DREAMWIELDER Book 1 of The Dreamwielder Chronicles

Chapter 32: THE TIDE TURNS

From his ship Makarria in the Sol Sea, Parmo looked upon Sol Valaróz, the city he once thought he would never see again. It was nearly as he remembered it, stretching up and away from the harbor in a series of tiers to the Royal Palace, its white marble buildings glimmering in the setting sunlight. Parmo did not feel as triumphant as he felt he should though. Here he was, returning as the Prince of Valaróz, on the cusp of leading an entire kingdom of subjects to war with Sargoth, and yet all he could think about was two specific people: Prisca and Galen. It had been a week and a half since he'd taken charge of the eastern Valarion fleet and gone to Prisca and Galen's farm near Spearpoint Rock, hoping to take his daughter and son-in-law away with him.

He had found the farm abandoned.

While there had been no signs of fighting or attack, he nonetheless knew something horrible had happened there. He told himself that Prisca and Galen had in all likelihood gone to Pyrvino looking for him and Makarria, but he did not believe it, and the haunting fear and guilt ate away at him. His only solace was the thought that Makarria was safe in Issborg. You're the crown prince of Valaróz now, he reminded himself as his ship approached the piers. You need to think beyond your own personal concerns.

Word of his arrival had already reached the city and by the time his ship was docked, a massive crowd of people swarmed over the docks. The cacophony was deafening, and it took Parmo a few seconds to realize they were chanting his family name.

Pallma! Pallma! Pallma!

"We will escort you to the palace the best we can," Socorro said as the crew secured the ship and lowered the gang plank. "There are a lot of cursed people out there though. If you get separated, just push your way through."

"I know the way," Parmo assured him and led the way down the gangplank and up the pier to face the crowds.

Before they reached the crowds, however, a regiment of soldiers pushed their way forward to bar the way. Parmo felt the prickling sensation of danger. So far the transition of power from Don Bricio to himself had gone smoother than he ever would have imagined, but sailors had always been loyal to the Pallma line of kings and queens. Dealing with the city soldiers and aristocrats could prove to be an entirely different matter, he knew. Parmo put his hand to his sword hilt, ready for trouble.

It proved to be unnecessary, for the captain of the soldiers bowed as soon as his men were in ranks and at attention. "Welcome, my prince," the captain said. "My name is Antonio Haviero. I am Captain of the Royal Guard. Your coach awaits you and the palace has been prepared for your arrival. The houndkeeper and the rest of Don Bricio's men have been taken to the dungeon, except those who resisted—them we have flayed and fed to the desert cats. Also, the Assembly of Chancellors is gathering in the palace as we speak. They await your arrival to begin your hearing. If you can validate your claim to the throne, they mean to anoint you this very day."

Parmo could hardly believe the words he was hearing. He'd expected resistance of some sort, but it seemed the people of Valaróz were more than ready for him.

"Thank you, Captain Haviero," Parmo said with a smile. "I am much relieved and pleased by the warm welcome. Socorro, the rest of the men can stay on the ship now that we have an escort, but you best come with me. The chancellors will want to hear what you have to say."

"Aye," Socorro agreed, and with a few curt commands he dismissed the rest of crew to return to Makarria.

"Captain Haviero," Parmo said, "Please lead the way."