Paul found himself fascinated by a well-remembered mole on the ghola's chin.
"Trying to live in this future," the ghola said, "do you give substance to such a future? Do you make it real?"
"If I go the way of my vision-future, I'll be alive then," Paul muttered. "What makes you think I want to live there?"
The ghola shrugged. "You asked me for a substantial answer."
"Where is there substance in a universe composed of events?" Paul asked. "Is there a final answer? Doesn't each solution produce new questions?"
"You've digested so much time you have delusions of immortality," the ghola said. "Even your Empire, my lord, must live its time and die."
"Don't parade smoke-blackened altars before me," Paul growled. "I've heard enough sad histories of gods and messiahs. Why should I need special powers to forecast ruins of my own like all those others? The lowliest servant of my kitchens could do this." He shook his head. "The moon fell!"
"You've not brought your mind to rest at its beginning," the ghola said.
"Is that how you destroy me?" Paul demanded. "Prevent me from collecting my thoughts?"
"Can you collect chaos?" the ghola asked. "We Zensunni say: 'Not collecting, that is the ultimate gathering.' What can you gather without gathering yourself?"
"I'm deviled by a vision and you spew nonsense!" Paul raged. "What do you know of prescience?"
"I've seen the oracle at work," the ghola said. "I've seen those who seek signs and omens for their individual destiny. They fear what they seek."
"My falling moon is real," Paul whispered. He took a trembling breath. "It moves. It moves."
"Men always fear things which move by themselves," the ghola said. "You fear your own powers. Things fall into your head from nowhere. When they fall out, where do they go?"
"You comfort me with thorns," Paul growled.
An inner illumination came over the ghola's face. For a moment, he became pure Duncan Idaho. "I give you what comfort I can," he said.
Paul wondered at that momentary spasm. Had the ghola felt grief which his mind rejected? Had Hayt put down a vision of his own?
"My moon has a name," Paul whispered.
He let the vision flow over him then. Though his whole being shrieked, no sound escaped him. He was afraid to speak, fearful that his voice might betray him. The air of this terrifying future was thick with Chani's absence. Flesh that had cried in ecstasy, eyes that had burned him with their desire, the voice that had charmed him because it played no tricks of subtle control - all gone, back into the water and the sand.
Slowly, Paul turned away, looked out at the present and the plaza before Alia's temple. Three shaven-headed pilgrims entered from the processional avenue. They wore grimy yellow robes and hurried with their heads bent against the afternoon's wind. One walked with a limp, dragging his left foot. They beat their way against the wind, rounded a corner and were gone from his sight.
Just as his moon would go, they were gone. Still, his vision lay before him. Its terrible purpose gave him no choice.
The flesh surrenders itself, he thought. Eternity takes back its own. Our bodies stirred these waters briefly, danced with a certain intoxication before the love of life and self, dealt with a few strange ideas, then submitted to the instruments of Time. What can we say of this? I occurred. I am not... yet, I occurred.
= = = = = =
"You do not beg the sun for mercy." -Maud'dib's Travail from The Stilgar Commentary
One moment of incompetence can be fatal, the Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam reminded herself.
She hobbled along, apparently unconcerned, within a ring of Fremen guards. One of those behind her, she knew, was a deaf-mute immune to any wiles of Voice. No doubt he'd been charged to kill her at the slightest provocation.
Why had Paul summoned her? she wondered. Was he about to pass sentence? She remembered the day long ago when she'd tested him... the child kwisatz haderach. He was a deep one.
Damn his mother for all eternity! It was her fault the Bene Gesserit had lost their hold on this gene line.
Silence surged along the vaulted passages ahead of her entourage. She sensed the word being passed. Paul would hear the silence. He'd know of her coming before it was announced. She didn't delude herself with ideas that her powers exceeded his.
Damn him!
She begrudged the burdens age had imposed on her: the aching joints, responses not as quick as once they'd been, muscles not as elastic as the whipcords of her youth. A long day lay behind her and a long life. She'd spent this day with the Dune Tarot in a fruitless search for some clue to her own fate. But the cards were sluggish.
The guards herded her around a corner into another of the seemingly endless vaulted passages. Triangular meta-glass windows on her left gave a view upward to trellised vines and indigo flowers in deep shadows cast by the afternoon sun. Tiles lay underfoot - figures of water creatures from exotic planets. Water reminders everywhere. Wealth... riches.
Robed figures passed across another hall in front of her, cast covert glances at the Reverend Mother. Recognition was obvious in their manner - and tension.
She kept her attention on the sharp hairline of the guard immediately in front: young flesh, pink creases at the uniform collar.
The immensity of this ighir citadel began to impress her. Passages... passages... They passed an open doorway from which emerged the sound of timbur and flute playing soft, elder music. A glance showed her blue-in-blue Fremen eyes staring from the room. She sensed in them the ferment of legendary revolts stirring in wild genes.