Wings of Renewal: A Solarpunk Dragon Anthology (40 page)

Until the day she killed her mother.

* * *

 
“Please, Madre? Won't you take me with you on your tour of the Alpi?” Biancarosa asked, hovering over her mother's shoulder as the queen crouched before a small sapling, a pair of sharp pruning shears in hand.
 

Her mother sighed, wiping the sweat off her forehead with the back of her gardening glove and leaving a trail of mud in its place. Despite the cooling breeze from the sea, the sun was bright overhead, reflecting heat off the flat crystal power panels interspersed between clumps of plants. “I don't know, Rosalina. You're still such a little bud. You might not take to a transplant.”

“I'm not little!” Biancarosa protested, jutting her lower lip out, the picture of a 'mature adult.' “I'm nine years old already. And I want to see your homeland!”

A smile played at the queen's lips as she reached into the basket Biancarosa held and pulled out a small olive bud. She whispered softly to it, quiet words in an ancient language. The bud seemed to shimmer for a moment, its raw edges glowing gold. Then she secured it to the rootstock with sunwax tape and turned to her daughter. “Are you sure you won't be disappointed? It's not terribly exciting. Just a mountain village in Elvezia. Nothing like Stalia Nova.”

“But there aren't any dragons in Stalia Nova!”

“Dragons?”
 

Mother and daughter looked up at the new voice. Biancarosa's father, Albero Re, was striding onto the rooftop garden, followed by Anneria, Biancarosa's tutor. “Now, Flora,” he said, “see what happens when you tell her stories like that? She starts believing them.”

Flora Regina stood slowly, her knees cracking as she rose. Biancarosa dropped the basket and moved quickly to support her mother's elbow. She could feel the muscle tremor beneath her small hand, but Flora smiled as though the pain in her joints were nothing. “And I've told you before,
amore mio
, that there is nothing to see if you don't look.“

“Padre,” Biancarosa interrupted, bouncing her heels on the soft membrane of the garden floor, “can't I go with you when you tour the Alpi? I want to look for myself.”

“We'll discuss it later, Rosalina,” Albero said. “Right now, your mother and I have a luncheon to get to. Though I can see that one of us may have forgotten.”

Flora laughed, pulling her gardening gloves off and rubbing her sore hands together, the warmth soothing her aching knuckles. “My memory is not
that
bad, Albero. Just give me twenty minutes to get myself cleaned up.”

Anneria stepped forward, tucking a long strand of flaxen hair behind her ear. “And,
principessa
, it's time for your lessons.”

Biancarosa hesitated. “Madre, shouldn't you say the words over your olives before you go?”

Her mother glanced at the sundial in the center of the garden. “I need to hurry, Rosalina. Why don't you do that for me?”

Biancarosa nodded eagerly, but Anneria stayed her. “With all due respect, Your Majesty, she's already had enough of that folly for today, don't you think? The sunwax will do its job. She doesn't need to waste school time on superstitious nonsense. Either the graft will take, or it won't.”

The two women stared at each other for a long moment. Then Flora's shoulders slumped. “Yes, you're right, I suppose.” Though she spoke to Anneria, she looked at her husband as she said, “I suppose there is no place for old-fashioned mountain ways in Stalia Nova. Come on, Albero.”

“Let's go,
principessa
,” Anneria said, picking her way between the tall clumps of plants, careful to not step on the power panels. Biancarosa did not move, though. She looked down at her dirt-stained toes and thought how, in a kingdom so obsessed with
technology
and
modernity
, her mother's “old-fashioned mountain ways” were often the only thing that made
sense
.

She crouched in front of the sapling closest to her. “
Cresci
,” she whispered. Warmth radiated from her fingers. She pressed them against the bark of the small tree, felt it flow from her body into the sapling like a river. Then she hurried after her tutor.

* * *

The sun had long since set, its rays turning the deep waves of the sea into a glorious riot of red-and-gold fire before it disappeared for its nightly slumber. Biancarosa had been waiting for hours now. She watched through the
palazzo's
crystal windows, looking for the telltale silver glint of the sails on her parents' carriage rising over the hill, bearing the vehicle along like a great bird on the wind. But now the light had faded, and still the carriage didn't come.

The queen's sitting room was cozy and warm, but conspicuously empty without her mother's presence. The luncheon should have been over hours ago, but still Albero Re and Flora Regina had not returned. Biancarosa fidgeted in one of her mother's embroidered armchairs, wondering if she should continue waiting, or if she should go back to her room and work on her sums for the next day's lesson. But though she knew it was silly, she couldn't help but worry at her parents' absence. Madre had seemed so achy this afternoon—what if she'd started to feel worse at the luncheon, and had to go to the hospital? She couldn't do her sums now, not while worry about her mother ate away at her from the inside.

The room grew dark, the vibrant pink hues of sunset fading into purple and then a deep, velvety blue. Curled tight in the armchair, Biancarosa began to doze, though she wasn't aware she'd drifted off until the slamming of a door startled her awake.

“Those mountains are sacred, Albero!” a woman's voice shouted. It took Biancarosa a moment before she realized it was the queen's. She had never heard her mother shout before. “You of all people should know this. You know I was an
oratrice
. Have you not listened to a word I've said these last fifteen years?”

Her father's voice was quieter, but it had an edge to it. “I'd pay you more mind if your words had any sense to them. I cannot sacrifice Stalia Nova's economic wellbeing just for your religious superstitions. This is the modern world, Flora. A world of science, not magic and old-fashioned nonsense. And as king, I have a duty to this country.”
 

“Albero—”

He raised his voice, talking over her. “We are too reliant on the Elvezians for everything. If Stalia Nova is ever going to become a world power, we need access to this technology!”

“This 'technology' cannot be gained by force, Albero. I've told you a hundred thousand times. The dragons—”

Flora opened the sitting room door and broke off abruptly. Biancarosa sat upright, staring wide-eyed at her mother.

“Rosalina, what are you doing in here? ”

“I'm sorry, Madre,” the girl said, her voice quivering. “I was waiting for you to come home. I wanted to tell you … I just wanted to say I took care of your plants. I went back after lessons and said the spell over each of them. ”

Albero Re appeared in the doorway, his face stern. He opened his mouth to say something, but Biancarosa sprang to her feet and hurried out of the room before he could speak. Her hands were trembling. Her parents had never argued before, at least not in front of her. Her father had often teased her mother about her Elvezian customs, but never so maliciously. It made Biancarosa feel sick inside.

She ran back to her own room and pulled the covers up over her head. She wanted to go to sleep and forget that any of this had ever happened.
 

Some time later, she heard the hinges on her door squeak as it opened. Then the bed shifted as her mother's weight settled beside her. Flora pulled the covers back and smoothed Biancarosa's hair away from her face.

“Rosalina, my budling, I'm sorry you had to see that,” she said.

“Is everything okay, Madre? Is Padre … is he mad at me?”

Flora Regina smiled. “Of course not. Now, don't worry yourself about it, all right? We just had a little argument. We're both tired and a bit cranky. You know mamma's joints have been hurting her today.”

Biancarosa sat up. “Are you well, Madre? Do you need to go to the doctor?”

“No, no, I'll say a healing spell over them and it will be just fine. Thank you for taking care of my plants for me today.”

Biancarosa didn't say anything. Despite her mother's words, it didn't
feel
fine. It felt like their happiness was cracking. It was a small break, almost invisible. But Biancarosa had seen hairline cracks in crystal, and she knew what could happen if they spread too big.

Flora kissed her on her forehead, tucked her into her covers and rose to leave. At the door she paused and turned back to face her daughter.

“I've been thinking, Rosalina. Maybe you are big enough to make the trip with Padre and me.”

Biancarosa sat bolt upright in bed. “Really, Madre? I can go with you to the Alpi?”

Flora smiled again. “We'll talk about it tomorrow, okay?”

She shut the door, and Biancarosa closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep.

That night, she dreamed of blood and shattered crystal.

* * *

 
“What's the matter,
principessa
? Didn't you sleep well?” Anneria asked during lessons the next day. Biancarosa's eyes were bloodshot, and there were dark circles beneath them.

“I'm fine,” she lied. She didn't want to talk about her nightmares, and certainly not with her stuffy tutor. “I was just worried about Madre last night. She hasn't been feeling well.”

Anneria smiled sympathetically. “Her rheumatism again? Her Majesty does suffer so. It's truly a tragedy, to be crippled by an elder's ailment at so young an age. And the best Stalian medicine has been able to do nothing to help her.”

Biancarosa frowned and looked down at her desk.

“You know,” Anneria went on, “it's a bit odd that the queen hasn't relied more on her own people's remedies. Just last night in my studies, I came across an Elvezian potion book, with treatments for all sorts of maladies, including joint pain.” She lifted her tablet, swiping her fingers across it a few times, then turned the device to show Biancarosa the cover of a book.
Dragonworks,
it read.
Spells of Healing for All Occasions
.

The princess sat up straighter. “I thought you didn't believe in magic,
signora
.”

Anneria chuckled. “Oh, I don't. Superstitious nonsense. But that doesn't mean Elvezian remedies are entirely without merit. Their technology, their medical advancements—all are top-notch. Superior even to that of Stalia Nova, some would argue. It has nothing to do with magic and everything to do with science. I should imagine these potions are just herbal remedies, but that certainly doesn't mean they wouldn't provide relief.” She folded her arms. “But, then again, if the queen hasn't used these potions herself, maybe she knows something I don't.”

There was a knock at the door. Biancarosa turned to see her father poke his head into the classroom. “Sorry to interrupt your lessons, Rosalina. Anneria, I need to consult with you about something, if you could spare a moment?”

Anneria tucked a lock of her long, straight hair behind her ear. “Of course, Your Majesty.”

She set her tablet down on a side table and followed the king out of the room. Biancarosa sat quietly, waiting for Anneria to return; but the longer she was gone, the more Biancarosa began to fidget in her seat. She had seen her mother use spells for her arthritis before—whispered words and glowing powders—but she'd never seen her drink a potion. Maybe she didn't know about the
Dragonworks
book. Maybe there was a potion in it that could help her with the pain.

Biancarosa rose from her desk, hesitantly. She looked at the door, chewing the nail of her pinkie finger. Then, finally, she rushed over to the table and picked up the tablet, swiping her fingers across the soft membrane, flipping through page after page of potions.

After a few minutes, she found it—a recipe for a spell to relieve aches and pains. Biancarosa read the ingredient list quickly. Most of them were names she recognized as plants growing in her mother's rooftop garden. She repeated them over and over to herself, trying to commit the potion to memory. Then she reset the book to the first page, closed out of it, and hurried back to her desk.

She had just sat down when the door to the classroom opened again. “Sorry about that,
principessa,
” Anneria said, lifting the tablet off the table once more. If she noticed the plastic was still warm to the touch, she didn't say anything. “Now. Where were we?”

* * *

Biancarosa rapped her small knuckles against the door three times. “Madre?” she called out. “I have something for you!”

A moment later, the door opened. Flora smiled, though her eyes were red and puffy. “Rosalina, what's this?”

“I made you some tea,” said Biancarosa, holding up a delicate china cup and saucer patterned with white roses. The liquid inside shimmered faintly, an unusual green. “I thought, since you're not feeling good …”

Flora took the hot cup from Biancarosa's hands with a smile. “That's my budling,” she said, playfully swishing her daughter's long, dark hair with her free hand. “Always so thoughtful. You didn't make any for yourself?”

“I couldn't carry two cups up the stairs.”

Flora turned, reaching for her quad cane and leaning on it as she crossed the room. “Well, that's all right. I have the solectric kettle in here, I'll make you a cup. Shall we have a tea party?”

Biancarosa nodded eagerly, hurrying into the queen's study after her mother. She watched as Flora prepared the tea with slow, careful movements, pouring boiling water over the tea leaves and setting the cup aside to steep.

“All right, budling, what is it?” Flora asked at last, settling into a velvet armchair beside Biancarosa. “You have that
worried
look about you. Is something wrong?”

“It's nothing,” Biancarosa said. Flora prodded her in the side, and she laughed her small laugh, the fretful creases around her eyes fading slightly. “I've just been having bad dreams, kind of.”

Flora's face fell. “Rosalina, why didn't you tell me? I'm your mamma, that's what I'm here for.”