Prince of Time

Chapter Two - Silent

Maple rose from her bed at the break of dawn, not saying a word. She hadn’t spoken in nearly twelve months. After the first two weeks of her training, she had been sworn to silence.

 She crossed the plain room, containing only the basic necessities for a novice to live. She donned the loose grey garb of a novice. She ran a hand through her shorn hair, just beginning to grow again in unexpected curls. It had been a long time since they had shaved it off.

 She opened the door and stepped out into the corridor. Down the hall, almost precisely at the same moment, other doors opened and other grey-clad novices stood waiting in the stone hallway.

 They waited for a long time, silent and unmoving. Maple’s mind was blank and calm. A year’s worth of training exercises had taught it to her. She could summon a state of peace and smoothness in the midst of turmoil.

  Figures in the official warrior clothes – black and red – walked down the corridor. Each one tapped a novice on the shoulder and that novice followed. Maple did the same. The black-and-reds didn’t speak. It had been a year since Maple had heard another human voice.

  She was taken to a small room, the walls covered in mould and grime. Bucket and sponge. Water. It was obvious what the task was. She was left alone.

 With patience, a skill that had taken months to learn, Maple began to clean the walls. She worked quietly, allowing her mind to drift and return, drift and return. It was all about the rhythm. It was about letting time do its work.

  In the first few weeks, Maple and her fellow novices had been bubbling with questions. They had demanded explanations, queried politics, begged to be allowed to have a go at fencing or archery. All had been denied.

“You will not learn,” the Master had said, “if you look only to the great things.”

He had ordered them each to say their full name out loud. They all did so and, immediately after, he swore them to silence.

“You may speak again when I give you permission.”

Maple had been horrified. She had expected excitement and friendship and questions answered and great conversations. She had not expected the bare rooms, the silence, the desperation to hear somebody speak.

 “There is more to being a warrior than skill with a weapon. I require much from you. Patience. Diligence. Calmness. Logic. You must never snap. You must never stress. You must take all horrors in your stride. This peace will be learned now.”

So followed month after month of endless quiet, of menial tasks and thought exercises. Maple had resisted, then struggled, then succeeded. She was comfortable in the quiet, though sometimes her thoughts bubbled up, longing to be spoken, simply begging to be heard.

 She had stood quietly whilst weapons were thrown around her. She had been still amongst flames and quiet under the blows of water. She had trusted. It had been a terrible lesson but she was determined to learn.

  Maple scrubbed at the wall. Her hands were rough, her fingernails chipped. Her body was used to work now. She was bony and wiry, living off meagre rations. It had taken her a while to understand but she understood now.

  A warrior was more than merely a First Tier soldier. A warrior was someone who weathered any storm. As children, they had to be trained to be tough enough.

  Hours later, when her work was finished, Maple rang a small bell that sat beside the door. A warrior came to collect her, never once speaking, never even looking at her face.

 Maple was used to being a member of the shadows now. She had grown to enjoy the invisibility. Self-consciousness was forgotten in this strange world where she only half-existed.

  She was led to an eating hall where a bowl was placed in front of her. Across the room, one other novice sat already eating. Maple didn’t know his name. A year of not knowing someone can do that, when you had scarcely met them anyway.

  Maple ate. The food was bland but it was enough. She had learned to make it enough, eating slowly, savouring every bite.

Two others entered the room. She ignored them. They were unimportant.

A warrior led her from the room and returned her to another where the task of washing dishes awaited. Maple had once loathed and dreaded this activity. Hot water scalded her wrists and the pieces of food in the liquid revolted her skin.

  It was nothing to her now. It was distant and absent and harmless. She did the task uncomplainingly, her mind far away and yet very constant.

 They taught you passivity, she had decided long ago, so that when they taught you aggression, it did not destroy you. They taught you patience so that action would not ruin you. They taught you peace so that war would not change you.

  She worked long into the afternoon, though her elbows hurt and the hot water stung her skin.  When the warrior came again to collect her, the dishes were clean and dry and shining and Maple once again felt the satisfaction of a job well done.

  She was led to another small room and undressed herself, standing beneath the freezing water. It took the dust from the short hair on her shorn head and left her shivering but never as affected as she used to be.

  She was taken away again, back to the eating room for bread and her daily meat ration. Once again, she ate slowly. The room filled and emptied and she was nourished enough to continue.

  She was led once more back to her room and deposited for sleep. She lay down and waited for it to consume her. 

  Once, this had been dull for her. The routine, the blankness, the tedious tasks and limited food and lack of conversation. It was still dull, but comfortably so. She almost liked it. It was peaceful.

 As she waited for sleep to come and steal her away to be refreshed and renewed, Maple did what she always did before she fell asleep. It was a private ritual, one she had created herself not one that she had ever been taught.

  It wasn’t to calm or strengthen her. It was just a reminder of exactly who she was, and why. She had forgotten almost completely the names and faces of her fellow novices. Without a mirror, her own face was a mystery.

  She didn’t want to forget her name, so she said it to herself every night before sleep.

She was Maple Greenberg.

 She was eleven years old.

She was a warrior.