The iron shackle was half-buried in the damp mud of the ditch, but to Gale’s trained eyes, it might as well have been a beacon. He knelt, his fingers tracing the cold, rusted link. It was small, far too small for a grown man. Nearby, the deep, churning ruts of a heavily laden wagon cut into the earth.

Slavers. Whoever had first conceived of such a blasted, disgusting occupation should be branded for life and scorned by decent folk for the rest of their miserable days. The very thought of men who found employment, or worse, pleasure, in traveling the continents to snatch helpless children from their families made Gale’s blood boil. He was never entirely sure who was worse: the slavers who sold the children, or the wealthy, seemingly respectable citizens who went to the markets to buy them.

He glanced down the road where the wagon tracks disappeared into the gloom. It would not be possible to pursue them today, not alone, and certainly not without supplies. Grimly, Gale’s mind returned to the game he had been tracking, years of experience keeping his movements calm and controlled despite his irritation.

Then he heard it, the light snap of a dry twig underfoot. A tiny sound, but to Gale’s trained ears, it was loud enough to command his full attention. He did not whip his head around; sudden movement was incredibly noticeable in the quiet woods. Instead, he allowed his body to melt into the shadow of a broad oak tree, turning his head with agonizing slowness.

Thirty yards away, a magnificent white-tailed stag stepped into the clearing. The wind was blowing gently from the beast to the man, keeping Gale's scent perfectly hidden. His fingers crept to his bow. He preferred the silent, lethal simplicity of his short-range hunting bow over any mechanical device. He fitted an arrow to the string, keeping the motion silent and smooth.

As he raised the weapon, his muscles locked into a practiced, steady frame. He aimed for the sweet spot just behind the shoulder, where the heart lay. He refused to kill does; he had no desire to leave young fawns motherless. Stags were a different matter. They did not spend time with their young, meaning this one would not be missed by any fawns in the vicinity. Its antlers were still in velvet, shedding in ragged, itchy strips. It would be a clean, painless kill. Gale exhaled half a breath, holding the rest. His fingers released the tension.

For a single, fleeting second, the stag seemed to know what was coming. Warm, liquid eyes met Gale’s deep blue gaze. Then, the silent flight of the arrow ended the moment.

His hunting knife moved in quick, deft strokes. He sliced through the skin of the hind leg, threading a simple linen cord behind the heel tendon and secured it neatly. Local butchers who bought from him were always pleasantly surprised by his meticulousness. By dressing the carcass immediately in the field and keeping the cuts perfectly clean of hair, dirt, and punctured organs, he ensured the meat remained sweet and free of the bitter, gamey ruin that spoiled so many other hunts. He was exceptionally fast, too. More than one shopkeeper had marveled at how a carcass could arrive at their door so soon after the kill, cooled down and pristine, allowing them to sell it at a premium to customers who normally avoided wild game.

“If only all the hunters who came through these woods were as thorough as you,” one butcher had said, wiping his bloody hands on a canvas apron.

“Sounds like there’s a story behind that statement,” Gale had replied, leaning against the wooden counter.

“Some idiot came through yesterday trying to sell me a buck,” the butcher grumbled, shaking his head. “The fool had clearly pierced the intestines when gutting it. You could smell the rot from the road, but he had the gall to look me in the eye and suggest I just unwrap it, soak it in vinegar for half an hour, and rub it down with limes to hide the stench.”

Gale let out a sharp, dry laugh. “I hope you chased him out of your shop with a cleaver.”

“I nearly did,” the butcher snorted, rolling eyes. “Does he think I’m a novice? I’ve been running this shop for twenty years. I told him he was more likely to kill my customers than make a profit and sent him packing. But it’s incredibly frustrating. The summer dampness is making even my clean meat spoil faster than usual, and then fools like him come in and waste my time. Or worse, he’ll pull the wool over the eyes of some greenhorn starting out, and together, they’ll make an entire village sick.”

Gale nodded sympathetically. “It’s a bad season for it. Though, if you’re struggling with the summer heat, you could always try packing the fresh cuts in stinging nettles.”

The butcher slowly looked up, squinting at Gale as if the hunter had just suggested seasoning the venison with dirt.

“Nettles?” the butcher asked, his voice dripping with skepticism. “Those miserable, burning weeds? Why in the world would I bring those anywhere near my shop? If a leaf so much as brushes my arm, I’m itching for three days. Not to mention, my customers would take their business elsewhere if I handed them meat covered in blisters.”

Gale grinned, raising his hands defensively. “Hear me out. I’m not suggesting you rub the leaves onto the meat. You line your transport crates with them.”

The butcher frowned, though his curiosity was piqued. “And how does that help?”

“You harvest them dry, and you pack them loosely around the fresh cuts,” Gale explained, leaning in. “First off, they don’t mat down like grass, so they keep the air moving around the meat instead of trapping the dampness. Second, whatever sharp, burning bite is in the sting of those leaves, flies and beetles absolutely hate it. They won’t go near it. It keeps the surface of the meat sweet and dry, and slows down the spoilage on a long haul. Another hunter taught me the trick years ago, but since I don't deal with that much meat at once, I rarely have to use it myself.”

The butcher tapped his finger on the cutting block, his irritation fading into thoughtful contemplation. “You know... I actually heard a traveler from the southern valleys mentioning something like that a few months back. I figured he’d had a few too many cups of ale and was pulling my leg. But if a hunter of your caliber is backing up the claim...”

“It’s no tale,” Gale said with a reassuring nod. “It’s saved many of my catches on hot summer journeys. Who knows, your mystery traveler might have even been my friend or one of his acquaintances.”

“Well, now,” the butcher mused, looking out the back window of his shop. “I’ve got half a mind to ask old Hobart down in the next village if he’s tried it. And heaven knows nettles grow thick enough behind my barn.”

“Just wear thick leather gloves when you harvest them,” Gale chuckled with a wink as he bade the man farewell.

Now finished with cleaning and packing the deer away into his pack-cart, Gale checked on his horse. After making sure the gelding was perfectly happy grazing on a patch of sweet clover, Gale finally allowed himself to relax.

He retrieved his gittern from its leather wrap. The wood was a warm, polished cherry, carved with small ivy leaves along the neck. He strummed a few experimental notes, picking out the chords carefully and scribbling the progression down on a scrap of parchment lest he forget them. There was a lyricist he had worked with in the past in the town nearby. With some luck, the venison steaks might fetch a good enough price to hire the man for an afternoon.

Gale ran through some of the songs in his arsenal, preparing for his performance in the tavern a few days later. It was a decent-sized town, which called for an opening song of joyous melodies and plenty of clapping. The Maid of the Silver Dell had a flowery introduction, something that would catch the ear of musicians and ladies alike. As Gale played through the melody and quietly sang the words, he fervently hoped this town would not have a rhythmic disaster of the same quality as the last place he had performed. There always seemed to be one or two people in the crowd who had no sense of music whatsoever, individuals who insisted on clapping loudly and throwing everyone else off the real beat.

To avoid a repeat of that mess, he decided to swap his second song for Roll the Storm Along. The popular lyrics caught on quickly just about everywhere, and he had yet to meet a soul who did not know the chorus by heart. The clapping would cease, replaced by the collective roar of the crowd singing along. She Walks the Quiet Heather and Trees of Gold were two more crowd-pleasers he would use to end the night.

His own original songs, three of them so far, were reserved for encore performances. He had been requested to play them almost every time, and he was always pleasantly surprised when he heard children humming his melodies in neighboring towns as he traveled through in the days that followed. He wondered briefly if his sisters might have heard them. He pictured them sitting by the hearth as children, singing the earliest versions together, but he quickly dismissed the painful thought. His sisters were gone for now, but he would find them, and they would spend many hours singing together to make up for the lost years.

To clear his head of the sudden melancholy, Gale began making a few marks in his travel journal, pursing his lips as he calculated the days. The Festival of the Sunken Stars would soon take place in Yvaine, the capital of Valmare. He kept close track of the event every year. Up until five years ago, he had been intricately involved in its planning and execution. His involvement had not been born of civic duty, but rather of his quiet devotion to the woman who had once been his entire world. She had been one of the primary minds behind the festival’s very creation. Gale had spent months working by her side, helping her design the complex logistics of the event, yet they had never once stood together on the shoreline to watch his own arrow fly in her honor.

He smiled faintly as he recalled the sheer excitement of those autumn nights. The festival was a breathtaking marriage of two cultures, blending Valmare’s ancient archery games with the graceful ways of the delphinians. He could almost hear the whistle of flaming arrows arching over his head, hissing through the dark sky. From the shoreline, the men of Valmare would launch their arrows toward the lake. Out on the dark water, the delphinians swam well beneath the surface, safely out of reach of the arrows, guiding the water surrounding the small, woven coracles that floated on the surface in an effort to catch them.

The little vessels were crafted by the women of Valmare, sealed tightly with black pitch to keep them afloat, and each carried a fragile clay pot of oil with a distinctive stone inside. The Delphinians would guide the boats into drifting, dancing patterns across the lake, challenging the archers’ aim. When a well-aimed flaming arrow struck a coracle, shattering the clay pot, the oil would ignite. To those on the shore, it looked as though a star had fallen and bloomed on the water; to the delphinians watching from the depths below, it created a beautiful, shimmering constellation of fire on their ceiling of water.

---

Hello, lovely humans who are reading the inaugural chapter of Book 2: Sight of The Kitesong Trilogy! I'm thrilled you're here and want to establish the posting schedule (which if you've been here since Book 1, you'll see is slightly different): 

I will be posting biweekly instead of trying to stick to a certain "week" of the month to maintain a regular posting schedule (of sorts) for you readers in addition to keeping me accountable to keep writing! Unlike Book 1, which was written about halfway through when I first started posting, I'm still very early in the writing process of Book 2! So pray for me and we'll see if I can keep this up! 😅

xoxo,

tsiagisel