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Book Three: The Prophet
AsenseofinevitabledignityenfoldedStilgarashepulledhisrobetightlyaroundhim.“TherewillbeaGathering,”hesaid.“Iwillsendthemessages.”
HethinksIwillcallhimout,Paulthought.Andheknowshecannotstandagainstme.
Paulfacedsouth,feelingthewindagainsthisexposedcheeks,thinkingofthenecessitiesthatwentintohisdecisions.
Theydonotknowhowitis,hethought.
Butheknewhecouldnotletanyconsiderationdeflecthim.Hehadtoremainonthecentrallineofthetimestormhecouldseeinthefuture.Therewouldcomeaninstantwhenitcouldbeunraveled,butonlyifhewerewherehecouldcutthecentralknotofit.
Iwillnotcallhimoutifitcanbehelped,hethought.Ifthere’sanotherwaytopreventthejihad....
“We’llcampfortheeveningmealandprayeratCaveofBirdsbeneathHabbanyaRidge,”Stilgarsaid.Hesteadiedhimselfwithonehookagainsttheswayingofthemaker,gesturedaheadatalowrockbarrierrisingoutofthedesert.
Paulstudiedthecliff,thegreatstreaksofrockcrossingitlikewaves.Nogreen,noblossomsoftenedthatrigidhorizon.Beyonditstretchedthewaytothesoutherndesert—acourseofatleasttendaysandnights,asfastastheycouldgoadthemakers.
Twentythumpers.
ThewayledfarbeyondtheHarkonnenpatrols.Heknewhowitwouldbe.
Thedreamshadshownhim.Oneday,astheywent,there’dbeafaintchangeofcoloronthefarhorizon—suchaslightchangethathemightfeelhewasimaginingitoutofhishopes—andtherewouldbethenewsietch.
“DoesmydecisionsuitMuad’Dib?”Stilgarasked.
