CHAPTER 194: SARUMAN’S PLAN

After successfully forging the Crown of Wisdom, the Middle-earth counterpart to Ravenclaw’s lost diadem, Sylas plunged into a frenzy of study and practice.

Spells, Transfiguration, Potions, Alchemy, and even the secret witchcraft of Middle-earth, the Elvish songs of power, the incantations of Númenor. With the Crown of Wisdom upon his brow, his learning speed soared like a falcon riding the wind.

What surprised Sylas most was how meditation itself transformed beneath the diadem’s glow. Where before his thoughts had crawled like a river through reeds, now they roared like a waterfall. Each session was several times more effective than anything he had ever known.

But such brilliance came at a price. The mind’s fire burned through the body’s fuel with terrifying speed. Sylas now ate as though he carried the appetite of three men, always reaching for bread or fruit to keep his strength from flagging.

Arwen, ever thoughtful, solved the problem. She prepared Lembas bread especially for him, so that a single bite could sustain him for hours and he would not need to constantly interrupt his studies.

Even so, the diadem could not be worn without pause. Too much strain on the mind led to exhaustion and an unsettling coldness of spirit. Thus, Sylas limited himself, half a day with the Crown, half a day without, balancing wisdom with rest.

Despite the allure of mastering everything at once, he reminded himself not to overreach. The Philosopher’s Stone was his ultimate aim, and alchemy demanded precision above all. Even Nicolas Flamel, the only wizard in recorded history to succeed, had needed centuries to perfect it. Knowledge of the Stone’s making did not mean one could simply produce it.

Months passed at Weathertop. Though the Hufflepuff Cup tempted him, he set it aside. The Cup’s crafting required rare materials and, more importantly, exact rituals performed under the heavens themselves, rituals bound to the movements of Saturn.

In Middle-earth, Saturn was known as Lumbar, the "Slow Wanderer." Once every three hundred and seventy-eight days, Lumbar came into opposition with the Sun. On those nights it outshone even the Star of Eärendil. The next opposition, however, was still more than half a year away. Sylas could not afford to linger.

Still, he began preparations. Smaug grumbled bitterly as Sylas siphoned nearly a ton of gold from his hoard, but after much refinement in the mithril forge, the mountain of treasure was reduced to a single, fist-sized ingot of flawless gold.

Upon this embryo of the Cup, Sylas etched ancient runes of abundance and harvest, their curling lines glowing faintly with green light. Then, cloaked by a Disillusionment Charm, he slipped down the mountain and buried the ingot deep within a farmer’s wheatfield. Only when the crops ripened could it be unearthed, and even then it must pass through further rites beneath oak and mistletoe.

Leaving a magical mark upon the soil, Sylas returned quietly to Weathertop. The golden embryo would slumber beneath the earth until the appointed time.

But he himself could not remain idle. After a few short days with Arwen, he kissed her farewell and set out for the White Mountains, where rumor spoke of Soul Sulfur, the last material he needed for the Stone.

This time, he did not ride upon Thorondor’s broad back. Instead, he stepped through the Floo Network into Lórien, then Apparated straight into the ancient shadows of Fangorn Forest.

There he sought Gandalf, but the old wizard had departed months earlier. Treebeard told him that Mithrandir had gone to Rohan. Resigned, Sylas traded several vials of Plant-Growth Draught for precious Ent-draught, then mounted his enchanted broom and turned south.

From high above, he glimpsed the black spike of Orthanc, Saruman’s tower. The white wizard’s domain gleamed like a dark fang rising from the plain, but Sylas swerved aside without hesitation. He had no wish to cross wits with Curunír now. Soul Sulfur was more important than a system sign-in.

Yet he did not know his presence had already been noticed.

In a secret chamber within Orthanc, Saruman sat hunched over a long black table, the Palantír glowing before him. Within the crystal sphere, he tracked the dark-robed figure streaking south across the skies.

Suddenly, Sylas’s image faded from the stone, and in its place bloomed a single, fiery Eye, rimmed with shadow, blazing with malice.

"Sauron, what is it you want from me?" Saruman’s brows furrowed as he spoke, his voice edged with irritation.

Though he had allowed himself to be ensnared by Sauron’s whispers and had strayed from the path of light, Saruman’s pride remained unbroken. In his own mind, he was no servant of the Dark Lord, only a partner, an equal Maia working toward his own ends.

But Sauron did not answer his question. Instead, his fiery Eye narrowed.

"Are you concerned with the black-robed wizard you spied upon just now?"

Saruman gave a disdainful snort. "He is nothing. An insignificant mortal."

"Insignificant?" The Eye gleamed with cruel amusement. "If he were truly so, would the White Wizard trouble himself to gaze upon him through the Palantír? And yet, the world sings his name. Orc-slayer, Lord of Smaug, scourge of Balrog and flame. Even east of Mordor, peasants whisper his legend. Tell me, Curunír, whose reputation now echoes louder across Middle-earth, yours or his?"

Saruman’s jaw tightened, fury flickering in his pale eyes. His pride smarted beneath Sauron’s mocking tone.

"What business is this of yours?" he retorted coldly. "Unlike you, chained in spirit to the shadows of Mordor, I still walk the world, and I have work to do."

Sauron’s laughter was a rasp of fire. "Work? You mean your pathetic attempts at ring-forging? You dreamed of matching my One Ring, yet what you’ve wrought is scarcely fit for a wraith. Even the lesser Nine carry trinkets of greater craft than yours."

Saruman’s face flushed with anger, but before he could respond, Sauron’s voice softened, insidious and persuasive.

"Curunír, I know your hunger. Your pride. I can give you the secret you crave, the art of forging a Ring to rival all others. Power to bend Middle-earth itself to your will. All I ask is your allegiance. Become my servant..."

"Never!" Saruman thundered, his voice echoing in the dark chamber. "I am no one’s thrall. Not to you, not even to the Valar themselves. I am Saruman the White, and I bow to no master!"

The Eye smoldered with contempt. "You delude yourself with talk of partnership, yet what have your schemes achieved? You sought alliance with the Orcs of Moria, destroyed by that meddling wizard and his dwarves. You turned to the Dunlendings, yet the Grey Pilgrim whispers in Rohan, and now their king grants the hillmen land of their own. Your plots unravel as swiftly as you weave them."

Saruman stiffened, his face twisting with rage. "Gandalf..." he hissed, the name laced with venom.

But Sauron’s next words struck him like a blade.

"Too neat, is it not? Too well-timed? Every move you make undone, just as it begins. Do you still call it coincidence? Or do you see the truth? You are watched. Suspected. And the Grey Wizard is already tightening his snare."

Saruman’s eyes blazed. "Impossible! My dealings are shrouded, hidden from all eyes. Not even the Wise could pierce my secrets. Gandalf cannot know!"

His voice faltered at the edges, doubt creeping like frost into his heart.

Sauron’s gaze burned hotter, merciless. "You already know the answer, Curunír. Think. Recall the strange timing of his visits, the questions he posed, the paths he took. You sensed it but chose to ignore it. You speak of your ’Stone of True Sight’, and yet the Grey Wizard walks where he wills, even in shadows you believe are yours alone."

"I did everything in secret. No one should know of it! I hold the Stone of True Sight in my hand, nothing within Isengard escapes me. How could Gandalf possibly have learned of this?"

Saruman paced the chamber like a caged beast, storms of thought crashing within his mind as he scoured his memories for cracks in his schemes.

His eyes wandered to the window, and there beyond the walls rose the ancient trees of Isengard, tall and unyielding. A sudden realization struck him like a hammer blow. His face twisted with fury.

"Of course... those thieves with their ears pressed against my very walls!" he spat. "I should have cut them all down, every last tree! Left not a root nor leaf behind!"

Sauron’s Eye burned hotter, and his voice dripped with cruel satisfaction.

"You are discovered, Curunír. The side of light will not harbor you now. But submit to me, and you will have the legions of Mordor at your command. I will even guide your hand in forging a Ring of Power. What say you?"

Saruman froze, then straightened, pride hardening his features. His voice turned cold, edged with scorn.

"Do you think I would kneel so easily? I am a disciple of Aulë the Smith, master of craft and creation. Your skill in forging may be great, Sauron, but mine lies in invention. I have bred a stronger race of Orcs, creatures who will not cower beneath the sun. They are stronger, hardier, disciplined. An army like none before!"

He leaned closer to the Palantír, eyes glittering with ambition.

"And that is but the beginning. Given time, I will fashion creatures mightier still, monsters that will make even your captains tremble."

The Eye flared with interest. Shadows shifted across the crystal sphere as Sauron’s tone softened into persuasion.

"Then let us forge a true alliance. I will send you an army, loyal to you alone, to guard Isengard. In return, you will build me a war-machine worthy of conquest. With Mordor striking from the East and your legions from the North, Rohan and Gondor will fall like wheat before the scythe."

Saruman’s lips curled, tempted but wary. He shook his head slowly.

"Not yet. If Gandalf has no proof, only suspicion, then I can still wear the mask of the Wise and build my strength in secret. To reveal myself too soon would undo everything."

Sauron’s laughter was like grinding stone.

"Then confirm it. Seize the black-robed wizard. He is bound to Gandalf, together they slew the Balrog of Moria. Through him, you may learn what the Grey Pilgrim knows... and what he suspects."

At the mention of the black-robed wizard, Saruman’s eyes darkened. His voice dripped with venom.

"Yes... that whelp has thwarted me as well. Gandalf holds him in high regard, too high. There is more to him than meets the eye. Something cloaked and hidden... a veil even my sight cannot pierce. If I capture him, his secrets will be mine."

What Saruman did not speak aloud was the unease that had gnawed at him since their first meeting. The boy’s eyes, those strange, veiled eyes, had unsettled him. In them Saruman had glimpsed a truth he dared not admit.

It was the look one gives a traitor.

As though the boy had already seen this day, already judged him.

And that final look... that fleeting, knowing glance, unshaken, pitying, unmoored Saruman’s pride more than he cared to confess.