Chapter Text
It was a fair-weather day in the village of Asdana Vale. In retrospect, that should’ve really been a warning sign for everything to come. Not for any superstitious reasons, of course – at twenty years of age, Veritas Ratio would scoff at the idea that he was at all beholden to childish superstition. No, it was because the weather being unusually good meant that everyone was taking the opportunity to step out of their homes.
Including, unwillingly, Veritas himself.
It was laundry day, and that of course meant that someone had to take the dirty clothes to the town washer – a grandiose name for what was essentially a hole in the ground that captured water from a nearby stream, letting it swirl around to get rid of the filth. The path from his home to the washer took him through half the town; and since the weather was, as established, fair, there were people around and they could not help themselves but interrupt his march.
“Oh, Veritas!” interrupted Susannah, the old woman who spent most of her days seated at her porch, “Heading to the washer, are we?”
“Obviously,” Veritas, laundry piled up in his hands, replied.
“Such a dutiful boy!” Susannah cooed. “Doctor Rond must be so glad to have such an exceptional ward!”
“I… am certain he is,” Veritas sighed. “Now if you excuse me…”
Before he could extract himself, another voice interrupted.
“Hah, Veritas, haven’t seen you in a while!” Gerard, one of the lumberjacks, stepped in closer, landing a heavy hand on Veritas’s arm. Veritas swayed; though he was by no means short or slender, Gerard made him feel like both.
“Indeed you have not,” he replied, trying to take another step forward, “now…”
“Say, boy, you sure you don’t want to come to the woods with us today? There’s always work to be done, especially now that winter’s here, and it could give you a taste of a real job, not that booky nonsense Rond’s putting you through…”
“Booky nonsense?” That’d be Susannah’s wife, stepping out of the house to give Gerard an earful. “I haven’t seen you complaining about nonsense when Rond put your broken leg together three months ago!”
Veritas looked around, rapidly reminded why he avoided the townsfolk as much as possible as he looked for a way to escape. Alas, to no avail; it seemed as though the entire town was here at the central plaza, gathering ahead of the midday mass. High at the church tower – the sole stone building in Asdana Vale – the mosaic of the Eye of Ena watched over the proceedings. Veritas briefly considered prayer as people prattled around him.
“Oh please.” Gerard was waving his hand, “look at the boy. He’s weird enough already. He spends any more time by himself, he’s bound to turn into a scholar. Or worse, a heretic…”
Susannah reached out to smack him.
“Don’t even say such things!” She said. “Sure, he and the good doctor may not be following Ena, but that doesn’t make them heretics, now does it?”
That was quite enough utter nonsense for the day. Veritas shrugged off Gerard’s arm.
“I am quite happy to be learning from doctor Rond,” he stated, “and no, Gerard, I am not going to the woods with you, I am not interested. Now, I have laundry to do.”
He marched off, ignoring the looks he was getting after his outburst. Still, he could hear the three chat on.
“The brat…” Gerard scoffed. “For all the smart stuff Rond’s teaching him, he clearly forgot basic manners.”
“Maybe he thinks he can just ditch us one day,” Susannah’s wife chuckled, “like the preacher’s girl.”
“Poor boy…” Susannah sighed. “If he keeps this up, there won’t be anyone out there who’d want to be with him…”
Veritas couldn’t help a loud scoff at that. He probably shouldn’t have, but hearing the conversation behind him fall quiet felt entirely too satisfying.
***
The washer was thankfully abandoned, as Veritas expected – that was why he picked this time for laundry. Most of the townsfolk were worshippers of the Holy Order, and so they’d be in church at this time. At least, that had been his plan before the good weather ruined it.
The washer itself was shaped like an upside down cone, with a round stump in the centre and a paddle attached to the side for stirring; it was deep, enough so to have a small ladder built into it. Veritas cast an annoyed look at the sky as he dumped the clothes down, poured the soap in, and pulled the paddle into its holder. After a moment, it started swinging from side to side on its own as the clothes started to swirl in the washer.
The automatic paddle was Veritas’s invention; he built it a year ago as an engineering experiment, to ease the amount of work the people of Asdana Vale – many of them old and stooped – need to do to get their laundry done. The townsfolk scoffed at the idea; why improve something that works well?, they’d ask, shaking their head at Veritas. He didn’t care; he didn’t even mind particularly when he found some of his detractors using his invention mere days later, without so much as a word of apology for their earlier derision. He had long given up on his neighbours acknowledging that his work held any worth.
Veritas sat down at the edge of the washer, letting his feet dangle over the edge. Inhaling the chilly air, he took a look at the town. Asdana Vale consisted of perhaps thirty houses in total, not counting the church and its attached presbytery. Veritas’s books suggested it barely qualified as a small town, but he couldn’t really compare; he’d never left the town.
Surrounding Asdana Vale was the seemingly-endless expanse of the forest, tall evergreens and now-bare oaks climbing up the mountain slopes that separated it from the rest of the world. Winter was coming in fast; despite the sun being up in the clear blue sky, a dusting of snow covered everything, dousing the world in uniform white. Winter was the prettiest Asdana Vale ever looked – but after twenty years of living here, Veritas could not quite see its charm anymore.
His attention turned to the road that wound between the hills. It was the only path out of town; it was the only way to contact the outside world. Whenever traders came in, the preacher would stand close, watching for anyone who tried to hitch a ride. No-one ever did.
No-one ever left Asdana Vale.
Except the preacher’s own adopted daughter, somehow. Robin had vanished a few months prior, with a message saying she wished to become a wandering troubadour. Veritas still hadn’t figured out how she managed to sneak out without Preacher Wood knowing.
He sighed to himself, wrapping the coat tighter as a gust of colder wind blew by. There was no-one else here so, feeling somewhat safe, he reached to the bag on his shoulder and withdrew a book. Doctor Rond had given it to him yesterday, but in the gloom of their shared home, Veritas hadn’t really been able to appreciate how elegant it was - white leather cover embossed with a gold frame, and a constellation in the centre.
Not for the first time, Veritas wondered how his caretaker had acquired the book. Rond would disappear once every few weeks for half a night, and return with some food and, of course, books for Veritas to devour. Physics, mathematics, theology, anatomy… It was as close to entertainment as one could find in Asdana Vale, and Veritas was both intensely grateful and intensely curious as to where exactly the books were coming from. But Rond always insisted it was a secret, and Veritas wasn’t so desperate for answers as to stalk his teacher during his nighttime outings. Not yet, at least.
As he began reading, he quickly realized that hits particular tome was on astronomy – the constellations, the planets, the movement of celestial bodies. It was not a topic Veritas had a chance to explore before, and so he found himself absorbed into the text, the author painting a vivid, precise picture of the nighttime skies. How many of these stars could be seen with naked eye? He’d have to climb to the roof tonight and see…
So absorbed was Veritas in his book, he did not hear approaching footsteps until he heard a voice over his head.
“Good morning, Veritas.”
Veritas blinked a few times and looked up, stifling a curse as he saw who was looming above him. Golden eyes, white hair, and a pair of Halovian wings wrapping around the neck – the Preacher’s other, dutiful child. Sunday.
Veritas quickly closed the book as he looked past Sunday. There were more people behind him, the townsfolk with their laundry; for some reason, they took this as a social occasion rather than the time to avoid other people. He must’ve read through the entire midday mass. Nous damn it.
“Good morning,” he mumbled out, standing up while Sunday took a step back. “I’ll be fetching my clothes now.”
“There’s no hurry,” Sunday said as Veritas unhooked the paddle and started using it scope the clothes out. “I haven’t seen you at the mass today.”
Veritas sent him an incredulous look before getting back to his work. The two of them were usually content to not speak to each other whatsoever. Why this attempt at small talk?
“You have never seen me at the mass,” he pointed out. “Doctor Rond and I pray to Nous, not to Ena.”
“Certainly, but it is a social occasion, wouldn’t you agree? Everyone comes to the church. It’s a chance to meet people.”
Yes, Veritas wanted to say, that’s why I’m glad to be avoiding it. He did not say that, instead continuing to drag up his clothes. A glance back confirmed that the rest of the town was still back there, talking among each other. Ah, hence the small talk. He would look bad in front of everyone if he stared at me in silence.
As he pulled the second batch of clothes up and scooped it into his basket, he noticed Sunday kneeling beside him, picking the book up from the ground. Veritas cursed in his head; he should’ve just packed it in his bag instead of leaving it out.
“Is this a new one?” Sunday asked. “I haven’t seen you reading this one before.”
Sunday had seen him read often enough to recognize his books? Now that was a disturbing thought. Nevertheless, Veritas sighed. Might as well be polite about it.
“Yes, though I am not done with it,” he said, reaching into the washer again. “I am open to lending it to you once I’m finished.”
“Why thank you…” Sunday trailed off.
Veritas turned to watch him. Sunday, for whatever reason, decided to browse the book. Ratio could see his expression fall.
“What’s wrong?” Veritas sighed.
“Veritas this is… this is knowledge of heavens. The domain of the gods.” Sunday looked up at him, eyes wide and pleading. “You should not be reading about this.”
Veritas could hear murmurs among the townsfolk in the back. Great, so they were eavesdropping on the conversation. He turned his attention back to Sunday.
“It’s just someone writing about what they saw in the sky,” he sighed. “Is looking up at night heresy now?”
“It’s more than that and we both know that,” Sunday replied, his tone growing harsher. “To predict the movement of heavens, to understand the divine design – that is heresy, and that is what this book engages in. You must rid yourself of it, Veritas. Please; for the sake of your own soul.”
Veritas hated when Sunday did that; get all emotional and empathetic, as though it pained him to see a sinner in front of him. It worked, somewhat, when the two of them were twelve; but after years of finding himself at the wrong end of that look, Veritas had become immune to it.
“Is it really Ena’s will for us all to remain ignorant of the world around us?” he scoffed.
Before Sunday could reply, another, deeper voice spoke up from behind him, warm and pleasant.
“It is Ena’s will that we obey Their order of things. And that involves accepting the heavens as they are.”
Oh, brilliant. The preacher was here.
Preacher Gopher Wood was a tall man, cutting a somewhat intimidating figure with his black priestly robe and the small black wings growing from behind his neck. But the man had an easy smile, and that, along with the glasses perched atop his nose, made him seem downright grandfatherly. As he walked, the crowd parted before him, all smiles and comfort at the sight of the man.
Veritas grit his teeth and braced himself.
“I will be taking my book back now,” he said. “I can put it back where it came from, if I must.”
He reached out to Sunday, who was frozen halfway between watching Veritas and observing his own father approach, but then Preacher Wood let out a soft tut-tut.
“Sunday, my boy, I am so very glad you remain vigilant for signs of heresy. We must always be on guard; it is not merely in church that we must look for sin, but also in our fellow men.”
Oh, how wonderous. Preacher Wood was taking this as an opportunity to give his second sermon of the day. Veritas scowled, while next to him, Sunday jerked his head up and down.
“O-of course, Father.”
The Preacher turned his attention to Veritas; the two were almost the same height, so Veritas didn’t even have the pleasure of glaring down at him the way he could at Sunday.
“Of course,” Wood continued, “They teach us that we must love the sinner and forgive their sin – but it is our duty to ensure it does not occur again, no matter the sinner’s protestations.”
What did that mean? Veritas stared at Preacher Wood, wary of whatever the priest may do, when the man looked aside.
“You understand what you must do, my son?”
Sunday stared at the book in his hands, then looked around. Veritas followed his gaze to all the townsfolk around them, waiting for their decision.
“I’m sorry, Veritas,” Sunday whispered. Veritas’s eyes widened as he realized what he meant.
“Don’t you dare-!”
But it was too late. Sunday dropped the book – the precious, beautiful, engrossing book about the wonders of the nighttime skies and distant stars – right into the washer.
“You-!” Veritas resisted the urge to punch him in the face. No – the book. He had to save the book.
He jumped down into the washer, ignoring the startled shouts behind him, and slid down its slope until his boots hit the water. Cold, cold, cold; he ignored that too, reaching down and plucking the book out from between shirts and trousers. He caught his breath, sliding his hand on the embossed cover. It seemed unaffected. Perhaps inside…?
He opened the book, and his hopes died instantly. The paper was already starting to stick together, the ink running, the precise illustrations turning into nothing more than wobbly smudges while words dripped down into the swirl below. Ratio stared at the book, something horrible and cold stuck in his throat; some primal urge to scream. It’s ruined. The book is completely ruined. I will never be able to finish it.
He wasn’t sure how long he stood there, watching the pages turn into grey sludge. Move, some distant part of him said, you’ll catch a cold. He closed the now-useless book, stuffed it into his bag – like he should’ve done at the start, he should’ve known Sunday was nosy, he should’ve known he’d pick it up – and gathered the rest of his clothes from the washer.
As he climbed up, shivering in the chill, he found that Preacher Wood and Sunday were both gone like a bad dream, leaving behind only the quiet townsfolk. A few of them sent him quick looks before turning away. What’s with this reaction? Did he actually scream down there, when he realized the book was ruined? Or did Preacher Wood calling him a sinner make him some kind of untouchable in the townsfolk’s eyes?
No matter. It wasn’t as though they’d have anything good to say to Veritas. He picked up his clothes basket and marched off, only silence following him.
***
“I can’t believe he’d do this! The absolute imbecile!” Veritas sneered as he crushed herbs for one of doctor Rond’s medicines in the mortar. In the gloomy safety of his own home, Veritas was free to rage as much as he wanted; at least, until Rond let out a disapproving hum.
“If you slam that pestle down any harder, you’ll break the bowl,” the doctor noted, his voice sing-song as he mixed something in the cauldron over the fire. As Veritas took a deep breath, pausing in his work for a moment, Rond continued,
“You know Sunday needs to please his father. Especially now that Robin, bless her courage, fled the coop. I imagine he’s under an even greater pressure to adhere to the Order orthodoxy.”
“He didn’t have to look into the book.” Veritas cringed inwardly at his own words. He sounded whiny.
“So he has natural curiosity. Isn’t that something to admire, especially in someone on Wood’s leash?”
Veritas sighed, turning to look at his teacher. Rond was a short, wrinkled man bent down by the passage of time; although he and Gopher Wood were of the same age, it showed much more on Rond. It made something ache painfully in Veritas; he could still remember when he was little, when Rond was a towering, imposing figure.
The two were not related; Veritas’s parents had been a pair of travelling scholars who passed away when a mysterious plague came through the region nineteen years prior. The same disease took away Robin and Sunday’s parents, though while the siblings were outright adopted by Preacher Wood, Rond never pretended to be Veritas’s father, nor demanded filial piety. He insisted that he was merely a teacher – and so, Veritas treated him as such.
Now, Rond’s eyes glimmered with amusement as they took in Veritas’s gaze. Veritas sighed, his mind drifting back to Sunday.
“Very well, I will admit that it is a good thing he’s curious,” he said. Rond smiled; Veritas rolled his eyes before continuing. “It’s just a pity he brought the preacher’s attention to the book. What is Wood’s problem with me, anyway? I find it hard to believe it’s just because we follow Nous; Susannah’s wife does as well and he never sees fit to bother her.”
“Mariah never asks about the world outside the vale,” Rond pointed out, turning his attention back to the cauldron. “And she attends church once a week.”
“Are you suggesting I should start attending as well?” Veritas scoffed.
Rond laughed at that; a full-bellied chortle that had him leaning on the fireplace mantle.
“Heavens, no. You’d stand up in the middle of the sermon and start arguing philosophy with Gopher, and then we’d really turn into the village pariahs.”
Veritas sighed as he watched his teacher calm himself from his outburst. With a deep breath, Rond turned to him, and lowered his voice.
“Please, just bear it for a few more months, boy. Come spring, I believe you will be able to leave this town.”
Veritas blinked. Leave Asdana Vale… it was all he wanted, and yet the prospect of actually doing it felt downright odd.
“Is that… are you sure?” he asked in a whisper. Rond nodded.
“I don’t have a full plan yet, but I do have a travelling merchant who’d be willing to take you on, and a path out. Just make it through the winter without antagonizing Gopher further, please.”
Veritas could only nod, his mind awash with possibilities. Rond clapped, grinning as Veritas startled.
“In the meanwhile,” he said, “I’ll venture out tonight, get you something new to replace this…”
He nodded towards the paper brick drying on the table by the entrance. Veritas’s wonder vanished, replaced with concern.
“Are you sure? You were out just the other night.”
“Of course, don’t worry about me!” Rond waved him off. “I’m not that old, Veritas; I can handle two sleepless nights once a month.”
“Still, you don’t have to. It’s my fault I lost the book.”
“And it’s up to me, like a good teacher, to replace it.” Rond stepped in and patted him gently on the arm. “Besides, you’ll get bored if you have nothing to read, and I don’t think this town can survive your boredom.”
“That’s hardly fair,” Veritas scoffed, leaning back as Rond reached out to ruffle his hair.
“Don’t worry about me, my young genius,” the man said. “I’ll be fine.”
***
The next morning, Veritas woke up with a distinct sense of wrongness.
Something was missing. A scent that should be there but was not (the smell of tea that doctor Rond brewed every morning), sounds that plunged the house into silence by their absence (the rattling of footsteps, the crackle of boots and fabric, the breath of another person), a presence. He got out of bed, and immediately looked to the hook by the entrance door.
Rond’s coat wasn’t there.
Socks padding softly on the floor, Veritas looked around the house. It wasn’t a large space, merely two rooms – the large main chamber, divided in two by a half-wall that separated the ‘kitchen’ from the ‘bedroom’, and a small attached pantry. It took mere seconds for Veritas to confirm what he was already certain of: Rond was not home.
But why?
As far as Veritas could remember, Rond always came back from his nighttime ventures before sun rose – and the sun was already shining through the narrow gaps in the shutters of the house’s sole window. So then, why was Rond not here? It might be nothing, Veritas told himself. Rond was the town’s sole doctor; perhaps someone had an emergency and called on him. But then, why didn’t he wake up Veritas, if only to tell him to hold the fort while he was out? Surely, he’d at least leave the new book out for Veritas to find?
Veritas dressed himself and stepped outside, squinting his eyes at the brightness. Clouds were beginning to gather up in the sky, but it hadn’t snowed overnight, thankfully. He could see footprints, both his and Rond’s, going in and out of the house; one of Rond’s trailed off into the forest. Veritas looked at it. There was no returning trail; perhaps he simply came back a different way?
Concern building, he walked down into town. There were fewer people milling today – it was early, after all. Those he did see avoided his attention; I suppose I’m still ‘the sinner’. Veritas grit his teeth, mentally cursing preacher Wood, and marched up to the one woman he was certain saw everything that happened in town – Susannah, sat down on her perch as per usual.
“Hello, boy.” She smiled, merely politely this time. “Running an errand for doctor Rond?”
“Not quite, actually.” Veritas took a deep breath. “Mrs Susannah, have you seen doctor Rond at all today? He’s not at home, and his coat and bag are missing.”
Susannah’s polite distance immediately morphed into concern.
“Oh dear. No, I haven’t seen him at all. Haven’t heard of any commotion in the village, either, I don’t imagine he’d be out helping anyone.”
“I see.” Veritas tried to keep his tone polite, despite the sinking feeling in his stomach. “Thank you.”
Despite his mounting conviction that he knew what was going on, he still walked around the entire village, even peering into the washer and following the stream for a few steps. Still no sight of Rond anywhere. Veritas wrapped himself tighter in his coat as he marched back home.
The footprints in the snow were still there, the story they told blatantly obvious. A single set, going into the woods. Rond went out to search for a new book for his student. No matching set coming back. Rond never returned.
His teacher had gone missing in the forest, and it was Veritas’s fault.