In Dreams: Red

The Report

I find my father in what I affectionately coined his “war room”. Everything imaginable is in this room, from maps, inventories, weapons, to a miniature model of his castle and the surrounding lands. He's leaning over this model when I enter, and I'm certain he is trying to identify weak points and strategic defenses. As I move further into the room I notice he has placed little blocks of wood inside and outside the walls as if to represent men, like he is mapping off moves on a game board. I walk up behind him. He is obviously so engrossed in his model he does not hear me.

“If I was an assassin, you would be dead now.” I remark and derive a great deal of pleasure from watching him jerk, as I had expected he would.

“Kennice! You are the only one who continually manages to sneak up on me like that! It's rather eerie.” He turns around to look at me briefly, then walks over to a wooden desk and chair. “I heard quite the tale from Reginald.” He says sternly. “I presume you know what it's about.” I briefly feel like a child being scolded by her father again. I run through all my transgressions to see which he is referring to, afraid to incriminate myself, but I'm also afraid not to answer for fear of punishment. I shake off the feeling.

“I'm going to assume you mean the prisoner I state, looking at him for confirmation. He nods his head.

“It was quite some tale Reginald told.” My father responds leadingly. “I could hardly believe it, but he was very earnest and insisted you would tell the same tale, or one very like it.”

“Well, I am very afraid you are not going to like what I have to tell you.” I answer grimly and then start at the beginning with my hunt of the fearsome beast in the woods. Each time I mention the prisoner changing into the creature, I see the same look of incredulity in my father's eyes as I'm sure had been in mine when I saw it myself. I tell him everything, Silas' death, the many times the prisoner changed, and the many times he had saved me. My heart aches about Silas and the prisoner's odd protective behavior.

“You and Reginald insist he changes into an outrageous monster, but I have seen no signs of it, nor received word from my men now guarding him. But I must believe you based on the fact that you both tell the same tale and I have examined the corpse. Besides which, my daughter, I have never known you to make up wild stories, but this...” He waves a hand and sighs. “I suppose he must be dealt with, but I'm not certain what should be done. At any rate, with the impending battle, I haven't the time as of yet to think on it over much..” He trails off.

“Father, if I may?” He nods his approval so I continue. “There is something very odd about this whole thing. He saved me time and time again.. all of us really. And despite the fact that he could easily change, slaughter us all and disappear, he has been nothing but polite and cooperative, never making a false move against us, even when he could.” I thought of him carrying me on his back, and the expression on his face as we left his home behind. “It's almost as if he wants to die.” I muse out loud and pieces start falling together in my mind. I feel an urgent need to get back to the prisoner immediately.

“Be that as it may,” My father interrupts my thoughts. “..we will have to decide what action to take with him. He has the potential to be a very dangerous enemy and killer of men. It is going to be a hard decision no matter how I decide on the matter.” He tells me. “In the meantime, he will remain in our custody, though whether we are protecting him from other people or other people from him, I haven't the slightest of ideas.”

“Father, may I ask where he is being held?” I request. He waves his hand in the direction of the model.

“One of the inner courtyards-the one previously used for drills. There is a guardhouse there and the walls were built for spectators, so he has a multitude of armed guards watching him, plus an overhand to move out of any foul weather we may have.” He answers. I examine the model and see a section with a single block surrounded by others on the walls and know that must be his. I debate briefly asking my father's permission to see the prisoner, but I know no matter what he says, it won't affect my actions anyway, so I do not bother him with the matter. I turn to see my father has become preoccupied again with his planning, his gaze is far off, and his fingers on his left hand trace the same pattern of scars on the stump of his right wrist over and over again. This is a well known gesture to me, I only ever see it when he's lost in thought. Strangely I can almost feel those fingers run down my spine. I shiver. It didn't matter what I said to him now, he wouldn't be truly listening anyway. A fact I had often exploited as a child. I make my excuses, which my father waves off, and bow my way out.

There are many things I still need to do, but I am once again forcibly reminded of the state of my personal hygiene, and of course, clothing. I have dirt, blood and animal hair clinging to all of me, and I suddenly realize the very thought of it has my skin itching. Plus I sort of smell like horse. And dog. I decide that before I go any further, it is only appropriate of one of my station to appear well groomed, and using that as an excuse, I head off towards a nice change of clothing and a good washing up.

One of the servants had already placed out hot, steaming water in anticipation of my needs, though it is now quite cool. Fresh linens and several choices of clothing are available in my standing chest against the wall. Hanging on a mannequin beside my bed is a new red cloak. Unlike the one I am wearing, this one is ornately embroidered with golden and silver threads. The tiniest of pale blue flowers run along the threads. It is a startling and beautiful contrast. My mother's nerves and worry show on this cloak. Whenever she is nervous or upset, she stitches. Sometimes I return from a long trip to an almost completely new wardrobe. I wonder who she had sewn for all the years before I was around. I am relatively certain my father never would wear anything so frilly, and the very idea makes me smile.

“My lady, do you require any assistance?” A girl's voice startles me from my thoughts and I jerk slightly. Although my father is all for “servants” my mother insists on “paid help”, stating they were more loyal. And she could be rather lavish with pay, room, board and a very nice salary that could keep a family of eight happy. It certainly seemed to work for our waiting men and women, all loyal, on the job and ready to please. It also kept a large line of people always waiting for the next opening, but in general, we had very low turnover. I once asked my mother if she didn't think she would run us out of gold or make father angry with her insistence of high pay and she just laughed, telling me father would do anything she asked him to.

“Besides,” She had said. “He also knows that few things will keep a person loyal to you: cruelty and threats on their lives will only go so far before they turn on you. But kindness, love and money has the ability to hold people to you for a time. Your father knows we have enough wealth to last beyond measure and understands how good pay can keep a person loyal to you for quite some time.” I suppose she was right. My mother's ladies in waiting are not only loyal to her, but have become her great friends. They share secrets and gossip and would walk through fire for her if my mother asked it of them. Never had one quit or been relieved of duties. Only death and old age causes replacements. And the old timers still have jobs around the castle, little, easy tasks if they choose to continue to work. Though most just hang around, having fully retired on their saved salaries, and continue to gossip with the young ones or spend time with their children and grandchildren, who it seems are also on staff.

“My Lady?” The young woman asks again. I turn and smile at her and wave her off, thanking her for her help. Tiredly, I strip out of my clothing and wash myself off. My hair is a terrible mess, and it takes a while to untangle it before I can even dream of trying to wash it. Despite my eagerness to go back and talk to our prisoner, by the time I finish cleaning up, having needed a refill of fresh water three times, and pull on a simple shift, I am exhausted. I sit on the edge of the bed debating what to do next.