I woke in the palace infirmary. This was how I knew I had not died, which had been a genuine consideration in the last three seconds before unconsciousness. The ceiling was high and white. The bed was more comfortable than anything in the Ashcroft Pack house had ever been.
The light coming through the window was morning light, soft and directionless, the kind that arrived in the hours between dawn and actual day. I lay in it for a moment and took stock of my body with the particular inventory of someone who has absorbed silver and released it and wants to know what the cost was.
Exhaustion. Deep and specific, the exhaustion of something fundamental having been used rather than the ordinary tiredness of sleeplessness. My hands ached. My back ached. My head did not hurt, which surprised m
