Alfirean Age Book 1 - Inheritor of Strength

Disbelief

The baker froze. The fire forming in the palm of his hand fizzled out. “What night?”

Alfonso's tone softened. “The night four years ago, a week after your wife died. The night I found you in my manor in the library looking through the f*******n spell books.”

All eyes turned to the baker.

“How…how do you know about that?” Garland asked, his voice shaking.

“Because I was there. And I remember taking the book from your hand and telling you how much it hurt to lose my parents and how I'd secretly looked at the spells as well. I showed you how they'd only bring back an empty husk and then asked you if that's what you wanted for Danielle?

"I still remember how you shook your head and said, 'I guess, even if I were to get her back, she'd toss me in my own ovens, bringing her back from the dead like that, especially if she looked like a rotting corpse. My sweet wife, she's... she's in a better place.'

“I then, as a lad of seventeen years old, hugged you, and you cried on my shoulder till dawn. God enabled me to be there that night to save your life, and now I can see that my life is in your hands. All I ask is for you to believe that I am me.”

Alfonso stared straight into Garland’s eyes. For a long stretch of time, the man stayed quiet. Flour and sugar drifted from his white apron to the ground like crystallized snowflakes. The sun receded below the horizon, and the crystals embedded in the ceiling lit up, casting a bluish hue over the earthen walls and crowded space.

“Well?” Mr. Goodwind, a retired coral miner from Montipora, shouted.

At long last, Garland let out a deep breath, “Yes, you're Alfonso. Only he could know what was said that night.” The baker looked down, tears gathering in his eyes. “And your eyes are exactly like your mother’s. God rest her soul.”

“Oh, you bloated fool,” Mr. Dinwiddie hollered. “Anyone could have overheard that conversation. Don’t be so stinking gullible!”

A sudden urge to pin the wizened old man to the wall with an ice spike rose inside Olivia. With effort, she pushed it down and said, “This is Alfonso. His energy signature is an exact match of his old self. I can prove it.”

“Ya, I bet you can,” Mr. Dinwiddie leaned forward and hissed.

Lightning sparked around Olivia’s hand as she clenched her fist. Great peace have they that love thy law and nothing shall offend them, she whispered to herself.

Mr. Allender placed a heavy hand on the pawnshop owner’s shoulder, causing him to jump in fright. “No need to get testy,” he scolded. “However, he has a valid point. Olivia, you and Harold are the best healers this side of Dragon Isle. And while I’m not saying you would, you could easily fudge any scientific proof to your side.”

“But we wouldn’t!”

“We don’t know that.”

It was Harold’s turn to place his hand on Olivia's shoulder. “That’s understandable,” he said.

Mr. Allender made his way to the front beside Garland, who was drying his tears. “Lad, do you know the one secret your father and I kept from your mother?”

Alfonso smiled. “Sure, I do. When I was twelve years old, you and my father were talking, and I snuck into your blank summon scrolls. I tried to make one that would summon myself, and well, things didn’t go too well.”

Mrs. Allender joined her husband at the foot of the stage. “That’s putting it mildly, dear. It nearly gave your father a heart attack when you disappeared.”

Alfonso laughed. “Yeah, I remember that he kept on thanking God that it was only a half an hour scroll, not a twenty-four hour.”

“How come I never heard anything about this?” Harold asked.

Alfonso shrugged and addressed someone else in the crowd. “Mr. Goodwind, remember the time when I snuck out of the manor, and you tried to teach me how to breathe underwater with wind magic down at the lake?”

The weathered man’s eyes flicked from Alfonso to Harold, then back again. “I thought we agreed you would never tell anyone about that.”

“And Mr. Wong, remember the time you snuck me a painting of a Dragon made entirely of sugar.”

“Mr. Wong, you didn’t?” Olivia said, giving the town's local sugar artist a stern glare.

“Mr. Byrne, remember…”

“Now hold it right there! We all know your Alfonso by now. No need to be getting me in trouble with Harold as well,” the balding businessman said.

Alfonso laughed again, jumped off the stage, and threw open his arms as the townspeople ran forward to embrace him.

Tears formed in Olivia's eyes as the townspeople huddled around their beloved High Lord.

***

Alfonso stayed in the meeting hall into the wee hours of the morning, talking and laughing with the people he had grown to love as he grew up in Brockovich Village. Certainly, there were several like Mr. Dinwiddie who didn’t believe he was Alfonso, but he knew with time they would come around.

It was a strange experience for him. Before, the townsfolk had always been extra careful around him. Now, however, they slapped him on the back and joked with him like he was their nearest and dearest friend. They still showed him the respect a High Lord deserved, but something about him being strong and healthy made the men of the town happier than he had ever seen them.

Of course, this was great, but it also made the women more standoffish than they used to be. Well, some of them. The younger girls kept fluttering their eyes at him or lightly touching his hands. He could swear they were flirting with him. It made him feel wonderful and awkward at the same time, sort of like he had eaten too much sugar or honey.

Finally, the night came to a close as the sun hinted at rising. The last of the townsfolk began to leave the meeting hall, and Alfonso sat perched on the edge of the stage, his mind flying high in exhilaration and his body utterly exhausted.

***

“It’s late, and the sun will be up soon. I must see to my vegetable and fruit stalls before opening for the day,” Mr. Byrne said, saying his farewells. He looked pointedly at his daughter, a young woman with long golden hair, who was currently laughing at Alfonso's every word.

Alfonso tilted his head forward in acknowledgment. “May the Everlasting Son shine on your endeavors."

"May He shine on yours as well, young master," Mr. Byrne returned his bow, took his daughter's hand, and together they left the building.

Alfonso looked at the empty meeting hall. The double doors at the far end had been thrown wide open, letting fresh air and the cry of early morning birds in. The room itself was a mess with pieces of debris strewn here and there, but it was a happy mess. Unlike earlier, the atmosphere was one of anticipation and joy, and for Alfonso, it was like the heavy stone lodged in his chest had dissolved and flown away.

“You look like you were having fun,” Olivia said. She jerked her hand to the right, using a wind spell to herd the trash towards one side of the building.

Her voice had a slight edge to it he’d never heard before, but Alfonso chalked it up to the fact she'd been up all night. “Yeah,” he answered with a smile and a dreamy look in his eyes. “They’ve always been my friends, but now they can actually talk to me without worrying that I might break any second.”

Olivia's face softened, and she started to reply when the baker appeared in the doorway, bearing a giant platter in this hands. “I figured you three would still be here, so I brought these over for you.”

Alfonso jumped to his feet and dashed to the doorway. “Oh wow, thank you, I’m starving!” he exclaimed. He gazed down at the platter overflowing with his favorite pastries. A fresh doughnut, steaming hot and glistening with dripping dark chocolate, caught his eye. He grabbed it and practically stuffed the whole thing in his mouth. He then quickly scooped up another.

Like always, the pastry was the perfect mixture of dough and cream: the skin was crisp and crunchy while the inside was soft and fluffy; the center oozed with sweet clotted cream while the chocolate glazing added just the right amount of bitterness and sweetness. This has to be the best day of my entire life, Alfonso thought, gobbling down his second pastry.

He reached for a third, but Harold grabbed his hand. He gazed at his Butler with a wounded expression. “You always stop me from eating them.”

Harold smiled, a warm look in his grey eyes. “It is for your own good.”

“It was for my good,” Alfonso protested. “My stomach was too weak to handle them before, but now I can have as many as I want.” So saying, he reached for another with his free hand.

Olivia slapped it. “Two is quite enough.”

“Ah, not you too,” Alfonso whined.

Garland laughed and sauntered over to the stage where he set the platter down. He picked up one of the pastries. “Everybody knows three is the perfect number,” he said and tossed it to Alfonso.

Before either Olivia or Harold could interfere, Alfonso snatched it out of the air and sat beside the baker.

While he savored the f*******n sweet, Garland absentmindedly nibbled on one of his own masterpieces. "You know Alfonso," he said. "I've been thinking. The town has accepted you, well, except for cranky old Mr. Dinwiddie that is. But the world," he shook his head. "There's no way they will. Which means we need to come up with a nickname for you. We can't possibly go around calling you Alfonso.”

“Why not? There are tons of people named Alfonso.”

Harold strode over to the platter, picked up a pastry, and stared at it in contemplation. “Garland is right. Such a thing would not be wise. The people here in town know you, so they accept you, which I think is a miracle. Alas, it will not be so for others." Coming to a decision, he sat the pastry back down and dusted the sugar off his hands. He then turned to Alfonso. "It would be advantageous for you to have a new name, along with a feasible history, since visitors are going to wonder how you have obtained such strength and for what purpose you have come to live in Brockovich.”

“I believe I can help with that,” Olivia offered.

Harold raised an eyebrow at Olivia’s swift response. “Oh?”

Olivia cast one last glance at the room, searching for any leftover waste, then nodded her head in satisfaction. “Yes, I’ve been thinking about it for some time. I think the perfect reason for him to be here is," she paused. "Alfonso is the new combat teacher for the school we’re opening.”

Alfonso’s mouth fell open, and he almost lost the last morsel of his pastry. “But I've never fought anyone in my entire life! Except for Vackzilian, that is. But you can hardly call that a fight. It's not like I can tell the kids to stand there and get hit with lightning.”

“True, but I've watched you cause a miniature hurricane and melt part of the courtyard with very little effort,” Olivia said.

The baker dropped his second doughnut, leaving a long chocolate smear down the front of his apron. “He did what?”

Harold’s eyes narrowed. “Hmm, Olivia may be onto something. Combat spells are more about your capacity for magical energy and force of will than anything else, and Alfonso has one of the largest magical reservoirs I have seen. He also has a strong force of will due to his earlier maladies. As for defense and strategy spells, Olivia and I can teach those to him.”

The baker leaned forward to retrieve his fallen pastry. He wiped the dirt off of its dusty surface and shoved it into his mouth. "That's reasonable,” he said, speaking while still chewing. “And it’s better than hiring some random person to do it.”

Alfonso plopped the last piece of his sweet into his mouth and munched on it. He tilted his head to the side in contemplation. “You're right. It does sound reasonable, but I don’t like the idea of lying about who I am.”

“I am afraid, young master, that is something you cannot avoid at this time and juncture,” Harold replied. “If you try to insist you are who you say are, we may very well end up with one of the High Lord's armies at our doorstep. For now, you will have to hide your identity.”

Alfonso sighed. Harold always had a way of laying out the hard, cold facts. Though he didn’t like it, he knew his Butler was right. The House of Lirsdro alone would love the chance to flatten Brockovich. His mind drifted to all the people he'd just spent the night with. If he insisted on being hardheaded, they might end up dead in his defense. “I guess you’re right. I’ll give being a combat instructor a try. At least this way I can be of some help.”

Harold’s face relaxed. “Good, it is settled then. Starting tomorrow, you will be our new combat instructor. With that decided, we need to create a plausible history for your extraordinary physical and magical capabilities.”

Olivia laughed as if she knew some great secret and her lips curled into a mischievous grin.

“I think Olivia already has one figured out,” Alfonso said.

“Indeed, I do." She walked over to Alfonso's side with a confident step and leaned against the stage, her hands propped on the platform behind her. She then turned her head and said, "You are one of the dragon-kin.”

“I’m what?!” Alfonso choked. Olivia must have gone daft—maybe the lack of sleep was finally getting to her.

“Have you gone daft girl?” Garland said, echoing his thoughts. “Only the Emperor and his family have the blood of dragons running through them.”

Olivia shook her head. “No, that's not true. There are quite a few others that have trace amounts of dragon blood. I've seen them come through the hospital from time to time. And if you were to look at Alfonso using Ra’avah, you would notice right away that he's one of them.”

“Olivia, what are you talking about now? How would I-”

“Well, I'll be the father of a bald spider monkey. He sure does,” the baker exclaimed as he collapsed against the stage in disbelief. The side of his pant leg caught on the pastry platter, sending it tumbling to the ground. The loud clang of metal bouncing off the hard floor sounded like a gong reverberating throughout the empty meeting hall. “How is this possible?” he breathed, his eyes aglow with Ra'avah.

Olivia's grin morphed into a full-blown smirk. “He's always had some. It just wasn't noticeable unless you really looked.”

Alfonso stared at the bewildered man, then glanced at the Butler. “So the spell also affected my blood somehow?”

"No," Harold corrected, finally speaking up. "As Olivia pointed out, you've always had some dragon blood in you due to your ancestry. Your malady simply made them nigh impossible to distinguish from the other blood cells. Now, however, they are full of life and energy and easy to distinguish."

“Okay... but how does this explain me being strong?”

“Those with dragon blood are naturally strong. They also live for a long time,” Harold explained.

“Wait...what? But if I have... If what you say is true, shouldn't my family and I have been strong and healthy?”

Harold gazed at the smeary mess of broken and crushed desserts located at his feet. “I am sad to say this makes the affliction which has plagued your bloodline all the more a mystery. I have devoted my life to studying and curing it, but even today, its nature still eludes me.”

A mystery was right. Alfonso was related to the dragons. And, and—Garland had spilled the pastries all over the floor. Alfonso moaned. What a waste. Turning away, he tried not to look at them.

The baker knelt and started picking up the crushed sweets. Harold moved to assist him. “Huh," Garland said, "in spite of mysteries and all, it sounds like we have a good back history. Now we have to figure out a good name for you."

Alfonso stood up and went after the platter, which had rolled away. Scooping the silver disk into his hands, he turned it over and gazed at his reflection—bright blue eyes, high cheekbones, and a strong square chin gazed back at him. I don't think I'll ever get used to this, he thought as he returned to the group. Laying the item next to Garland, Alfonso said, “I always liked how Olivia called me Alf when we were younger until Harold made her stop. I know it’s not all that different from Alfonso but...”

“No,” Harold answered. He rose from his crouched position and straightened his vest. “It is too informal and fails to convey the respect you deserve. You need a name like Alastair, or perhaps Reginald."

“Hold it, Harold,” the baker interrupted. “I think Alf is perfect. Like you said, it’s too informal. No one would ever refer to a High Lord using a nickname. This way, he can keep his real name and just have people call him Alf. Think about it, if people mess up and call him Alfonso, which they're bound to do, it won’t be too strange or awkward."

Alfonso spied an undamaged pastry sitting on the edge of the stage and fought the urge to snatch it. Crossing his arms, he said, “I didn’t think of that.”

Olivia finished crafting a spell, and a sphere of clear water formed in front of her. “Alf,” she muttered to herself as if testing the name. And with that whispered word, her face lit in a soft smile as if she had recalled a special childhood memory. She then stooped down and used the newly acquired water to clean up the stains left by the broken pastries that had found a new home in the waste bin.

Alfonso’s heart jumped. That settled it. He was going to be called Alf from that point forward. “Alf, it is then.”

Harold frowned, but before he could say anything, Garland grabbed his tray. “That's good. The only thing Alf," he winked at Alfonso, "needs now is a new set of clothes. I mean, he can’t possibly run around in a nightgown the rest of his life.”

Alf laughed and reached out to help the baker up.

Shifting the platter to his left hand, Garland accepted his help, then dusted off his knees. “Alright, if it's all good with you guys, I'll stop by the tailor's house on my way home and tell him that you want to talk to him first thing in the morning.”

Harold sighed in concession. “If you would, please,” he said as he used the remnants of Olivia’s water to wash his hands.

“I’ll go do that right now then,” Garland said. Placing the tray under his arm, he waved goodbye, and whistling a jolly tune, he strolled towards the door.

As the baker left the building, Olivia stretched and yawned. “I’m going to try to catch a few winks before my shift at the hospital.”

“That would be advisable," Harold agreed. "Alf,” the Butler cringed in distaste at the name. “You and I should retire as well. We have much to attend to in the morning.”