Alfirean Age Book 1 - Inheritor of Strength

The Truth

As Olivia approached the meeting hall, she mentally prepared herself for what was about to take place. She fully believed Alfonso’s decision to tell the truth was the correct one, but the right choice was not always the easiest one, and people's reactions were never predictable.  She looked up at Alfonso, who now stood a full head taller than her, and thought, Especially when you’re trying to explain something this outlandish.

Harold unlocked the door leading to the stage. “Are you certain you want to go through with this?”

“I am,” Alfonso answered.

“All right, but it would probably be for the best if you stay here until I call for you.”

Alfonso nodded, and Olivia and Harold slipped into the back entrance. Beyond the tiny room, she could see the people through the arched opening. At the sight of the crowd, an uneasy feeling swept through her—she had never seen the townspeople look so angry before. Their faces were scrunched and contorted in agitation. Their fists were curled tightly as if prepared to strike, and even the monkeys that usually hung out in the building had fled.

“You don’t think things are going to get violent, do you?” she whispered into Harold’s ear.

“I cannot say. These people loved Alfonso almost as much as you and I. His death came to all of us as quite a shock. This may just be too much for them. I suggest you be ready for anything.”

Her eyes fell to the sac of highly potent mixture of sleeping herbs attached to Harold’s belt loop. He had had one of the maids retrieve it for him before they left the manor. Scattering the herbs with a wind spell in such a confined area would pacify most of the crowd if need be. However, there were also veteran fighters amongst their numbers, and such tactics would not work against them. “Lord, please let this go well,” she prayed.

Harold straightened his suit and prepared to step out onto the stage. Before he could move, however, a scuffle near the two large doors in the back of the hall broke out.

At first, Olivia thought someone was fighting, but as the crowd parted, she could see a silver-haired woman had grabbed a towheaded boy by the ear and was dragging him out the back door. The boy, though, was not going quietly.

Harold stepped out onto the stage. “Danarc.”

The woman released her grip on the boy's ear, and he turned, his one blue and one golden eye meeting the steel gray eyes of the head caretaker of the Brockovich estate. Danarc’s golden face paled and the room fell into silence.

“Go home,” Harold said in a low, soft voice.

The boy swallowed, nodded, and followed the woman out of the hall. The whole town watched as she escorted Danarc down the stairs and back towards the Brockovich orphanage.

Olivia winced. Danarc was certainly going to be in trouble with Harold and the orphan's den mothers. Even though he deserved punishment, she felt sorry for him. Growing up in the orphanage herself, she'd been at the tail end of a tongue lashing or two due to her frequent habit of sneaking around where she didn't belong.

Shivers ran down her arms at the memory of cleaning out the horse stalls with an old-fashioned pitchfork. It had taken her hours, and her arms had felt like overcooked spaghetti afterward. She shuddered. The den mothers' renown for unique and creative punishments preceded them. 

As the boy's blond hair disappeared into the distance, Olivia joined Harold on the stage. She stood several feet behind him and surveyed the crowd, ready to craft a spell if necessary. One by one, the people gradually turned their attention back towards her and Harold.

The Butler cleared his throat and announced, “No doubt, you have all heard from Danarc the strange events which took place this afternoon and are wondering if the rumors are true.”

Olivia closed her eyes and steeled herself for what was coming. Harold continued, “I have come to tell you that yes, Alfonso is indeed alive, although he is not at all like any of us remember him.” 

“What do you mean! " yelled a man wearing a b****y leather apron, who Olivia recognized as Cleaver, the town’s butcher.

 Then his wife, a tall, statuesque woman known as Ice, shouted, “So it’s true he turned into a demon?”

At her outlandish question, all eyes in the hall swung to her.

The woman shrugged. “Hey, that’s what the kid told me.”

“No, he didn’t,” someone screamed in the far back of the hall. "He said that a monster stole Alfonso’s body, destroyed his bed, and then escaped through a hole in the roof."

“That’s not what I heard,” Mr. Dinwiddie roared. The old hooked nose man pointed his bony finger at Harold. “I heard one of you used dark magic to resurrect him and turn him into a zombie.”

With this accusation, the entire hall exploded into unintelligible babble as each person tried to retell the events that he or she had been told.

Olivia rolled her eyes. Maybe Danarc did deserve the punishment that was coming to him. She knew bizarre and insane ideas were bound to occur when a seven-year-old ran around town spreading his accounts of events, but this was just too much. She channeled her energy into a voice amplifying spell and stepped forward. “Quiet, please!”

Her voice reverberated off the walls, causing all but the oldest and nearly deaf to cover their ears.

Harold nodded to her and said, “We will explain all we can in a few minutes. First, however, I believe it best that you see him with your own eyes. Alfonso, come in.”

Alfonso walked through the back door, past the small room, and strode onto the stage. He was, of course, still in Harold's nightgown because they were the only clothes that fit him.

Standing on the platform, he struck a peculiar image. The light streaming through the windows highlighted his golden hair and sculptured features, while the brown plaid nightshirt clung to his muscular arms and hung above his knees, leaving his toned calves and bare feet exposed.

Tall, handsome, and strong, he looked nothing like the old Alfonso. The townspeople stared up at him with stunned expressions. Apparently, Alfonso’s appearance was so peculiar none of them knew what to say or do.

Maybe everything will be alright, Olivia thought in relief. Then a shrill cry rang out, “Kill the imposter!”

Or not, she thought.

“Hang him from the rafters!” a woman screeched. “Chop off his head!” another man roared.

One voice joined the next, and soon the entire hall burst into bloodthirsty shouts.

The noise reached unbearable levels, and before Olivia knew what was happening, an object flew through the air and smashed into Alfonso’s chest.

Something wet and red splashed her face, and for a heart-stopping moment, Olivia thought it was blood, then the smell of rotten tomatoes hit her nostrils, and she nearly gagged.

At once, she raised her hand to form a shield around Alfonso.

“No,” he said, pushing her hand down with a gentle touch.

Another random object slammed into the side of his face, and Alfonso calmly stepped in front of her, facing the crowd.

Olivia watched in amazement as Alfonso relaxed his shoulders and just stood there as the townspeople threw whatever they could get their hands on.

The whole time her heart pounded in her chest, and her mind screamed, What if someone casts a spell? She had already lost Alfonso once; she didn't want to lose him again.

But no one ever did, and bit by bit, the crowd ran out of odds and ends and the few rotten fruits they had at hand. The last wad of paper bounced harmlessly off Alfonso’s chest, and the townsfolk’s fever pitch of anger lost its energy, eventually ebbing into random incoherent shouts.

Taking advantage of this lull, Alfonso walked to the edge of the stage and addressed the room. “Most of you saw me dead last night, and I believe it’s my duty as your friend to tell you how that happened.”

“That wasn’t you! You phony,” Mr. Dinwiddie shrieked, shaking his cane in the air.

Alfonso smiled at him. “It was. And I also disguised myself and sold two of my family heirlooms to you yesterday, and then I used the money to buy three summon scrolls from your shop Mr. and Mrs. Allender,” Alfonso said, looking at the couple in the front right corner of the hall. “But that’s not where my story begins. You see, yesterday morning…”

With a strong, confident voice, Alfonso told them his story. He told them of his painful experience, his ensuing decision, and his following actions. He then told them of his battle, his failure, and his unavoidable death. And with each word he spoke, the townspeople’s anger faded and they fell into an uneasy silence.

As her friend exquisitely weaved his story, Olivia listened on in amazement. Alfonso had always been a good storyteller, but now he was masterful. The tone of his voice, rich and psaltery, full of raw emotion and conviction, drew his audience in with every word. Unlike before, he didn’t have to take breaks to catch his breath. Instead, the words flowed out of him, uninterrupted and mesmerizing. She even saw tears in the townsfolk's eyes as he described his defeat at Vackzilian's hands and his broken heart at his failure.

At long last, he told them of his awakening and the subsequent destruction of his own home.

When Alfonso finished, an audible tension hung in the air, punctuated by the occasional sniff or scuff of shoes as those in the crowd shifted their weight.

“No," the town’s famous baker, Garland by name, exclaimed, "I’m not buying it. Such a thing is not possible. A man cannot die and come back stronger. I, with my own two eyes, saw Alfonso dead. He was dead as a doornail, not a bit of life in him.”

Moving across the dusty wooden boards of the stage, Harold stepped forward. The air hummed around him, fluctuating and shifting, and as the frequencies converged, Olivia’s arm hairs stood on end.

Several townspeople in front of the hall drew back. Their muscles tensed and their stances widened.

 I hope you know what you’re doing, Harold, she thought. Crafting a spell in a room this full of tension was like drawing a sword in front of the Emperor.

Slowly, the humidity in the room converged, and a cloud of shimmering water coalesced in front of her mentor. He waved his hand, and like an ancient scroll unfurling, the water spread out, forming a giant scrying screen.

Harold closed his eyes and placed his hand to his temple. With a sizzling spark, the scrying sprung to life.

Crimson-orange light illuminated the audience's faces as the screen displayed the devastating lightning which had shot forth from Vackzilian’s tower.

“This spell is what Vackzilian used on Alfonso. It is called 'Vilick's Reversal.' The image you see is from my memory, though I believe most of you witnessed it as well. If not, I am certain you heard and felt the resulting thunder. This spell...,” Harold launched into a lengthy explanation of what he believed had happened to Alfonso. The giant screen periodically changed to display diagrams of Alfonso’s body and the pages in the tome describing 'Vilick's Reversal.'

As Harold finished, Garland shoved his way to the front of the assembly. With a blistering fireball, he blasted Harold’s scrying into a thousand glimmering particles. “This is the biggest load of crud I have ever heard!” he shouted.

"Here, Here!" loud, fervent shouts of agreement rose from the crowd.

“I assure you it’s not," Harold said. "I believe I can even show you the scientific formu-"

“No. I don’t know what you’re trying to prove. But this whole thing is insanity. If you think we’re going to believe that man," he pointed to Alfonso standing quietly to the side, "is Alfonso, you have another thing coming,” Garland snarled. He raised his fist, sparks of fire dancing at his fingertips.

This wasn’t good. The frequencies holding together Harold’s scrying had dispersed all over the hall, and now anyone could craft a new spell and Olivia wouldn’t know it. Things could get ugly and fast. She gazed in contemplation at Garland. Usually, the baker was the kindest, most generous of men. Long before she was born, Alfonso’s father had opened his magic with the agreement that the baker would make several dozen pastries for the orphanage a month. The agreement had only been for three years, yet he still did so to this day. She also knew that he frequently snuck Alfonso sweets, which annoyed her to no end because they were anything but good for his weak constitution. Still, there was no doubt the baker had a good heart. Maybe she could...

“Garland, sir, what would it take for you to believe that I am Alfonso?” Alfonso asked, interrupting her thoughts.

The large, usually jolly man, with his dark red hair plastered to his sweaty forehead, snarled, “There’s nothing you can do to make me believe such a thing.” His palm glowed, and a red sphere blossomed to life in midair.

“What if I could repeat, word for word, the conversation we had that night?”