The Golden Princess: A Novel of the Change (Change Series) by S. M. Stirling Page A

currents of air.
    Morfind Vogeler stood silent lookout while her twin, Malfind, blew a raspberry at Faramir, and then lifted his flute, which
was
shutting up, technically.
    Behind them eastward were the valleys where human-kind lived again, however thinly spread the new settlements were. Where the wheat would turn gold for the harvest in a few weeks, the folk whose fields and children and sleep the Rangers guarded, and beyond it all the faintest blue-white hint of the Sierra peaks. The air was cool enough to be comfortable wearing Dúnedain field gear with their cloaks around their shoulders. It smelled faintly of sea and more strongly of mountain herbs and the pink-and-white blossoms of the wild roses that grew shaggy over the chest-high walls, making them look like any other set of tumbled boulders and broken concrete in the ruins hereabouts.
    Faramir was in charge of the lookout patrol at this outpost as part of his training and he knew his cousin would do whatever he was told, just as Faramir would when the positions were reversed. For example, if he told him to put the flute away, he would. Though he’d probably suggest Faramir putting it somewhere extremely uncomfortable while he tucked it into his haversack. The Dúnedain Rangers were highly disciplined and they all understood that you couldn’t get into the habit of sitting around arguing about what to do in the field.
    They were also a family business and the three of them had grown up together, and they were all just eighteen years old. He wasn’t going to get the sort of deference an Associate nobleman expected up in the north-realm, even if it had been a much happier day than this. Dúnedain had ranks, but they didn’t have an aristocracy. Or to be more precise, they all thought of themselves as nobles whatever work they did. That meant hewasn’t going to get the sort of military punctilio you could expect from Boisean legionnaires or Bearkillers either.
    Still, he took a breath to speak. This sort of thing was
why
you practiced being in command. Watching other people do it or talk about it was one thing, and helped you see the right thing to do and when it needed to be done. Doing it
felt
different, and less agreeable.
    Morfind snorted from where she stood at the heavy tripod-mounted binoculars they were using to keep the western approaches to the Golden Gate under observation. At the same time she tossed a pebble at her brother over her shoulder . . . accurately and fairly hard.
    “Ouch!” Malfind said, as it smacked into his forehead and then bounced away; it didn’t draw blood, not quite.
    “Stuff the flute up the back way, dear brother,” she said. “This isn’t a Ring Day dance.”
    “It’s makework,” Malfind grumbled, rubbing the red spot. “It’s staring at nothing!”
    “So what? It’s still a scout, so play the flute when we get back. And if you ever miss the first sharp on ‘Sing Ho to the Greenwood’ again I’m going to hang your severed head in a tree and say the
yrch
did it.”
    Faramir turned his head so that he could smile for an instant. Malfind would take that from his sister and remember it better, since it didn’t involve butting horns with another young ram. He was bored; so was Faramir. He’d much rather be hunting, or fishing, or even singing along with Malfind’s truly terrible version of “Sing Ho to the Greenwood,” which the poor fool actually thought would help him with girls. Or working on a woodcarving project he had going to make illustrated printing blocks for the press. Or even just weapons drill or barnyard chores.
    Malfind chuckled. “All right, I’d better practice where you’re not listening, beloved sister from Udûn.”
    A lot of what Rangers did was pretty boring. Much of the rest was . . .
    What was the old-world word?
Stressful,
that’s it. Stressful.
    “You used the old loan-word, too,” Morfind said disapprovingly to Faramir, also without turning around. “You should use the pure