Information has been added to previous chapters since 7/31/09 that might make this chapter a bit confusing. Enter at your own mental risk! 
The Great Cliffs
The noise was overwhelming. Eóvan had never heard such a beautiful and forlorn sound. The water crashed upon the shore in a spray of fury and excitement and a million thoughts raced through his mind. The sea was the sound of the wind through the leaves in a summer orchard, the growl of the river-cat that stalks its prey, and the sweet lullaby of a mother urging her child to sleep. He was enchanted by the steady rhythm of each wave and fascinated by the salty air that filled his lungs with every breath. The ocean was calming, the breeze that accompanied the tide seeming to relieve him of the heavy burden he had carried since leaving Twarum.
Several miles south of Malchior, Toark turned the horses due east. The plan was to approach the Great Cliffs from the opposite direction of the capital. While Toark did not believe that many people visited the Great Cliffs, the journey to the top was rather treacherous and he did not wish to arouse suspicion. Any questionable behavior around the capital was sure to cause trouble.
The sun was beginning to set when the sandy shore finally unraveled before them, massive in size and grandeur. Eóvan's breath caught in his throat after the first glimpse of sparkling water. He’d removed his riding boots and walked through the sand with bare feet, ignorant of the chill that swept across the shore in the fading twilight. Jetta followed her master obediently, delighting in the feel of the sand against her hooves as well. Toark and his horse Rurik watched from afar, relishing in the boy’s inherited love for the sea. As Eóvan splashed through the receding waves, the old barman could not help but ache with longing. The child’s laughter and happiness was so reminiscent of a happier time.
“This is incredible!” Eóvan exuberated to Toark, returning to the old man who had not yet left the saddle, still gazing out at the tumbling waters.
“Ain't she something?” Toark replied with a grin.
Eóvan nodded his agreement as Toark dismounted, hurrying to gather wood for a fire before the light was completely gone.
They made camp right on the shore, far from the crashing waves, hidden within an abundant cluster of massive rocks. Their fire was small, so as not to draw attention to their campsite with a smoke trail. Supping on toasted rye bread and jerky, Eóvan’s brain filled with questions once more.
How had Toark come to live among humans if he was a half-Giant? Had he ever seen the place where the Giants were banished to? How was it that he came to live in Twarum? The queries were endless, making the boy’s head spin with curiosity. Looking across the fire at his preoccupied companion however, Eóvan decided not to pursue any answers at the moment. The old barman had many secrets within him, and Eóvan did not fool himself to think that he yet knew half of them. Toark had turned out to be quite a surprising individual!
“It’s an odd sort of magic in itself,” Toark reflected, eyes following the endless path of the many waves. “It’s amazing how little our world seems to know about certain beauties.”
“What do you mean?” Eóvan asked, entertained by Toark’s unusually far off musing.
“There are many in this life Eóvan, Ragnar included, though he is not alone, who believe that they alone understand the depth and intricate nature of the magic that guides us. It is an ignoramus belief that, I’m sorry to say, began with the rule of Caleidon. It explains why Ragnar now has almost complete control over magic in the human kingdom.”
“But how can one person claim to know everything about something that is so endless?”
“Indeed, Eóvan, they cannot! Magic stems from the very nature of a soul. It is different to every person because every person is different. Their magical abilities stem from the truth of their being, and can be thus used for good and evil.”
Eóvan pondered over this information for a bit, watching the never ending ebb and flow of the salty ocean water.
“Then,” he postured, looking at Toark for clarification, “a person’s magic is constantly changing? If the person goes bad, then the magical power they hold will also darken too?”
“That is very wise of you, son,” Toark approved, looking fondly at the boy sitting near him. “Ragnar himself was once a very good person whose magic was seen as extremely gifted. When he was a boy, King Morrigan was certain he would grow to be one of the greatest kings in Vausthelm history. Ragnar’s gift of healing and helping had surpassed any that the royal line had ever seen! Yet sadly, when Ragnar’s deeds changed from aiding the kingdom to harming it, his magic changed as well. He is now able to harm a person, just as easily as he could once heal them.”
Eóvan did not miss the sadness in Toark’s tone, which led the tireless boy to yet another insightful conclusion.
“Did you know Ragnar when he was a boy, Toark? Is that how you learned all this information about him?”
“Aye, lad,” Toark agreed, lying out on his bundle of blankets near the fire. Eóvan would be taking first watch. “I knew him…but he is not the same person now as he was then. His heart has been blackened by hatred.”
“Then,” Eóvan pushed, anxious for the answer to one last question. “You must have also known Clare…?”
Many seconds passed before Eóvan realized that Toark was not going to respond. The old man had either fallen asleep, or was simply refusing to answer the question. Eóvan’s heart filled with disappointment.
The next day, Toark and Eóvan began to climb the Great Cliffs. Standing at the base looking up, the task seemed impossible. There was no visible path, and at times the slope shot almost directly toward the sky.
“Is there another way up?” the boy pondered hopefully, knowing the answer before he’d even asked.
“No,” Toark replied, surveying the slope himself. “The other side is even steeper.”
“How did Clare ever manage to climb up on her own?” Eóvan wondered aloud.
“I used to question that myself,” Toark chuckled.
The going was tough, they leading the protesting horses behind them as they climbed. Toark seemed to know the correct paths to take as they made their way farther and farther up the treacherous incline. Eóvan himself could not see any marked trails, but he remembered that Toark had said his gift was of strategic planning. Nevertheless, there was a part of the boy, most likely the human part, that wondered if Toark simply knew the best way to go simply because he’d been here before and been forced to climb the steep terrain. Eóvan was beginning to realize that there was much about the old barman’s past that he himself did not know, and much of it had to do with royal family that Eóvan now belonged to, but had never known.
They had begun the hike soon after dawn but did not reach the top of the cliffs until the sun was very low in the sky. Eóvan's face was dripping with sweat and he felt as he usually did after a day of plowing the fields behind the mill. He collapsed onto the cool and dusty crest of the tallest cliff, drinking deeply from his water skin. Unlike the slope they had just scaled, the top of the cliff was flat and covered with vegetation. The trees were densely packed together with a cushy layer of moss that covered the ground underneath them. At the edge of the cliff was a clearing, just large enough for a small campsite. A patch of trees surrounded the clearing on three sides and flowed down the opposite side of the cliff, snaking its way toward Malchior.
In the falling sunlight, the capital city was mesmerizing. While the falling darkness made the many buildings seem shady and ominous, Eóvan was still able to appreciate the beauty of the largest city in the Vausthelm Kingdom. The castle was built on rocky outcrop that stretched several furlongs into the sea, giving the illusion that the fortress had been built upon a large island-like boulder. The waves of the ocean crashed at the base, tossing their sprays of salt water up toward the welcoming arms of the castle towers.
A long and narrow bridge appeared to spring up from the outcrop, connecting the castle to the city that revered it. Millions of tiny lights sloped down from the bastion of the king, illuminating the city that was still alive with the sounds of activity. Eóvan could faintly hear the low rumble of hundreds of voices, though the city was still several miles away. A unique spark lit within Eóvan as the sight was revealed before him, and he longed to enter the city and wander its many continuous streets, drinking in the excitement that emanated in waves toward him.
“Well, Eóvan,” Toark said from behind, forcing Eóvan to pull away from his daze. The barman had pulled a leather pouch from his saddle bag and was passing it to him. “It seems it is time.”
Toark's deep eyes stared apprehensively into Eóvan's, which were also filled with doubt. Eóvan had been hoping to rest the night before facing this challenge, but it seemed Toark was not going to allow that. He stared ominously at Eóvan, eyes clearly conveying what was expected.
Eóvan unwrapped the diamond from the pouch and placed it carefully around his neck. The pendant felt true next to his skin, calming the boy’s nerves.
“I feel ridiculous,” Eóvan mumbled as he shuffled over to the edge of the cliffs and looked out at the sea.
The ocean was very loud and created a longing in his heart that almost made him sad. He stared out at the vast expanse, mesmerized by its sheer size. He imagined his mother in the same spot, many years ago, and a shiver fell down his spine. He turned to look at Toark, who remained standing by the campfire they'd built, and raised his eyebrows. Toark said nothing, he merely stared back. Eóvan's anticipation grew.
Turning back to the sea and the fading sunset, Eóvan closed his eyes and lifted his arms in a gesture of welcome.
“I call you Paladin, Lord of the Elves!” he cried.
Opening his eyes, Eóvan looked around the clearing. Nothing seemed different. How was he to know when it had worked?
Several minutes passed and nothing happened. A snort sounded from behind him and Eóvan turned to see Toark eying him with ridicule.
“Well, what else should I say?” he snapped at the old barman, who continued to chuckle at Eóvan's pompous proclamation.
“How should I know?” Toark laughed.
Frustrated already, Eóvan turned back to the ocean once again. The sun had sunk measurably lower in the sky, and Eóvan felt the tiniest urge of panic. He had a sudden, wild fear that if he did not succeed in his task before the light disappeared behind the horizon, then he never would.
That’s ridiculous! He thought to himself.
Toark never said anything about a timeline. Don’t get worked up about something so absurd!
Forcing himself to concentrate, Eóvan fingered the diamond once more in his leathery palm. This time he bowed low to the ground, a gesture of fealty and humility, as he called to the Elven prince.
“Come Paladin, prince of the Elven kingdom, I ask for your company,” he requested to the open shore below him.
The minutes fell away slowly. When nothing still happened, he turned to Toark for help. Toark shrugged, seemingly just as bewildered as Eóvan.
“Maybe you need to ask for help?” he suggested.
Eóvan rolled his eyes and turned back to the Great Sea, calling out with urgency.
“Help me, Paladin, ruler of the Elves. I seek your council!”
Once again, the world around them remained still and silent. Eóvan wondered if he would even know when the diamond finally worked. He kicked the dirt at his feet in frustration and returned to the fire, discouraged and angry.
“I'm hungry!” he complained, glaring haughtily at Toark.
Together they roasted some dried meats and beer bread from their packs, eating in silence. Toark stared steadily at Eóvan the entire time, letting him know that he was in no way off the hook from the task that had been laid upon him.
When the boy had finished eating, he removed the diamond from around his next and stared at it with wonder and resentment, feeling Toark’s eyes on him all the while. This token was supposed to hold the answers to his past. It was supposed to lead him to the destiny that his former life could not fulfill! In some untamed manner, Eóvan had been expecting the journey to fulfill the prophecy of the old fortune teller.
Thinking back on his mother, and the reason the token had been given, Eóvan marveled again at the crisp blue of the diamond, wondering how such a perfect stone could have been carved. He shook his head in confusion and resignation.
“Paladin,” he whispered, clutching the token firmly in his hand, desperate for an answer and wondering frigidly how he was going to continue if he didn’t find the way.
The desperation inside of Eóvan seemed to be the key.
At once the diamond grew warm in his palm and shone with a blinding light across the cliff top. A voice rang throughout the clearing, no louder than a whisper, but as pure as if its owner was standing beside the travelers, whispering in their ears.
Paladin!
The wind picked up and howled deafeningly across the encampment. It was several seconds before Eóvan realized he wasn't breathing. Gulping in air and blinking with shock, Eóvan watched the diamond slowly resume its normal brightness, growing cold against the tenseness of his skin.
He had just heard his mother's voice!
Pulling the token back on over his head, he finally dared to look at Toark. The old barkeep sat stiffly opposite Eóvan, a strange hardness in his eyes, which were also filled with shock and admiration.
“You did it lad,” he murmured softly. “Paladin will have heard that too.”
Eóvan was confused at Toark's reaction. He seemed apprehensive and almost afraid at their success.
“What kind of magic would you call that?” Eóvan asked of Toark, shaking still from the shock of the episode. The son of the Senegals contemplated this return – the knowledge of his heritage was finally proving to be useful.
“If I had to guess,” Toark replied, slowly. “I would say that the Diamond not only holds the same magical power that your mother was adept at, but that it is also infused with the bond of her love for Paladin, and his love for her. Together, that would create the connection between this diamond and another.
“If Paladin still possesses the match to this token, there is no way that he will not have heard the call of its sister stone. The only question left to wonder, is if he will believe the call, when he hears it.”
“Do you think he will come?” Eóvan muttered, suddenly very nervous at the thought of facing his Elven father whom he had never known.
“It's hard to say, son,” Toark answered. “I'm sure Paladin will have learned of your mother's death by now. He may not believe he actually heard the call.”
Eóvan didn't want to entertain that possibility. Like Toark had so bluntly stated back in Kelda – contacting the Elves seemed to be their only hope for survival.
* * *
The old soldier paced the cell with frustration.
Eight feet by fifteen feet; eight feet by fifteen feet. He could not believe his own stupidity! He should have known that Ragnar wouldn't have listened to him, much less believed him.
Quentin you idiot! He thought to himself. How are you going to get yourself out of this?
Quentin, the soldier, could not believe he had landed himself in the palace dungeon! The last time he had been here, he was escorting prisoners on orders of King Morrigan. He was stunned at how the world had reversed itself since Ragnar's reign.
The latest king was a lost cause in Quentin's mind. He ignored the commoners, spent money as if it were in never ending supply, and showed no mercy to his subjects. Quentin was sure that there would be a world-wide revolt if the king did not change his ways or die, very soon! Though who was next in line to inherit the throne from Ragnar, Quentin had no idea. Since Ragnar possessed no heirs of his own, Quentin supposed the rule would pass to one of the king's siblings. He was not sure that would be much of an improvement, however.
As Quentin continued to pace the cell, a revelation wash over him: If the boy he had encountered in Twarum was indeed the son of Ragnar's youngest sister Clare, as was rumored, then that boy was also the eldest male in the next generation of royals. According to ancient Vausthelm custom, the law stated that he should become the next heir to the throne.
Quentin, you idiot, what have you done?!
Blanching more than he thought possible, Quentin leaned against the murky wall of the cell in order to remain upright.
He had just sold the rightful heir to the Vausthelm throne - to Ragnar! Quentin was sure that Ragnar wanted more than a sweet reunion with his long lost nephew; Ragnar wanted blood!
This can't happen! Quentin screamed internally.
I have to get out of this cell!
It seemed the day had come when Quentin, the die hard Vausthelm soldier, was on the same side of a battle as an Elf.
I'm surprised at how incredibly fun this series still is for me! 
Just wait until later... 
Linear Mode
