From "Manual of Muad'Dib" by the Princess Irulan

Gathering water, planting the dunes, changing their world slowly but surely—these are no longer enough , Jessica thought. The little raids, the certain raids—these are no longer enough now that Paul and I have trained them. They feel their power. They want to fight .
Tharthar shifted from one foot to the other, cleared her throat.
We know the need for cautious waiting , Jessica thought, but there's the core of our frustration. We know also the harm that waiting extended too long can do us. We lose our senses of purpose if the waiting's prolonged .
"The young men say if Usul does not call out Stilgar, then he must be afraid," Tharthar said.
She lowered her gaze.
"So that's the way of it," Jessica muttered. And she thought: Well I saw it coming. As did Stilgar .
Again, Tharthar cleared her throat. "Even my brother, Shoab, says it," she said. "They will leave Usul no choice."
Then it has come , Jessica thought. And Paul will have to handle it himself. The Reverend Mother dare not become involved in the succession .
Alia freed her hand from her mother's, said: "I will go with Tharthar and listen to the young men. Perhaps there is a way."
Jessica met Tharthar's gaze, but spoke to Alia: "Go, then. And report to me as soon as you can."
"We do not want this thing to happen, Reverend Mother," Tharthar said.
"We do not want it," Jessica agreed. "The tribe needs all its strength." She glanced at Harah. "Will you go with them?"
Harah answered the unspoken part of the question: "Tharthar will allow no harm to befall Alia. She knows we will soon be wives together, she and I, to share the same man. We have talked, Tharthar and I." Harah looked up at Tharthar, back to Jessica. "We have an understanding."
Tharthar held out a hand for Alia, said: "We must hurry. The young men are leaving."
They pressed through the hangings, the child's hand in the small woman's hand, but the child seemed to be leading.
"If Paul-Muad'Dib slays Stilgar, this will not serve the tribe," Harah said. "Always before, it has been the way of succession, but times have changed."
"Times have changed for you, as well," Jessica said.
"You cannot think I doubt the outcome of such a battle," Harah said. "Usul could not but win."
"That was my meaning," Jessica said.
"And you think my personal feelings enter into my judgment," Harah said. She shook her head, her water rings tinkling at her neck. "How wrong you are. Perhaps you think, as well, that I regret not being the chosen of Usul, that I am jealous of Chani?"
"You make your own choice as you are able," Jessica said.
"I pity Chani," Harah said.
Jessica stiffened. "What do you mean?"
"I know what you think of Chani," Harah said. "You think she is not the wife for your son."
Jessica settled back, relaxed on her cushions. She shrugged. "Perhaps."
"You could be right," Harah said. "If you are, you may find a surprising ally—Chani herself. She wants whatever is best for Him ."
Jessica swallowed past a sudden tightening in her throat. "Chani's very dear to me," she said. "She could be no—"
"Your rugs are very dirty in here," Harah said. She swept her gaze around the floor, avoiding Jessica's eyes. "So many people tramping through here all the time. You really should have them cleaned more often."
You cannot avoid the interplay of politics within an orthodox religion. This power struggle permeates the training, educating and disciplining of the orthodox community. Because of this pressure, the leaders of such a community inevitably must face that ultimate internal question: to succumb to complete opportunism as the price of maintaining their rule, or risk sacrificing themselves for the sake of the orthodox ethic.
—from "Muad'Dib: The Religious Issues" by the Princess Irulan
Paul waited on the sand outside the gigantic maker's line of approach. I must not wait like a smuggler—impatient and jittering , he reminded himself. I must be part of the desert .
The thing was only minutes away now, filling the morning with the friction-hissing of its passage. Its great teeth within the cavern-circle of its mouth spread like some enormous flower. The spice odor from it dominated the air.
Paul's stillsuit rode easily on his body and he was only distantly aware of his nose plugs, the breathing mask. Stilgar's teaching, the painstaking hours on the sand, overshadowed all else.
"How far outside the maker's radius must you stand in pea sand?" Stilgar had asked him.
And he had answered correctly: "Half a meter for every meter of the maker's diameter."
"Why?"
"To avoid the vortex of its passage and still have time to run in and mount it."
"You've ridden the little ones bred for the seed and the Water of Life," Stilgar had said. "But what you'll summon for your test is a wild maker, an old man of the desert. You must have proper respect for such a one."
Now the thumper's deep drumming blended with the hiss of the approaching worm. Paul breathed deeply, smelling mineral bitterness of sand even through his filters. The wild maker, the old man of the desert, loomed, almost on him. Its cresting front segments threw a sandwave that would sweep across his knees.