Ysra counted the rows from the lamp’s niche, because the lamp was the only fixed point in the room and a count needed one.
She stood at the head of the Cradle with the flame at her shoulder and her face turned toward the long pale floor. The rows went away from her in ten straight lines, each one ending at its plinth, and each plinth carried its shape under its grey sheet. From where she stood the shapes were small and dim, like the shadows of people standing motionless at the far end of a hall. She counted them with her eyes first. Then she counted them a second time, to be sure, with her lips moving and her finger lifting from her thigh at every row.
Ten.
Then she counted the shapes, which was harder, because the sheets were heavy and the lamp was low. Ten sheets. Ten rounded bellies. Ten narrow throats, each one as high as a man’s shoulder, each one standing on its own plinth at the end of its own row, all of them still.
She counted the paces next. The lamp was too low to show the far end clearly, and she did not want to walk the whole length of the room carrying a light that might dazzle her, so she went down the nearest row with her palm flat against the edge of the tile. The tiles were cool and smooth, and their edges were so exactly cut that her fingers…
