King Callie (Callie's Saga, Book One)

PROLOGUE

Wham-Wham-Wham! Prince Valric pounded impatiently on the door to the Royal Seer’s study. It was locked, of course; just like Royth to be so inconsiderate, Valric thought. His head tilted up, as he thought he heard footsteps. He pounded again, twice. Wham-Wham. Royth, open the door, he shouted, trying to spur the Royal Seer to action. I need your help.

What is it? Royth snapped, from the other side. The door creaked open to reveal him - a tall, gaunt, shirtless dark-skinned man. His body was the color of loam, and glistened with sweat; long twists of hair draped down his shoulders and back, framing a stern, yet proud face. He had high, thin cheeks and a large nose, more likely to be seen on a kingly bust instead of a Seer’s face. Inside and outside of Castle Claine’s walls, Royth was an uncommon sight; Amanirens rarely traveled so far north, and those that took up residence in the kingdom of Barra could be counted on two hands. But for twenty years, two more than Valric had lived, Royth had made himself valuable to Valric’s father with his guidance, and his Sight. The Seer’s dark eyes softened at the sight of Valric. Oh. My apologies, Prince, he said, with an apologetic smile.

Why have you kept me waiting? the Prince asked, as he pointed at the moisture on the Seer's body. A vision, or a woman? And I’ll remind you, only one of these is a good excuse for your delay, Seer, Valric said, with growing impatience. His father was dying, after all. He had been for months. Not that Valric had seen his sickly form, or bothered to visit it; he didn’t want to. Not unless he had a cure, and Royth hadn’t seen anything of use.

It was a vision, Royth said, with politesse; he mopped the sweat from his glistening forehead. The kingdom’s future. Crops and trading, invaders – countless other things. Dust. Flowers. His speech was quick and clipped, and marked by shortness of breath. All good reasons, I assure you.

Invaders? Valric asked, curious. None of the other things mattered as much as a good fight; something to bolster his name. Who?

I don’t know for certain, Royth said, It’s like remembering a dream, Prince. I need to write what I’ve seen down while I’m able, and I’ll figure it out later. And I apologize, but whatever you need, it’ll have to wait until I’m done. Before Valric could dissent, Royth had turned around and gone back into his room, leaving the Prince at the door. Valric impatiently followed the Seer in, and shut the door after him. He’ll not push me aside so easily, the Prince thought. Who can care about crops and trading, when my father’s life is at stake? And who would invade us?

It will not wait, Valric said, as he stormed after Royth. You need to tell me how to save my father. Valric stumbled over a pile of books, and cursed under his breath; he looked around, and found only one clear, narrow path between stacks of scrolls and books. He pursued it, carefully. The Seer's room, nested in Castle Claine’s northeast turret, was centered around circles of knowledge; on the farthest edges of the periphery were Royth's library, a bird-stand, and - opposite from Valric - Royth’s desk. The Seer himself had already navigated the labyrinth of books, and come out the other side, writing furiously at his desk. Valric passed a carved bust of a distant god, held on a sturdy altar - Royth’s favored god, Kembo, who wore a gold circle atop of his forehead, decorated his face with streaks of green, and who cried sunset tears. Valric only knew the name because of how often Royth invoked him; otherwise, he was ignorant of Amaniren gods. Beneath Kembo’s chin rested a carved stone cup that held burning incense, and to the statue’s left, an open jug of spirits that burned Valric’s nostrils as he walked past the table. At the very center of the room lay a wheat-colored cushion for sitting. Valric stepped over it, and strode towards Royth with impatient purpose.

As the Prince approached, the Seer did not notice, or care – his quill made fevered scratches, and raced through pages of parchment, stopping only to sip on ink. Royth was wholly absorbed in the task, which only angered the prince more. As the Seer moved to dip his quill in the inkwell, Valric attempted to snatch it away; the Prince did not expect the snake-quick grip that strangled his wrist, or Royth’s terrifying glare. It wasn’t the look of a man who read fortunes; it was the look of a hardened man, who’d snap Valric’s neck for the smallest transgression, and fear shot down the Prince’s spine. After a few tense seconds, Royth released his hold, and returned to his writing. Valric backed away and rubbed his wrist, and waited for an apology; he got nothing in return.

After another minute of frantic scribbles, Royth laid down his quill, and turned to the Prince. How exactly, Royth asked, annoyed, Did you think I would save your father's life?

You’ve saved mine twice - and the moment he needs you most, you have nothing? I don't believe that, Royth. The Prince fumed with accusation, but kept his distance. Royth closed the gap with slow, deliberate steps, and spoke carefully, matching his words with a terrifying glare.

What kind of man do you think I am? Royth asked Valric. You think I would be so ungrateful, so selfish, that I would let your father die if I knew the cure - after everything he's done for me? After keeping vipers from your very neck as a child - after I have sworn my life to this country, to him, my King - you'd call me traitor?

Royth’s voice never rose above a stage whisper. But the fury in his earth-dark eyes put fear into the Prince’s heart, more than any thundering voice could. The depths of Valric’s confidence were drained.

No, Valric said, frightened. I just – I thought you hadn't done everything you could. He did his best to stay his ground, to assert his authority - and yet, he found it difficult. He only wanted to walk away, to never see that gaze again. But desperation fixed his feet; he had to stay. If I don’t, Father dies, and my title is gone. Caliandra’s, too, he thought. His father had been plucked from his barracks by destiny; when the previous king died, Rionn Feor had been chosen to rule Barra by their kingdom’s greatest treasure - an ancient magic axe, named Peacebringer. It had been forged in a long-ago age, and few such weapons still existed; all other magic had died off, save those with Sight, like Royth. Seers were hardly more common than magic weapons.

Royth's nostrils flared. I have, he replied. And I’m wondering why you’d think otherwise.

I know you see things. I want you to help him. Formerly confident, the prince stammered his reply. Valric struggled to look Royth in the eyes, into the frightening, deadly orbs - but he summoned the courage, and he made his plea. He had to. His father’s death meant he’d become a lesser lord; and as such, scarcely better than a merchant.

I have tried, Royth replied, cold as stone. As have your father’s healers. There are no salves left.

Then see into my future, Valric insisted. His fear had transformed into nervous desperation. Find something. You have to. We have to save him. It was the crux of his plan; in a sleepless night, wracked with concern at the King’s sickness, the Prince’s mind had drifted to odd places. In the midst of those strange thoughts, he found one that still seemed sane in the light of day: the Seer knew how to help him, and refused to. Please, he said, finally.

Royth regarded him cautiously. Why so urgent? Royth asked. Your father has been dying for months. Shouldn’t you make your peace?

The suggestion jolted Valric. He couldn’t. He wasn’t ready to make his peace. He didn’t want to. Valric reached for the nearest lie he could find, regardless of how it might hurt him. But you will! You have to! The kingdom itself is at stake! Somebody’s been poisoning him. I know it.

Royth raised an eyebrow. Poisons work in hours, not months, Royth said. And the kingdom is not in jeopardy. The whole kingdom will have their chance to make Peacebringer whole again, and you will still have a title. You will just not be a Prince anymore, Royth said, reaching out a hand to pat Valric on his shoulder. And that’s hardly as bad as you think. Just as Royth’s dark-brown hand touched the green fabric of Valric’s tunic, the Seer’s head jolted backwards, as if yanked by some unknown force. Royth’s muscles tensed, and he desperately gasped for air. Valric had seen Royth go into the vision-trance before, but never had he been so scared, afraid to move - or so thrilled by it. This is it, he thought to himself, delighted. This is how I’ll keep my crown.

—

It was rare that Royth’s visions were so clear.

The King’s throne sat atop a carpet of bleached bones, in the crumbling ruins of a broken building; A dying bear, sick with infection, wasted away under Barra’s torn and tattered blue standard; Queen Sophine, Princess Eliya, and Princess Caliandra were forced back to back, choked and bloodied by a crown-collar that dug into their necks - their screams part of a painful chorus that echoed in Royth’s mind, girded by a thousand braying horns.

Red clouded the sky in a slow spread, as blood would trickle into a pond. Royth blinked, and he was again at the ruined building - but it had become…elsewhere. He found the throne again in a great field; Valric sat astride it, enrobed in the sky itself - billowing storm clouds hued with blood, sparking lightning about his chest. His crown was not gold, or silver, but the jawbones of the dead, lashed together by fire. Valric’s familiar green eyes, same as his mother’s and Caliandra’s, filled Royth’s heart with fear.

Suddenly, the Prince’s army stood before him; it was filled with terrible, nameless beasts in armor, and men and women pulling machines of war as though they were oxen. The Prince called them to action, and Royth found himself in a battlefield, caught between Valric’s monsters, and an army of the dying. He saw pallid faces, and limbs so weak they struggled to hold up swords; they did little to stand against the Prince, who held Peacebringer low on its handle, and swung it like a farmer’s scythe, cutting down wheat. The prince laughed as Royth ran away, only to find himself on a path of crumbling bones and earth, towards a kingdom that fell away into the black unknown. Royth tumbled with it, and screamed as he fell into darkness.

Royth’s head jolted upright in a cold sweat. Valric was waiting for him, his expression frighteningly eager. The young Prince’s anticipation unnerved Royth even more, given what he’d seen.

Gods and saints preserve us, Royth thought. He’s the next King.

What did you see? Valric asked, curious and excited at once. Royth hesitated to answer, dwelling on the images - but as he held his tongue, a new thought emerged. The man he once was - from the buried years, before Barra, before he became Royth - whispered from the depths. You can save them all, the once-buried man said. But your next moves must be perfect.

Naeb’s Coil, Royth finally said, feigning surprise. Of course.

Valric was puzzled, but Royth saw his expression take on new anxious dimensions, coupled with excitement. We can save your father, Royth said, his eyes darting back to Valric’s, filled with new passion. Easy enough to fake.

How? Valric demanded. Tell me.

Royth ran back to his desk, and began to write down ingredients at a feverish pace - convincing ones. You must act quickly. You haven’t much time, on account of what we need. He hardly needed to look at Valric to know the reaction. I will take care of the other ingredients, but the most crucial, I’ve left to you… petals from Naeb’s Coil. It blooms but once every ten years, beyond our border to the east, in the Erimeni Freelands.

Royth heard a brief pause before Valric spoke. How far beyond the border? the Prince asked, his voice full of caution.

Less than a day’s ride, under the shade of Nemi’s Fist. There may be a settlement nearby. You should be careful, Prince, and quick - the flower needs to be fresh, and the Erimeni won’t be forgiving if they catch you in their lands. Draw swords quickly, if you find them. They don’t forgive trespass easily.

Royth once learned the secret of a good lie from a woman with a hundred names: be a sculptor of truth. The truth was raw marble, waiting to be carved into a brilliant falsehood. All a liar needed was to cut away the trivial, the unessential, and the harmful, and create a new image that fit both outcome and expectation… or, better still, prejudice. Valric cared little for herbs, and cared much for danger - but now, he wanted hope. Royth gave it to him, with ink and untruth.

The Seer’s guilty hands sketched a map, and a rough drawing of Naeb’s Coil. He marked the parchment with caution to travel quickly, to underscore the urgency in the prince’s mind, and blew on the page to dry the ink faster. Valric looked on with eager anticipation. Once the ink had dried, Royth pressed the parchment it into Valric’s hands. Depart on the hour, and ride like lightning, Royth said, keeping Valric’s gaze a little longer. You understand?

Valric nodded. Thank you so much, he said, tears of gratitude welling in his youthful eyes. He clutched the paper, and wrapped his arms around the Seer in a tight embrace. You’ve saved us. he said.

Do not thank me yet, Royth replied, almost faltering. Valric’s words had hit him harder than he expected; the Prince was perhaps too excited, too eager. And he would only spread the lie further. Get me the flower. Then thank me when he is healthy again.

Valric nodded. I understand, he replied.

Valric ran out of the room like a shot; in his wake, he left gnawing guilt. Royth retreated to the center of his room, and picked up the bottle of woja, at the foot of Kembo’s altar. He took a burning swig into his mouth. The numbness could not come quick enough for his liking - but before it arrived, Royth told himself a final lie, the grandest of them all, and chased it with another drought. One day, he told himself, I’ll be forgiven.

CHAPTER ONE

After hearing those three words, Princess Caliandra could not possibly hate her sister more.

Tears fell from her verdant eyes, and traced a path down her cheeks. They fell carelessly upon her white sleeping gown and rolling brown waves of hair. Why are you telling me this? Caliandra demanded of her stony-faced sister, Eliya. Caliandra’s sister anxiously balanced on the edge of the bed, as if she might fall. Caliandra’s cavernous room felt all the greater for Eliya’s presence. Haven’t I suffered enough because of him? Haven’t I, Ellie?

I thought you would want to know. Eliya replied, hands calmly folded in her lap, her gentle jaw clamped firmly shut. Caliandra saw little sympathy in her green eyes - the common gift from their parents. You were to be married to him, after all, and I thought… Well, clearly, I thought wrong. Eliya’s hands flew up in exasperation, and her expression softened, ever so slightly. I’d hoped you’d have moved on. It’s been two months. No, it’s been three. A lifetime in the Barrish court, Caliandra thought. I can only imagine how slowly time moves for our cousins in Silenia, in the Emperor’s court; that might well be an eternity.

It’s been three, Ellie. He moved on, Caliandra said, between sobs. But what about me? There were few before him, and that - that bastard…he changed. The moment Father took ill, he changed, and then, the engagement was off, and - She stopped, momentarily overwhelmed by sadness, and raised her hands. What kind of man is married not months after breaking an engagement?

She might be with child, Eliya speculated, and raised an eyebrow. She glanced at Caliandra, head tilted. He didn’t…?

No! Callie said, with scowling green eyes. How could you think that?

Well, Eliya started, He was quite handsome, and very charming… Eliya said, reminiscing; Caliandra grit her teeth at the thought, and Eliya, seeing it, reversed her opinion. But clearly not enough to tempt you in that way.

Not until we’d been married, Caliandra said, firm. I loved him a great deal, but… I would have never been so foolish. Perhaps I should have, she thought, the corner of her lips tugging downward with the regret. Or would that have only made things worse for me?

Eliya shook her head. You need to forgive yourself, Callie, Eliya said. All of Yom’s blessings wouldn’t have kept him betrothed to you. Tara’s very pretty, and kind, but she also has an immense dowry to offer.

Caliandra knew her - they’d only met twice, but she was pretty – apple cheeks, red hair, blue eyes, a delicate button of a nose, ample bosom, slender waist; yes, Tara was very pretty, in all the ways that Caliandra couldn’t hate her for, much as she tried. She could, however, hate the considerable wealth that had caught Iaen’s eye - the wealth of Tara’s father, Lord Ailin Dugal. Who, unlike Caliandra’s father, had been born into nobility. The Duke had his parents and grandparents’ fortune to build on, and could afford a most handsome dowry. That was enough to make Caliandra wish Iaen would choke to death at the wedding; that instead of eating cakes and sipping wine, he’d gag on the gold and earth he loved so much.

Caliandra hadn’t even wanted to think about what Iaen had done - how he’d betrayed her love. She’d sent him her angry letters, stained with tears. She’d refused to attend balls, social engagements, anything – because he and Tara might be there, lording over her broken heart. Even the thought of seeing him brought her anxiety. And then, when she had broken herself of thinking of him, and pushed him from her mind - his name came creeping back to her on Eliya’s lips, with news of his marriage. It was a stabbing, wrenching pain, stained with the feeling of failure.

Callie, Eliya said, with a sympathy Caliandra couldn’t stand – what woman wanted her younger sister’s pity? - There are other men, you know. They didn’t just die off after he was born. Perhaps you should look outside the kingdom, as I did for Mas.

They’ll not even look at me, and you know why, Caliandra countered. Father’s dying. That’s what made Iaen change his mind, and when Father’s dead - I - Caliandra trailed off; she hated to think of what came after her father’s passing. The future was not a happy place for her - no father, and no husband. Sadness and anxiety overtook her.

I’m not you, Ellie. Nothing you do comes easily to me. Admitting that felt worse still; of all the indignities, and horrid fates, hers seemed the worst, for it was the least certain. As Caliandra looked at her sister, who sat before her with hair like wheat at sunset, rosy cheeks, and their father’s green eyes, looking every inch the perfect daughter… Caliandra could not help but hate her. She hated Eliya for having brought the news. She hated Eliya for having the security she wanted - for still having a husband. For having a man who loved her more than money.

Most of all, she hated Eliya for being Eliya - for being everything she wasn’t. Eliya’s art was weaving tapestries of social circles, of knowing which strings to pull or cut. Her words were careful in public, less guarded in private - but always honest with Caliandra. Her face was gentle, and soft and kind; a haughty look had never crossed it. And she never frightened men off; she teased them, she flirted with them, or, like Mas, they fell for her with all their heart, one deliberate word at a time.

Caliandra felt, by comparison, that she was too quick to prove her wit, and too proud to let it go undefended. Too willing to challenge men, when they did not want to be challenged. Too eager to dismiss them, when she found them lacking. Iaen was the only one who had enjoyed such prickly company, and won her heart - which made his loss all the more painful. The list of suitors that preceded Iaen was thin; the line after, nonexistent.

And I lack your sharpness and wit, dear sister, but we must use the tools Yom’s given us, mustn’t we? Eliya replied. She reached out a comforting, delicate hand to touch her sister’s lap. Caliandra scowled at it, but did nothing to reject it; she still wanted comfort, all the same. You’ll find a husband that appreciates your mind and beauty soon enough. You did it once before, after all, Eliya said, adding a gentle smile.

That’s just it, Caliandra said, frustrated. Worry weighed upon her brows. I can’t. I loved him. Who else in this land is high-born, and unopposed to a difficult wife? Who understands me? Bitter anger filled Caliandra, and she let it loose. You, mother, Father, Valric, Mae, Janni, and Royth - but who else?

Eliya drew back, slightly, and avoided her sister’s gaze. You… do have a reputation for difficulty, Eliya said; Caliandra watched her sister choose words carefully, with a most diplomatic tongue and lightened tone. Perhaps, if being married before Father passes is a worry of yours, you should aim to be more… forgiving of men’s faults.

I could, Caliandra thought, but after a time, I’d only come to hate them more. Why bother? It’s too late for that, now, Caliandra said, bitter. You’ve seen him. He fades before our very eyes. And when he dies, so go our crowns, and my prospects. I’ll have nothing to offer when he’s dead, only fading beauty and a far lower station. Why bother being kind? Caliandra scowled. She wanted no more of the conversation, because of how close it was to the discomforts of her life - and yet she knew there’d be more of it. Eliya was nothing if not persistent.

Because kindness wins hearts, Eliya replied, as she gently cocked her head, and spoke slowly. But it must be the right type, and it must be at the proper time… You recall how I approached Mas, and won him. And has he changed his mind, with our father in the Shade’s grasp?

Caliandra did remember. Mas had come south, from cold Kersik, as part of a diplomatic trip of several weeks, to forge new trade agreements between their nations. Eliya had approached him carefully, but pursued him with a kind tenacity, emboldened by Royth’s prediction of success. She arranged for dances, for conversations, for walks about the castle grounds, for a day’s ride in the Kilcully Mountains, for hunting, and for fishing trips - and though the trade agreements had stayed almost the same, Eliya was the clearest victor; they exchanged letters for weeks afterward, and it was only months before Mas declared, to his father’s consternation, that he wished to marry Eliya. Caliandra shook her head, and pulled her legs in, against her chest. He’s mad for you, he’s rich beyond measure, and Royth saw it in a vision. Caliandra said. That’s different, sister. It was fate. A dowry doesn’t matter to Mas. But what man will want the oldest and most difficult Feor sister, when he’s not paid for his trouble?

Eliya paused. Some man will, she said; she laid a pale hand on her sister’s knee. Keep your faith, sister. Yom’s path is set for you; you don’t see it yet, for he has taken you into a dark wood, but one day, the light will shine through. You’re only sixteen years old, after all. And perhaps you should see Royth, too. Maybe he’ll know when that man comes into your life.

Yes, Caliandra replied with a scowl. When I’m thirty and childless, I’ll be wed to a man-loving lordling who’s too scared to live his truth. There was a knock at the door that drew Caliandra’s attention, and interrupted her thoughts. Who is it? she asked, her back stiff. She didn’t want to be bothered in her moment of weakness.

It’s your mother, the Queen Sophine replied, her voice muted by the thick wood door. Am I allowed to enter? Caliandra looked over at her sister, who only shook her head, as if to say, I didn’t tell her.

Come in, Caliandra replied, annoyed. Her mother opened the door, and stepped inside; her blue dress skated above the floor, and a velvet cape flowed behind her. The blue contrasted with her olive skin, her hair – a darker brown than Caliandra’s and Eliya’s, which was pulled neatly back behind her head and held with gold clasps, set with emeralds – and her eyes, a shade lighter than the emeralds on her clasps. Her nose was long and sharp, like Eliya’s - not Caliandra’s, which was turned up to the world, like her father’s - and her cheeks were Caliandra’s, round and full. Caliandra saw the bags under her eyes, and the slow-spreading wrinkles at their corners, like cracking glass; they were far more visible since Father took ill. All of it created the appearance of a woman of great stature, hiding even greater private pain.

And yet, the Queen did not allow it to diminish her spirit. She closed the door behind her, and stepped into Caliandra’s room with a dignified stride. I assume Eliya’s told you of the very poor decision Lord Iaen’s made? their mother asked.

She thinks she’ll die alone, Eliya replied, frowning at Caliandra. Please tell her otherwise. She won’t listen to me.

As if you’d understand, Caliandra snapped.

I’m trying to, Callie, Eliya replied, hurt. I want what you do. I want you to be happy, and married. Mother wants it, Father wants it, Valric wants it -

Valric only wants the glory of war, Caliandra scowled. He wants to be a Yom-damned hero. He couldn’t care less about me being married or not, only which of his friends he’ll visit. She was jealous of that, too; he came and went as he pleased, even more since Father became sick. It was as if Valric was avoiding them… but he’d returned the night before, stressed, but hopeful.

Caliandra, Sophine said, firm, as she approached the bed. It was a tone Caliandra knew well, and it filled her with apprehension. She watched her mother bend her knees, and lower herself to be gracefully level with her daughter’s eyes – relieving herself of her royal station. Caliandra met her eyes, which had unexpected warmth in them; she had thought herself ready to be scolded. Iaen’s made a terrible mistake, Sophine said. Let him have it, and say nothing else on it. Such a fool doesn’t deserve your tears. You have a new chance - for a new life, and a new love. And it will be far better to you than you can imagine. I promise.

I wish I had Valric’s freedoms, Caliandra said. At least then, my life wouldn’t be at the mercy of a man’s whims.

And yet it would, Sophine said; a dread seriousness crossed her face, and her shoulders stiffened.

How? Caliandra replied, puzzled. Her mother’s words confused her.

Your brother has the dignity of dying in battle, as the new King wishes it, Sophine said. There’ll not be a crown to keep him from danger.

Eliya scoffed. That’s never stopped him from seeking it out, she said, wryly. Her remark drew the Queen’s ire, and Caliandra saw her mother give a glare that froze her sister’s heart.

Sorry, Mother, Eliya replied, eyes immediately downcast.

You’re lucky, Eliya, Sophine said. I hope you never need to see how lucky you are. And Caliandra, she added, There’s no dishonor in running a great house. And whoever should choose you, they’ll be the better for it.

Her mother’s words brought fresh tears to Caliandra’s eyes – not because the words had made their mark, but because they had reminded her of what she had lost. Iaen had promised her an equal hand in managing his affairs. She’d planted the idea in his mind as they watched the land from the southwest turret, tangled in each other’s hands, feet dangling over the side; distant figures smaller than ants tilled in fields, and went about their business, ignorant of the rolling hills, the far-off green giants of the Kilcullies, and swatches of purple wildflowers that dotted the hills. Tangled lips led to talk of tangled lives, where Iaen promised she’d run more than his house - he wanted her help with his estate, too. They swore love to each other, forever. Always. Until the glittering stars fell from the sky, and the night was blacker than pitch.

All of that, he gave up; cast aside, for a prettier woman with a bigger dowry.

Of course. I know, Caliandra muttered, as she looked away. It was hard to imagine a better life, compared to the one she’d lost - and the one she lived in. She glanced back at her mother, and asked, How’s Father doing today?

The Queen’s face softened, and she sighed; Sophine’s stern lips drew downward, into a slight frown. No better than yesterday, I’m afraid, she said. The healers have done all they could.

Is he… still well enough to play chess? Caliandra asked, hopeful for some small normal touch in her life, a minute comfort. Some days were better for chess than others; the worse days were full of blood-wet coughs and agony.

He is, Sophine replied. You will put proper clothing on first, though. I can’t have the both of you wearing sleeping gowns.

Caliandra nodded, and started to get off the bed.

And Caliandra? Sophine said, stopping her.

Yes, Mother?

Let him win, for once.

CHAPTER TWO

Caliandra stared at the chessboard, on the border of distraction. The noonday sun blinded with beams through a nearby window, and the verdant green of the forest outside