Pale Night, Red Fields

Also By Joseph John Lee The Spellbinders and the Gunslingers The Bleeding Stone Copyright Copyright © 2023 by Joseph John Lee All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permission requests, contact the author. The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred. Cover art by MIBLART Contents Dedication 1. Chapter One Ill Omens 2. Chapter Two The Nonsensical 3. Chapter Three The Threads of Fate 4. Chapter Four The Pale Night Epilogue The Red Fields A Message for the Reader Acknowledgments Dedication For Andrew Because a car ran over your foot when you visited while I was writing this Told you I'd dedicate this to you Chapter One Ill Omens The Year 1166 Anno Salvatoris 25 Years After the EclipseThe smell of pungent incense hardly mixed well with the pervasive aroma of salt water, but by this point, Zarrow could say he was used to it. For weeks now, he awoke to the same rituals. Greet the daybreak at the ocean’s shore. Procure breakfast from the shallow waters. Indulge his father’s recent obsessions with the dead. On this morning, though, the incense was so rancid that any desire to seek out his daily catch was entirely out of the question. The very thought of food in his stomach was enough to induce nausea in accompaniment with the stench of the hut. As he lay in bed, Zarrow let loose a deep sigh, running his hands across his face and through the tangled knots of his dark hair, glancing sidelong toward the assembly room of his father’s hut. One cannot speak to the dead if their home does not smell of it, apparently, he thought. He rose to a seated position, a sudden wave of dense incense sending him into a coughing fit. Tears started to well in his eyes, his lungs burning from the exertion. He winced at the pain in his chest and pushed himself to his feet, damning the fire raging within him. Then, with a shake of his head, he donned his morning robe, an open-chested vestment made of light woven fabric of a plain tanned hue, and tied it at his waist, his pendant thumping against his chest as he walked toward the adjacent room. Wiping the dampness away from his eyes, he tied his long dark locks back, the end trailing against his back, and spotted his father kneeling before a row of incense candles. More candles than he had ever seen lit at once. No wonder I can hardly breathe this morning. His father was garbed in much more elaborate attire at this hour than he was. As was typical for the shamans of the Tribe, a garish silk robe draped over him, the sleeves open and flowing as he raised his arms in tune with the flickering flames. His hair was tied at the top of his head in a single ponytail while the rest trailed down to the middle of his back. A mask covered his face, almost bearing enough resemblance to his own face, were it instead crafted of oak. A muffled voice ruminated beneath the mask, some sort of prayer made in offering to the gods or the flames. Zarrow was never quite sure to whom the prayers belonged. Zarrow cleared his throat as he approached, despite the burning sensation from drawing another breath. “Father,” he called, wincing at the stench. His father did not respond, instead remaining attuned to his prayers. “Father,” he repeated, more forcefully this time. Again, there was no response. With an annoyed sigh, Zarrow crossed his arms, furrowed his brow, and said, “Shaman Yodir.” Yodir’s arms dropped, his prayers quieted. “You forget yourself, my son,” he said over his shoulder. “What, may I ask, is of greater importance than my communion with the gods?” Zarrow coughed again. “My being able to breathe, for starters. Gods, Father, how many of these candles are necessary?” Yodir rose to his feet, his shaman robe falling past his knees. He towered over Zarrow by at least half a foot, though he remained a rather spindly and lanky man besides. He lifted his mask, revealing a grimacing face slicked with sweat, eyes reddened around his dark irises. He looked at Zarrow down the length of his nose, the elongated curvature of which often gave him a side profile akin to a hawk. “So long as the work continues,” he finally said, “the candles are all necessary.” Shaking his head, Zarrow pushed past his father and extinguished the candles one by one. The smell still lingered, but after a few moments, it was not nearly so pervasive and aggressive. Waving away some residual tufts of smoke, Zarrow turned toward his father’s worktable in the corner of the room, a pile of scrambled notes and postulations littering its surface. He picked up a sheet of paper, barely able to decode whatever cipher it was that his father invented beyond understanding what the research was all for. “Do the dead still wait for your word, then?” he asked, turning his eyes back toward his father. Yodir scoffed. “You remain dismissive.” “I remain skeptical, Father,” Zarrow corrected. “I remain perplexed at this sudden fascination with the Otherworld.” “You merely lack the dedication.” “More the obsession.” “Then perhaps I have not raised you well enough to know that obsession is, at times, partner to dedication.” Yodir removed his mask entirely and walked toward Zarrow, dropping it unceremoniously on his table. He placed a firm hand on his son’s shoulder, the sensation sending a chill down Zarrow’s arm. For one so physically unintimidating beyond the height, Zarrow could not help but feel a quiver of