Merlin's Booke by Jane Yolen Page A

had a cupboard full of strange herbs locked up behind doors covered with deep carved runes.
    Artos, who had been at the smithy to try and purchase a sword with his red jewel, was caught with his bargaining only just begun. He had not even had time to show the gem to Magnus Pieter when Old Linn had shambled in and, without any prelude, started his whining litany. His complaints were always laid at the smith’s door. No one else in the castle was as old as the pair of them. They were best of friends by their long and rancorous association.
    â€œMy straw is ne’er changed but once a se’nnight,” Linn complained. “My slops are ne’er emptied. I am given the dregs of the wine to drink. And now I must sit, if I am to be welcomed at all, well below the salt.”
    The smith smiled and returned to tapping on his piece of steel. He had stopped when Artos had begun his inquiries. In time to the beat of the hammer, he said, “But you have straw, though you no longer earn it. And a pot for your slops, which you can empty yourself. You have wine, even though you ne’er pay for it. And even below the salt, there is gravy in your bowl.”
    That was when Old Linn had whined piteously, “But there is never any meat in my gravy.”
    It was the word meat and Magnus Pieter’s seven or eight variations on it, that rung like a knell in Artos’ head. For meat had been the dragon’s final word.
    He slunk off without even the promise of a sword, that shining piece of steel that might make him an equal in the eyes of the other boys, the gem still burning brightly in his tightly clenched hand.
    He brought a small pot of gravy with three pieces of meat with him. Strolling casually out the back gate as if he had all the time in the world, nodding slightly at the guards over the portcullis, Artos could feel his heartbeat quicken. He had walked rather more quickly over the moat bridge, glancing at the gray-green water where the old moat tortoise lazed atop the rusted crown of a battle helm. Once he was across, he began to run.
    It was difficult not to spill the stew, but he managed. The path was a worn thread through a wilderness of peatmosses and tangled brush. He even clambered over two rock outcroppings in the path that were studded with stones that looked rather like lumps of meat themselves. And actually climbing over the rocks was easier than wheedling the pot of stew had been. He only had it because Mag the scullery was sweet on him and he had allowed her to kiss him full on the lips. She hadn’t noticed how he had held his breath, hoping to avoid the stink of her garlic, and closed his eyes not to see her bristly mustache. And she sighed so much after the kiss she hadn’t had time to ask what he needed the stew for. But what if the dragon wanted gravy every day and he had to give Mag more kisses. It didn’t bear thinking about, so Artos thought instead about the path. The dragon had been right. There was a quicker route back to the mount. Its only disadvantages were the two large rocks and the old thorny briar bushes. But they, at least, were safer than the peat pools which held bones enough way far down.
    He got to the cave rather quicker than he had bargained. Breathless, he squinted into the dark hole. This time he heard no heavy dragon breathing.
    â€œMaybe,” he said aloud to himself, his own voice lending him badly needed courage, “there’s no one home. So I can just leave the gravy—and go.”
    â€œStaaaaaaaaay,” came the sudden rumbling.
    Artos almost dropped the pot.
    â€œI have the gravy,” he shouted quickly. He hadn’t meant to be so loud, but fear always made him either too quiet or too loud. He was never sure which it was to be.
    â€œThen give it meeeeeeeee,” said the voice, followed by the clanking as the great claw extended halfway into the cave.
    Artos could tell it was the foot by its long shadow. This time there was