I lunged and slapped the air. "Stop," someone shouted. "Don't thrash." "Where is my court?" I snapped. My voice carried without apology. It surprised the two orderlies and the young doctor who had been watching the monitor. The doctor stepped forward. "Name?" "Suli." The word came out like a command. The orderly to my left laughed, a short, nervous sound. "You mean—what's your last name, honey?" "I am Suli." I sat up, found my ribs pinched by dull pain, and tried the energy palm I had used a thousand times on battlefields that no longer existed. My hand met air. The emptiness hit me with the force of a slap. My muscles moved on their own; the result was wrong. My palm made a neat, useless arc and landed on plaster. It stung more because I expected power. I expected the world to yield. The orderly smirked. "Okay, she's delusional. Tox screen's clear. Any head trauma?" He glanced at the nurse who had a clipboard like a shield. Dr. Elias Dyer did not smirk. He checked my pupils and asked again, steady. "Do you remember anything before the ambulance?" "I remember a palace and a corridor. I remember a bell and the taste of iron." I closed my mouth on the last line when the doctor frowned at the word palace. The word made them exchange looks that meant case history and ward assignment. "Do you remember your name?" he repeated. "Suli," I repeated. The