Children of Dune (Page 32)

"A power greater than thine, Prince."

Farad’n shot a questioning glance at Tyekanik. "Is he an Atreides spy?"

"Not likely, My Prince. Alia has put a price on his head."

"If it’s not the Atreides, then who summons you?" Farad’n asked, returning his attention to The Preacher.

"A power greater than the Atreides."

A chuckle escaped Farad’n. This was only mystic nonsense. How could Tyek be fooled by such stuff? This Preacher had been summoned – most likely by a dream. Of what importance were dreams?

"This has been a waste of time, Tyek," Farad’n said. "Why did you subject me to this… this farce?"

"There is a double price here, My Prince," Tyekanik said. "This interpreter of dreams promised me to deliver Duncan Idaho as an agent of House Corrino. All he asked was to meet you and interpret your dream." And Tyekanik added to himself: Or so he told Wensicia! New doubts assailed the Bashar.

"Why is my dream so important to you, old man?" Farad’n asked.

"Your dream tells me that great events move toward a logical conclusion," The Preacher said. "I must hasten my return."

Mocking, Farad’n said: "And you will remain inscrutable, giving me no advice."

"Advice, Prince, is a dangerous commodity. But I will venture a few words which you may take as advice or in any other way which pleases you."

"By all means," Farad’n said.

The Preacher held his masked face rigidly confronting Farad’n. "Governments may rise and fall for reasons which appear insignificant, Prince. What small events! An argument between two women… which way the wind blows on a certain day… a sneeze, a cough, the length of a garment or the chance collision of a fleck of sand and a courtier’s eye. It is not always the majestic concerns of Imperial ministers which dictate the course of history, nor is it necessarily the pontifications of priests which move the hands of God."

Farad’n found himself profoundly stirred by these words and could not explain his emotion.

Tyekanik, however, had focused on one phrase. Why did this Preacher speak of a garment? Tyekanik’s mind focused on the Imperial costumes dispatched to the Atreides twins, the tigers trained to attack. Was this old man voicing a subtle warning? How much did he know?

"How is this advice?" Farad’n asked.

"If you would succeed," The Preacher said, "you must reduce your strategy to its point of application. Where does one apply strategy? At a particular place and with a particular people in mind. But even with the greatest concern for minutiae, some small detail with no significance attached to it will escape you. Can your strategy, Prince, be reduced to the ambitions of a regional governor’s wife?"

His voice cold, Tyekanik interrupted: "Why do you harp upon strategy, Preacher? What is it you think My Prince will have?"

"He is being led to desire a throne," The Preacher said. "I wish him good luck, but he will need much more than luck."

"These are dangerous words," Farad’n said. "How is it you dare such words?"

"Ambitions tend to remain undisturbed by realities," The Preacher said. "I dare such words because you stand at a crossroad. You could become admirable. But now you are surrounded by those who do not seek moral justifications, by advisers who are strategy oriented. You are young and strong and tough, but you lack a certain advanced training by which your character might evolve. This is sad because you have weaknesses whose dimensions I have described."

"What do you mean?" Tyekanik demanded.

"Have a care when you speak," Farad’n said. "What is this weakness?"

"You’ve given no thought to the kind of society you might prefer," The Preacher said. "You do not consider the hopes of your subjects. Even the form of the Imperium which you seek has little shape in your imaginings." He turned his masked face toward Tyekanik. "Your eye is upon the power, not upon its subtle uses and its perils. Your future is filled, thus, with manifest unknowns: with arguing women, with coughs and windy days. How can you create an epoch when you cannot see every detail? Your tough mind will not serve you. This is where you are weak."

Farad’n studied the old man for a long space, wondering at the deeper issues implied by such thoughts, at the persistence of such discredited concepts. Morality! Social goals! These were myths to put beside belief in an upward movement of evolution.

Tyekanik said: "We’ve had enough words. What of the price agreed upon, Preacher?"

"Duncan Idaho is yours," The Preacher said. "Have a care how you use him. He is a jewel beyond price."

"Oh, we’ve a suitable mission for him," Tyekanik said. He glanced at Farad’n. "By your leave, My Prince?"

"Send him packing before I change my mind," Farad’n said. Then, glaring at Tyekanik: "I don’t like the way you’ve used me, Tyek!"

"Forgive him, Prince," The Preacher said. "Your faithful Bashar does God’s will without even knowing it." Bowing, The Preacher departed, and Tyekanik hurried to see him away.

Farad’n watched the retreating backs, thought: I must look into this religion which Tyek espouses. And he smiled ruefully. What a dream interpreter! But what matter? My dream was not an important thing.

= = = = = =

And he saw a vision of armor. The armor was not his own skin; it was stronger than plasteel. Nothing penetrated his armor – not knife or poison or sand, not the dust of the desert or its desiccating heat. In his right hand he carried the power to make the Coriolis storm, to shake the earth and erode it into nothing. His eyes were fixed upon the Golden Path and in his left hand he carried the scepter of absolute mastery. And beyond the Golden Path, his eyes looked into eternity which he knew to be the food of his soul and of his everlasting flesh. -Heighia, My Brother’s Dream from The Book of Ghanima