"And when the time comes, they go to Ivnes to bind their fates to eternity"
(Chapter Thirteen of the Song of Ertos. Imperial Library on the Cape Islands.)
There are few things more beautiful than autumn days on Ivnes Bay. It's unclear what gives them the most charm. Is it the gently sloping expanses of creamy sand? Or the vestibules of the Eternal Forest, overgrown with ancient maple trees, beginning just beyond the beach? Or perhaps the Boisterous Rocks?... The stone pillars of the latter extend far into the ocean, partially obscuring the sea horizon. The sound of the waves crashing there mixes with the rustle of the trees, which fades as the first chill strips them of their leaves. Falling on the beach, they cover it with red stains with irregular, soft edges. Or perhaps it's that scent? A peculiar mixture of sea breeze and the scent of late flowers released by the last rays of the sun. A scent at once fresh, subtle, and profound.
Perhaps only from a combination of these impressions could something like this have been born. A place whose beauty no one has yet managed to fully recreate in either verse or song. Ivnes's fame reached even distant capitals. Yet travelers were never seen here. There were no villages or cities nearby. Even the few ships whose sails occasionally peeked through the rocks disappeared over the horizon as quickly as they appeared. The entire bay, from the mangrove forests of Gregoria to the cliffs of Cape Rocco, had been ceded to the Minor four centuries ago. As a gesture of gratitude, they granted the emperor a small causeway leading through the forest to a wooden platform. It had been built long ago. The first foundations were laid when the forest didn't reach so close to the sea. Now this strange structure stood on the northern edge of the beach, often shaded by nearby trees. Wide pillars, slightly green with moss and algae, supported an ornately carved platform. Twelve imperial poets, dressed in blue wool robes with the characteristic gold zigzag on their chests, sat on wide pine benches. Silent, hunched over as if to provide better protection from the first gusts of colder wind, they wrote on roughly hewn lecterns. Since their arrival, they had sought to capture the beauty of the landscape on their parchments. Motionless, lost in thought, they had become a virtual part of it.
There's a day when you know autumn is turning to winter. You can't see it in the stars, you can't see it in the complex charts of the sages. You can see it in the trees, which stop struggling with the passage of time and drop their leaves as if in resignation. You can see it in the color of the clouds, in the strange absence of birdsong. You can see it in the morning, which covers the plants with a thin layer of icy fur. But it's most visible in Ivnes. The austere beauty of the bay amplifies each of the natural solstices. If, despite this, someone happens to fail to recognize the change, they will see it in the mysterious figure that sits on the beach every year at this time. None of the twelve imperial poets ever learned where this old man comes from. Each had seen him at least once, and each expected the strange spectacle that would follow immediately afterward.
A certain commotion had gripped them since morning. They had already arrived from a shelter hidden deep in the forest, and, slowly reaching for the scrolls, they rubbed their fingers numb from the cold. Then he appeared. He always came from the south. He walked far enough from their outpost that they couldn't make out any details of his appearance. Only his hunched posture betrayed his age. He walked slowly. He didn't look to either side. He must have been aware of the curious audience crowded around the wooden pedestal. But the poets dared not move from their outpost. They knew that just beyond the barrier began the land of the Lesser Ones. Enough legends described the suffering that befell those foolish enough to desecrate it. Had they been closer, they would have seen his tattered brown cloak of thick linen. They would have seen his wiry hands tightening the drawstrings of his hood to better protect himself from the morning chill. They might have been surprised to find him marching barefoot on the damp sand. But it was his face that they would have seen most. A straight nose, thin lips, and complete lack of hair gave it an air of severity. But this impression was dispelled by his tired, yet optimistic eyes.
He didn't have to fear the Lesser Ones. He had been appearing on this day for centuries. It was unclear whether it was the same man or perhaps his successor. The always similar gait betrayed no change, and the distance prevented a more accurate assessment.
The old man had already reached his destination. He sat down on the sand, lowered his hood, and, resting his head on his hands, remained motionless. He waited. The silent audience also waited in suspense, even though they were fully aware of what was about to happen.
An hour passed, then two. Broken clouds raced swiftly across the sky westward, toward the Booming Rocks. On the ground, maple leaves echoed, drifting toward the sea or creating brief eddies that, as they faded, covered the sand with successive layers of blood-red. The poets soon became accustomed to the mysterious visitor's presence and immersed themselves in their work. Every now and then, one would cough or adjust his woolen blanket, which no longer provided sufficient warmth. It was well past noon when a new sound joined the steady rustle of the trees to the right of the platform. An irregular rustling roused the scribes from their creative trance. Some of them straightened and looked to the right. The rustling grew louder, and they could already hear twigs snapping under footsteps and the crunch of leaves.
Immediately, they emerged from the forest to the right, about twenty meters from the platform. The short distance allowed for a more accurate description of the travelers this time. The figure walking in front resembled, at first glance, a boy of about twelve. He was short, dressed in a white tunic, from beneath which bare feet occasionally peeked. Gray hair, fading to white, framed a long face, falling in straight strands over green eyes and a short, upturned nose. It would seem he was only a youngster. But he was no child. All twelve poets, who had been gazing at the newcomers as if captivated, shuddered in their seats when he stopped for a moment and looked in their direction. The stony calm radiating from his movements and the pedantic, analytical gaze with which he surveyed those seated on the platform left no doubt. They were dealing with someone who had seen far more than a mere mortal experiences in a single lifetime. He merely smiled slowly, perhaps ironically. Then he moved on. The second stranger, though truly enormous, strode as if in the shadow of the white being. He must have been over two meters tall. He was also powerfully built. Wraps of various furs, sewn carelessly together, formed something like a cloak. It was unclear where the twisted skin, perhaps stripped from a sheepskin, merged into a lush beard and then into hair. His face was invisible. Only a large, hooked nose, glimmering somewhere between the tangles, gave away his position. Two muscular arms, thickly covered with hair and deep scars, protruded from beneath the piles of clothing. Here and there, fresh scabs were visible. These must have been the marks of some recent battle. A victory, as evidenced by the blood-stained tip of the over-three-meter-long lance held securely in the giant's right hand. The giant limped noticeably, but he didn't lag behind, lumbering along behind the light-footed toddler.
This was what a true Lesser and his Familiar looked like. A rare sight. What a contrast there was in these pairs wandering the roads of the Old World. The dignity and delicacy of the former found a perfect antithesis in the vulgarity and barbaric strength of their companion. They always inspired immense fear and equal admiration. However, they did not approach human settlements. They fought only in defense or as a last resort. No one knew where they had come from. Legends told of their arrival on the continent during the Dark Troubles, but they did not say how. They were a valuable inspiration to the imperial writers. The poets soon set to work, knowing that the rest of the performance was reserved only for a few gulls, perched in the distance, watching their incredible guests.
***
The old man stared at two stone pillars, an extension of the rocky tongue of the Booming Rocks, which jutted into the bay from the south. The sun, darkened by clouds, slowly moved toward them until it hovered directly between them. Then he cleared his throat and said loudly,
"Hello Tar-Walitz," his voice rang out, deep and warm.
"Hello, First," a thinner, higher-pitched voice, yet somehow melodious, answered from behind him. With a characteristic accent on the final syllables of the words. The smaller one stepped closer and settled down next to the old man. After a moment, the Familiar joined the pair, panting. He thrust his lance into the wet sand and, with some effort, sat down a few meters behind them.
"Are you never late?" the old man asked, clearly amused this time.
"You know well, First. But honestly, it happens. Not on a day like today, anyway, not on a day like this...
" "And what makes this day different from a thousand before and a thousand after... And besides, please forgive me for this philosophical drivel. Will you smoke a pipe?
" "I'd love to," Tar-Walitz replied. The First reached into his cloak and pulled out a small bundle. He untied the leather straps that bound the parchment and pulled out a polished wooden box. He lifted the lid and showed it to the Lesser.
"The best, from Rocco!" Tar-Walitz said appreciatively. He reached for the long pipe with his small hand. He turned it over in his hands for a moment, admiring its flawless shape, then dipped his hand into the box a second time, this time removing the linen bag. He poured out some of the herb and carefully filled the pipe. He handed the box to the First, who repeated the entire ritual. The familiar sat completely still.
"The wind is too strong today for circling," the Lesser asked worriedly.
"Haven't you gotten tired of it yet...?" the old man asked after a moment.
"The longer we live, the more simple things become more charming. You should know something about that, O Ancient One!"
They both burst into hearty laughter. They sat like that for a moment longer. Smoke drifted from their pipes and vanished quickly in the wind.
The First spoke again:
"We know full well why we're meeting – do you have it?
" "I do." Now the small companion's voice sounded more serious. He then turned and let out an unusually high, almost inaudible squeak. The familiar rose and approached. Tar-Walitz's hand traveled deep into the furry mass covering the giant's body and, after a moment, pulled out a small, golden tube. He handed it to the First.
The old man briefly read the faint writing engraved on its surface, then grasped it on both sides and gently twisted it. The roll split in the middle, revealing a fine thread. It was clearly some kind of container. After splitting it in two, a smaller roll fell out, this time appearing wooden, but flexible as paper. The First unrolled it and carefully examined it from all sides.
"The Summoning Tree... have you been looking for it for a long time?" he asked the Smaller.
"Six years, not counting the time spent studying before setting out.
" "Have you ever heard anyone play on its wood?"
"Once, from afar. It's one of my best childhood memories.
" "Did you see Him?
" "It was far away. Very far away. But I remember the light. The light above the trees. I don't know now if I really saw Him, or if I just remembered what others told me, what's written in legends.
" "Besides, it's irrelevant," the First interrupted him. "That's why we're here
." "The Council told me it doesn't always work. That sometimes it doesn't arrive, and the summoner flees to the Southern Mountains, where he wanders, searching for answers," Tar-Walitz added hastily.
"That's true. Although I admit, I'd be disappointed if it didn't work for you. I really enjoy smoking my pipe with you. And that's a good sign," he smiled faintly at his little companion. He, however, was now staring at the horizon. He asked in an uncertain voice,
"I know I probably shouldn't ask. It's not like me, really. But can we just sit in silence a little longer?"
The old man turned to him. He watched him for a moment, then whispered,
"So be it."
It was already beginning to get dark. The wind had died down a bit, and the clouds parted for a moment, bathing the bay in a warm, yellowish light. Far away, a white sail shimmered. The imperial ship was sailing towards the Black Isles, or even further, as far as the Bay of Yvendes.
Perhaps two-quarters of an hour had passed when the Lesser One said,
"There's no point in delaying any longer—please pass me the chart."
The old man hastily unrolled a wooden sheet before him. Tar-Walitz thought for a moment, then reached into his tunic and pulled out a knife. A simple blade, made of something resembling crystal, was embedded in a leather handle. The smaller man closed his eyes and placed the knife on the scroll before him. With great concentration, he carved lines and shapes into it. After a few minutes, his movements began to slow. Finally, he stopped his hand. He put the tool down and said quietly,
"Done."
The first man took the perforated board. He spread it on the sand and began to roll it up carefully. Finally, he glued the whole thing together, forming something like a flute or a pipe.
"Courage," he said to the smaller man, seeing his breathing quicken. He handed him the instrument. The latter took three deep breaths, then took a deep breath and blew.
The sound from the instrument flowed, at first halting and hesitant. After a moment, it became clearer. It's unclear how something so small could sound so loud, yet so subtle. At this signal, the twelve Imperial Poets rose and crowded around the railing. One fainted after a few seconds. No one even moved to help him. Almost everyone wept. The music of an instrument crafted from the Tree of Summoning persists as long as the instrument is played. It lingers in the memory, but not as a melody. Rather, it's a sum of unforgettable impressions evoked by these sounds. It remains as a tormenting, paradoxical memory. A thing so magnificent that one longs to recount it to everyone, yet impossible to recount. A distant dream that too quickly slips from the mind. However, what usually follows leaves an even deeper mark on the witness.
Where a sail had been visible moments before, something shimmered. At first, it was unclear whether it was the reflection of water or the beacon of a passing ship. But quickly, the bright sphere began to grow and soon broke away from the horizon. Something was approaching from the west. The sun had set, but the bay began to fill with light. At first, it was pale, barely revealing shapes. But within half a minute, it grew stronger and began to pulsate in multicolor. The luminous shape, heading toward the shore, had flattened slightly. Two wings could now be distinguished. It had to be a bird. The poets squinted, their eyes watering from the intense brightness. Some, still in their senses, shielded their faces with pieces of cloak to observe the scene. What flew overhead a minute later resembled an eagle, but was at least ten times larger. It made no sound as it flapped its powerful wings. Nor could the substance of the creature be seen. Waves of energy brighter than the sun flowed from beak to tail, leaving a trail of falling sparks behind it. The father of birds, the Phoenix, was arriving on the shores of the Old World.
The Phoenix circled and sat down beside the three figures. The instrument's sound had long since faded. The familiar fidgeted anxiously, then stood up and began nervously swinging his lance. Tar-Walitz silenced him with a single, short hiss, but he himself didn't even bother to look serious. He knelt on the sand and stared at the newcomer. Only the Old One remained seated, still facing the sea. He didn't turn around. Only when he noticed the shadows had stopped shifting did he rise, approach the Lesser One, and offer him his hand, saying,
"It's time. I don't like separations, even from those I've known for only half a day."
Tar-Walitz didn't react immediately. Only when the First One shook his shoulder did he turn his head and regain his composure. He spoke, his voice trembling with emotion:
"I know... Just tell me one thing. Did you know?"
"I knew from the start you would succeed," the First One began, kindness in his voice. "You Lessers have looked like human children throughout your centuries of existence. In reality, you are their very antithesis. Cold, rational, stoic. You were still like that when you arrived here this afternoon. Look at yourself now. You kneel, pale. You gulp air like a fish fresh out of water. Everything you learned throughout your life, everything the Council instilled in you, has vanished. It flew away with a short melody played on a wooden pipe. But that is precisely why the Phoenix came. That is why you will fly with it to the West. Only those who manage to retain something of the child within their souls crushed by iron discipline can summon the bird."
The Lesser One smiled, this time sincerely.
"Thank you for the pipe," he replied, and moved toward the Phoenix.
The bird lowered its head to the ground, allowing it to comfortably climb onto its back. Looking down at Old Man Tar-Walitz, he added,
"I will wait for you."
And they flew away. The familiar sat for a moment longer, as if remembering the reprimand. However, seeing the bird retreat, he leaped to his feet. Limping, he ran towards the sea in hopeless pursuit. It must have been incredibly painful, but he seemed to pay it no mind. As he dipped his feet into the cold water, he heard a high-pitched squeal behind him, similar to the one the First had reprimanded him with. He stopped and turned. His movements showed hesitation. After a moment, the squeal repeated itself. The First stood on the sand and shouted,
"By the power granted to me by the Council, I release you from your duty! Your Lord is dead! Go and be free!"
The giant stood motionless for a moment, then dropped his lance. He began to stagger towards the shore. He passed the Old Man without a word, and then the wooden platform where twelve men were trying to gather their confused thoughts.
The Old Man stood for a moment longer on the beach, gazing at the fading light in the distance. Several poets thought they saw rings of gray smoke rising above it.
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