“He likes the blade,” said Old Linn.
Magnus Pieter shrugged, smiling.
Artos turned to thank the apothecary but he was gone and so was Lancot. When he peered out the smithy door, there were the two of them walking arm in arm up the winding path toward the castle.
“So you’ve got your Inter Linea now,” said the smith. “And about time you took one. Nothing wrong with the other two.”
“And you got a fine price for them,” Artos said.
The smith returned to his anvil, and the clang of hammer on new steel ended their conversation.
Artos ran out of the castle grounds, hallooing so loudly even the tortoise dozing on the rusted helm lifted its sleepy head. He fairly leaped over the two rocks in the path. They seemed to have gotten smaller with each trip to the dragon’s lair. He was calling still when he approached the entrance to the cave.
“Ho, old flametongue,” he cried out, the sword allowing him his first attempt at familiarity. “Furnace-lung, look what I have. My sword. From the stone you gave me. It is a rare beauty.”
There was no answer.
Suddenly afraid that he had overstepped the bounds and that the dragon lay sulking within, Artos peered inside.
The cave was dark, cold, silent.
Slowly Artos walked in and stopped about halfway. He felt sur-rounded by the icy silence. But that was all. There was no sense of dragon there. No presence.
“Sir? Father dragon? Are you home?” He put a hand up to one of the hanging stones to steady himself. In the complete dark he had little sense of what was up and what was down.
Then he laughed. “Oh, I know, you have gone out on a flight.” It was the only answer that came to him, though the dragon had never once mentioned flying. But everyone knows dragons have wings. And wings mean flight. Artos laughed again, a hollow little chuckle. Then he turned toward the small light of the cave entrance. “I’ll come back tomorrow. At my regular time,” he called over his shoulder. He said it out loud just in case the dragon’s magic extended to retrieving words left in the still cave air. “Tomorrow,” Artos promised.
But the pattern had been altered subtly and, like a weaving gone awry, could not be changed back to the way it had been without a weakness in the cloth.
The next day Artos did not go to the cave. Instead he practiced swordplay with willow wands in the main courtyard, beating Cai soundly and being beaten in turn by both Bedvere and Lancot.
The following morn, he and the three older boys were sent by Lady Marion on a fortnight’s journey to gather gifts of jewels and silks from the market towns for the coming holy days. Some at Ector’s castle celebrated the solstice with the druids, some kept the holy day for the Christ child’s birth, and a few of the old soldiers still drank bull’s blood and spoke of Mithras in secret meetings under the castle, for there was a vast warren of halls and rooms there. But they all gave gifts to one another at the year’s turning, whichever gods they knelt to.
It was Artos’s first such trip. The other boys had gone the year before under Linn’s guidance. This year the four of them were given leave to go alone. Cai was so pleased he forgave Artos for the beating. Suddenly, they were the best of friends. And Bedvere and Lancot, who had beaten him, loved Artos now as well, for even when he had been on the ground with the wand at his throat and his face and arms red from the lashings, he had not cried “Hold.” There had been not even the hint of tears in his eyes. They admired him for that.
With his bright new sword belted at his side, brand-new leggings from the castle stores, and the new-sworn friends riding next to him, it was no wonder Artos forgot the dragon and the dark cave. Or, if he did not exactly forget, what he remembered was that the dragon hadn’t been there when he wanted it the most. So, for a few days, for a fortnight, Artos felt he could, like Cai, glory in the new.
He did not glory in the dragon. It was old, old past counting the years, old past helping him, old and forgetful.
They came home with red rosy cheeks polished by the winter wind and bags packed with treasure. An extra two horses carried the overflow.
Cai, who had lain with his first girl, a serving wench of little beauty and great reputation, was full of new boasts. Bedvere and Lancot had won a junior tourney for boys under sixteen, Bedvere with his sword and Lancot his lance. And though Artos had been a favorite on the outbound trip, full of wonderful stories, riddles, and songs, as they turned toward home he had lapsed into long silences. By the time they were but a day’s hard ride away, it was as if his mouth were bewitched.
The boys teased him, thinking it was Mag who worried him. “Afraid of Old Garlic, then?” asked Cai. “At least Rosemary’s breath was sweet.” (Rosemary being the serving wench’s name.)
“Or are you afraid of my sword?” said Bedvere.
“Or my lance?” Lancot added brightly.
When he kept silent, they tried to wheedle the cause of his set lips by reciting castle gossip. Every maiden, every alewife, every false nurse was named. Then they turned their attention to the men. They never mentioned dragons, though, for they did not know one lived by the castle walls. Artos had never told them of it.
But it was the dragon, of course, that concerned him. With each mile he remembered the darkness, the complete silence of the cave. At night he dreamed of it, the cave opening staring down from the hill like the empty eye socket of a long-dead beast.
They unpacked the presents carefully and carried them up to Lady Marion’s quarters. She, in turn, fed them wine and cakes in her apartments, a rare treat. Her minstrel, a handsome boy except for his wandering left eye, sang a number of songs while they ate, even one in a Norman dialect. Artos drank only a single mouthful of the sweet wine. He ate nothing. He had heard all the songs before.
Thus it was well past sundown before Lady Marion let them go.
Artos would not join the others who were going to report to Lord Ector. He pushed past Cai and ran down the stairs. The other boys called after him, but he ignored them. Only the startled ends of their voices followed him.
He hammered on the gate until the guards lifted the iron port-cullis, then he ran across the moat bridge. Dark muddy lumps in the mushy ice were the only signs of life.
As he ran, he held his hand over his heart, cradling the two pieces of cake he had slipped into his tunic. Since he had had no time to beg stew from Mag, he hoped seed cakes would do instead. He did not, for a moment, believe the dragon had starved to death without his poor offering of stew. The dragon had existed many years before Artos had found the cave. It was not the size of the stew, but the fact of it.
He stubbed his toe on the second outcropping hard enough to force a small mewing sound between his lips. The tor was icy and that made climbing it difficult. Foolishly he’d forgotten his gloves with his saddle gear. And he’d neglected to bring a light.
When he got to the mouth of the cave and stepped in, he was relieved to hear heavy breathing echoing off the cave wall, until he realized it was the sound of his own ragged breath.
“Dragon!” he cried out, his voice a misery.
Suddenly there was a small moan and an even smaller glow, like dying embers that have been breathed upon one last time.
“Is that you, my son?” The voice was scarcely a whisper, so quiet the walls could not find enough to echo.
“Yes, dragon,” said Artos. “It is I.”
“Did you bring me any stew?”
“Only two seed cakes.”
“I like seed cakes.”
“Then I’ll bring them to you.”
“Noooooooo.” The sound held only the faintest memory of the powerful voice of before.
But Artos had already started toward the back of the cave, one hand in front to guide himself around the overhanging rocks. He was halfway there when he stumbled against something and fell heavily to his knees. Feeling around, he touched a long, metallic curved blade.
“Has someone been here? Has someone tried to slay you?” he cried. Then,
before the dragon could answer, Artos’s hand traveled farther along the blade to its strange metallic base.
His hands told him what his eyes could not; his mouth spoke what his heart did not want to hear. “It is the dragon’s foot.”
He leaped over the metal construct and scrambled over a small rocky wall. Behind it, in the dying glow of a small fire, lay an old man on a straw bed. Near him were tables containing beakers full of colored liquids—amber, rose, green, and gold. On the wall were strange toothed wheels with handles.
The old man raised himself on one arm. “Pendragon,” he said and tried to set his lips into a welcoming smile. “Son.”
“Old Linn,” replied Artos angrily, “I am no son of yours.”
“There was once,” the old man began quickly, settling into a story before Artos’s anger had time to gel, “a man who would know Truth. And he traveled all over the land looking.”
Without willing it, Artos was pulled into the tale.
“He looked along the seacoasts and in the quiet farm dales. He went into the country of lakes and across vast deserts seeking Truth. At last, one dark night in a small cave atop a hill, he found her. Truth was a wizened old woman with but a single tooth left in her head. Her eyes were rheumy. Her hair greasy strands. But when she called him into her cave, her voice was low and lyric and pure and that was how he knew he had found Truth.”
Artos stirred uneasily.
The old man went on. “He stayed a year and a day by her side and learned all she had to teach. And when his time was done, he said, ‘My Lady Truth, I must go back to my own home now. But I would do something for you in exchange.’” Linn stopped. The silence between them grew until it was almost a wall.
“Well, what did she say?” Artos asked at last.
“She told him, ‘When you speak of me, tell your people that I am young and beautiful. ’”
For a moment Artos said nothing. Then he barked out a short, quick laugh. “So much for Truth.”
Linn sat up and patted the mattress beside him, an invitation that Artos ignored. “Would you have listened these seven months to an old apothecary who had a tendency to fits?”
“You did not tell me the truth.”
“I did not lie. You are the dragon’s son.”
Artos set his mouth and turned his back on the old man. His voice came out low and strained. “I… am… not… your… son.”
“It is true that you did not spring from my loins,” said the old man. “But I carried you here to Ector’s castle and waited and hoped you would seek out my wisdom. But you longed for the truth of lance and sword. I did not have that to give.” His voice was weak and seemed to end in a terrible sigh.
Artos did not turn around. “I believed in the dragon.”
Linn did not answer.
“I loved the dragon.”
The silence behind him was so loud that at last Artos turned around. The old man had fallen onto his side and lay still. Artos felt something warm on his cheeks and realized it was tears. He ran to Linn and knelt down, pulling the old man onto his lap. As he cradled him, Linn opened his eyes.
“Did you bring me any stew?” he asked.
“I…” The tears were falling unchecked now. “I brought you seed cakes.”
“I like seed cakes,” Linn said. “But couldn’t you get any stew from Old Garlic?”
Artos felt his mouth drop open. “How did you know about her?”
The old man smiled, showing terrible teeth. He 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. “I am The Dragon.”
Artos smiled back and then carefully stood with the old man in his arms. He was amazed at how frail Linn was. His bones, Artos thought, must be as hollow as the wing bones of a bird.
There was a door in the cave wall and Linn signaled him toward it. Carrying the old apothecary through the doorway, Artos marveled at the runes carved in the lintel. Past the door was a warren of hallways and rooms. From somewhere ahead he could hear the chanting of many men.
Artos looked down at the old man and whispered to him. “Yes. I understand. You are the dragon, indeed. And I am the dragon’s boy. But I will not let you die just yet. I have not finished getting my wisdom.”
Smiling broadly, the old man turned toward him like a baby rooting at its mother’s breast, found the seed cakes, ate one of them and then, with a gesture both imperious and fond, stuffed the other in Artos’s mouth.
The Miracle Aquilina
Margo Lanagan
Margo Lanagan was born in Newcastle, New South Wales, Australia, and has a BA in History from Sydney University. She spent ten years as a freelance book editor and currently makes a living as a technical writer. Lanagan has published junior and teenage fiction novels, including fantasies WildGame, The Tankermen, and Walking Through Albert. She has also written instalments in two shared-world fantasy series for junior readers, and has published three acclaimed original story collections: White Time, double World Fantasy Award winner Black Juice, and Red Spikes. Her latest book is a fantasy novel, Tender Morsels, a World Fantasy Award winner and Printz Award Honor book. Lanagan is working on a new novel, The Brides of Rollrock Island, and collection Yellowcake. Lanagan lives in Sydney, Australia.
You’d have thought the bread-dough was the Captain’s head, the way I went at it, squashing any mouth or eye that opened. Bringing shame upon us—smush, I smeared that mouth shut. No daughter of mine—punch, that one too. Daughter of his? I was my own self; he did not own me. If I was anyone else’s I was Klepper’s; he owned more parts of me than Father did, than father wanted to know about. I was married to Klepper in all but name; part of him floated in me, growing slowly into a bigger shame—
Thump, squash—I shook the thought out of my head. Reddy was spinning one of her stories—of a fisher-girl and a kingmaker, this one—to keep Amber and Roper quiet at their needlework, and I began to listen too, to stop from thinking more, from caring, from fearing. And I was almost lost in the poor girl’s story—how insolent she was to the king, and how lucky he did not have her hanged for it!—when the Captain strode in, all leathered-plate and rage. He had his helmet on, even; he was only indoors for a moment.
“Here,” he said. “I’ll show you.” He came for me, and so swiftly I didn’t even flinch away. He grasped my arm; he tore me off the dough and pushed me to the door, my hands all floury claws. “I’ll show you how girls end up, that don’t do as they’re told.”
Reddy was half up, and Amber and Roper turned in their seats, a matched pair, but they would do nothing, only gape there. They would never defy him, or question; they would never save me. Then we were out on the bright street, and me all apronned and floury. I shook him off, but he caught my elbow again, hard, that everyone should see he was in command of me.
“This woman.” He muttered it as if woman-ness itself were an evil. “She worships wooden saints—you’ve seen them. She prostrates herself before those foolish things. Which would be bad enough.”
There was a law, that those people be left at peace in their beliefs. Even if our Aquilin gods were richer and more clearly seen—for their stories and families were all written down strand for strand, and painted on walls for those of us who couldn’t read, and taught in church and school—still we were to indulge the saint-followers, allow them their shrines and mutterings, only jeer among ourselves.
“She was one of ours, from a faithful family, but her nurse impressed her to the saints-belief, corrupted her.” Ah, that was the cause of his bitterness, was it?
“She’s to be punished for that?” I said, because I was not sure what the law was, for our people gone over to the saints’ ways, but I did not think we could call it exactly a crime.
“No!” He pushed me to the right, through the council portico, along the colonnade there, people glancing at us but too important about their own business to accost us. “She refused the King himself, is her offence!”
“Refused him what?” I struggled as much as I could without making a scene. “Let go of me! I will walk with you!”
“You will,” he said, “you will.” And did not let go. “Refused him herself. Her hand, or failing that her body. Wife or concubine he offered her. Wife! Out in the fields with her sheep, she was! Who knows what vermin were on her; who knows what lads had been at her willy-nilly? And our King says I will have you, I will save you, you are beautiful enough to be queen or mistress to me! And No!, she says! She would rather turn to leather out there on the hillside, making her signs on herself, chattering to her pixies. A madwoman, or at the least imprudent! You will see, though.” He shook me, and I staggered. “You will see how imprudence is dealt with, and wilfulness.”
We were going down the backs now, where it was unpaved, and smelt, and was narrow. He pushed me ahead of him. There was the barracks, with soldiers smoking at the upper windows, grinning down, and the woman-houses, the crones at the doors watching us shrewdly as we passed. Then we turned the corner, and there was the prison, blind of windows, its wall-tops all spikes and potsherds.
The guard at the entry-way saluted my father, staring hard at nothing. For a moment I felt the bitterness of belonging to a Captain. This guard’s respect was for my father’s rank only; the Captain the man was as nothing to him. I was as nothing, a parcel or a document the Captain brought with him to his place of work.
In we went, and along in the blind stony darkness, farther in and along again, until we were deep in the place. He was imprisoning me? He was placing me in a cell, to teach me this lesson? I would not learn it, no matter what weight of stone and military he put about me, no matter how long he kept me from the world.
Finally we came to a door that stood open; here the guard gave me a look of alarm, even as he sharpened his stance for my father. From inside came the sound of a whip through the air, like a little outraged shout, and a slap on something wet.
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