My sister was a strange one, even at an early age. Our father would joke that he ought to have three sons instead of two, for his youngest daughter was as good as any boy. He caught her scrapping when I was five and whipped her soundly, and after that he left her to our mother and would only instruct her in the tongues. And so it was our brother taught us how to shoot, and our oldest sister must have learned as well. But it was Fîriel who stood behind me while I practiced and fixed my arms and ensured I knew the words before I left for my first summer.
"You are of the lucky kind," she used to say, teasing me in whatever language she would pick that day. I used to think she knew them all. She knew no more than father, but perhaps she learned them faster.
Báldan said the land was in her blood, that she would be a Ranger if she had been born a man. But she was not and pretended that was right. He let her join them when they were close to home. I'd hear them stir at night, and Báldan would dare me not to breathe a word. If Parîel caught them she'd protest, but she still held our confidences within the loft. I stole with them when I grew older, and Báldan would show us the forest signs and things I'd use in later years. Fîriel loved it. She hiked her skirts or drowned in britches and ran through the forest like a rabbit. She was not graceful enough to be a deer.
When Parîel fought with Báldan and Father finally knew, our midnight excursions abruptly stopped. I was not so worried for I had permission to join the men at times, but our brother's vitriol was acid. He wanted Fîri as his younger brother. I was not growing fast enough.
Maybe it was better when she lost her sight, though I could never tell them that.