Dragon's Boy by Jane Yolen Page A

anger rise up in him again, like spring sap. “A silent father,” he said quietly. Then louder, “A deceitful father.”
    â€œI was sworn to secrecy, my boy,” Old Linn said, struggling to sit up. “Sworn to keep your name and lineage until you proved yourself worthy of it.”
    â€œAnd if I did not?” The question paused in the air between them.
    â€œAh, well.” The old man coughed. “The dragon and I were meant to see that you became worthy.”
    â€œBut I found the dragon by accident,” Artos said.
    â€œDid you?” the old man asked.
    â€œDidn’t I?” But then he remembered Boadie’s flight and the tracks leading toward the cave and wondered. “I was to get wisdom,” he whispered.
    The old man smiled. “Just so. Wisdom. Already you had some knowledge. Your childish promise showed when you learned your letters with ease.”
    The bag seemed to grow warm against Artos’ chest. He reached up to stroke it.
    â€œSuch ease of learning was part of your inheritance.”
    My inheritance, Artos thought. And Old Linn the only one who can tell me of it.
    â€œBut,” the old man continued, “suddenly you reached your springtide and you stopped growing into that promise. You grew instead into a longing for the wisdom of sword and lance. That, of course, I didn’t have to give.” His voice seemed to sigh into the air. “What was I to do? I enlisted that fool of a smith and that wraith of a hound, and by Lady Marion’s good graces as well, you accidentally came upon a dragon. Or perhaps you did not. There is wisdom to be found in happy accidents, you know. It is the wisdom of the Land of Serendip.”
    Artos’ hand dropped from the bag. He closed his eyes to keep tears from starting. “But I believed in that dragon.”
    Old Linn chuckled. “It was a good dragon, wasn’t it? I made it myself.”
    â€œI loved that dragon.”
    â€œAnd yet you left it without a good-bye.”
    Remembering the silence of the cave and how readily he had turned to his noisy new friends, Artos was nevertheless stung by the unfairness of the accusation. “I did come back,” he whispered. “The second day.” He walked over to the straw bed and knelt by its side. “I did try.”
    The apothecary put his hand on Artos’ head, then croaked out, “Did you…did you bring any of that stew?”
    â€œI…” The tears, so long checked, were falling now. “I brought you seed cakes.”
    â€œI like seed cakes,” Old Linn said.
    â€œThey’re awfully mashed.”
    â€œEven so,” the old man said. “But couldn’t you have gotten any stew from Garlic Mag?”
    Artos felt his mouth drop open. “How did you know about her?”
    The old man smiled, showing terrible teeth, and whispered, “I am the Great Riddler. I am the Master of Wisdoms. I am the Word and I am the Light. I Was and Am and Will Be.” He hesitated, reached up, and pulled the cylinder toward him, speaking directly into its open mouth.
    â€œI AM THE DRAGON!”
    The words ran down into the tubing and issued forth out of an opening in the wall so loudly that the cave was awash with echoes.
    Artos picked up the old man’s hand and held it. He was amazed at how frail the hand was.
    His bones, Artos thought, must be as hollow as the wing bones of a bird. As hollow as the wing bones of a dragon. A bird. A dragon. Merlinnus. He thought about the hawks in the castle mews, one of them a little merlin. Smiling, he mouthed the words “Perhaps you are the dragon” to Old Linn’s fingers, but the old man didn’t hear it.
    â€œLook,” the apothecary said, pointing to the door in the far wall, barely illuminated by the brazier’s fading light. “Through that door, Pendragon, are the men you must learn to lead. With passion. With fairness. With wisdom. Are