As he watched Leto’s retreating back, Stilgar began to wonder how the youth had set these thoughts flowing—and just by uttering a seemingly simple statement. Because of that statement, Stilgar found himself viewing Alia and his own role on the Council in an entirely different way.
Alia was fond of saying that old ways gave ground slowly. Stilgar admitted to himself that he’d always found this statement vaguely reassuring. Change was dangerous. Invention must be suppressed. Individual will-power must be denied. What other function did the priesthood serve than to deny individual will?
Alia kept saying that opportunities for open competition had to be reduced to manageable limits. But that meant the recurrent threat of technology could only be used to confine populations—just as it had served its ancient masters. Any permitted technology had to be rooted in ritual. Otherwise . . . otherwise . . .
Again Stilgar stumbled. He was at the qanat now and saw Leto waiting beneath the apricot orchard which grew along the flowing water. Stilgar heard his feet moving through uncut grass.
Uncut grass!
What can I believe? Stilgar asked himself.
It was proper for a Fremen of his generation to believe that individuals needed a profound sense of their own limitations. Traditions were surely the most controlling element in a secure society. People had to know the boundaries of their time, of their society, of their territory. What was wrong with the sietch as a model for all thinking? A sense of enclosure should pervade every individual choice—should fence in the family, the community, and every step taken by a proper government.
Stilgar came to a stop and stared across the orchard at Leto. The youth stood there, regarding him with a smile.
Does he know the turmoil in my head? Stilgar wondered.
And the old Fremen Naib tried to fall back on the traditional catechism of his people. Each aspect of life required a single form, its inherent circularity based on secret inner knowledge of what will work and what will not work. The model for life, for the community, for every element of the larger society right up to and beyond the peaks of government—that model had to be the sietch and its counterpart in the sand: Shai-Hulud. The giant sandworm was surely a most formidable creature, but when threatened it hid in the impenetrable deeps.
Change is dangerous! Stilgar told himself. Sameness and stability were the proper goals of government.
But the young men and women were beautiful.
And they remembered the words of Muad’Dib as he deposed Shaddam IV: “It’s not long life to the Emperor that I seek; it’s long life to the Imperium.”
Isn’t that what I’ve been saying to myself? Stilgar wondered.
He resumed walking, headed toward the sietch entrance slightly to Leto’s right. The youth moved to intercept him.
Muad’Dib had said another thing, Stilgar reminded himself: “Just as individuals are born, mature, breed, and die, so do societies and civilizations and governments.”
Dangerous or not, there would be change. The beautiful young Fremen knew this. They could look outward and see it, prepare for it.
Stilgar was forced to stop. It was either that or walk right over Leto.
The youth peered up at him owlishly, said: “You see, Stil? Tradition isn’t the absolute guide you thought it was.”
A Fremen dies when he is too long from the desert; this we call “the water sickness.”
—STILGAR, THE COMMENTARIES
"It is difficult for me, asking you to do this,” Alia said. "But ... I must insure that there’s an empire for Paul’s children to inherit. There’s no other reason for the Regency.”
Alia turned from where she was seated at a mirror completing her morning toilet. She looked at her husband, measuring how he absorbed these words. Duncan Idaho deserved careful study in these moments; there was no doubt that he’d become something far more subtle and dangerous than the one-time swordmaster of House Atreides. The outer appearance remained similar—the black goat hair over sharp dark features—but in the long years since his awakening from the ghola state he had undergone an inner metamorphosis.
She wondered now, as she had wondered many times, what the ghola rebirth-after-death might have hidden in the secret loneliness of him. Before the Tleilaxu had worked their subtle science on him, Duncan’s reactions had borne clear labels for the Atreides—loyalty, fanatic adherence to the moral code of his mercenary forebears, swift to anger and swift to recover. He had been implacable in his resolve for revenge against House Harkonnen. And