Dragon's Boy by Jane Yolen Page A

the favorite phrase of the Master of Hounds, a whey-colored man with a fringe of white hair. The sound of the phrase comforted him. If he wasn’t lost—only bothered—he’d be home soon, his wet boots off and drying in front of a warm peatfire.
    Turning slowly, Artos stared across the fens. His boots were sinking slowly in the shaking, muddy land. It took an effort to raise them, one after another. Each time he did, they made an awful sucking noise, like the Master of Hounds at his soup, only louder. At the last turn, he saw behind him a small tor mounding up over the bog, dog tracks running up it.
    â€œIf I climb that,” he encouraged himself, “I’ll be able to see what I need to see.” He meant, of course, he’d be able to see the castle from the small hillock and judge the distance home, maybe even locate a drier route. His feet were really cold now, the water having gotten in over the tops of his boots in the stream and squishing up between his toes at every step. Not that the boots mattered. They were an old pair, Cai’s castoffs, and had never really fit anyway. But he still didn’t fancy walking all the way back squishing like that.
    He’d never been on his own this far north of the castle before and certainly never would have planned coming out into the watery fens where the peat hags reigned. They could pull a big shire horse down, not even bothering to spit back the bones. Everyone knew that.
    â€œBlasted dog!” he swore again, hotly. “Blasted Boadie!” He felt a little better having said it aloud.
    If the little tor had been a mountain he wouldn’t have attempted it. Certainly neither he nor any of the other boys would dare go up the High Tor, which was the large mount northwest of the castle. It was craggy, with sheer sides, its top usually hidden in the mists. There was no easy path up. The High Tor had an evil reputation, Cai said. Princes who tried to climb it were still there, locked in the stone. Lancot said he’d heard how the High King’s only son had been whisked away there the day he’d been born and devoured by witches for their All Hallow’s meal. Bedvere had only recently recalled a rhyme his old Nanny Bess had taught him: “Up the Tor, Life’s nae more.”
    But of course the hillock wasn’t that tor and it would be the perfect place from which to get his bearings. So he slogged toward it, threading through the hummocks and the tussocky grass, forcing himself not to mind the water squishing up between his toes, following the tracks.
    He was halfway up the tor and halfway around it as well when he saw the cave.
    â€œHullo!” he whispered.
    It was only an unprepossessing black hole in the rock and only a bit higher than himself, as round and as smooth as if it had been carved out by a master hand. The opening was shaped into a rock that was as gray and slatey as the sky. There wasn’t a single grain or vein running across the rockface to distinguish it, and Boadie’s tracks had disappeared.
    Nervously he ran his fingers through the tangles of his hair, his gooseberry-colored eyes wide. Then he stepped through the dark doorway. He went less out of courage than curiosity, being particularly careful of some long, spearlike rocks hanging from the ceiling of the cave just two steps beyond the opening.
    Slowly his eyes got used to the dark and he began to make out a grayer, mistier color from the black. Suddenly forgetting dog and castle and the mud in his boots, he thought he might have a go at exploring. The Master of Hounds had always warned him that he’d a “big bump of curiosity,” as if that were a particularly bad thing to own. But, he reasoned, if you’re the youngest and the slightest, what else do you have of any use except imagination and curiosity? And so thinking, he stepped even farther into the cave.
    That was when, standing ever so quiet and trying to make out the