Free The Witch's Daughter by R. A. Salvatore Page A

dispel the fun, but neither did he want the troupe moving out from the safety of the town with an improper attitude. “You will find danger up there, do not doubt. Many animals wander the course of those uncharted mountains, and talons have been spotted there on more than one occasion.”
    “We can take care of ourselves,” one of the girls that Meriwindle did not recognize assured him.
    Meriwindle regarded the group for a long moment. They were the children of farmers and craftsmen, more accustomed to wielding a hammer or hoe than a weapon. But they were a smart lot, and grown straight and tall under the brilliant sunshine of western Calvan fields.
    They all waited now, breathless and anxious, for the judgment of the most famous warrior in all of Corning, perhaps in all of the lands west of the great River Ne’er Ending.
    “So you can,” Meriwindle told the girl sincerely. “I do not doubt that for a moment. If I did, I would not allow my son to accompany you.” The group relaxed visibly, a smile finding its way onto every face. If Meriwindle, the elven warrior who had fought in the Battle of Mountaingate, had faith in them, they could not fail.
    “To the road, then!” cried Lennard. “To Jolsen’s and then to the Baerendels!”
    They filed out of the small cottage with a heightened spring in their step. Bryan lagged behind for some final words with his father.
    “Do you really believe that we can take care of ourselves?” he had to ask.
    “If I did not, I would surely not let you go,” Meriwindle replied.
    “We will return within the span of two months,” Bryan assured him. “In time for the autumn harvest.”
    “Of course,” said Meriwindle. “And after that …” he began tentatively.
    Bryan cocked his head, realizing from the suddenly grim tone that his father had something important to tell him.
    “I had thought to do some traveling myself,” Meriwindle explained. “After the crop is in and safely off to market.”
    “Pallendara?” Bryan asked excitedly. “We will go with the wagons?”
    “A road longer,” replied Meriwindle.
    The hesitant look on Bryan’s face showed that he suspected but did not dare to speak the true meaning of his father’s words.
    “I had thought to be returning to Lochsilinilume,” Meri-windle said plainly. “I desire to walk again through the land of my birth.”
    Bryan fell back a step, not knowing how to take the news. “But, could I?” he stammered, hopeful and afraid all at once. He would like nothing better than to see the enchanted valley, but he wasn’t certain how long his father planned to be gone. Certainly they could not leave the farm unattended. “Would I … I mean, there’s the farm to consider. Would you want—”
    “I most certainly would!” Meriwindle replied with a hearty laugh. He dropped an arm over Bryan’s shoulder and shook him. “The farm will be here when—if—we choose to return. But you must come with me. What fun would an old elf find along the road if his most trusted companion was not riding by his side?
    “Besides,” he continued, giving Bryan another playful shake, “the armor and the blade belong to you now. It is your duty, in return for the gifts, to protect your aging father on his long journey.”
    Bryan straightened at his father’s honest respect, smiling from ear to ear. “They’ll be picking a leader before we get out of town,” he said, looking back over his shoulder at the open door. “I believe that they meant to choose me when we planned this journey. Now, bearing the sword and armor, it is very likely that I will be selected.”
    “Then accept,” Meriwindle was quick to reply. “But remember always that a true leader speaks less than he listens.”
    “Come on, Bryan!” came an anonymous call from outside.
    “To Jolsen’s!” the rest of the anxious troupe piped in on cue.
    “I have to go.”
    Meriwindle gave his son a final hug, then put him out at arm’s length to look him over.