Alfirean Age Book 1 - Inheritor of Strength

Dying Is Such a Pain

“Speaking of the Imperial mine, we now have an interesting conundrum on our hands,” Harold stated. "The entire Empire thinks Alfonso is dead. The Emperor himself came and expressed his condolences.

"As a matter of fact," Harold paused. His lips curled into a smile, and with a small theatrical bow, he announced, "he named you Dragoon and scheduled you to be officially buried in the Tomb of the Kings tomorrow.”

Alfonso nearly fell off the bench. Being buried in the Tomb of the Kings was the highest honor the Emperor could bestow. Only two people in Alfireá's history, Sir Verin the selfless, and Cassara the defender of the weak, had been buried with the previous emperors.

Harold’s eyes twinkled at Alfonso’s stunned expression. “The Emperor said it was the least he could do for the last of such 'a noble and honorable family.’”

At these words, Alfonso's face lit up in happiness, and a giant grin spread from ear to ear. To think that his family’s actions, that his actions, had been judged worthy of such a great honor was staggering.

He closed his eyes and imagined the majestic procession that would accompany his magnificently adorned coffin down the streets and deep into the to...m...b. Alfonso's happiness abruptly turned into dread. His stomach rolled over inside his gut, and his eyes flew open.

"But I’m not dead!”

“No, you are not. A fact that is rather amusing in light of the current situation.”

“I’m glad you find this amusing, Harold,” Olivia scolded. “But this is a real problem. Alfonso is alive, and we can’t possibly refuse the Emperor’s offer. What do we do?”

The slight levity in Harold’s face faded, “Of that, I am not sure.”

Alfonso’s eyes trailed over to the area where the worker from earlier, and two others, were currently using earth magic to fix segments of the wall. He watched them for a few moments before asking, “Do you think the Emperor will believe that I'm Alfonso?”

“No,” Harold answered without hesitation.

Alfonso ran his hand through his hair, his eyebrows scrunching in confusion. "Why not?"

“Nothing like this has ever happened in recorded history,” Harold said. “To my knowledge, there is no other healer in Alfireá with my skills and abilities, and to be frank, even I am having a hard time believing it. I can guarantee that those pinheads, the Emperor’s so-called mages, will never accept this.”

Alfonso grimaced. Harold had proven the Imperial mages' theories on science and magic wrong on multiple accounts, thus causing there to be a fierce rivalry between them. And he was right. Those pinheads, as Harold had referred to them, would never believe a word of this, especially if the Butler explained it.

“But they have to,” Olivia interjected. “Besides you and me, we have some of the world’s best healers here, and we all know that Alfonso is Alfonso.”

“Yes, we do. But the Emperor knows that those healers' loyalties lie with us, not the crown, something the nobles will be all too eager to point out.”

Olivia jumped off the bench, knocking Alfonso's cup to the ground and causing her white healer's garments to sway in the wind. “But what possible reason could we have to lie to the Emperor?”

The sound of a bird squawking and frantically flapping its wing drew their attention. A group of healers huddled around the frozen flock of birds. From the looks of it, they had managed to successfully resuscitate one of them. The poor creature, however, didn’t seem in the least bit thankful. It hopped about and screeched as it struggled to free itself from the thin layer of ice still encasing half of its body.

At least it looks like it’s all right, Alfonso thought in relief. Turning back to Olivia, he said, “I don't know. I can't think of one. But even then, the Emperor wouldn't believe us. When he came here, he probably traveled with his personal physician." He looked to Harold for confirmation, "And I bet The Emperor and his physician used Ra’avah on me, right?"

Harold nodded in affirmation.

"Then," Alfonso finished, "I'm sure they would have said something if they had seen anything abnormal."

Harold laid his hand on Alfonso’s shoulder, “Your conclusion is feasible; on the other hand, there is one good reason we would lie to the Emperor.”

“There is?” he asked.

“Yes, there is."

The noise around them dissipated as everyone in the courtyard froze in anticipation of Harold's answer. The workers rebuilding the crumbling wall paused. The healers leaning over the semi-frozen birds looked up, and the staff repairing the scarred landscape tilted their heads towards the ongoing discussion.

"And that reason is," Harold continued, "your family’s political stance. As you well know, for generations the majority of the High Lords in the Empire have been trying to make it legal for them to claim any land as their own, to raise taxes to exorbitant levels, and to restrict who can do business. And worst of all, they have continually pushed to make it illegal for anyone who is not of noble lineage to use magic.

"Your family has single-handedly stopped this from happening for hundreds of years. Now that you are gone, there is nothing to stop them from achieving their goals. Which means the nobles can ill-afford having you come back to life." 

Anger flashed over Olivia’s delicate features, and steam rose from her hands as she clenched her fists. The red glow of fire flickered up her arms. “Those barbarians," she spat. "If they had their way, they'd live like kings while everyone else suffered in poverty."

Alfonso shivered at the genuine anger pouring off of Olivia. He knew she hated the political stance of the majority of the nobles. But what really cultivated her anger was how sick he had gotten the last time ‘The Citizens' Protection Act’ had come before the court. He had been summoned to the Imperial City, as per usual, to vote on the matter. In the very first day, with the help of several other individuals, he'd almost had the ludicrous law thrown out before it was even voted on—a law stating that ‘the use of magic is strictly f*******n to anyone not sanctioned by the Empire.' Later that night, he'd come down with a rare, mysterious illness he supposedly contracted from being in such close quarters with so many people. Harold had rejected the help of all the physicians in the Imperial City, including the Emperor’s own, and had had Olivia teleported in at great cost. The next day, they'd sustained him around-the-clock as he saw to casting down the act proposed by four other High Lords. It took him three months to recover from the ordeal. To this day, Olivia expressed her belief that if it hadn’t been for the Emperor using his own bodyguard to teleport them home, Alfonso wouldn't have recovered.

Alfonso reached out and touched her hand, “Don’t worry. I’m stronger now, and as long as I draw breath, I promise you I won’t let them have their way.”

The fire faded from Olivia's arms, and she looked at him with her large brown eyes. Alfonso's chest ached. He would do anything to remove the fear and anxiety from her expression—fear that was solely for him. Before this incident, she had protected and sheltered him, but now he could protect her, and he would, till his very last breath.

“Officially, Alfonso, you are no longer breathing,” Harold's voice interrupted his line of thought. “So you may not be able to stop them.”

A heavy ambiance pervaded the courtyard as the dire situation hit home. “Which means, even if the Emperor did believe he's Alfonso, the nobles never would,” Olivia whispered.

Harold nodded in agreement. “If the Emperor tries to say this is Alfonso,” he waved his hand at him, “the nobles will have his head.”

Alfonso's shoulders sloped forward. He leaned over his knees and clasped his hands together, then sighed. “What do we do then?”

“There’s not much we can do," Harold said, tapping his chin with his right index finger. "None of us are of noble descent. And even if we were, it was your status as a High Lord, and the Emperor’s support, that gave your words power. Without that,” he turned his palm up and shrugged once again.

Clouds covered the sun, casting the courtyard in shadow. The atmosphere turned grey, and the drip-drop of rain splashing off the leaves and falling to the world below, echoed as it began to drizzle.

 A maid walked into the quad, letting the manor's door close unhindered behind her. The door banged shut and all eyes in the courtyard swiveled towards her. She froze in her tracks and nervously cleared her throat. “Master Alfonso, the town crier is here to give Harold a message.” 

With a heavy heart, Alfonso stood up. “Send him in.”

The maid curtsied and rushed back into the manor.

Alfonso strode towards the middle of the courtyard, his mind preoccupied with other things. Hopefully, Cutler had good news. In light of the current circumstances, even with his recent 'resurrection,' things seemed dark. With him removed from the picture, Alfireá could take a turn for the worse as the other High Lords and nobles took advantage of his death. It was frustrating. He was stronger and more healthy than he'd ever been, and yet, he felt an overwhelming sense of helplessness. Father God, he prayed, make a way where there seems no way. 

The light drizzle increased, pouring down the back of his neck and pelting his head. Alfonso waved his arm towards the sky in agitation, wishing he could stop the rain. At once, an intense jolt of energy shot up his arm, and the world at the end of his fingertips folded in on itself as an explosion of wind blasted skyward.

The manor shook and those around him ducked. Several workers, closer to the blast, hit the ground as the shockwave rocketed harmlessly into the atmosphere.

“I’m sorry,” Alfonso apologized. “I didn’t...”

The rain abruptly ended.

Alfonso glanced towards the clouds covering the sun, then towards Harold. “I didn’t just... Did I?”

Harold shook his head. “Doubtful. More than likely, just a coincidence.”

“Oh.”

The maid from before opened the door. “The town crier,” she announced, letting the older gentleman into the courtyard. Dressed in orange flip-flops, brightly-colored flower-printed shorts, and a black dress shirt—the only piece of the town crier's suit he actually wore—the skinny fellow looked quite eccentric.

"Greetings, Cutler," Harold said, strolling forward.

Cutler shook Harold's hand with gusto and glanced around the quad. His bushy white eyebrows shot up, and his eyes bulged at the sight of the courtyard's state. “What in the forgotten lands happened here?” he gasped. Then his eyes fell on Alfonso. "Space stations above, where did ya get the muscleman? And why is he prancing about in his nightgown so late in the afternoon?”

He leaned towards  Harold, and twirling his finger next to his head, he asked in a loud whisper, "Is he all there?"

A giant, toothy smile spread across Alfonso’s face. Ever since he was a child, Cutler had been the town’s crier, and without fail, the man's odd expressions, combined with his unique twang and accent, had always been able to cheer him up.

All of a sudden, Cutler screamed and fell backward to the ground.

“Alfonso!? But... but you’re dead! I saw ya dead myself,” the town crier cried out.

His panic-stricken face turned towards Harold and Olivia, “What in Origin’s dark past is this?”

Alfonso startled backward. “How do you know it's me? I don't look anything like me.”

Cutler screamed again and backpedaled like a crab, desperately trying to escape back the way he'd come.

In a flash, Harold darted to Cutler's side. He grabbed him roughly by the arm and pulled him back through the doorway onto the landing. “How did you know he was Alfonso?” the Butler demanded.

“That little scar on his lip,” was all the frightened man squeaked in his defense.

With those words, memories flooded back to Alfonso. It was the day he first met Cutler. The fellow had gambled away all of his money and had been on the run from some unsavory debt collectors. In his attempt to outrun his pursuers, he had dashed around the corner of a building and slammed headlong into the then much younger Alfonso, knocking him right into an oncoming wagon.

For someone with Alfonso’s frail physique, such an accident should have been fatal, but by God’s mercy, he had come away with only a small scar on his upper lip.

As a result, Cutler had been caught and dragged before his father. The townspeople had wanted to lynch him, and the debt collectors wanted their piece of him as well. Instead of handing him over, however, Alfonso’s father paid Cutler’s debts and invited him to the manor for tea.

When Cutler eventually left, not only did he have a new job, his life had been changed forever.

Alfonso’s life also changed that day. Up until then, he'd never understood why his father spent all their money helping other people. But after seeing the change in Cutler’s life, Alfonso came to understand that true happiness could not come from material gain, power, or strength. It only came from serving God and helping others in need. From that day on, he'd decided that he wanted to help improve people's lives, just like his father did and his father before him and his father’s father before him.

Sadly, he had never gotten the chance to tell his father how his actions with Cutler had affected his life too.

“Aw, I see,” Cutler exclaimed, pulling Alfonso out of his thoughts. “So you're saying that there funky lightning bolt of Vackzilian’s did this to him?”

Harold nodded and let the still prone Cutler have full control of the f*******n spellbook.

“I knew that fellow had a few rocks loose, but using this spell on a human. . . If that don’t beat all, I ain’t know what does.”

“Wait,” Alfonso interrupted. “Do you believe what Harold told you?”

“Of course, Harold here hasn’t told a lie as long as I've known him. By the hair on Eldrin’s chin, I don’t think he could if he tried. Besides, I once seen a mage using this here spell on a piece of led, made it all light and fluffy like... he died of course,” the town crier pointed at the page, leaving a giant smudge across the title of the spell. Olivia yanked the book from Cutler's grimy hands.

“Oh. I see,” Alfonso stuttered. “That’s good to hear.” He had thought it might be hard for others to accept this, but maybe he was wrong.

Cutler rocked back on his haunches, put his hands behind his head, and stared up at him. “But boy, do you look different. It’s as if someone hooked you up to a wind spell and pumped you full of air. Ya know, I wouldn't tell anyone else about this. They'll think you're crazy.”

Or maybe not.

Running his muddy hands through his now dirty white hair, Cutler said, "I guess this means that my message is actually a good thing for you.”

“Oh yeah, you came here with a message. What was it?” Alfonso asked.

The older man stood up, dusted himself off, fluffed his black dress shirt, and announced, “His Imperial Majesty Emperor Drakovian Rylarth Docdovinun the second sends his official apology stating that Alfonso’s, err, I mean, your burial in the Royal Tombs will have to wait until-”

“Wait? Why?” Alfonso blurted.

Cutler frowned and crossed his arms. “Well, apparently, Vackzilian has regained enough power to block the teleportation stones again, and he's stopped them permanently this time, with no option to buy charges. And that bloated-head hologram of his makes it sound like he don’t plan on opening them back up for a looong time. Somehow, this also affects something in the city of Montipora, and it requires the Emperor’s personal attention.”

A stir ran through the manor's staff at his words. Having successfully removed Cutler's smudge, Olivia closed the book, placed it under her arm, and asked, “What could be so important in Montipora that it requires the Emperor’s attention?”

“Beats me," Cutler shrugged. "Anywho, your burial in the Royal Tombs will have to wait until his return and suitable transportation for the...,” the crier scratched his head, “ah body can be arranged. For the time being, the town should have a small burial ceremony and temporarily inter you in your family vault.” The town crier smiled cheekily at Alfonso as he said 'inter.'

Harold’s shoulder’s relaxed, and he sighed in relief. “For once, Vackzilian has done something I am pleased to hear about. Trying to explain to the Emperor why we cannot bury you in the Royal Tombs was not a task I was looking forward to."

Cutler’s eyes flicked to Harold, then back to Alfonso. He laughed, "Ya, I bet it-”

The door to the manor slammed open, smacking the town crier in the backside. Cutler tumbled head over heels and went sprawling headfirst into the sandy mud.

For some reason, that looks familiar, Alfonso thought with a chuckle. Reaching out his hand, he helped the fellow back to his feet—but not carefully enough. As Alfonso pulled backward, Cutler rocketed off the ground and went flying through the air. The town crier screamed like a frightened schoolgirl as he flew over Alfonso's head and headed straight for the newly repaired wall.

Wind rushed past Alfonso and enfolded the screaming man in a blanket of pulsating air. Olivia stood to the side, her white garments swirling about her, her hands outstretched, and her eyes glowing blue as she called upon the winds. 

With a gentle motion, the current of air placed Cutler feet first onto the ground and vanished.

"Oh sweet angels above, I thought I was a goner," the town crier moaned.

“I’m really sorry,” Alfonso said. It sure seemed like he was saying that a lot lately. 

Harold assessed the situation, then turned his attention to the woman in the doorway, raising one eyebrow as he did.

“I’m sorry,” she gasped. “But. . . you know how you told us not to let anyone outside of the manor know?”

“Yes?”

“Well, Heralda left Hailey with me while she cleaned up Alfonso’s bedroom, and I think Hailey told Danarc. And now the other den mothers and I can’t find the boy anywhere.”

The slight displeasure on Harold’s face morphed into a full-on scowl. Olivia turned white as a sheet, and several gasps rang out from the household staff.

Alfonso, on the other hand, couldn’t stop from smiling. Danarc was a loudmouth troublemaker who was always getting himself into some type of mischief, even though he was only seven years old. Secretly, Alfonso was quite fond of the boy; watching Danarc run away from his caretakers, and get into all sorts of trouble, had always brought him great joy. Then again, the boy was also notorious for not being able to keep his mouth shut.

The smile on Alfonso’s face faded. If Danarc had escaped from the orphanage, he would tell everyone in town that Alfonso was alive, which might not end well. "We have to find him," he said.

The sound of angry screams and shouts coming from the front of the building echoed over top of the manor.

“It may be too late,” Olivia mumbled.

“Harold! Alfonso!” Heralda shouted as she ran down the hallway, through the manor, and out the open door. “Someone told the townspeople that Alfonso isn’t dead, and now there's a large crowd out front demanding to see his body!”

Harold's face turned ashen white—then burst into a brilliant red. “Well, great, just great,” he growled. “The next time I get my hands on that boy, he's getting a sound whipping!”

Alfonso and Cutler both stepped away from the Butler as the air around him increased several degrees in temperature. Alfonso winced; once Harold started using conjugations, you knew he was upset. No doubt, Danarc would be scooping horse dung for months to come.

“Now what do we do?” Olivia asked.

Harold threw up his hands, "I haven't a clue, not a single clue.”

“We could tell them the truth?” Alfonso offered.

The crier turned and stared at him as if he had lost his mind. His eyebrows scrunched together, and his gray hair stuck out in all directions. “Oh yeah,” he said. “That will go over well. Alfonso, the weakest man ever to live, who could easily break his neck from tripping, who they all saw dead, is now alive and has morphed into a muscleman that looks strong enough to crush rocks the size of my head with his bare hands. Yeah, the townspeople are really going to believe that. Yep, I am sure they will... NOT!”

“They might,” Alfonso said in his defense.

“No. They won’t,” Cutler stated, crossing his arms.

“Fine then, I don't care if they do or don't.”

The crier blinked in surprise. “You don’t?”

"Err, well, yes I do,” Alfonso corrected himself. “But I will not tell them a lie or have Olivia and Harold spend the rest of their lives trying to hide me.”

“Well, you might just have to because I'm telling you, that ain’t going to work!”

Alfonso glared at the older gentleman for a moment then started pacing around the courtyard in agitation. How did everything get so stinking complicated? Dying was such a pain.

“Can’t Harold, Olivia, and the other healers fake a body or something?” someone suggested—Alfonso wasn’t sure who.

A murmur of agreement ran throughout the courtyard.

Alfonso came to a standstill at the edge of the wall and turned around. “While I'm certain we could come up with something stupid like my body disintegrated, or like using a magic hologram like Vackzilian does, we would have to live with this secret for the rest of our lives.”

“That may be for the best,” Harold offered.

Alfonso stared at him in confusion. “But you once told me that all secrets have their price, and that price is often too high to pay.”

Harold dipped his head in agreement. “I do believe that to be true. Nevertheless, this time I believe not keeping it has a much higher price.”

“I agree with Harold,” Cutler affirmed. “And I like the idea about using a magic hologram or a disintegrated body.”

Olivia glared in disapproval at the sarcastic fellow. “I happen to agree with Alfonso. The truth is always better than a lie.”

The crier harrumphed and turned his back on her.

"If I may have a word with you, sir," Harold said, motioning Alfonso aside.

For several minutes, a brief but heated discussion took place between them as his mentor tried to convince him there were more reasonable solutions. As the argument continued, the angry shouts from the other side of the manor rose to a crescendo.

If we don’t do something now, we'll have a riot on our hands, Alfonso realized. He tuned out his Butler's voice. It would be the first time he had directly rejected Harold’s advice, but he was confident it was the right thing to do. Drawing himself up, he straightened his shoulders and pronounced, “We will tell them the truth.”

Harold sighed and deflated. “I do not think this is wise. Nonetheless, if it is what you want...”

He gestured to the crier. “Please gather everyone in town. I will do my best to try and convince them that this is, indeed, Alfonso.”

Cutler rolled his eyes. “I think this is a bad idea.”

Olivia glared at him, and her fingers twitched.

“Okay. Okay,” he said, raising his arms in self-defense. "No need fer violence," Cutler mumbled. Then spinning around, he skedaddled back through the doorway and into the manor. His voice grumbled in the corridor, "I'll do it, but I ain't going to be there when you get yourselves killed. Bunch o' idiots."

A minute later, the town crier could be heard living up to his occupation. His loud voice resounded above the cries of the angry townspeople, and with a practiced finesse, he shouted them into silence. With the clamor finally subdued, he proclaimed, “Good. Now everyone in town is to gather in the town meeting hall in fifteen minutes. If ye'all wants to know what’s going on, I suggest you be there. And that's all I have to say.”

Alfonso took a deep breath, “Well, Heavenly Father here goes nothing.”

***

Like a flock of angry birds, the crowd grumbled and squawked as they made their way down the lane, towards the center of town, and into the meeting hall.

The austere earthen structure had been made several hundred years ago using earth magic and had been designed for utility, not comfort. There were no padded benches, no cooling gems, and barely enough room for all the town's inhabitants.

Now, crammed to capacity with people who had worked most of the day out in the sun, it wasn’t long before the heat and strong stench of body odor permeated the room. Tensions rose high, and a palpable sense of irritation hung in the air as the crowd waited impatiently for someone to take the stage.