palmyrie looking into the desert. He smelled dust and the aroma of spiny plants, heard the morning sounds of people and animals. The Fremen maintained no qanat in this place. They had only a bare minimum of hand planting irrigated by the women, who carried water in skin bags. Their windtrap was a fragile thing, easily destroyed by the stormwinds but easily rebuilt. Hardship, the rigors of the spice trade, and adventure were a way of life here. These Fremen still believed heaven was the sound of running water, but they cherished an ancient concept of Freedom which Leto shared.
Freedom is a lonely state, he thought.
Leto adjusted the folds of the white robe which covered his living stillsuit. He could feel how the sandtrout membrane had changed him and, as always with this feeling, he was forced to overcome a deep sense of loss. He no longer was completely human. Odd things swam in his blood. Sandtrout cilia had penetrated every organ, adjusting, changing. The sandtrout itself was changing, adapting. But Leto, knowing this, felt himself torn by the old threads of his lost humanity, his life caught in primal anguish with its ancient continuity shattered. He knew the trap of indulging in such emotion, though. He knew it well.
Let the future happen of itself, he thought. The only rule governing creativity is the act of creation itself.
It was difficult to take his gaze away from the sands, the dunes - the great emptiness. Here at the edge of the sand lay a few rocks, but they led the imagination outward into the winds, the dust, the sparse and lonely plants and animals, dune merging into dune, desert into desert.
Behind him came the sound of a flute playing for the morning prayer, the chant for moisture which now was a subtly altered serenade to the new Shai-Hulud. This knowledge in Leto's mind gave the music a sense of eternal loneliness.
I could just walk away into that desert, he thought.
Everything would change then. One direction would be as good as another. He had already learned to live a life free of possessions. He had refined the Fremen mystique to a terrible edge: everything he took with him was necessary, and that was all he took. But he carried nothing except the robe on his back, the Atreides hawk ring hidden in its folds, and the skin-which-was-not-his-own.
It would be easy to walk away from here.
Movement high in the sky caught his attention: the splayed-gap wingtips identified a vulture. The sight filled his chest with aching. Like the wild Fremen, vultures lived in this land because this was where they were born. They knew nothing better. The desert made them what they were.
Another Fremen breed was coming up in the wake of Muad'Dib and Alia, though. They were the reason he could not let himself walk away into the desert as his father had done. Leto recalled Idaho's words from the early days: 'These Fremen! They're magnificently alive. I've never met a greedy Fremen.'
There were plenty of greedy Fremen now.
A wave of sadness passed over Leto. He was committed to a course which could change all of that, but at a terrible price. And the management of that course became increasingly difficult as they neared the vortex.
Kralizec, the Typhoon Struggle, lay ahead... but Kralizec or worse would be the price of a misstep.
Voices sounded behind Leto, then the clear piping sound of a child speaking: 'Here he is.'
Leto turned.
The Preacher had come out of the palmyrie, led by a child.
Why do I still think of him as The Preacher? Leto wondered.
The answer lay there on the clean tablet of Leto's mind: Because this is no longer Muad'Dib, no longer Paul Atreides. The desert had made him what he was. The desert and the jackals of Jacurutu with their overdoses of melange and their constant betrayals. The Preacher was old before his time, old not despite the spice but because of it.
'They said you wanted to see me now,' The Preacher said, speaking as his child guide stopped.
Leto looked at the child of the palmyrie, a person almost as tall as himself, with awe tempered by an avaricious curiosity. The young eyes glinted darkly above the child-sized stillsuit mask.
Leto waved a hand. 'Leave us.'
For a moment there was rebellion in the child's shoulders, then the awe and native Fremen respect for privacy took over. The child left them.
