Church and State, scientific reason and faith, the individual and his community, even progress and tradition - all of these can be reconciled in the teachings of Muad'Dib. He taught us that there exist no intransigent opposites except in the beliefs of men. Anyone can rip aside the veil of Time. You can discover the future in the past or in your own imagination. Doing this, you win back your consciousness in your inner being. You know then that the universe is a coherent whole and you are indivisible from it. -The Preacher at Arrakeen, After Harq al-Ada
Ghanima sat far back outside the circle of light from the spice lamps and watched this Buer Agarves. She didn't like his round face and agitated eyebrows, his way of moving his feet when he spoke, as though his words were a hidden music to which he danced.
He's not here to parley with Stil, Ghanima told herself, seeing this confirmed in every word and movement from this man. She moved farther back away from the Council circle.
Every sietch had a room such as this one, but the meeting hall of the abandoned djedida struck Ghanima as a cramped place because it was so low. Sixty people from Stilgar's band plus the nine who'd come with Agarves filled only one end of the hall. Spice-oil lamps reflected against low beams which supported the ceiling. The light cast wavering shadows which danced on the walls, and the pungent smoke filled the place with the smell of cinnamon.
The meeting had started at dusk after the moisture prayers and evening meal. It had been going on for more than an hour now, and Ghanima couldn't fathom the hidden currents in Agarves's performance. His words appeared clear enough, but his motions and eye movements didn't agree.
Agarves was speaking now, responding to a question from one of Stilgar's lieutenants, a niece of Harah's named Rajia. She was a darkly ascetic young woman whose mouth turned down at the corners, giving her an air of perpetual distrust. Ghanima found the expression satisfying in the circumstances.
"Certainly I believe Alia will grant a full and complete pardon to all of you," Agarves said. "I'd not be here with this message otherwise."
Stilgar intervened as Rajia made to speak once more. "I'm not so much worried about our trusting her as I am about whether she trusts you." Stilgar's voice carried growling undertones. He was uncomfortable with this suggestion that he return to his old status.
"It doesn't matter whether she trusts me," Agarves said. "To be candid about it, I don't believe she does. I've been too long searching for you without finding you. But I've always felt she didn't really want you captured. She was -"
"She was the wife of the man I slew," Stilgar said. "I grant you that he asked for it. Might just as well've fallen on his own knife. But this new attitude smells of -"
Agarves danced to his feet, anger plain on his face. "She forgives you! How many times must I say it? She had the Priests make a great show of asking divine guidance from -"
"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.
"You know Farad'n is here on Arrakis?" Leto asked.
"Gurney told me when he flew me down last night."
And The Preacher thought: How coldly measured his words are. He's like I was in the old days.
"I face a difficult choice," Leto said.
"I thought you'd already made all the choices."
"We know that trap, father."
The Preacher cleared his throat. The tensions told him how near they were to the shattering crisis. Now Leto would not be relying on pure vision, but on vision management.
"You need my help?" The Preacher asked.
"Yes. I'm returning to Arrakeen and I wish to go as your guide."
"To what end?"
"Would you preach once more in Arrakeen?"
"Perhaps. There are things I've not said to them."
"You will not come back to the desert, father."
"If I go with you?"
"Yes."
"I'll do whatever you decide."
"Have you considered? With Farad'n there, your mother will be with him."
"Undoubtedly."
Once more, The Preacher cleared his throat. It was a betrayal of nervousness which Muad'Dib would never have permitted. This flesh had been too long away from the old regimen of self-discipline, his mind too often betrayed into madness by the Jacurutu. And The Preacher thought that perhaps it wouldn't be wise to return to Arrakeen.
"You don't have to go back there with me," Leto said. "But my sister is there and I must return. You could go with Gurney."
"And you'd go to Arrakeen alone?"
"Yes. I must meet Farad'n."
"I will go with you," The Preacher sighed.
And Leto sensed a touch of the old vision madness in The Preacher's manner, wondered: Has he been playing the prescience game? No. He'd never go that way again. He knew the trap of a partial commitment. The Preacher's every word confirmed that he had handed over the visions to his son, knowing that everything in this universe had been anticipated.
It was the old polarities which taunted The Preacher now. He had fled from paradox into paradox.
"We'll be leaving in a few minutes, then," Leto said. "Will you tell Gurney?"
"Gurney's not going with us?"
"I want Gurney to survive."
The Preacher opened himself to the tensions then. They were in the air around him, in the ground under his feet, a motile thing which focused onto the non-child who was his son. The blunt scream of his old visions waited in The Preacher's throat.
This cursed holiness!
The sandy juice of his fears could not be avoided. He knew what faced them in Arrakeen. They would play a game once more with terrifying and deadly forces which could never bring them peace.
The child who refuses to travel in the father's harness, this is the symbol of man's most unique capability. "I do not have to be what my father was. I do not have to obey my father's rules or even believe everything he believed. It is my strength as a human that I can make my own choices of what to believe and what not to believe, of what to be and what not to be." -Leto Atreides II, The Harq al-Ada Biography
Pilgrim women were dancing to drum and flute in the Temple plaza, no coverings on their heads, bangles at their necks, their dresses thin and revealing. Their long black hair was thrown straight out, then straggled across their faces as they whirled.
Alia looked down at the scene from her Temple aerie, both attracted and repelled. It was mid-morning, the hour when the aroma of spice-coffee began to waft across the plaza from the vendors beneath the shaded arches. Soon she would have to go out and greet Farad'n, present the formal gifts and supervise his first meeting with Ghanima.
It was all working out according to plan. Ghani would kill him and, in the shattering aftermath, only one person would be prepared to pick up the pieces. The puppets danced when the strings were pulled. Stilgar had killed Agarves just as she'd hoped. And Agarves had led the kidnappers to the djedida without knowing it, a secret signal transmitter hidden in the new boots she'd given him. Now Stilgar and Irulan waited in the Temple dungeons. Perhaps they would die, but there might be other uses for them. There was no harm in waiting.
She noted that town Fremen were watching the pilgrim dancers below her, their eyes intense and unwavering. A basic sexual equality had come out of the desert to persist in Fremen town and city, but social differences between male and female already were making themselves felt. That, too, went according to plan. Divide and weaken. Alia could sense the subtle change in the way the two Fremen watched those off-planet women and their exotic dance.
Let them watch. Let them fill their minds with ghafla.
The louvers of Alia's window had been opened and she could feel a sharp increase in the heat which began about sunrise in this season and would peak in mid-afternoon. The temperature on the stone floor of the plaza would be much higher. It would be uncomfortable for those dancers, but still they whirled and bent, swung their arms and their hair in the frenzy of their dedication. They had dedicated their dance to Alia, the Womb of Heaven. An aide had come to whisper this to Alia, sneering at the off-world women and their peculiar ways. The aide had explained that the women were from lx, where remnants of the forbidden science and technology remained.
Alia sniffed. Those women were as ignorant, as superstitious and backward as the desert Fremen... just as that sneering aide had said, trying to curry favor by reporting the dedication of the dance. And neither the aide nor the Ixians even knew that Ix was merely a number in a forgotten language.
Laughing lightly to herself, Alia thought: Let them dance. The dancing wasted energy which might be put to more destructive uses. And the music was pleasant, a thin wailing played against flat tympani from gourd drums and clapped hands.
Abruptly the music was drowned beneath a roaring of many voices from the plaza's far side. The dancers missed a step, recovered in a brief confusion, but they had lost their sensuous singleness, and even their attention wandered to the far gate of the plaza, where a mob could be seen spreading onto the stones like water rushing through the opened valve of a qanat.
Alia stared at that oncoming wave.
She heard words now, and one above all others: "Preacher! Preacher!"
Then she saw him, striding with the first spread of the wave, one hand on the shoulder of his young guide.
The pilgrim dancers gave up their whirling, retired to the terraced steps below Alia. They were joined by their audience, and Alia sensed awe in the watchers. Her own emotion was fear.
How dare he!
She half turned to summon guards, but second thoughts stopped her. The mob already filled the plaza. They could turn ugly if thwarted in their obvious desire to hear the blind visionary.
Alia clenched her fists.
The Preacher! Why was Paul doing this? To half the population he was a "desert madman" and, therefore, sacred. Others whispered in the bazaars and shops that it must be Muad'Dib. Why else did the Mahdinate let him speak such angry heresy?
Alia could see refugees among the mob, remnants from the abandoned sietches, their robes in tatters. That would be a dangerous place down there, a place where mistakes could be made.
"Mistress?"
The voice came from behind Alia. She turned, saw Zia standing in the arched doorway to the outer chamber. Armed House Guards were close behind her.
"Yes, Zia?"
"My Lady, Farad'n is out here requesting audience."
"Here? In my chambers?"
"Yes, My Lady."
"Is he alone?"
"Two bodyguards and the Lady Jessica."
Alia put a hand to her throat, remembering her last encounter with her mother. Times had changed, though. New conditions ruled their relationship.
"How impetuous he is," Alia said. "What reason does he give?"
"He has heard about..." Zia pointed to the window over the plaza. "He says he was told you have the best vantage."
Alia frowned. "Do you believe this, Zia?"
"No, My Lady. I think he has heard the rumors. He wants to watch your reaction."
"My mother put him up to this!"
"Quite possibly, My Lady."
"Zia, my dear, I want you to carry out a specific set of very important orders for me. Come here."
Zia approached to within a pace. "My Lady?"
"Have Farad'n, his guards, and my mother admitted. Then prepare to bring Ghanima, She is to be accoutered as a Fremen bride in every detail - complete."
"With knife. My Lady?"
"With knife."
"My Lady, that's -"
"Ghanima poses no threat to me."
"My Lady, there's reason to believe she fled with Stilgar more to protect him than for any other -"
"Zia!"
"My Lady?"
"Ghanima already has made her plea for Stilgar's life and Stilgar remains alive."
"But she's the heir presumptive!"
"Just carry out my orders. Have Ghanima prepared. While you're seeing to that, send five attendants from the Temple Priesthood out into the plaza. They're to invite The Preacher up here. Have them wait their opportunity and speak to him, nothing more. They are to use no force. I want them to issue a polite invitation. Absolutely no force. And Zia..."
"My Lady?" How sullen she sounded.
"The Preacher and Ghanima are to be brought before me simultaneously. They are to enter together upon my signal. Do you understand?"
"I know the plan, My Lady, but -"
"Just do it! Together." And Alia nodded dismissal to the amazon aide. As Zia turner and left, Alia said: "On your way out, send in Farad'n's party, but see that they're preceded by ten of your most trustworthy people."
Zia glanced back but continued leaving the room. "It will be done as you command, My Lady."
Alia turned away to peer out the window. In just a few minutes the plan would bear its bloody fruit. And Paul would be here when his daughter delivered the coup de grace to his holy pretensions. Alia heard Zia's guard detachment entering. It would be over soon. All over. She looked down with a swelling sense of triumph as The Preacher took his stance on the first step. His youthful guide squatted beside him. Alia saw the yellow robes of Temple Priests waiting on the left, held back by the press of the crowd. They were experienced with crowds, however. They'd find a way to approach their target. The Preacher's voice boomed out over the plaza, and the mob waited upon his words with rapt attention. Let them listen! Soon his words would be made to mean other things than he intended. And there'd be no Preacher around to protest.
She heard Farad'n's party enter, Jessica's voice. "Alia?"
Without turning Alia said: "Welcome, Prince Farad'n, mother. Come and enjoy the show." She glanced back then, saw the big Sardaukar, Tyekanik, scowling at her guards who were blocking the way. "But this isn't hospitable." Alia said. "Let them approach." Two of her guards, obviously acting on Zia's orders, came up to her and stood between her and the others. The other guards moved aside. Alia backed to the right side of the window, motioned to it. "This is truly the best vantage point."
