them did not understand.
âYouâve got a sweet voice, young Art,â said one. âToo bad itâll soon be changing.â
Artos smiled. His voice might changeâbut the message would not. Inwardly he thanked the dragon, and he nodded at the guard.
They started home the next day, and something peculiar happened. Artos lapsed into a long, unbreakable silence. Though heâd been their main entertainment on the road thereâtelling stories and singing songsâit was as if heâd suddenly been bewitched.
âTell us a tale,â Cai begged. âYou havenât told one all day, and your tales make the road shorter.â
They all shouted their agreement. âAnother tale, Artos. Or a song.â
He said nothing.
âAfraid of old Garlic Breath, then?â Cai asked slyly. âAt least Olwenâs breath was sweeter, you have to give her that.â
Artos sighed. So Cai had learned nothing. But Olwen, he knew, had been comforted. There was that.
By the time they passed by the town of Meare and were on their way toward Shapwick, they were all teasing him about Mag. He was so sunk in misery by that time, he didnât ask how they knew. He just assumed, miserably, that all his exploits at the castle were well known. Except, of course, his time with the dragon.
âHeâs afraid of my new sword and what Iâll do to him at our next game,â Bed said, patting the sword heâd won in the tourney, the old one with the snakes put aside.
âOr my lance,â Lancot said brightly, though clearly he didnât believe that to be the case at all.
But Artos kept his silence. He kept it despite their attempts to wheedle him into a story or song or riddle or the name of the one whoâd bewitched him. In the attempt they listed every girl they knew as the cause. And then, for good measure, they added the names of the hard-handed men he might be worrying about back home: the Masters of Hawks and Hounds, the Master of Swords, Magnus Pieter, Sir Ector, even sickly Old Linn.
Of course they never mentioned dragons. They didnât know one lived near the castle, and Artos had certainly not breathed a word of its existence to them.
But it was the dragon that obsessed him and had ever since heâd used one of its wisdoms to help the girl Olwen. With each mile closer to the castle, he remembered the total and utter silence of the empty cave and how heâd neglected the dragon out of anger, out of self-righteous pique. He wondered if the dragon had returned; if it was angry that he hadnât come by with its daily meat. He wondered if it even cared, if it had ever cared , really, or if heâd only been a distraction.
Artos Pendragon. Son of the dragon. He knew he was no manâs real son. He was a fosterling, fatherless as well as motherless. His hand went to the bag under his tunic. Even more fatherless, he told himself. At least Iâve a ring from my mother. Iâve nothing belonging to the man who sired me. The only father Iâve had â if only for a few short months â has been a clanking, hot - breathed, storytelling dragon. And I left that dragon to play at willow wands with a trio of unruly, bulky, illiterate boys.
Each night of the return trip, Artos dreamed about the dragonâs cave, with its entrance staring down from the tor like the empty eye socket of a long-dead beast. It hadnât been a happy dream, a dream about fathers. It had been a horrible, repeating nightmare, and he was afraid of what it meant.
They arrived home to find that Sir Ector had returned before them, sick with the gout as Lady Marion had foretold. He was sitting by the great hearthfire with his right foot wrapped in toweling and elevated on a stool. He was unhappy and distracted by pain, unable to greet them with any warmth.
The castle was busy with unpackings and there was such a bustling about that Beau Regarde felt, for a little while at least, like a
âYouâve got a sweet voice, young Art,â said one. âToo bad itâll soon be changing.â
Artos smiled. His voice might changeâbut the message would not. Inwardly he thanked the dragon, and he nodded at the guard.
They started home the next day, and something peculiar happened. Artos lapsed into a long, unbreakable silence. Though heâd been their main entertainment on the road thereâtelling stories and singing songsâit was as if heâd suddenly been bewitched.
âTell us a tale,â Cai begged. âYou havenât told one all day, and your tales make the road shorter.â
They all shouted their agreement. âAnother tale, Artos. Or a song.â
He said nothing.
âAfraid of old Garlic Breath, then?â Cai asked slyly. âAt least Olwenâs breath was sweeter, you have to give her that.â
Artos sighed. So Cai had learned nothing. But Olwen, he knew, had been comforted. There was that.
By the time they passed by the town of Meare and were on their way toward Shapwick, they were all teasing him about Mag. He was so sunk in misery by that time, he didnât ask how they knew. He just assumed, miserably, that all his exploits at the castle were well known. Except, of course, his time with the dragon.
âHeâs afraid of my new sword and what Iâll do to him at our next game,â Bed said, patting the sword heâd won in the tourney, the old one with the snakes put aside.
âOr my lance,â Lancot said brightly, though clearly he didnât believe that to be the case at all.
But Artos kept his silence. He kept it despite their attempts to wheedle him into a story or song or riddle or the name of the one whoâd bewitched him. In the attempt they listed every girl they knew as the cause. And then, for good measure, they added the names of the hard-handed men he might be worrying about back home: the Masters of Hawks and Hounds, the Master of Swords, Magnus Pieter, Sir Ector, even sickly Old Linn.
Of course they never mentioned dragons. They didnât know one lived near the castle, and Artos had certainly not breathed a word of its existence to them.
But it was the dragon that obsessed him and had ever since heâd used one of its wisdoms to help the girl Olwen. With each mile closer to the castle, he remembered the total and utter silence of the empty cave and how heâd neglected the dragon out of anger, out of self-righteous pique. He wondered if the dragon had returned; if it was angry that he hadnât come by with its daily meat. He wondered if it even cared, if it had ever cared , really, or if heâd only been a distraction.
Artos Pendragon. Son of the dragon. He knew he was no manâs real son. He was a fosterling, fatherless as well as motherless. His hand went to the bag under his tunic. Even more fatherless, he told himself. At least Iâve a ring from my mother. Iâve nothing belonging to the man who sired me. The only father Iâve had â if only for a few short months â has been a clanking, hot - breathed, storytelling dragon. And I left that dragon to play at willow wands with a trio of unruly, bulky, illiterate boys.
Each night of the return trip, Artos dreamed about the dragonâs cave, with its entrance staring down from the tor like the empty eye socket of a long-dead beast. It hadnât been a happy dream, a dream about fathers. It had been a horrible, repeating nightmare, and he was afraid of what it meant.
They arrived home to find that Sir Ector had returned before them, sick with the gout as Lady Marion had foretold. He was sitting by the great hearthfire with his right foot wrapped in toweling and elevated on a stool. He was unhappy and distracted by pain, unable to greet them with any warmth.
The castle was busy with unpackings and there was such a bustling about that Beau Regarde felt, for a little while at least, like a
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