 It was early...too early. Someone knocked loudly on his chamber door for the third time in half an hour, and Tristan made a noise of frustration as he pulled his pillow over his head.
“Your Highness!” a voice called insistently from the hallway in a voice that was far too cheerful for the time of morning. Tristan ignored it and reached for another pillow. Whoever it was eventually left; the prince could hear their retreating footsteps tapping along the corridor before fading entirely. He began to doze again, slipping into a foggy haze somewhere between asleep and awake.
Crash! The door was forced open on its hinges and ricocheted off the interior wall with a reverberating thud. The prince was jolted awake again with such force that his heart began to beat a tattoo of alarm against his ribs.
“Up, up, up!” his valet boomed as he stomped across the room to throw open the curtains. Tristan heard them moving along the rail above the window and gave another grown. Remaining under his pillows he extracted an arm from amongst his covers and pointed an accusing finger at the sky beyond the glass.
“It’s still dark outside!” he complained, his voice muffled by the goose-down in his pillows.
“How do you know, your highness,” replied the valet reasonably, “you haven’t looked.” Tristan’s arm flopped back down onto his mattress.
“Oh I know,” the prince replied, turning over and emerging from beneath his pillows. The sky beyond the window was a dark grey-blue, and, scowling at his valet, Tristan pointed accusingly at the early morning sky.
His hair was still tousled when he stepped was pushed, out into the open air. The night’s chill lingered but the sun had risen a little higher into the sky and Tristan blinked against the brightness. He wasn’t wearing his armour; he had been told it wouldn’t be needed but it felt strange to be walking in the direction of the training yard without it. He had been told he wouldn’t need his sword either but the prince carried it in its scabbard in his right hand, the belt wrapped around the embossed leather casing in a neat spiral. Whoever heard of training without a sword? Tristan’s boots crunched against the last of the pebbles as they gave way to the dust and sand of the training arena. He felt strangely exposed wearing just a pair of dark riding trousers and a green tunic. They’d tried to tell him he probably wouldn’t need his usual belt either but he’d ignored that too. It had been a very strange morning.
Mace had set up in the largest central arena and Tristan approached the fence. He yawned as he leaned against the wood and ran his fingers casually through his hair so that it grew even messier than before. Tristan however had inherited his grandfather’s ability to make practically anything look effortlessly stylish.
“What time of day do you call this?” the prince asked, rubbing his left eye with the first fingers of his right hand, “whatever it is, I don’t think I like it very much.” He set his sword down on the floor on the inside of the nearest fence post and as he did so the charms which hung around his neck fell out from the open neck of his shirt; a sun, a raptor tooth and a crucifix. Sighing, he tucked them back in as he straightened up. Tris made a point of looking Mace up and down. He took stock of the baggy trousers which looked to be made of no material Tristan had seen before and the unusual sleeveless shirt thing. He perked an eyebrow...what kind of training was this exactly?
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