The glitter of gold was distracting. They had done that on purpose, of course, wrapped her up with a promise of luxury, making you think of always waking up warm and well fed, of jewels brighter than Rosamond’s eyes.
He let himself look, and covet. If she saw him looking, he wanted her to know that that was all he saw of her, all she was.
Gold melting, and Persie dead.
Rosamond had buttons of chased mother-of-pearl and gold, each one probably worth more than a sovereign.
The buttons rose and fell as she breathed, and Yvain wished they would be still, that he could look at her like the statue he’d stolen and reduced to nothing but gold.
She didn’t let him. She put up her hands to the buttons and slid them out one by one.
All the gold fell away, and there was a girl underneath.
The day of the Trials was blinding. Roz had never been outside the palace walls before, but she had been in the gardens and the courtyards and on the balconies: she had not thought she would be dazzled by the sun. Yet she was, and she felt almost blind every step of the bright way to the square at the heart of the city.
Appearances were all that mattered to the Court, Miri had told her, as if it were very important.
Roz thought about it every step of the way, and by the time she reached the square, her vision was clear.
So this is the city they tell me is mine, she thought, and looked at the tall steel-and-silver skyscrapers. The cobblestones of the square looked freshly washed, but there were dark lines etched between them. Dirt or blood, Roz did not know.
She glanced behind her to see Dareus—who had taught her, against the rules, to fight for herself—and met his steady gaze. It let her walk across the stones, blood and all.
When she neared the dais, every screen set in the towers reflected her face. It was like the Hall of Mirrors writ large, like all her past selves whispering their name in her ear:
Except it didn’t matter how she felt, so she could feel any way she chose.
She tried to feel determined as she climbed the steps to the dais, her heavy golden skirt trailing behind her.
Then she looked down upon her people, from women and children—some cheering and some silent, some holding on to their men with white-knuckled hands—to the contestants for the Trials.
There were men wreathed with blood and bruises and in rags, and men who seemed fine—happy, healthy, and eager to die for her. Somebody cheered and called her name. She looked but could not tell who it had been.
She could not quite understand why someone would cheer for her when she hadn’t done anything.
What am I to you? she thought as she looked at the crowd. What is Rosamond to you?
Different things, she thought, looking at all the different faces. The Knights of the Order stood in black ranks, like soldiers at a funeral, and one of them was staring at her with the widest eyes in the crowd, large and dark and wondering.
There was worship in those eyes, and an abyss.
In the most bruised and ragged group, she saw the knight’s counterpart, the one with the narrowest eyes in the crowd. He was looking at her appraisingly, as though she were a gold coin he could bite down on so as to assess her worth.
Love her, hate her, blame her, worship her, whatever they felt toward her, they did not know her. Maybe they did not care to. Maybe they thought her face was all there was to know.
None of the other Rosamonds had known Dareus and Miri, and how they loved each other despite being imperfect.
Roz did not know herself what else there was to her, but she wanted to know.
The First Minister, standing on the dais, observed her approvingly. Roz wore the golden gown, wore her hair long and loose, looked like a queen. Looked the part.
Everyone was watching her. The whole city was watching her, and she looked perfect.
“Welcome to this day, the beginning of our city’s thirty-second Trials,” she said, and heard cheers. “I was consulting with our First Minister yesterday”—she nodded to the First Minister, who appeared mildly pleased by this courteous going off script—“and she reminded me that women have to volunteer to enter the Trials.”
The Court had their Trials and their rules, and Roz was playing by the rules. They had their figurehead queen, and now it was her right to speak.
The maze, the monster, and the mystery of the Trials. They weren’t the test. This was.
Roz put her hands to the large buttons on her gown. It was a stiff, high-necked thing, more a robe than a gown, and the buttons slipped under her fingers.
The crowd went still and silent as she undid it. The gold gown fell with a sound like coins tossed in a scale.
Beneath the robe, Roz was wearing dark, simple clothes that she could move freely in. The clothes she trained in.
“I volunteer to enter the Trials,” she said.
“What are you doing?” the First Minister exclaimed, her careful politician’s face going slack.
Not a knight or a city boy. If the rules said she was a prize to be won, so be it. She would obey the rules to the letter.
All the screens in the city reflected her face, and it was determined. The whole city heard their perfect queen speak, and her word was law.
“I am going to fight,” said Queen Rosamond, who knew as no man did what she was fighting for. “I am going to win myself.”
THE EASTHOUND
by Nalo Hopkinson
“THE EASTHOUND BAYS AT NIGHT,” JOLLY SAID.
Millie shivered. Bad luck to mention the easthound, and her twin bloody-well knew it. God, she shouldn’t even be
“Easthound?” said Max. He pulled the worn black coat closer around his body. The coat had been getting tighter these past few months. Everyone could see it. “What is that east-hound shit?”
Not
Jolly barely glanced at Max. She knelt in front of the fire, staring into it, retwisting her dreads and separating