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Book Three: The Prophet
Onlythefaintesttouchofsarcasmtingedhisvoice,butFremenearsaroundthem,alerttoeverytoneinabird’scryoracielago’spipingmessage,heardthesarcasmandwatchedPaultoseewhathewoulddo.
“StilgarheardmeswearmyloyaltytohimwhenweconsecratedtheFedaykin,”Paulsaid.“MydeathcommandosknowIspokewithhonor.DoesStilgardoubtit?”
RealpainexposeditselfinPaul’svoice.Stilgarhearditandloweredhisgaze.
“Usul,thecompanionofmysietch,himIwouldneverdoubt,”Stilgarsaid.
“ButyouarePaul-Muad’Dib,theAtreidesDuke,andyouaretheLisanal-Gaib,theVoicefromtheOuterWorld.ThesemenIdon’tevenknow.”
PaulturnedawaytowatchtheHabbanyaRidgeclimboutofthedesert.Themakerbeneaththemstillfeltstrongandwilling.ItcouldcarrythemalmosttwicethedistanceofanyotherinFremenexperience.Heknewit.Therewasnothingoutsidethestoriestoldtochildrenthatcouldmatchthisoldmanofthedesert.Itwasthestuffofanewlegend,Paulrealized.
Ahandgrippedhisshoulder.
Paullookedatit,followedthearmtothefacebeyondit—thedarkeyesofStilgarexposedbetweenfiltermaskandstillsuithood.
“TheonewholedTabrsietchbeforeme,”Stilgarsaid,“hewasmyfriend.
Weshareddangers.Heowedmehislifemanyatime...andIowedhimmine.”
“Iamyourfriend,Stilgar,”Paulsaid.
“Nomandoubtsit,”Stilgarsaid.Heremovedhishand,shrugged.“It’stheway.”
PaulsawthatStilgarwastooimmersedintheFremenwaytoconsiderthepossibilityofanyother.
