"But none of that is the main reason I began to suspect him."
Gandalf leaned back in his chair, fingers absently brushing through his beard as he recalled the details.
"What truly troubles me is how strangely he has been behaving of late."
He lowered his voice, as though speaking of a private matter.
"During my time in Orthanc, while I was searching for useful records, Saruman often sent attendants up to the upper levels of the tower. They would leave carrying his orders, vanish for days, and then return hauling heavy bundles wrapped tightly in rough cloth. When I asked him about it, his response was... abrupt, even hostile. He snapped at me that I had no right to question him, and advised me in no uncertain terms not to pry further." Gandalf sighed.
"Since then, he has shut himself away almost entirely, rarely leaving the top of the tower. Each time I tried to approach, he ordered me to halt. Many times I had to call to him through the doors like an unwanted guest. And then, a few days later, when I went again to see him, he expelled me altogether. Claimed I was disturbing his research." His grey eyes sharpened.
"But tell me, Eric, what sort of research is so secret that even another wizard cannot know of it? Should not our goals be aligned? Should not our purpose be the same?"
Eric frowned slightly, fingers tapping the armrest as he considered.
"Suspicious indeed," he murmured.
He could not help but wonder. Had Saruman already begun dabbling in Sauron's dark arts this early? If so, it felt too sudden. Something about it all seemed off.
His thoughts caught on one word in particular.
"Magic..."
From the outside, everyone believed Eric to be a master of magic, a man steeped in it from dawn till dusk. His sheer frequency of use was enough to earn him the title "most magical man of the age." But Eric knew the truth all too well. Combat magic had always been his weakness. No armor, however thick, could fully shield him from sorcery that burned, froze, or cursed its way through steel.
And there were plenty who could wield such powers. Elf-lords, wandering wizards, or mortals blessed with some strange bloodline or stroke of fortune. Those, at least, tended to use their gifts sparingly and often for noble purposes.
Sauron's followers, however, treated dark sorcery like cheap fireworks. The Nine Ringwraiths, his lieutenants in Mordor, and countless wretches at their command spread curses, hexes, and poisonous magic as if it were an everyday chore.
Eric broke from his thoughts and looked at Gandalf.
"I find this very interesting. I think Saruman will not turn me away if I ask to pay him a visit."
Gandalf hesitated, tugging at his sleeve.
"I believe... probably not," he said slowly. But the way he said it betrayed his doubts.
Probably not. Hopefully not. At least, not with shouting involved.
"And when do you plan to go?" Gandalf asked at last.
"If you like, I can accompany you. If Saruman takes offense, I may be able to calm him."
Eric considered it for a moment. In truth, Saruman might actually be more cooperative if Gandalf stayed behind. But aloud he said, "Next month. Let us meet in Dale, and from there we can ride together to Isengard and call on Orthanc."
DGandalf nodded.
"That suits me well. I wish to visit Erebor first and see how Thorin and his folk are faring. I shall meet you at Dale in the new month."
And so the plan was set, a diplomatic journey waiting to unfold.
That night, both men attended a small feast hosted by Thranduil. The Elvenking's halls rang with laughter and music, though most of the merriment seemed to swirl around the table where Eric had laid out his personal contribution: barrels of liquor.
Not Elvish vintage, but his own stock.
Before leaving home, Eric had packed a dozen barrels from his stronghold's cellars. They were not many, but he had chosen a wide variety. Some strong enough to burn the throat, others light and sweet, and even a few rare casks bought from a Dorwinion caravan.
"This is a rarity indeed," Thranduil declared with evident satisfaction after sampling them.
He lifted a glass of Eric's strongest brew, squinting into its clarity.
"Especially this one. It has been a long time since I could honestly describe a drink as truly strong. The taste leaves something to be desired, but its fire is undeniable."
"If you enjoy it, I can always bring more on my next visit," Eric offered politely. "And once the roads are finished, our trade caravans will be able to deliver directly."
Thranduil chuckled softly and did not answer, though the sparkle in his eyes showed amusement. Always speaking of his roads, this mortal.
"Your caravans?" the Elvenking asked after a pause.
"Yes. We established a trade company last year. We deal in leather, fine threads, fresh produce, and meats. More recently, we've added wine and spirits, including the ones you taste tonight. I guarantee the quality is always the best. Not a single poor item among them."
At this, Thranduil's expression brightened. Such goods were basic but highly valued, and coupled with fine drink, they would be welcome anywhere in Middle-earth.
"If your caravans ever reach the edge of my forest, I will gladly send soldiers to guard their passage, even if only as a gesture of friendship," he said, swirling his glass.
Eric smiled inwardly. That was as good as a permit of trade.
Once matters of commerce were spoken of, the rest of the evening drifted into light chatter. The feast ended without further ceremony, and Eric took his leave the following morning, beginning the journey back to Dale.
Gandalf lingered a little longer, wandering through the southern woods before following at his own pace. Yet when he finally reached Dale, Eric had already departed again, having returned to his fortress.
For Saruman's tower would not be visited unprepared. And Eric knew the White Wizard kept many treasures. A little foresight could be the difference between opportunity and calamity.
With a shimmer and twist of light, Eric stepped through the Gate of the Nether and emerged once more in his own domain.
"Lord Eric has returned!" cried a farmer as he spotted him. At once, Ved, the steward, hurried over from the fields to report.
"While you were away, more refugees arrived seeking shelter. Nearly a hundred in total. We welcomed them all, but... we now face a small difficulty."
"A difficulty?" Eric raised a brow.
"The houses, my lord. We are running short. Not everyone can be accommodated unless some share rooms."
Ved rubbed the back of his neck.
"Many dwellings are quite spacious, mine included. I live alone in a fine house that could easily fit others. Truth be told, it is a little too quiet as it is..."
"Stop right there," Eric interrupted, waving a hand. "Why cram people together when we have open land all around us? If houses are lacking, then build more. Gather everyone with experience in construction. Materials and tools are ready. Begin a new housing project immediately. Build as many as needed. In fact, build more than needed."
The steward blinked, then smiled in relief.
"As you command, my lord."
Building new structures was practically routine in Eric's realm, and Ved had overseen many such works before. Word spread quickly, and those with skill in carpentry or masonry found themselves in sudden demand.
Excited chatter spread through the town square.
"At last, a chance to put our old skills to use again," one man boasted.
"The houses I built in my village were solid, warm in winter, cool in summer, and never leaked a drop of rain!"
A few neighbors nodded, though one chuckled dryly.
"True enough. But every house here is already solid, weatherproof, and warm. Lord Eric's magic saw to that."
The proud craftsman faltered.
"Well then... we'll just have to make them beautiful instead!"
And with that, the conversation shifted. If sturdiness was guaranteed, then aesthetics became the new frontier. Suddenly, the talk of the town was decoration, design, and style.
The people of the stronghold, once content with simple living, now discovered an appetite for beauty. And so a new wave of construction began, not just for shelter but for art.