When that will fell upon him, Sylas felt every secret of his soul laid bare.
It was as though he had been stripped naked before all the world, exposed and powerless. A crushing panic overtook him, the same helpless dread a creature of lesser dimensions might feel before the gaze of something infinitely higher.
And yet, the presence bore no malice. Its gaze was curious, steady, and impossibly vast.
"Good." The voice resounded in Sylas's soul, deep and majestic, tinged with an echo of approval.
"You may yet walk in my Halls of Mandos, Wizard out of another world…"
Before the final word had finished, the will withdrew. Time stirred again. The halted wind sighed across the tower, the frozen clouds drifted, and sound returned to the world.
Sylas stood trembling, his heart pounding in awe and fear.
'Was that truly Mandos himself, the Lord of the Dead, Doomsman of the Valar?'
He had not imagined that forging the Resurrection Stone would draw the attention of such a being. And in a single phrase, Mandos had revealed the truth of his greatest secret: that he was no son of Arda, but a stranger from another world.
"Wizard Sylas? Sylas?" Celebrimbor's voice broke through his daze. The Elven smith was peering at him with mild concern. "Are you well?"
Sylas forced a breath, then steadied himself with an effort. "I am fine, merely distracted for a moment."
But his composure masked the thrill rising within him. He could already feel it: his soul, immeasurably strengthened. What should have taken ten years of meditative discipline had been granted in a single instant beneath the gaze of Mandos. His mental powers sharpened, his magical reserves swelled.
'Was this the touch of a Vala?'
Suppressing the fierce joy in his chest, Sylas turned to Celebrimbor and bowed.
"Master Celebrimbor, your craft is without equal. You forged the Three Rings of the Elves, marvels of power and beauty. I wish to learn your art, to forge a ring of my own."
Celebrimbor had already suspected as much, but his face darkened with disapproval.
"The craft of the Rings of Power is perilous," he said gravely. "Its roots lie not with us, but with Sauron. In the fair guise of Annatar he came, deceiving me and the smiths of Eregion. With our hands he shaped the Nine Rings of Men and the Seven of the Dwarves. Only in secret did I forge the Three for the Elves, free of his touch. Had I not done so, they too would have been tainted and their bearers enslaved."
His eyes grew distant, and sorrow weighed upon his voice.
"Even so, I could not be certain. I hid the Three, entrusting them to others, and swore never to wield them while the One still endured."
He looked sharply back at Sylas. "Even knowing this, you would still seek to forge such a ring?"
"I would," Sylas said without hesitation. He drew forth the necklace he wore, upon which hung a crude ring.
Celebrimbor's eyes widened in astonishment. "Another Ring of Power? Show me."
He studied it closely, his brow furrowing. "The smith who wrought this lacked true mastery. It chases raw strength without balance, a poor and heavy-handed work. Whose hand forged this?"
"It was made by Saruman the White," Sylas explained, "a wizard who betrayed his order and fell into league with Sauron."
He quickly recounted Saruman's treachery, how he had once sought dominion from Isengard and later turned fully to the Shadow.
Celebrimbor listened in silence, then sighed, grief shadowing his noble features. So much had changed in the long years since his death. Yet when he learned that the One Ring was lost to Sauron, and that Sylas walked in friendship with Elrond and Galadriel, his sternness softened.
"Very well," Celebrimbor said at last. "I shall teach you what I know. But tread with care, Wizard. Rings of Power are no mere trinkets. They bear the weight of both light and shadow."
Sylas's heart leapt with joy. To be taught by Celebrimbor himself was a gift beyond price. With such guidance, he might one day craft a ring to rival even the Three.
A thought stirred in him: if he could summon Celebrimbor, might he also call upon Fëanor, the genius smith who had forged the Silmarils, Celebrimbor's own grandfather? If those two master craftsmen could be brought together, what wonders might be wrought? Perhaps even rings that surpassed all others.
But the Resurrection Stone had limits. It could not call any spirit at will. Only those bound by ties of love, memory, or deep connection to the summoner could be drawn back.
Sylas had no such bond with Celebrimbor. To summon him at all, he had borrowed a memory from Galadriel herself, whose friendship with Celebrimbor had been profound. It was she who urged him to hide the Three when Sauron revealed his true guise, and it was to her keeping that he entrusted Nenya, the Ring of Water.
By weaving Galadriel's memories of Celebrimbor into the Crown of Wisdom, Sylas had created an artificial bond strong enough to summon the Elven smith.
The method had been inspired by a rather dubious figure from another world, Professor Lockhart.
Lockhart had been a fraud, famous only because of his mastery of memory charms, rewriting the stories of others as if they were his own. Sylas, however, was no charlatan. With the Crown of Wisdom amplifying his gifts, he quickly surpassed Lockhart's shallow tricks. After careful practice, he had mastered memory magic so thoroughly that he could even make sworn enemies embrace as friends, though, wisely, he avoided tampering with his own mind.
Instead, he stored Galadriel's memory within the Crown itself. Wearing it gave him the bond he needed; removing it severed the connection. It was, in his words, "a portable memory stone, like a wizard's own enchanted archive," free of the danger of overloading his thoughts.
Through this artifice, Sylas summoned Celebrimbor again and again, studying the Elven master's secrets of forging. With his grounding in goblin smithing, alchemy, and the Noldorin methods he had studied before, his skill advanced swiftly. The Crown's clarity only hastened his progress.
Celebrimbor was astonished. "Had you lived in my age," he mused with a faint smile, "I would have taken you as my apprentice without hesitation. In time, you might have surpassed even me."
For half a year Sylas studied, reshaping Saruman's crude Ring of Power under Celebrimbor's guidance. He could not yet forge a true Ring of Power of his own, let alone one to rival the Three. But he could refine what already existed.
His ambition was to create an Earth Ring, a counterpart to Vilya, Nenya, and Narya, the missing fourth, bound to the strength and endurance of stone. He lacked the mastery to achieve this dream, but under Celebrimbor's teaching he eliminated the flaws in Saruman's work. The Ring now no longer leeched at its wearer's body and mind. Instead, it became a reservoir of magic.
By storing power within it, the Ring could raise a barrier strong enough to repel even Sauron for a time. Its strength depended on the magic Sylas poured into it. Day after day, he emptied his own reserves into the Ring, then replenished himself with the Golden Cup. After more than a month, the Ring shone with hidden power, its reservoir brimming.
With this safeguard, Sylas felt ready to venture east.
He bid farewell to Arwen, keeping his departure quiet. He would not bring Smaug, Thorondor, or any other great beast that might draw Sauron's eye. The East was Shadow's domain, and he would need stealth, not spectacle, to reach Hildórien, the birthplace of Men, and seek the fabled "Salt of the Body."
Before leaving, he sought news of the Blue Wizards. Gandalf admitted he knew little; by the time he arrived in Middle-earth, the pair had long since vanished into the East. "Ask Radagast," Gandalf suggested. "He came earlier than I and listens to voices others ignore."
So Sylas visited the Brown Wizard's humble home. Radagast, with his usual distracted warmth, scratched his head and thought hard. At last, he recalled the chatter of migrating geese. "They spoke of men in blue robes," he said, "stirring uprisings near the Sea of Rhûn. If you wish to find them, begin there."
Sylas pressed the Crown of Wisdom gently upon Radagast's brow, and more details surfaced: images of rebels gathering in secret, whispers of two mysterious figures guiding them.
"Thank you," Sylas said, bowing. With this lead, the vastness of the East no longer seemed an endless wilderness.
Yet before he set his course for Rhûn, he decided on a detour. One final stop in the Riddermark, at the golden halls of Rohan's royal city, to check in and sign in there.
...
Stones PLzzz
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