The gallery explodes in a searing flash of white light.
I cry out, throwing an arm over my eyes.
I hear Matsin grunt, feel Bren’s fingers brush my arm as he reaches for me, but there is nothing else—no shouts, no sound of metal on metal, or flesh.
As suddenly as the light came, it ebbs away to regular daylight. Bren fastens one blood-damp hand around my left arm. I blink, lowering my right arm, and glance toward him. His expression is stiff with pain, but he’s focused on the gallery, not me, turning slowly to assess what’s happening.
It takes me a moment to see that the guards have all been knocked back against the wall, their limbs stuck at strange angles, so that they look like insects pinned to a fabric display. Garrin stands facing me, his face gray with shock.
“Greetings, my woul
