CHAPTER 133: SEVEN-YEAR-OLD ROOSTER

Time slipped by without notice.

Sylas emerged slowly from the depths of meditation, stretching like a man who had just awakened from the most restful of sleeps. Every part of him felt light, renewed, as if the world had been quietly washed clean while he sat with his eyes closed.

Then he felt it, that subtle, unmistakable shift. His magic had grown.

At first, he wondered if it was only an illusion brought on by the deep calm of meditation. Yet the sensation was there, clear as the steady beat of his heart. And if it was real, it was no small thing.

In the wizarding world, a witch or wizard’s magic grows naturally with age, especially between the ages of eleven and seventeen, when raw magical energy surges in tandem with youth. After reaching adulthood, however, most people’s magic settles into a plateau. Only a rare few, wizards like Dumbledore or Voldemort, continue to expand their power, driven by relentless study and hard-earned mastery.

Sylas’s case was different. His magic had not awakened until after he had crossed into this world, and by then he was already grown. Yet in the past two years, his power had risen swiftly, now rivaling that of a skilled Auror. In Britain, he might already be called gifted.

Lately, however, that sharp climb had begun to level out. The growth had slowed, and he had resigned himself to it. Which was why this sudden renewal felt almost like stepping back to the early days of his awakening.

To be sure it was no trick of the mind, Sylas meditated again the next day, and the next. Only when he was certain of the steady increase did he allow himself the quiet thrill of knowing it was real.

Meditation, it seemed, did not only steady the spirit and nourish the soul, it could, under the right conditions, feed the wellspring of magic itself.

Gandalf, hearing of this, merely nodded as if it were the most natural thing in the world. To him, spirit, soul, and magic formed a living cycle: magic was the outward expression of spirit; spirit was the reflection of the soul. Strengthen the spirit, and the soul grows; strengthen the soul, and magic naturally deepens.

With such results, Sylas was tempted to spend every waking hour in meditation. But Gandalf quickly disabused him of that notion, too much could weary the mind, even weaken the soul it was meant to nurture. Reluctantly, Sylas agreed to keep his daily sessions within healthy bounds.

And in any case, there were other matters to attend to.

They would soon be setting out again, bound for the Old Forest to see if Tom Bombadil could be persuaded to take on the burden of the One Ring.

Bilbo, too, had begun to long for home. For a hobbit to be away from the Shire for a full year was almost unheard of. Though the road had been full of wonders, the thought of Bag End’s warm hearth and familiar hills was a constant tug on his heart.

Before leaving, someone had to remain behind to tend the young Thorondor atop the tower. Sylas had someone in mind, Edward, a young man from Hogsmeade.

Sylas had noticed him during the rescue of the villagers from the Troll Forest. While others had been struck dumb by fear, Edward had spoken with clear-headed calm, answering both his and Gandalf’s questions without hesitation.

Later, when they had passed through Hogsmeade, Edward had been the first to greet them, the first to step forward with honest answers.

When Sylas offered him the position, Edward accepted with a joy that was almost reverence. To him, the wizard who had saved them from the trolls was no less than a hero. He took the gold coins Sylas provided and, without a moment’s doubt, committed to the long journey across the wild and often dangerous lands to reach the tower.

Hardship and danger had not dampened his resolve. Along the way, he had encouraged his fellow travellers, offering help and heart in equal measure. When they encountered a band of Dúnedain and some villagers panicked, thinking them brigands, Edward had stepped forward without fear. His words had smoothed suspicion, won their trust, and secured an escort that brought them safely to the foot of Weathertop.

So, when Sylas chose him to care for the young eagle, Edward excitedly patted his chest and promised to take good care of Thorondor, ensuring it would never go hungry.

After handling the necessary arrangements, Sylas, watched by Edward, and accompanied by Gandalf, Bilbo, and Legolas, used Floo Powder in turn to travel directly to the fireplace of the Prancing Pony Inn in Bree.

As for Edward, who remained in the tower, Sylas had no concern that anything might go wrong. Several important rooms were sealed with his magic and could not be opened without his permission. He had also taken the Palantír and the light of Eärendil from the top of the tower. Protective enchantments had been placed on the areas where the seeds of the White Tree and the mallorn tree were planted outside, so there was no need to worry about intruders.

Edward’s only task was to care for the young Thorondor. For this, Sylas had even persuaded Smaug, now behaving like a miser, to part with a small bag of gold coins. Some were for Edward’s wages, and the rest were to buy food for the eagle.

...

Bree, Prancing Pony Inn.

In the dimly lit hall, a few scattered guests sat at tables drinking or eating, while the innkeeper stood behind the bar, wiping glasses with a rag.

Suddenly, the flames in the fireplace flared green, drawing everyone’s attention.

The innkeeper, Mr. Butterbur, was startled at first, but then recalled a similar scene from a year ago and quickly guessed the cause.

Sure enough, the next moment Gandalf stepped out of the green flames. He bent slightly as he emerged, coughing a few times from the dust, then smiled at the innkeeper.

"Good morning, Mr. Butterbur. Honestly, your fireplace could use a proper cleaning," he said.

Turning to the few stunned guests, he added warmly, "Good morning, everyone. I hope I haven’t disturbed you."

The guests simply stared, too surprised to speak.

The fireplace flared green again, and this time Legolas stepped through. Tall and slender, with a handsome face and graceful bearing, he immediately drew every eye in the room.

Some sharp-eyed guests noticed his pointed ears at once, and a gasp of excitement ran through the hall.

"An Elf!" one guest whispered to his companion, voice trembling with awe.

Even the faintest whisper could not escape Legolas’s keen hearing, and his gaze shifted instantly toward the speaker.

The guest, caught, quickly lowered his head in embarrassment.

The innkeeper was also very excited; the last time an Elf had come to the Prancing Pony Inn was when his grandfather was young. His grandfather had described to him how perfect that westward-bound Elf had been, even more elegant and noble than any of the great lords.

He had never expected to see a living Elf in his lifetime, and considered himself truly fortunate.

Looking at the Elf before him, though covered in dust, his elegance and noble bearing could not be concealed. His flawless features and long golden hair, illuminated by the lamplight, seemed to shine with a soft halo.

Compared to this Elf, the town mayor’s affected mannerisms seemed forced, nothing more than a clumsy imitation.

After Legolas, Bilbo also stepped out of the fireplace.

Compared to Legolas, Bilbo’s arrival drew far less reaction. The Prancing Pony already employed two Hobbits, so a Hobbit guest was not particularly remarkable to the patrons.

Bilbo, however, took no notice of this. He quickly moved aside to avoid being crowded by Sylas, who was behind him.

Sure enough, the next moment green flames flared again, and Sylas was the last to arrive.

The guests gave him little more than a glance, but the innkeeper recognized him at once.

Stepping out from behind the bar, he approached Sylas quickly, bowing several times with deep respect.

"It is truly an honor for this establishment that you, Lord Sylas, have graced us with your presence. How may I be of service, my lord?"

Weathertop was not far from Bree, and as the best-informed innkeeper in the area, he had naturally heard the news that the master of Amon Sûl Tower had returned, riding a giant dragon no less.

He had also heard that the villagers gathered at the foot of Weathertop had sworn fealty to Lord Sylas and accepted his rule.

With such a powerful lord so close by, the innkeeper knew it was wise to treat him with the utmost care.

Anyone could see that while Weathertop now held only a few hundred residents, with Lord Sylas in command, its rise was bound to be swift and unstoppable.

The other guests, hearing the innkeeper’s address, turned their attention to Sylas at once.

The sudden appearance of Amon Sûl Tower overnight, and its long-standing presence atop Weathertop, was well known.

The name of its master, Sylas, was remembered by many.

Some had even tried to investigate Weathertop, but it was as if they had been caught in an illusion; they could clearly see the great tower ahead, yet could not move a single step closer.

This had only added to the air of mystery surrounding both Weathertop and its master.

Sylas happened to have something for the innkeeper to do. He took out a bag of gold coins and handed it to him, along with a piece of parchment.

"Mr. Butterbur, you receive travelers from all over the world. You are well-informed and have many channels. Please help me gather the items on this list, the more the better."

"Oh, and please help me find a seven-year-old rooster."

"If you can manage this, these gold coins are only a down payment. The reward afterward will be worth your trouble."

The innkeeper glanced at the parchment, noting the strange assortment of things like bat spleen, tree snake skin, crocodile heart, eel eyeballs, frog brain, and pufferfish eyes, and could not help but wear a peculiar expression.

When he heard about the seven-year-old rooster, he was even more surprised. Such birds were hard to find; no household kept a chicken for so long. Even breeding roosters were usually slaughtered at three or four years old, certainly not kept until seven.

Yet looking at the bulging bag of gold coins, his eyes lit up at once.

"Lord Sylas, rest assured, I will find these things for you."

As long as the price was right, whether it flew in the sky, ran on land, or swam in water, he could get it.

It was not an idle boast. The Prancing Pony stood at a key crossroads where rangers, merchants, Dwarves, bards, and countless others came and went, bringing news and goods from every direction.

The inn was not merely a place for food and lodging, but a hub for information and trade of all kinds.

After politely declining the innkeeper’s enthusiastic offer to provide further services, Sylas and his companions bought some supplies and left Bree.