Dragon's Boy by Jane Yolen

was no dragon, he knew that now. There was only a feeble old man.
    He stared up at the moon. It was trembly and yellow faced and he could make out eyes, a nose, a slash of mouth. It reminded him of Old Linn. Merlinnus , Lady Marion had called him. He hated the old man for what he’d done. For lying about the dragon. Yet he hadn’t lied about the wisdoms. Not really. Artos sighed.
    For it had been the wisdom that had gotten him his sword. And the wisdom that had won him his new friends. And the wisdom that had helped him understand Olwen’s condition. And Mag’s.
    Why, he thought suddenly, without that wisdom I’d be no better than a bulky, unruly, illiterate boy. He smiled ruefully, remembering when that had, in fact, been all he’d wanted to be.
    He stretched and then, carefully, walked back along the remnants of the wooden pathway and found the place where he’d stumbled away from his old path. It was well marked by moonlight. His feet had a bit of feeling in them again, which made him acutely aware of just how uncomfortable wet boots could be. The cake had mashed itself against the inside of his shirt. He wondered what it would taste like now. Setting his mouth in a line, he turned toward the cave.
    He knew he could just go back to the castle, dusting out the cake crumbs for the moat tortoise or Boadie and her pups. He could settle down in his featherbed and forget the old man lying yellow-mouthed in the cave. But if the dragon had taught him one wisdom, it had to be this: Bring gravy every day and confront your worst fear. Well, he didn’t have any gravy, but he still had a whole lot of unspoken fears: of being laughed at, of being made a fool, of having a man like Old Linn as a father.
    The path up to the cave was familiar even in the dark. When he reached the entrance, he took a long, shuddering breath, and called into the blackness.
    â€œI—am— not —your—son.” Not asking—telling. There. It was said. So why did he feel so awful having said it?
    There was an answering sigh. “True,” came the old man’s voice, drawing him back inside the cave.
    Artos walked carefully, avoiding both the metal foot and the hanging stones. He came around the wall and saw that Old Linn was still lying on the straw bed. The great carved door on the far wall was now ajar, as if he’d tried to leave and couldn’t quite manage it.
    â€œTrue? Then why did you call me your son? Why did you give me that awful lie?”
    â€œTrue, not true. The storyteller does not ever tell the truth baldly. I tell you that you are the son of a dragon. Pendragon. That is truth made young and beautiful. You knew you didn’t spring from the loins of a real dragon. Boadie bears pups. Lady Marion bears boys. Dragons bear dragons. That is truth baldly. But wisdom…” He smiled weakly.
    Artos was not amused. “You said I was your son and you are a man.”
    â€œI am a Druid priest, chaste, sworn never to marry nor to sire a child, all so that I may perform my magicks and study my particular wisdoms.”
    â€œA priest?” The surprise in Artos’ voice was undisguised. The only priest he’d ever known was Father Bertram.
    â€œI did not sire you, but I bore you,” the old man said. “Answer that riddle, if you can.”
    Artos answered warily, “Boadie bears pups. Lady Marion bears boys. Dragons bear dragons. And…”
    â€œI bore you….”
    Artos suddenly smiled. “You bore me away from some place. That’s it, isn’t it?”
    The old man was silent for a long moment, as silent as the dragon had been for every correct answer.
    â€œFrom whom did you bear me away?” Artos asked at last.
    â€œFrom your mother, before your birth father ever saw you,” Old Linn said. “And carried you to Sir Ector’s castle. And kept watch over you ever since. Is that not a fine fathering?”
    Artos felt the