Wings of Renewal: A Solarpunk Dragon Anthology

by Claudie Arseneault

  Anneria staggered backward, eyes wide with fear as the ferocious gold dragon thundered towards her.

  “You should have listened to my words, Anneria,” Goldrute snarled through Leaf. “My 'old-fashioned mountain superstitions.' You'd know, then. Nothing can kill a dragon. And nothing can kill me.”

  Anneria stepped back again, dangerously close to the crumbling edge of the courtyard. “Flora,” she whispered. She reached to steady herself on the balustrade, but it had long since given way. There was nothing but open air beneath her.

  Her scream echoed across the mountains. And then it was silent.

  * * *

  “Why didn't you tell me before, Madre,” Biancarosa asked, “how dragons are born?”

  Flora Regina smiled, running her fingers soothingly through her daughter's dark hair. “It's our oldest secret, Rosalina. Our most sacred. One that must not be repeated.”

  Biancarosa smiled, too, and closed her eyes. “Then I am to be a dragon now?”

  “In time. The humans have some need for you yet.”

  Biancarosa sighed. “I am never going to get my wings.”

  Her mother laughed out loud. “Always impatient, aren't you, my budling? You know if you want to fly, all you have to do is ask.”

  “It's not quite the same, is it?” She opened her eyes and grinned up at her. “But I suppose it will be all right, if you are there.”

  “Always and forever,” Flora Regina said. She leaned over and kissed her daughter's forehead.

  And Biancarosa woke up.

  * * *

  Marigold opened her eyes and immediately closed them again. The hospital room was bright, blinding—she didn't want to face that much white.

  But then she heard a tiny voice cry, “Leaf, she opened her eyes! I know she did, I saw her!”

  She opened them once more, slowly this time. Gradually her vision adjusted to the light, and she saw little Apple sitting on the edge of her hospital bed, Leaf peering down at her over his shoulder.

  “Marigold,” Leaf said, his voice shaking. “Are you awake?”

  “Apparently,” she chuckled. Her voice was hoarse with lack of use.

  “How do you feel?”

  “I'd tell you, but I don't think it's appropriate for this one to hear.” She reached up weakly to ruffle Apple's hair. “What are you doing here, little one? Shouldn't the prince of Stalia Nova be back among his people?”

  “King, actually. Quercia Fiele the First,” Leaf corrected. “There was a bit of a misunderstanding between the old king and the dragons.”

  Marigold struggled up onto her elbows. “What?!” So her father was dead, then. She supposed she should feel sorrow, but all that came was relief.

  “It's all right,” Leaf said quickly. “The, uh, acting Speaker sorted it out. The war … it's over, Marigold. Stalia Nova and Elvezia have made peace. The Stalians accepted our offer of a unified statehood, and the dragons extended their protection and wisdom to both lands.”

  “And I am not king,” Apple interjected. “I am not Fiele anymore, either. I abstated.”

  Leaf nudged him with a grin. “Abdicated.”

  “Right.”

  She stared at the two of them, then let out a long breath. “How long was I asleep, anyway?”

  “Months,” Apple cried, climbing up on her chest and wrapping his arms around her neck. “I thought you would never wake up, sorella.”

  Sister. She supposed she was, wasn't she? Marigold didn't respond. She couldn't. She merely squeezed her burning eyes closed, swallowed the lump in her throat, and hugged the little boy tightly.

  “So what are we going to do with you, bambino? Now that you've 'abstated'?”

  Apple grinned shyly. “Well, I was thinking …” He leaned forward and whispered something in her ear.

  She ruffled his hair again. “I wouldn't have it any other way.” She looked up at Leaf. “We're going to have to build an addition to the roosting hall. This one wants to be with his Dragonmother. Where is Madre, anyway?”

  “She's waiting for you outside.”

  “Well, then, what are we waiting for? Hand me my walking staff, Friend Leaf! There's flying to do!”

  Outside the window, a gold dragon soared through a clear blue sky; and for the first time in seven years, the fairytale seemed real once more, and Biancarosa believed in her heart that they all would live happily ever after.

  About Lyssa Chiavari

  Lyssa Chiavari is an author of speculative fiction for young adults, including the upcoming Fourth World, the first in a sci-fi adventure trilogy set on Mars. She has also written several pieces of short fiction, and is the editor of Perchance to Dream, a YA collection of Shakespeare retellings. Lyssa lives with her family and way too many animals in the woods of Northwest Oregon, which suits her just fine; except it actually doesn't rain there as much as you've been told, and she really could do with more rain, thanks.

  One Last Sweet

  by Claudie Arseneault

  The buzzing of bees surrounded Masaak, enveloping and reassuring all at once. They swarmed around him, soft and curious. The bees knew him, knew he meant no harm. They crawled over his hands as he inspected the frame, his smile widening. Harvest time would come soon. They would turn the honey into frozen treats, and celebrate another successful yield by sucking on the delicacies and recounting old Nijuat legends. Masaak loved to be plunged into ancestral tales while eating modern candy, inaccessible without the greenhouse tech allowing them to maintain a microclimate suitable to bees and a variety of fruit trees, vegetables, and other vegetation. He liked the contrast—the ancient and the modern.

  Masaak slid the frame back into place and stepped away from the beehive. He gave them a respectful salute before he turned his back on the swarm. They said you always had to be polite to bees, and he didn't want to take any chances. Too much of the tribe's food depended on it. Besides, they deserved this respect, no? Every living being did.

  Satisfied with his inspection of the bees, Masaak removed his veil and scanned the greenhouse for Semi. Tree branches reached high above, shadowing carefully nurtured undergrowth—including several varieties of wild berries. Masaak stood in the garden area, clear of the forest, with rows of vegetables arranged around the beehive. Trellis surrounded part of the garden, half covered in climbing greenery. Semi should've been tending to them, but it seemed she'd left. It happened all the time. Sometimes the gardens became overwhelming, and she had to go. She would be waiting for him in the antechamber, listening to calming sounds. Masaak gave the cucumbers a quick check, pulling off dead leaves, before deciding to return to the entrance. His day wasn't done, but he always preferred to check on Semi and make sure she had everything she needed before he finished his work in the greenhouse.

  He'd barely taken a few steps when an extended gong echoed through the greenhouse. Masaak's heart jumped and a loud gasp escaped him. The gong. Had he imagined it? It rang again, old and powerful, through the village outside.

  A dragon was coming.

  Instinctively, Masaak looked up, as if he could see the great beast flying overhead. The dome rose high above his head, half-hidden by the forest-like vegetation growing inside. A small path wound through the forest, to the entrance. Masaak didn't want to stay inside a second longer than necessary.

  He sprinted off, closed sandals slapping against the soft path, short legs pumping as fast as he could. A dragon! There hadn't been one for almost fifteen years. He'd been a little kid at the time, excited and terrified all at once. He remembered a huge creature, several times larger and taller than their homes, scales thicker than his forearm. It had landed a mile out of the village, its long body darker than the icy landscape. Semi had gone running after it, along with half the tribe. Masaak hadn't dared approach. He'd regretted it ever since.

  He wouldn't miss his chance this year. He smashed his code into the antechamber's door, and grunted when it didn't open right away. Of course it didn't. The system ensured the temperature on the
other side was high enough, and that the outside airlock was sealed shut. Masaak rushed inside the moment the door hissed open.

  Semi was already waiting for him, her thick black hair hidden under a fur cap. Her winter boots tapped the ground with impatience, and her left hand spun in a circle—Semi's stim for excitement, he knew.

  “You took long enough! C'mon, Maz!”

  She flung mitts at Masaak's face. He caught them as they fell and stared at her for a moment, too stunned to react. Then Masaak laughed and snatched his coat off the rack. He dressed as quickly as he could, fumbling with laces, buttons, and zippers in his hurry. By the time he was ready to leave, he was sweating heavily.

  “We're going to miss the landing,” Semi complained.

  Masaak answered with a dismissive wave and smashed the airlock's large button. They stepped into it, waited on shuffling feet for the doors behind to close, and those before to open. Semi's hand was still whirling at high speed. No wonder. Masaak could barely contain his urge to let out excited screams.

  Freezing wind welcomed them outside, slipping into every crack of their outfits. Masaak quickly readjusted his hat and mitts, then strode through the snow-covered village. Transitioning from the humid warmth of the greenhouse to the polar cold outside was always a shock, but this time something way bigger occupied his mind and he barely noticed the change. Masaak joined the flow of villagers as they gathered on the edge of the settlement.

  The bright snow caught sunlight, almost blinding Masaak as he scanned the sky. Dragons always came from the south to Copilla, their last stop at the edge of the Loitema Peninsula. It had been this way for centuries now, from a time when the Dragon Route was lined only with minuscule settlements, barely big enough to be called villages. Some were enormous cities now, all white and green skyscrapers, with parks both large and small, but not all. Others were villages like Masaak's, with their own set of rituals to greet the dragons. Masaak had seen them in documentaries. He wanted to visit one day, but he'd miss Semi and his small village if he left.

  Several villagers gasped, and Masaak at last caught sight of the great beast that had alerted the Watcher. It used to be a real person, up in the tower at the center of their village, but satellites now surveyed the skies. Whenever a dragon-like object was spotted, it sent an alarm to the Watcher. They confirmed and rang the ancestral gong. Masaak couldn't help but think it must be a little disappointing to see such a magnificent creature on a screen first.

  The great wings stood in relief against the pale blue sky, beating in a slow, powerful motion. The dragon's long neck craned down as its ponderous body neared the ground. It was still miles away, but Masaak felt like every flap of wing brought the creature closer. Soon enough the glare of sunlight against snow no longer blinded him to the details. He could make out scales larger than his hands, their deep blue grayed out by age. The ancient dragon passed over them, casting its shadow over the entire village. There were tears in its wings, and areas where the scales had fallen off, but several offerings hung from its back, claws, and neck.

  Semi touched his shoulder as the dragon landed farther away from the village, a great cloud of snow obscuring it the moment it touched the ground. The ice rumbled under their feet. Masaak turned to her and smiled.

  “I'm coming this time.”

  “Good. It's beautiful.”

  They ran with several others, snow crunching under their boots, cold wind stinging their eyes. The sprint turned into a jog, then a rapid walk. That dragon sure was farther away than they'd thought! Masaak's breath was short and raspy, his blood pulsed against his temples. The heavy naltak turned to nivat, a more crystalline ice lacing the continent like great blue stripes. Legends said dragon always found nivat to land upon, as if guided to it.

  Their cemetery was made of it. Perhaps the ice called to them, drawing even the blind ancients to their final resting place.

  The dragon's shape grew closer. It heaved long, ragged breaths, as if each of them demanded a tremendous amount of energy. Masaak's throat tightened, and his pace slowed. All the village had slowed.

  “It's dying,” Masaak said.

  Of course it was. That was why dragons came to his village. They were the last stop of the Dragon Route, the final guides. But knowing that didn't change the intense chill in his bones. Each of the dragon's ragged breaths was a punch to his chest. After a reverent pause, the village started once more toward the dragon. They weren't here to gawk: they had sacred duties to accomplish.

  First they began to unload the dragon. Using the thick scales to climb, the village swarmed upon its back, removing the offerings it had received throughout his journey. The Dragon Route crisscrossed the world, an invisible path followed by every dragon before it died. The majestic beasts stopped along the way, spending several days in communities around the world, receiving gifts and helping with manual labor. In many places, it was often cause for festivals. A dragon's death was honored. Its soul could then return to the world, regenerate, and be reborn.

  Masaak caressed the old and smooth scale before he climbed to the shoulders. A long string had been tied around the dragon's neck, and from it hung small parchment-like sheets with Turoku symbols. Some of the calligraphy was elegant, some blocky, and some awkward in a way that could only belong to a child. Masaak caressed one of the papers, wondering what it said, before he finished the climb. Semi waited at the bottom, ready to catch the string and make sure it didn't get lost in the wind.

  They collected the artifacts in a large chest, on which each member of the tribe had carved a little symbol. This was their physical offering to every dragon: a safe place for the gifts, to be encased with previous strongboxes in the village's sacred shrine.

  As important as the chest was, their main duty was to insure the dragon reached the cemetery. Some had the strength to fly to it, but Masaak doubted the dragon before them did. It seemed like even breathing was a hardship. As his fingers worked the rope holding the Turoku offering, he heard several elders arguing over the best course of action. The dragon was massive, but nivat was smooth ice, easy for skates, and it snaked across the landscape like a magical path to the dragon cemetery. Masaak patted the dragon's large scales, then climbed down its neck. He let himself drop the last few feet, landing next to Semi.

  “I heard the elders talk about the dragon sled! They're going to use it!”

  She let out an excited squeal. Her hand was whirling again, and Masaak grinned at her. The last dragon had had the strength to fly the rest of the way, and stopped only for the unloading. Masaak had always hoped he'd get to see the dragon sled in his lifetime. Pictures just didn't cut it. This was going to be incredible.

  * * *

  The village spent the next twelve hours mounting the dragon on its sled, in the pale light of the never-setting sun. Masaak watched every minute of the process, helping when he could, staying long after Semi had returned home. Small drones were used to lift its gigantic paws, and the entire fleet barely sufficed to lift its body an inch of the ground. The dragon itself had to give one last beat of its weakened wings, providing just enough lift to allow the villagers to push a waxed board under it. The sled had been conceived hundreds of years ago, but its upkeep was a sacred duty, and the techniques had been passed down through generations.

  In front of the sled, a dozen huskies barked and played in the snow. They weren't strictly necessary anymore—the drones could've pulled the dragon just fine—but their presence was a matter of tradition. And when you honored dying dragons, you did not mess with traditions.

  Masaak watched the dogs play for a while, trying not to stare at the grand dragon. When he was close and helped get it on the sled, he managed to forget he was manipulating one of the world's oldest and most revered creatures. Standing from a distance and watching the dragon's belly heave slowly, however … Masaak's throat tightened, and tears threatened to flow. He didn't want the dragon to die. It felt unfair, even knowing the creature had lived for centuries. He couldn't wrap hi
s mind around how much majesty the world would lose in a single blow. Masaak rubbed his eyes, then spun on his heels and ran back toward the village. He had to do something.

  He couldn't save the dragon, of course not. Nature had to run its course, no matter how heartbreaking. But he could honor the creature, let it know how much its kind had brought to Masaak's community, and how grateful they were for it.

  By the time he reached the greenhouse, Masaak had worked up quite a sweat. His winter clothes stuck to his skin, his hands hot and sweaty in his mitts. He pulled these off the moment he was in the outer airlock, waving his hands in the air to dry them. The door to the antechamber hissed open as he removed his hat and ran a hand through his sticky hair.

  Semi looked up from inside, headphones on her ears. She didn't meet his eyes, instead staring at his hands. “In a hurry?”

  “Yeah. Can you help me with the bees?”

  “The bees.”

  She just repeated the word with a doubtful tone, and Masaak cursed himself. Semi couldn't stand the constant buzzing, or the fuzzy insects on her skin. They were too much to handle at once, the sensory input overwhelming.

  “Right, I'm sorry. Think you can gather my harvesting tools? I'll get dressed and get to work.”

  “Yeah.” She removed her headphones and stood up. “What's going on? I thought it was early for a harvest.”

  “It is. I just want a little.”

  Masaak finished removing his winter coat and pulled on the front of his shirt, to ventilate and dry it a little. He got the beekeeping gear out of the closet while Semi sought his toolbox. In a matter of minutes, he was fully dressed and protected by a veil, toolbox in hand. Semi tapped her foot on the ground.