Prince of Time

Chapter Three - Angry

Maple rose from her bed swiftly with the bell, knife already gripped tightly in her hand. One glance and she saw the room was empty but she kept the knife with her as she dressed, securing it around her waist.

 She wore an orange tunic, her feet still bare, and the knife was her only adornment. The once-shorn hair now reached her chin, to her joy no longer orange but a shade of auburn-brown.

  She hurried into the corridor, eyes darting, always alert. The skin on the back of her neck prickled but there was nobody behind her.

“Maple,” Pepper waved her over.

Maple grinned at her best friend. “Morning.”

Once the silence had been lifted, the two had joined together instantly. Pepper was outspoken, loud and demanding with a mind that leapt for mischief. Maple was more thoughtful, pushing her into hare-brained schemes but gently guiding her away from the worst ones.

 They ran down the corridor, fast and sure-footed, leaping over the cracked pavings to arrive scarcely out of breath in the dining hall. It clamoured with noise, the ten occupants already creating a babble that rebounded off the stone walls.

“Bread?” Pepper asked. “Butter?”

“Definitely,” Maple heaped the food onto her plate. “Starving.”

They took their seat at a table with four others, all of them boys. The orange tunics were identical but individuality had crept in over the last year, showing in hairstyles and the way weapons were worn.

 They talked loudly and brusquely, near-shouting. They were all twitchy, jumping at anything unexpected, always alert, always on edge. It had been hammered into them for months. Eyes were open, minds awake.

  A loud bell sounded and they were all on their feet in moments without their brains ever needing to send a message to their muscles. Plates were cleaned with speed, water splashed at friends and items stacked hastily and haphazardly.

  They ran from the room, pushing and shoving, nobody taking out a weapon but all of them reaching for one. They raced down the corridors, dividing and turning different directions to at last reach today’s training room.

  Maple burst in on her trainer, skidding to a halt and bowing as quickly as she could. She didn’t like the bow. It exposed her neck too much. The trainer nodded once.

“Did you sleep?”

“Some,” Maple answered.

“Did you wake?”

“Well,” Maple answered.

“Did you eat?”

“Well,” Maple answered.

“Then we begin.”

In one fluid movement, the trainer threw a knife. Maple ducked instinctively, rolling across the floor to come up on the other side of the room. The knife clattered to the floor where she had been standing.

“Are you afraid?”

“No.”

Another knife, this time causing her to leap nearly to the ceiling. It sliced across where her calf should be and she landed down next to it, every muscle tensed and ready.

The trainer only nodded. “Climb.”

Maple turned to the wall and launched herself at it, driving her fingertips into the cracks between the stones. Once, this had been impossible for her. Now her muscles responded readily and she dragged herself higher, kicking her feet.

 When she reached the ceiling, she reached across and grabbed a rope loop hanging down. Dropping from the wall, she swung over the high-ceilinged room, scarcely aware of the pain in her shoulders.

“Fall.”

Maple let go and dropped, cat-like, to the ground. Her ankles complained but she ignored them, standing straight again and waiting, ready.

 On and on it went, for hours. It had been the same for months, though the monotony was nothing like the previous year. Every day, they went to separate rooms and obeyed one-word commands.

  Maple’s body had changed in a year. She was tight with muscle, compacted and powerful. There was strength in her that was completely unexpected. She ran faster and longer. She climbed better.

  The purpose of training was never truly told to the novices. They obey orders and the lessons they learnt were down to them. This last year had taught Maple two things: strength and aggression.

  Eventually, the trainer nodded one last time.

“Dismiss.”

Maple left at a run. Novices in orange never walked anywhere. They always ran, always jumped, always climbed. She sprinted back to the dining hall for dinner, her stomach growling impatiently.

 She collided with a boy in the doorway, both of them sprawling to the floor. In the blink of an eye, they were upright, weapons raised, eyes burning holes. With a short, tight laugh, the boy sheathed his dagger.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

Maple nodded and put her own knife away. He walked in front of her into the dining room. She made sure of it.

 Dinner was as loud as breakfast had been as people shared their days with one another. There were a scattering of ages in orange tunics but the majority rested around twelve or thirteen years old, just edging into teenage years.

 Maple didn’t trust herself to have friends, as such, besides Pepper. But she enjoyed the conversation and, more importantly, the competition of the others. Dinner was the time for showing off and Maple had learned quickly how it was done.

  The bell rang for sleep early in the evening and the novices locked themselves in their cells. Few would sleep soundly. The rest lay with one ear and one eye open, napping and dozing, alert and ready for action. It was security to the point of paranoia.

  As she lay there, Maple repeated her familiar mantra in her head.

She was Maple Greenberg.

 She was twelve years old.

She was a warrior.