Part 1: Armand Prince of Carthia

(ref: typed from hard copy)

The prince slept, beads of sweat glistening upon his brow, the moonlight striking each one to a tiny diamond

He had tossed and turned for many a night. In the wintertime the thick cloth furnishings hardly kept the biting cold at bay, during the sultry summer however, the rooms were stifling. Armand's valet – Painton – dozed uneasily in one corner. The Heir to the Throne's insomnia, and subsequent nightmares, had disrupted the whole household.

The valet was by now a nervous wreck, existing purely on stimulants. Armand had always been a demanding master to serve, but now he was impossible.

In his sleep Armand began to dream. A myriad of emotions flickered across the princes face. He uttered a tiny noise – the prelude to an inevitable end, a blood chilling scream. The valet sat bolt upright, the barely audible groan enough to awaken the jumpy man ... He scuttled about hurriedly as the prince writhed and moaned, his nightly terrors reaching their inevitable conclusion. Of what he dreamt while tortured in his sleep no one knew. Not a single hint of his horrors did he give to anyone. The price he was paying for his silence showed all too clearly. His youthful, handsome and usually vibrant visage was now haggard and drawn. The princes face showed deep lines; even in sleep feverish circles clouded his eyes, and days of stubble showed on his chin. Even on his body the lack of rest and refusal to eat was beginning to show – he looked gaunt and haunted.

Automatically painton gathered things to assuage the prince, fresh sheets, laudanum, moist cloths, and a robe. On cue the prince sat up, screaming, a tortured soul. Painton shuddered at the inhuman noise, the hairs on his neck rising despite being almost used to the awful routine.

Armand's eyes roamed the room, savage and delirious. No sentient thought behind them, just terror obliterating reason. Slowly the blur of his mind recognised its surroundings, inch by inch he relaxed. Through giddy colours he recognised Painton's strained urgent face. Feverously he ran a clammy, trembling hand over his brow, trying to clear the sweat. Finding himself able to move – the terror usually brought a form of paralysis – he swung his legs over the side of the bed. He sat panting raggedly, still shaking and heaving.

Painton stood nervously to attention, recognising that tonight, somehow, the dream had been different. This was new, usually Armand would lie back down on the bed, irritably refusing the paltry ministrations. Tonight he took the laudanum without hesitating, his mind too absorbed to fend off Painton and his well meant remedies. He allowed the valet to robe him, then accepted a cold cloth for his face, and strode off. The valet was left, bewildered. The prince had never strode away like that, in the dead of night. Painton sighed wearily, then set about changing the sheets. He wanted to tell Alexandra, the queen, but it was not his place.

The young prince padded barefoot along the Strongholds labyrinthian corridors. His external appearance was very unlike his norm. Armand had always been fastidious about his façade, and would never venture from his apartments unless faultlessly attired. At this time of night there would be no one about to comment upon his unusual appearance. Guards would be wandering abroad the castle, their calloused feet beating a traditional route, laid down aeons ago. Any such guards would not dare challenge the distracted boy, nor would they later gossip, the guards of the Carthian Stronghold took their loyalty to Louie very seriously. Despite this Armand avoided the popular reaches of the castle, not wishing to be queried. Externally the prince seemed feverish and shaken, but inside Armand was mentally more focused than before.

Steadily he walked on, knowing not where he was headed, but certain of finding his destination – it was calling him.

The voice that tormented his sleep had made its proposals clear.

From the plush carpeted halls of the main passages, to uneven and disrepaired regions he strode on. He had long since ceased to notice the opulence surrounding him. All his life he had enjoyed only the best of Carthian goods, the wealth of Louie's kingdom exceeded any in known history. Once the exquisite tapestries, the gilded carpets and drapes, the painstakingly detailed statues and carvings had held an endless fascination for the child-prince. Now their splendour, undiminished, passed by unappreciated.

He turned a corner, a frigid draft howled towards him from some forgotten and forsaken depth. Here the torches ended, ahead lay only totalistic darkness. Without hesitating in his stride Armand took a torch from its wall holder, and continued, progressing in his own personal pool of light.

Normally, a part of him knew, he would have recoiled at the thought of what he was doing. Usually he would not venture from his apartments without several hours of meticulous grooming, and almost endless adjustments to his dress. Somewhere in his mind a part of him registered Painton's rapid deterioration over the last week – since his nightmares had begun. The effeminate man loved only clothes and make-ups. The princes cosmetic demands had been his delight. The man had not been prepared for all night vigils and abusive onslaughts. Armand's path had taken him deep into unknown areas of the fortress. The prince was not the type to wander around reeking unused portions of the castle, merely for fun – and certainly not in the dead of night.

In the small flickering light he clearly saw his breath condensing on the air, the minuscule drops of moisture billowing on the air. Despite the entirely inappropriate thin cotton robe he wore only dimly noticed the cold emanating from all around. Here there were no furnishings, no finery, no signs at all of any human visitors within living memory. Indeed, Armand's bare feet left clear footprints in the centuries old dust.

Steady dripping came from all around. Phosphorescent slimes grew from rotting crevices, where only the rotting remains of support beams remained. The stately corridors had given way to rough hewn stone shafts, deep inside the mountain. Cave-in's were inevitable with centuries of disuse, and scattered about were piles of debris, littering the floor indolently. His squalid surroundings registered only dimly in the prince's mind. For him nothing existed apart from the shadow in his mind, leading him onwards. Although he knew not these decrepit and stagnant grottoes, he strode forward unhesitantly. It was it his destination was drawing him forward.

(taken from typed insert)

LEANDER

Leander sat rigid in the corner, knees draw up to his chin, only his dark, intense eyes glared out at the room. Cold damp bricks pressed against his shoulder blades. He peered at the woman working in the room with him. Ragged clothes smothered her ample frame, barely disguising its lumpiness. At one time they might have been dyed a specific colour, but now they were only an indistinct grey- much the same as the surrounding brickwork, as if she were made out of the same immutable material. The grey woman was typically old, great gnarled hands, scarred and calloused from a lifetime of weaving. Leander considered his own hands, slender, but agile, still soft despite the year spent in the tailors hall. A deeply wrinkled and craggy face atop her ample frame completed the boulder like appearance of the woman, thick matted hair clung to the top of her face like bracken to a barren mountain. Leander watched her with neither love nor hate as she worked, finding her unworthy of either emotion.

His time served under that woman's gruff eye had been tedious and frustrating. He had no intention of spending the rest of his life making cloth for an ungrateful castle. He had bided his time long enough, advancement must come soon. A torch on the wall flickered for a moment before dying, bringing Leander from his reverie. Instantly he was on his feet, despite this the old hag growled "boy" she gestured to the dead taper without even glancing In his direction, her eyes glued to the growing cloth. He scowled at her hunched back before striding off with the quiet, purposeful gait peculiar to himself. the light once more restored, Leander noted the crone's spool of thread was growing low, glad for an excuse to stretch his legs, Leander headed for the stores.

His eyes dispassionately devoured all he saw, down to the shade, size and texture of every brick, the very pattern of their laying. His brain had a hunger for information of all kinds no matter how irrelevant. The corridor he entered was a long thin one, with high ceilings it stretched off into the distance, till it seemed to shrink to a pinpoint. Leander's was a slender lad, with a self-controlled manner which made it hard to discern his true intentions, and at times it made him seemingly invisible. He was not tall either, but the overall slenderness of his frame gave the impression of height. Being of a fairly fastidious nature Leander was always smartly dressed, his clothes – pilfered – were always of fine quality, jet black and always laundered. His long hair, in contrast to the scruffy youths he worked with, was always clean and tied smartly back. While absently counting his strides he considered his position. Obviously his assignment to the tailors halls had been someone's idea of a sick joke, his agile mind was capable of so much more. The other tailors boys were slow-witted dolts, content to squander their lives in those cloth filled rooms. He though itched for greater things, where though did his future lie? Time and time again he pondered advancement, the past year had been very trying, and monotonous.

On autopilot – having arrived at the storeroom – he retrieved one of the heavy spools of thread, his sparse frame coping with its weight with a surprising ease. Tutting to himself he returned to the waiting crone.

"About time, boy" Her harsh voice greeted him, arriving past rotting teeth from cavernous depths. He shuddered despite himself, while dodging a kick. With nothing else to do he sat back down against the ever clammy wall, resuming his train of thought, eyes staring out past his knees. Leander had found that whole portions of the castle lay abandoned and forgotten. Whole districts lay unused. He felt sure that he could gain some advantage from them. Over the past year he had in his spare time, explored a great deal of the ruins, his journeys taking him – unnoticed – ever closer to the inner keep of the royals.

This evening he was impatient to be away ... he had to struggle to keep his air of casualness about him when he was finally dismissed. He made his way to the Great Hall and spirited away a pocketful of cheese and ham, then left the well-worn tracks for deserted places. Corridor after hall revealed their forgotten secrets to him. Sure-footedly he moved through previously unfamiliar areas, heading unerringly for the royal levels. Corridors could, and often did appear at any level, often in the most unexpected of places. The builders of the Stronghold had, over many centuries, experimented with every type of architecture.

Eating as he walked, his mind catalogued all he encountered, he came to an oak stairway leading out on to a three doored balcony, all three doors opened out on to a long forgotten orchard, daylight where there should only have been stone – it didn't make sense. Soon the orchard lay far behind him, again dank, unimaginative stone surrounded him, suddenly he caught the sound of a voice.

Instantly Leander flattened himself against the wall, his senses fully alerted. Quickly he realised the voice was faint but strained, he relaxed being in no danger of immediate discovery. Swift and silently he headed for the sound. His quick brain realising something important was happening. Who was it wandering in His forgotten halls, more importantly how could this intrusion be used to further his own ends? A flicker of light – closer now – radiated off golden hair. Leander did not recognise the prince right away. The figure, barefooted, with torn gown, and dishevelled hair was totally at odds with Armand's normal over dressed appearance. Soon the lad realised that the distressed figure was none other than the Carthian prince himself, and gleefully trailed him onwards. The figure stumbled and lurched ahead, shouting and raving at thin air, sometimes cursing, and at other times reciting childhood poems. The prince moved steadily further and further away from the used portions of the castle, Leander was forced to keep Armand in sight, for he himself was hopelessly lost within the unfamiliar territories. The prince however strode steadily onwards, eventually, Leander hoped, he would renter inhabited parts.

(taken from typed inserts)

ARMAND

It was two days later when Armand resurfaced. The castle was in uproar, all around thralls, servants, freedmen, and the nobles were all doing their own personal impressions of a headless chicken. When the morning had arrived and Armand proved missing, Painton had collapsed raving insensibly, he blamed himself. The castles doctor had run out of options and patience, and had opted to strap him to a bed, finally the tortured man had slept.

Armand casually re-entered the respectable part of the castle. Guards and servants filled the corridors with cacophonous abandon. In his stained and bedraggled state no one gave him a second glance, indeed a hurrying officer ran straight into him "Get out of the bloody way, scum" he growled, roughly shoving the prince from his path. Armand made sure he would remember the officer's face, the man had already sealed his own fate – it was just a matter of time.

Amid this pandemonium Armand walked to his quarters, neglecting to mention to anyone that he was safe. Finding no one waiting for him, Armand crossly rummaged for some water, eventually he unearthed some. Petulantly the prince decided that this was the filthiest he had ever been. The once exquisite robe now torn and stained beyond redemption, he discarded. For the first in days he regarded himself in the mirror. The toll of his recent ordeals reflected starkly back. For a short moment he considered attempting to make himself up, but wisely decided not to attempt the task.

In his main room the laudanum was still upon the table. He smiled happily and drank of it. Retaining the decanter and glass he sank into his favourite chair.

(Typed insert)

LEANDER

Leander's clothes had been ruined when he finally found the tailors wing. It was, unusually deserted; obviously the entire Stronghold had been put on full alert, teams of search parties abroad the castle, seeking the wandering prince. Leander doubted that his own absence had even been noticed. He hid the ragged clothes and found a replacement, ensuring that the material was as good as, as if not better than his previous suit. There was something new about the boy, a hypothetical observer would have found it hard to pin point exactly what it was though. Perhaps he seemed more aware, moving with a sense of purpose, were his footsteps even lighter upon the ground? Was there a hint of hidden agenda in the young man's eyes?

Once more smartly attired Leander scrutinised his reflection in an aged, poxed mirror for a few moments, he combed, and re-tied his hair before striding smartly away from the tailors halls.

Security Leander reflected, was rather lax inside the Carthian Stronghold. Token guards trod their age-old routes, but never expected any genuine subterfuge. He felt confident that his plans would go undetected. It would be a simple thing to insinuate himself into the upper circles of castle life.

The princes illness was general knowledge in the castle, and indeed by now probably all over the kingdom. But, Leander felt certain that most were unaware of just quite how serious the heir's mental state actually was. And after all, Armand owed him Leander decided, after all he had stayed with the delirious prince during his absence, ensuing the princes safety – albeit in secret. The heir to the Carthian throne was seriously disturbed, far far more than was generally realised, one day he would be king. When that happened his mental state would mean that he would need a close servant, and rely upon the chosen person. Certainly Painton was not up to the job. Leander mildly hated the effeminate valet. A life dedicated to perfumes, powders and frilly clothes seemed almost as bad as a lifetime in the tailors halls. But, he decided, in order to get close to the vain prince he would have to learn a little of the trade. Leander had always been a quick learner, and foresaw no difficulty in accomplishing that task. Finally opportunities for his own advancement had appeared.

With a semblance of glee he made his way to the main corridors of the inner keep, near to the prince's apartments. He felt certain that if he – unobtrusively of course – loitered long enough opportunity would rear its head. Finding himself near enough to the prince's quarters, Leander settled into a shadowy corner, knees characteristically drawn up to his chin.

Time passed, though Leander barely noticed, he alternated between musing his lot and cat naps, his ears always pricked.

(typed insert)

ARMAND

A shrill startled voice roused him from his drugged stupor. A serving girl, her face was flushed red with chagrin. Crossly he realised that he was still unattired, but then she should have not entered his private rooms uninvited under any circumstances.

"where's Painton?" he shouted crossly, his beautiful voice edged with a very real menace "Painton! Painton, where are you?"

The girl paled visibly and ran from the room. For the size of the castle Painton was quickly summoned – a few scant minutes later a commotion came down the hall toward Armand's rooms. In the midst of the approaching voices Armand detected Painton's

"Get your filthy hands off me you ... you brutes" the man's piqued voice rang out above the other's baritones "He asked for ME ... leave me alone!"

The huddle burst in on the princes' bedchambers. Silence abruptly descended. Embarrassed by the princes' decidedly informal appearance, the guards released Painton and swiftly backed out of the door. Only Painton could restore their prince to his usual glory.

With a strained shake in his voice Painton said "My Lord?"

Armand quietly responded, his voice tired and even hoarse "Painton"

"Yes ... my Lord?" his hands trembled still from the stresses imposed

"Attend me, for I fear I have neglected your ministrations these past few days"

relief washed over the fragile man. At last, clothes and cosmetics, this was what he understood, he trod now familiar paths – perhaps life could now return to normal. Once again in his element, he scurried about preparing a bath, laying out clothes, taking longer than usual to mix the pigments for Armand's face as his pallor had waned somewhat. Tutting he selected fine razors – it did not do to hide the princes' fine face with nasty stubble.

Mildly Armand gave himself over to Painton's expert care.

A few hours later the prince looked and felt like a new man. He studied his visage closely in the mirror, critically searching for any imperfection. The proud valet buzzing around him, also scouring for even the slightest flaw. The dashing and vibrant young man who now stared back bared only a faint trace of the man from a few hours ago. Perhaps that disheveled man was some distant cousin to the fine prince. Armand smiled, satisfied. A dashing and even gorgeous, fine young prince stared confidently from the mirror. His hair restored to its normal vibrant gold, hung once again in vibrant ringlets. Around his eyes remained no trace of the dark circles formerly so prominent as to overshadow the most captivating blue eyes Carthia had ever seen. Painton had worked unrelentingly on the scion, the Heir to the Throne. Only a slight bagginess of his clothes betrayed the anguish of the past week, Painton had begged Armand to allow him to take in the hems, but he had stalwartly refused, unwilling to be detained any longer. Satisfied he discharged Painton, who staggered gratefully away – his duty had been discharged, he now had time for his own fatigue.

(?? Insert second half of Leander sequence??)

LEANDER

A serving girl pattered past the waiting Leander, drawing him back to full awareness, though she noticed him not. She disappeared into Armand's territory without even knocking upon the door. Moments later she re-emerged, moving much faster than before – the princes' angry voice perusing her. Concealing a grin Leander neatly intercepted the shaken girl. She literally ran in to him, her ears still ringing from Armand's curses

"Beg 'pardon sir" She said automatically, voice trembling. Inside Leander wriggled with glee, but instead he growled at the girl

"Stupid wench, I'll fetch Painton ... and I'll deal with you later" Leander hoped his threat would keep her from later questioning him. She nodded and gave him a frightened glance before hurrying away, lest he changed his mind and decided to punish her now ... Leander however had already forgotten the girl, he was already running for the Great Hall – the most likely place to find Painton. He was not there however, the vast halls set aside for the royal servants were as deserted as the tailors Hall had been. Leander tapped his teeth thoughtfully for a moment while his brain catalogued every aspect of the hollow hall. His mind rationally deciding where to look next for Armand's valet. It was essential that he succeed in this simple task. The lad's mind worked so rapidly that he stood undecided for only a moment before speeding off to the infirmary.

He barged through the doors, they clattered horribly open and closed behind him

"Sssshhh!" the doctor irritably admonished. Leander barely gave the man a glance

"Painton is wanted" He said offhandedly, as if the doctor was of no consequence. He looked around superciliously, hoping that luck was on his side "Armand is in his quarters"

An interesting series of expressions swam over the doctors face, Leander spared no time to observe them, as amusing as it would have been, for Painton – restrained to the bed – had weakly begun calling out to him. Deftly Leander freed the prince's valet, and unnecessarily, followed him down the hall- They were closely followed by the doctor and a handful of hastily assembled guards, their voices loud and excited. Painton was becoming distraught, his irritatingly high-pitched voice ringing out over the other more manly voices, amid this melee Leander hid.

Without realising the group burst into the prince's' quarters. Leander, well aware of the group's intrusion, nearly laughed at the surprised, and disgruntled – naked – prince. The room around Leander fell deathly silent. Smiling he strode away, he had no wish to hang around long enough to answer questions. With time on his side, Leander stumbled into a disused bedroom and fell blankly asleep on its ancient bed.

(typed insert)

ARMAND

An entirely new man gathered his small ceremonial crown, settled it just so, and strode towards the main halls. The well travelled smells of food guided Armand towards the Great Hall, the source of food and the centre of activity.

With feigned casualness he ambled into the Great Hall, as if disappearing for days was part of his usual routine, and headed for his place at the long table. As was normal for evening time, the tables were full of freemen and nobles seated according to class and favour, a hushed silence fell as he entered, all eyes upon him. Even the thralls paused in their drudgery. Armand waved a casual hand at the assemblage "Don't stop on my account – wouldn't want to cause a disturbance"

Someone spluttered into their wine, but managed to avoid choking on it. Armand ignored this, it mattered not what anyone thought of him – one day he would rule, and then the people who crossed him would pay with their lives.

His mother shot him a worried glance; he watched her study his face intently, searching as he himself had done, for traces of his nightly ordeal and subsequent disappearance. He gave her his most brilliant smile – she would find no cracks in his façade, he could not say the same for her though, the years had definitely begun to catch her up. That thought cheered the prince enough for him to disdainfully ignore his father without catching any of the king's surliness. Usually he playfully riled the king, and regularly indulged in laconious habits, most of which the king felt to be totally unbefitting to the heir – including his dress sense. Now though the indolence had changed, safely disguised by his innocuous habits lay something menacing and unrelenting.

Through the evening thralls hurried to and fro, bringing endless supplies of food and drink, and clearing the wreckage away. The slaves moved about virtually unnoticed their station little above that of a pig or dog, they lived their entire lives as property, and their children would also be property. Occasionally slaves would run for Surrendia, but the price – if caught on the run – was to high for most. Carthia had servants also, these were freemen, and thusly given a better standing in life, they were fed and housed, their children educated and once they reached maturity were free to do as they wished.

The prince had regained his appetite and devoured an astonishing amount of food, copious amounts of laudanum and wine went his way also, but the prince remained clear headed.

Armand enjoyed the game of court life; always he would be the centre of attention, stealing the spotlight from his earthier father on a regular basis. Now though times were different, the game was now a charade, whereas before he had been a part of the game, playing to its rhythm, now he was above it all, he could manipulate without getting involved. Externally he seemed the same, and all around him still the same immutable faces. Only inside himself was there change. The gaddish front that used to be him, was now no more than a silk thin mask - a façade to be used or cast aside at will. He played the people around him, pulled familiar strings, and delightedly watched them respond just as he knew they would. All the while behind his front he laughed.

Inside, a part of his soul – the most tender and breakable part – keened and writhed in pain, trying to escape this all pervasive and corrupting influence. Outside the prince was as dashing as he ever was. In fact, the courtly ladies whispered to each other, somehow he seemed more confident and self assured.

(typed insert)

LOUIE KING OF CARTHIA

With news of Armand's reappearance, the king ordered castle life back to normal. Initially, Louie was determined to march up to his son's rooms and thrash an explanation from the boy. The always magnanimous Alexandra had however, cooled his fires of rage. Now, seated on his throne in the Great Hall, he felt as wise and serene as ever, content to await the prince's eventual (but also inevitable) arrival

After the daily court session – held each and every day regardless of weather there was any court business or not – all the nobles had retired the Great Hall. Here the king drowned pessimistic thoughts about the boy, attempting to regain his good humour as well as his dignity. Louie glanced at his queen, she was as radiant and resplendent as ever. The fine worry lines so recently etched upon her maturing face had all but vanished. He smiled wryly, no doubt a servant had laboured as painstakingly over the queen as Painton had over Armand.

With the immediate crisis at least over, if not yet totally explained, Louie relaxed.

Damn that son of his. He glanced at his queen. She had been passionately engaged in a discussion, but at the gentle feel of his eyes upon her, she turned immediately to him – all else forgotten. He smiled paternally, and she turned away again. The boy – Armand – was so unlike anything he had expected his child to be, as to almost cast suspicion over his wife's loyalties. Alexandra though was no ordinary wife. Had he married any other woman, Armand he would have disowned years ago. She, though could not be doubted, never in her life had she even been suspected of any wrongdoing. The woman was as humble and pure as she seemed, and so, Armand had to be his. The prince, for all his failings – and Louie found many – was still Heir to the Throne.

A hush descending over the large hall was odd enough to bring Louie back from his reverie. Armand – who else could bring a room full of gossiping nobles to a complete silence?

Louie stared incredulously. The young prince showed no sign of his recent ordeal. He sauntered across the hall, ostentatious as ever. Upon the silence the prince waved a foppish hand "Don't stop on my account" He had said. Louie shot Alexandra a fleeting look; she was intently studying Armand.

The boy smiled his best smile, perfect teeth shone whitely through falsely reddened lips, they shamefully reminded Louie of his own rotting and age-browned molars. They caused him a great deal of pain these days. With a grim satisfaction he reminded himself that one day, despite all his fastidious care, Armand too, would one day loose his stunning looks and be merely a gnarled old timer, grumpy and achy. This amused Louie so much that he did not even notice his son's supercilious attitude or blatant snubs. Alexandra seemed satisfied by Armand's manner, and so Louie relaxed, enjoying the calm, not realising it to be merely the eye of the maelstrom and not it's end.