--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 Ix, 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 turned 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 things other 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."
Jessica, wearing her traditional black aba robe, glared at Alia, escorted Farad'n to the window, but stood between him and Alia's guards.
"This is very kind of you, Lady Alia," Farad'n said. "I've heard so much about this Preacher."
"And there he is in the flesh," Alia said. She saw that Farad'n wore the dress grey of a Sardaukar commander without decorations. He moved with a lean grace which Alia admired. Perhaps there would be more than idle amusement in this Corrino Prince.
Th
e Preacher's voice boomed into the room over the amplifier pickups beside the window. Alia felt the tremors of it in her bones, began to listen to his words with growing fascination.
"I found myself in the Desert of Zan," The Preacher shouted, "in that waste of howling wilderness. And God commanded me to make that place clean. For we were provoked in the desert, and grieved in the desert, and we were tempted in that wilderness to forsake our ways."