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On the evening of his tenth day as Princeps Worldholder, Daedalus dreamed a dream both wondrous and grim. He realized he slept, that the dream was not real, but it did not matter. His mind held him captive.
In his dream, he strode through a city dressed in a simple, short tunica and paenula, far lighter than aught he had ever worn in his life. He strode with confidence, free and determined, no Comitas hovering behind him, no Armati guards crowding around him.
High above, the Trellis blazed in golden splendor, but within him there was nothing. No scalding heat loomed in the back of his mind like a burning brand poised to fall upon his neck. No hum of the immense promenia artifact in the sky filled his awareness. None of the chromatic singing every Trueborn and Empowered sensed lurked at the edge of his hearing. Beyond the ordinary din of the city, naught lurked but blessed stillness.
Was this how Pyrrhaei felt? Did they spend their days basking in gentle light, unburdened and simple and free? If so, he would surrender his prometus in an instant to have what they enjoyed. With a relieved sigh, Daedalus relaxed into the sensation, smiling in blissful contentment.
His feet carried him to a marketplace. Not the grand emporium of Vola Apertus, so colorful with banners and bright paint it dazzled the eyes. Instead, he strode through a simple, cramped market filled with food carts, clothier's stalls, and busy commoners.
No Armati marched around Daedalus to separate him from the bustling crowd, their crimson laurels intimidating passersby into good behavior. No Lightbearers covered their laurels as Daedalus passed. No Promethidae bowed, no Pyrrhaei groveled, no one whispered and stared. Daedalus strolled through the throng, shoulder brushing shoulder, elbow bumping elbow, and yet it was as though he was not there. No one paid him any mind. He slipped through the market goers as unseen and anonymous as wind.
A blur of black caught his eye. He turned and found himself face to face with an old beggar woman. The filthy black tunica that gave her class its name, so short as to be immodest, hung from her gaunt frame in tattered rags. He stared at the Pullatus's knobby knees, her leathery cheeks. How could anyone waste away so much and still live?
"What do you want?" he asked her as he stepped back in unease. No, that was not what he wished to ask. Her hunger was obscene; no one ought to live like this. He amended his question. "What do you need? Food?"
"For you to tell me who you are," the old woman said, and Daedalus tried not to grimace at the flashes of rotten and absent teeth in her mouth. He doubted such was her fault.
"What do you mean, who am I?" Daedalus asked. "Do you not recognize me?"
But of course she did not. This was a dream, and besides, ventures outside the palace like this had been rare throughout his life. His parents, tutors, and handlers considered the risk too high to let him mingle with anyone other than family and servants. He served the world now, but the world did not know him. Few knew him.
"Who are you?" the Pullatus asked again. She grasped his wrist and her fingers dug into his skin like talons. "Tell me."
"I am Daedalus Adurere, your Princeps Worldholder," he said, wincing. She clutched him with a grip far stronger than he expected, and her hand burned like fire. "Let me go!"
"Beware," the woman said.
A sudden chill stabbed him to the core. Daedalus gasped as the woman crumbled into glowing shards that scattered like ashes in the wind. The air surrounding him turned to ice. The world splintered and then shattered, leaving frozen emptiness behind.
And into the gaping void that was more felt than seen, the Trellis above warped. Daedalus stared in dread as the lattice, blackening and curling at the far horizons, began to melt. Fire, ash, and soot spilled from the heavenly wildfire like lava, leaving the buildings below ablaze.
He gasped and reached for the Trellis to stop the catastrophe, not only with outstretched arms but with his mind and heart as well. But the Trellis flowed out of his grasp even as it poured from the heavens above in liquid, molten rain. Where once incandescent heat loomed at the edge of his awareness, now a chilled hollow filled him.
"No!" He jerked upright in his bed, and for a moment after his choked shout of denial, the dream lingered. The Trellis. He could not feel the Trellis. He could not feel anything. No promenia hummed without, no prometus burned within.
Then the frigid emptiness faded, leaving only his pounding heartbeat. What had he been thinking? The Trellis glowed strong and steady in the back of his mind, ringing out its familiar metallic song. Of course it remained with him. Dreams were like that sometimes. So real.
He drew a shuddering breath and tried to relax, brushing cold sweat from his cheeks with a grimace. Moisture drenched his sleep tunica. Perhaps the illness that struck him earlier in the week—a strange bellyache, dizziness, and fatigue—still lingered, but most likely the trouble lurked within his mind, not his body. He should take a bath and wash the sweat and the nightmare away.
His door opened and Fons, his secretary and personal attendant, slipped his head into the bedchamber. "Basilicus, is all well? You shouted. Are you falling ill again?"
Daedalus straightened as well as he was able in a feather bed. "I am fine. Just an unpleasant dream. Will you draw me a bath?"
The young Pyrrhaeus dipped his head. "Of course, Basilicus."
As the sound of water rushing through promenia pipes and into the tub floated into the room, Daedalus leaned back against his pillows and swallowed hard.
