Dune

“I’m troubled, Tyekanik,” Farad’n said, speaking as they rounded a hedge corner and approached a fountain surrounded by giant black roses. Gardeners could be heard snipping beyond the hedges.

“Yes?” Tyekanik prompted.

“This, ah, religion which you’ve professed . . .”

“Nothing strange about that, My Prince,” Tyekanik said and hoped his voice remained firm. “This religion speaks to the warrior in me. It’s a fitting religion for a Sardaukar.” That, at least, was true.

“Yesss . . . But my mother seems so pleased by it.” Damn Wensicia! he thought. She’s made her son suspicious.

“I care not what your mother thinks,” Tyekanik said. “A man’s religion is his own affair. Perhaps she sees something in this that may help to put you on the throne.”

“That was my thought,” Farad’n said.

Ahhh, this is a sharp lad! Tyekanik thought. He said: “Look into the religion for yourself; you’ll see at once why I chose it.”

“Still . . . Muad’Dib’s preachings? He was an Atreides, after all.”

“I can only say that the ways of God are mysterious,” Tyekanik said.

“I see. Tell me, Tyek, why’d you ask me to walk with you just now? It’s almost noon and usually you’re off to someplace or other at my mother’s command this time of day.”

Tyekanik stopped at a stone bench which looked upon the fountain and the giant roses beyond. The splashing water soothed him and he kept his attention upon it as he spoke. “My Prince, I’ve done something which your mother may not like.” And he thought: If he believes that, her damnable scheme will work. Tyekanik almost hoped Wensicia’s scheme would fail. Bringing that damnable Preacher here. She was insane. And the cost!

As Tyekanik remained silent, waiting, Farad’n asked: “All right, Tyek, what’ve you done?”

“I’ve brought a practitioner of oneiromancy,” Tyekanik said.

Farad’n shot a sharp glance at his companion. Some of the older Sardaukar played the dream-interpretation game, had done so increasingly since their defeat by that “Supreme Dreamer,” Muad’Dib. Somewhere within their dreams, they reasoned, might lay a way back to power and glory. But Tyekanik had always eschewed this play.

“This doesn’t sound like you, Tyek,” Farad’n said.

“Then I can only speak from my new religion,” he said, addressing the fountain. To speak of religion was, of course, why they’d risked bringing The Preacher here.

“Then speak from this religion,” Farad’n said.

“As My Prince commands.” He turned, looked at this youthful holder of all the dreams which now were distilled into the path which House Corrino would follow. “Church and state, My Prince, even scientific reason and faith, and even more: progress and tradition—all of these are reconciled in the teachings of Muad’Dib. He taught that there are no intransigent opposites except in the beliefs of men and, sometimes, in their dreams. One discovers the future in the past, and both are part of a whole.”

In spite of doubts which he could not dispel, Farad’n found himself impressed by these words. He heard a note of reluctant sincerity in Tyekanik’s voice, as though the man spoke against inner compulsions.

“And that’s why you bring me this . . . this interpreter of dreams?”

“Yes, My Prince. Perhaps your dream penetrates Time. You win back your consciousness of your inner being when you recognize the universe as a coherent whole. Your dreams . . . well . . .”

“But I spoke idly of my dreams,” Farad’n protested. “They are a curiosity, no more. I never once suspected that you . . .”

“My Prince, nothing you do can be unimportant.”

“That’s very flattering, Tyek. Do you really believe this fellow can see into the heart of great mysteries?”

“I do, My Prince.”

“Then let my mother be displeased.”

“You will see him?”

“Of course—since you’ve brought him to displease my mother.”

Does he mock me? Tyekanik wondered. And he said: “I must warn you that the old man wears a mask. It is an Ixian device which enables the sightless to see with their skin.”

“He is blind?”

“Yes, My Prince.”

“Does he know who I am?”

“I told him, My Prince.”

“Very well. Let us go to him.”

“If My Prince will wait a moment here, I will bring the man to him.”

Farad’n looked around the fountain garden, smiled. As good a place as any for this foolishness. “Have you told him what I dreamed?”

“Only in general terms, My Prince. He will ask you for a personal accounting.”

“Oh, very well. I’ll wait here. Bring the fellow.”

Farad’n turned his back, heard Tyekanik retire in haste. A gardener could be seen working just beyond the hedge, the top of a brown-capped head, the flashing of shears poking above the greenery. The movement was hypnotic.