Free Dragon's Boy by Jane Yolen

truly great manor house. Of course that meant that no one paid much attention to the boys.
    Having been outside, having seen the tournament at Shapwick and the wool fair at Woolvington, having passed large inns and other castles, Artos understood for the first time what a really small place Sir Ector’s castle was. And the peculiar thing about that knowledge was that he knew, at the same time, how much he treasured Beau Regarde for its very smallness, for its ordinariness, for its familiarity. It was the one thought that pierced through his misery. All the traveling, all the wild tales he’d told, all the sights he’d seen, made him happier to be here—at home.
    The boys helped unpack their bags of presents and carted them up to Lady Marion’s rooms. She, in turn, fed them wine and hot milk and cakes: little buttered breads, buns sticky with sugared icing, and cakes shot full of poppyseeds.
    Her minstrel, a handsome boy except for his wandering left eye, sang a number of songs while they ate. They were all familiar to Artos—he’d learned them from the dragon. He hummed along quietly, but he ate nothing. His stomach suddenly hurt.
    It was well past sundown before Lady Marion finished thanking them and let them go at last.
    â€œLet’s play at draughts,” Cai said.
    â€œArtos can tell us a story while we play,” Bed suggested.
    Lancot added, “Better yet, let’s teach Artos to play.”
    But he brushed their suggestions aside and ran down the stairs. When they called after, he ignored them and only the startled ends of their voices followed him.
    He hammered on the gate, closed since sundown, until the guards lifted the great latch and pushed the gates apart just enough to let him slip through. Then he raced across the moat bridge, where muddy lumps in the water were the only signs of life.
    As he ran into the deepening dark, down the familiar path, he held his hand over his heart, cradling the two pieces of cake he’d slipped inside his tunic. He hadn’t time to spare to beg stew from Mag, even though he wouldn’t have begrudged her a kiss now. Not if it made her happy. He hoped the seed cakes would please the dragon. He didn’t think for a moment that the dragon had actually starved to death without his poor offering of stew. That dragon had existed for many years before Artos had appeared by happy accident in its cave. No—it wasn’t the size of the stew but the fact of it. Just as it wasn’t the jewel under the cup but the fact that the onlooker believed it had been put there.
    He stubbed his toe on the second outcropping because of the dark, hard enough to force a small mewing sound from between his lips, though the blow hadn’t hurt as much as Cai’s wand at his throat. Only he hadn’t been expecting his toe to be stubbed and he had expected Cai to do exactly as he’d done with the wand.
    When he started up the tor, he found the path slippery and that made climbing difficult, especially with one hand over his tunic to keep the cakes from falling out.
    He got to the mouth of the cave at last and was relieved to hear heavy, ragged breathing echoing off the wall; relieved, that is, until he realized it was only the sound of his own panting.
    â€œDragon!” he cried out, his voice a sudden broken misery. What if the dragon really had counted on the stew? What if the dragon were starving? What if the dragon were dead? “Dragon!”

11
Son of the Dragon
    F OR A LONG, HORRIBLE moment the cave was silent, an awful, palpable, black silence. Then there was a small moan and an even smaller glow, like dying embers that have been breathed upon just one last time.
    â€œIs that you, my son?” The voice was scarcely a whisper, so quiet the walls could not find enough substance to echo.
    â€œYes, dragon,” Artos said, horribly relieved. “It’s me.”
    â€œIt is I ,” the dragon corrected feebly.