Stryker here today, answering reviews.

Yubel578: Hello long time viewer. What's going on? You have questions regarding domains and gods, yes? Allow me to put those thoughts to rest. No. Stargazer is not a primordial being. He is more of a cosmic entity. Very much real, yet fades over billions of years. His physical form is roughly three thousand years old, but his cosmic "celestial" form is nearly five million earth years in age. Hope that answers that.

mango363: You are most welcome.

marsolino: Have you even read the Inheritance Cycle? If not, stop reading this and go read those first. Idiot.

Without further ado, let's jump into chapter 44. New title and chapter number layout as well. Let us know what you think of it in the reviews!

The wind caressed his face and a small smile spread across his muzzle as the dragon soared through the clouds. It was a beautiful day, there were fluffy white cumulus clouds and a warm gentle breeze that drifted from the southwest. Sighing, the smile left his face as the dragon tucked his wings to his sides and entered a sharp dive, piercing the cloud layer and plummeting to the ground below.

There, two nations were at war.

Rome had always been a military powerhouse and the Greeks fought with simple tactics that yielded terrifying results. The great dragon had tried to remain neutral and step back from choosing a side as they were both in the right in their own views. Kingdoms rose and fell like the ocean tides, always changing in a blink of the immortal being's life. Today was different. The dragon had chosen a side and he would now support them.

Rome would rise for the next several centuries and remain unchallenged until they eventually crumbled from within and fell.

The dragon let loose a thundering roar, and all eyes turned upward to regard the glittering meteor that was the dragon descending upon them with lightning flickering across his scales. Black thunderheads rapidly built and began swirling above the battlefield while thunder rumbled across the blood-soaked plains below.

Cuneum formate! The dragon thundered while flaring his wings, and the Romans followed the order without question, forming several massive wedges while slaughtering any Greek in their path to their formation.

Impetum!

The Roman line rushed the Greeks and decimated their lines while thunder boomed overhead. Thousands of warriors lost their lives yet the Romans suffered very few casualties overall. The Greeks then lost Athens that night and the fall of Greece was inevitable as they were enveloped into the Roman Empire.

The dragon looked over at the Athena Parthenos statue within the Parthenon, noticing the gold glinting in the torchlight while the Romans looked up at it greedily.

You will not touch this statue or the grounds surrounding the temple. The dragon spoke into the minds of the soldiers below him. This is sacred ground. As worshippers and conquerors, you will respect that. If anyone so much as scratches or scuffs the paint, I will put them in the void and wipe away any trace of their existence. Am I understood?

The soldiers snapped to attention, bowed their heads, and marched out of the temple while leaving the dragon alone with the statue. He continued observing the statue of the Greek goddess of Wisdom and Battle Strategy with respect. He knew how much the Greeks valued this statue and knew to destroy it would destroy their morale and the people would revolt.

You're welcome, Lady Athena. The dragon whispered as he bowed his head slightly to the statue and left the temple. Once outside, the massive dragon spread his majestic crystalized wings and took off into the night skies, disappearing into the stars.

Ancalagon bolted upright with a strangled yowl, as did the females next to him. The camp immediately came alive as warriors of the Varden stumbled from their tents in confusion. Glancing at Almandine, the mother and son looked at the men and women who were looking around in confusion. The pair of dragons came to the same conclusion immediately.

Everyone had just seen that.

Nasuada burst from her pavilion in nothing but her nightgown and her hair was disheveled. She spotted the trio of dragons that were, for lack of better words, the eye of calm in a storm of chaos that were the Varden. The leader of the Varden began making her way over to the dragons, who stood out like mountains on a plain, all the while pushing her way through the growing crowd. Questions were thrown at her and Nasuada's bodyguards, the Nighthawks, closed in around their leader.

"What did we see?"

"What was that?"

"Will this happen again?"

"Are we safe?"

She ignored the questions as she came to a halt before the dragons who turned their attention to her. "Ancalagon, Saphira, Almandine." She greeted them.

Lady Nasuada. Ancalagon inclined his head, then a sparkle of amusement entered his eyes and mirth was heard in his tone. Wouldn't you like to be better… dressed to speak with us? No offense, but you appear as if you have been… busy with someone.

Nasuada shot him a look, her cheeks darkening a little at what he was meaning though she knew he was joking. "While I appreciate the humor, Ancalagon, even if it's a little crass, I would like to know what it is that I just saw that has everyone awake at the same time. A dream of two armies, temples, a city… And, I'm not sure if I was seeing things, but there was a dragon that-"

It was Stargazer. Almandine answered, drawing all eyes to her as she spoke aloud to everyone. What you all saw was a distant memory from Stargazer's past, of a time… She glanced at Ancalagon subtly. Very long ago, in a distant land that is no longer existent, named Greece.

Ancalagon's eyes widened, realizing what she was saying. It had been a battle in his world, between the Romans and the Greeks, that he knew very well. Of course, they couldn't directly tell them they saw a battle from another world as the only ones who knew of such knowledge as well as Ancalagon's origins, beyond the dragon himself, Stargazer and Almandine, were Saphira and Eragon.

The air vibrated and shook before a massive lightning bolt cracked overhead in the clear night sky. Everyone jumped and a presence pressed into their minds.

You see and hear, yet you do not understand what was granted to you. A tired male voice spoke with a sigh, tinged with annoyance and anger. Alma, could you help them out? I'm trying to reign in a tyrant and remotely start a coup about four light years from you guys. I really don't have the time or patience to deal with this right now.

Without her even replying, the voice was gone.

Almandine blinked then looked over at the sea of faces directing their attention at her. She sighed and began explaining. Rome and Greece used to be two noble nations on a planet far from here. They were strategic superpowers in their time as the Greeks invented the phalanx, which is essentially a block of soldiers standing shoulder to shoulder eight to sixteen ranks deep. The Roman legions abandoned that strategy as they noticed the formation left their flanks open to attacks. So they decided to alter it slightly and add several joints into the formation to allow for better coverage, movement and adaptability. It was extremely ingenious as the Romans crushed their Greek competitors seventy years after the conquest began with their superior tactics and adaptability.

"What about that whole statue part? I didn't understand it." Orrin asked with a slight frown.

Ancalagon growled, and his upper lip lifted to reveal a fang. We will not be looting anyone's home or business during our campaign, King of Surda. My father made it a point to let us know how he handles looters. We are here to help people, not steal from them. Am I clear?

"Crystal." The man replied, paling a bit while Ancalagon chuckled to himself.

Angela stepped forward then and voiced a question. "But why would he show us this? Unless he expects us to face the Empire's forces in an all out assault…" she trailed off as the realization dawned upon everyone.

Ancalagon shot a look at his mother, seeing her mull it over. Dad was speaking about something before the battle. He had told Orrin that we would lose more lives in skirmishes and taking cities than a direct, frontal approach. The black-scaled dragon turned to look at Nasuada. He was giving you strategic ideas to use on a battlefield in a theater of open warfare.

Almandine snorted and began laughing softly while all eyes turned back to her. That male of mine… clever bastard. Sometimes he's too smart for his own good. I'd smack him if he were here.

Nasuada and Saphira smirked before they replied at the same time.

"Get in line before it gets too long."

Eragon and Arya woke up early the following morning. Well, Arya woke up early and shook Eragon awake after giving him a not-so-gentle yet not-so-rough kick with her foot. "Come. We must leave here while we can before we are found." Arya told the Rider. "If we linger, the King will find us."

Wordlessly, the two set out from Eastcroft's road. Along the way, Eragon briefly expressed scrying Nasuada and speaking with Saphira, but Arya denied this idea, saying he'll meet them face to face and earn a scolding of a lifetime rather than through a scry.

It was midafternoon the day after they had left Eastcroft when Eragon sensed the patrol of fifteen soldiers ahead of them.

He mentioned it to Arya, and she nodded. "I noticed them as well." Neither he nor she voiced any concerns, but worry began to gnaw at Eragon's belly, and he saw how Arya's eyebrows lowered into a fierce frown.

The land around them was open and flat, devoid of any cover. They had encountered groups of soldiers before, but always in the company of other travelers. Now they were alone on the faint trail of a road.

"We could dig a hole with magic, cover the top with brush, and hide in it until they leave," said Eragon.

Arya shook her head without breaking stride. "What would we do with the excess dirt? They'd think they had discovered the biggest badger den in existence. Besides, I would rather save our energy for running."

Eragon grunted. I'm not sure how many more miles I have left in me. He was not winded, but the relentless pounding was wearing him down. His knees hurt, his ankles were sore, his left big toe was red and swollen, and blisters continued to break out on his heels, no matter how tightly he bound them. The previous night, he had healed several of the aches and pains troubling him, and while that had provided a measure of relief, the spells only exacerbated his exhaustion.

The patrol was visible as a plume of dust for half an hour before Eragon was able to make out the shapes of the men and the horses at the base of the yellow cloud. Since he and Arya had keener eyesight than most humans, it was unlikely the horsemen could see them at that distance, so they continued to run for another ten minutes. Then they stopped. Arya removed her skirt from her pack and tied it over the leggings she wore while running, and Eragon stored Brom's ring in his own pack and smeared dirt over his right palm to hide his silvery gedwëy ignasia. They resumed their journey with bowed heads, hunched shoulders, and dragging feet. If all went well, the soldiers would assume they were just another pair of refugees.

Although Eragon could feel the rumble of approaching hoofbeats and hear the cries of the men driving their steeds, it still took the better part of an hour for their two groups to meet on the vast plain. When they did, Eragon and Arya moved off the road and stood looking down between their feet. Eragon caught a glimpse of horse legs from under the edge of his brow as the first few riders pounded past, but then the choking dust billowed over him, obscuring the rest of the patrol. The dirt in the air was so thick, he had to close his eyes. Listening carefully, he counted until he was sure that more than half the patrol had gone by. They're not going to bother questioning us! he thought.

His elation was short-lived. A moment later, someone in the swirling blizzard of dust shouted,

"Company, halt!" A chorus of Whoas, Steady theres, and Hey there, Nells rang out as the fifteen men coaxed their mounts to form a circle around Eragon and Arya. Before the soldiers completed their maneuver and the air cleared, Eragon pawed the ground for a large pebble, then stood back up.

"Be still!" hissed Arya.

While he waited for the soldiers to make their intentions known, Eragon strove to calm his racing heart by rehearsing the story he and Arya had concocted to explain their presence so close to the border with Surda. His efforts failed, for notwithstanding his strength, his training, the knowledge of the battles he had won, and the half-dozen wards protecting him, his flesh remained convinced that imminent injury or death awaited him. His gut twisted, his throat constricted, and his limbs were light and unsteady. Oh, get on with it! he thought. He longed to tear something apart with his hands, as if an act of destruction would relieve the pressure building inside of him, but the urge only heightened his frustration, for he dared not move. The one thing that steadied him was Arya's presence. He would sooner cut off a hand than have her consider him a coward. And although she was a mighty warrior in her own right, he still felt the desire to defend her.

The voice that had ordered the patrol to halt again issued forth. "Let me see your faces." Raising his head, Eragon saw a man sitting before them on a roan charger, his gloved hands folded over the pommel of his saddle. Upon his upper lip there sprouted an enormous curly mustache that, after descending to the corners of his mouth, extended a good nine inches in either direction and was in stark contrast to the straight hair that fell to his shoulders. How such a massive piece of sculpted foliage supported its own weight puzzled Eragon, especially since it was dull and lusterless and obviously had not been impregnated with warm beeswax.

The other soldiers held spears pointed at Eragon and Arya. So much dirt covered them, it was impossible to see the flames stitched on their tunics.

"Now then," said the man, and his mustache wobbled like an unbalanced set of scales. "Who are you? Where are you going? And what is your business in the king's lands?" Then he waved a hand. "No, don't bother answering. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters nowadays. The world is coming to an end, and we waste our days interrogating peasants. Bah! Superstitious vermin who scurry from place to place, devouring all the food in the land and reproducing at a ghastly rate. At my family's estate near Urû'baen, we would have the likes of you flogged if we caught you wandering around without permission, and if we learned that you had stolen from your master, why, then we'd hang you. Whatever you want to tell me is lies. It always is...

"What have you got in that pack of yours, eh? Food and blankets, yes, but maybe a pair of gold candlesticks, eh? Silverware from the locked chest? Secret letters for the Varden? Eh? Cat got your tongue? Well, we'll soon sort the matter out. Langward, why don't you see what treasures you can excavate from yonder knapsack, there's a good boy."

Eragon staggered forward as one of the soldiers struck him across the back with the haft of a spear. He had wrapped his armor in rags to keep the pieces from rubbing against each other. The rags, however, were too thin to entirely absorb the force of the blow and muffle the clang of metal.

"Oho!" exclaimed the man with the mustache.

Grabbing Eragon from behind, the soldier unlaced the top of his pack and pulled out his hauberk, saying, "Look, sir!"

The man with the mustache broke out in a delighted grin. "Armor! And of fine make as well. Very fine, I should say. Well, you are full of surprises. Going to join the Varden, were you? Intent on treason and sedition, mmh?" His expression soured. "Or are you one of those who generally give honest soldiers a bad name? If so, you are a most incompetent mercenary; you don't even have a weapon. Was it too much trouble to cut yourself a staff or a club, eh? Well, how about it? Answer me!"

"No, sir."

"No, sir? Didn't occur to you, I suppose. It's a pity we have to accept such slow-minded wretches, but that's what this blasted war has reduced us to, scrounging for leftovers."

"Accept me where, sir?"

"Silence, you insolent rascal! No one gave you permission to speak!" His mustache quivering, the man gestured. Red lights exploded across Eragon's field of vision as the soldier behind him bashed him on the head. "Whether you are a thief, a traitor, a mercenary, or merely a fool, your fate will be the same. Once you swear the oath of service, you will have no choice but to obey Galbatorix and those who speak for him. We are the first army in history to be free of dissent. No mindless blathering about what we should do. Only orders, clear and direct. You too shall join our cause, and you shall have the privilege of helping to make real the glorious future our great king has foreseen. As for your lovely companion, there are other ways she can be of use to the Empire, eh? Now tie them up!"

Eragon knew then what he had to do. Glancing over, he found Arya already looking at him, her eyes hard and bright. He blinked once. She blinked in return. His hand tightened around the pebble.

Most of the soldiers Eragon had fought on the Burning Plains had possessed certain rudimentary wards intended to shield them from magical attacks, and he suspected these men were likewise equipped. He was confident he could break or circumvent any spells Galbatorix's magicians invented, but it would require more time than he now had. Instead, he cocked his arm and, with a flick of his wrist, threw the pebble at the man with the mustache.

The pebble punctured the side of his helm.

Before the soldiers could react, Eragon twisted around, yanked the spear from the hands of the man who had been tormenting him, and used it to knock him off his horse. As the man landed, Eragon stabbed him through the heart, breaking the blade of the spear on the metal plates of the soldier's gambeson. Releasing the spear, Eragon dove backward, his body parallel with the ground as he passed underneath seven spears that were flying toward where he had been. The lethal shafts seemed to float above him as he fell.

The instant Eragon had released the pebble, Arya bounded up the side of the horse nearest her, jumping from stirrup to saddle, and kicked the head of the oblivious soldier who was perched on the mare. He went hurtling more than thirty feet. Then Arya leaped from the back of horse to horse, killing the soldiers with her knees, her feet, and her hands in an incredible display of grace and balance.

Jagged rocks tore at Eragon's stomach as he tumbled to a stop. Grimacing, he sprang upright. Four soldiers who had dismounted confronted him with drawn swords. They charged. Dodging to the right, he caught the first soldier's wrist as the man swung his sword and punched him in the armpit. The man collapsed and was still. Eragon dispatched his next opponents by twisting their heads until their spines snapped. The fourth soldier was so close by then, running at him with sword held high, Eragon could not evade him.

Trapped, he did the one thing he could: he struck the man in the chest with all his might. A fount of blood and sweat erupted as his fist connected. The blow staved in the man's ribs and propelled him more than a dozen feet over the grass, where he fetched up against another corpse.

Eragon gasped and doubled over, cradling his throbbing hand. Four of his knuckles were disjointed, and white cartilage showed through his mangled skin. Blast, he thought as hot blood poured from the wounds. His fingers refused to move when he ordered them to; he realized that his hand would be useless until he could heal it. Fearing another attack, he looked around for Arya and the rest of the soldiers.

The horses had scattered. Only three soldiers remained alive. Arya was grappling with two of them some distance away while the third and final soldier fled south along the road. Gathering his strength, Eragon pursued him. As he narrowed the gap between them, the man began to plead for mercy, promising he would tell no one about the massacre and holding out his hands to show they were empty. When Eragon was within arm's reach, the man veered to the side and then a few steps later changed direction again, darting back and forth across the countryside like a frightened jack — rabbit. All the while, the man continued to beg, tears streaming down his cheeks, saying that he was too young to die, that he had yet to marry and father a child, that his parents would miss him, and that he had been pressed into the army and this was only his fifth mission and why couldn't Eragon leave him alone? "What have you against me?" he sobbed. "I only did what I had to. I'm a good person!"

Eragon paused and forced himself to say: "You can't keep up with us. We can't leave you; you'll catch a horse and betray us."

"No, I won't!"

"People will ask what happened here. Your oath to Galbatorix and the Empire won't let you lie. I'm sorry, but I don't know how to release you from your bond, except..."

"Why are you doing this? You're a monster!" screamed the man. With an expression of pure terror, he made an attempt to dash around Eragon and return to the road. Eragon overtook him in less than ten feet, and as the man was still crying and asking for clemency, Eragon wrapped his left hand around his neck and squeezed. When he relaxed his grip, the soldier fell across his feet, dead.

Bile coated Eragon's tongue as he stared down at the man's slack face. Whenever we kill, we kill a part of ourselves, he thought. Shaking with a combination of shock, pain, and self-loathing, he walked back to where the fight had begun. Arya was kneeling beside a body, washing her hands and arms with water from a tin flask one of the soldiers had been carrying.

"How is it," asked Arya, "you could kill that man, but you could not bring yourself to lay a finger on Sloan?" She stood and faced him, her gaze frank.

Devoid of emotion, he shrugged. "He was a threat. Sloan wasn't. Isn't it obvious?"

Arya was quiet for a while. "It ought to be, but it isn't... I am ashamed to be instructed in morality by one with so much less experience. Perhaps I have been too certain, too confident of my own choices."

Eragon heard her speak, but the words meant nothing to him as his gaze drifted over the corpses. Is this all my life has become? he wondered. A never-ending series of battles? "I feel like a murderer."

"I understand how difficult this is," said Arya. "Remember, Eragon, you have experienced only a small part of what it means to be a Dragon Rider. Eventually, this war will end, and you will see that your duties encompass more than violence. The Riders were not just warriors, they were teachers, healers, and scholars."

His jaw muscles knotted for a moment. "Why are we fighting these men, Arya?"

"Because they stand between us and Galbatorix."

"Then we should find a way to strike at Galbatorix directly."

"None exist. We cannot march to Urû'baen until we defeat his forces. And we cannot enter his castle until we disarm almost a century's worth of traps, magical and otherwise."

"There has to be a way," he muttered. He remained where he was as Arya strode forward and picked up a spear. But when she placed the tip of the spear under the chin of a slain soldier and thrust it into his skull, Eragon sprang toward her and pushed her away from the body. "What are you doing?" he shouted.

Anger flashed across Arya's face. "I will forgive that only because you are distraught and not of your right mind. Think, Eragon! It is too late in the day for anyone to be coddling you. Why is this necessary?"

The answer presented itself to him, and he grudgingly said, "If we don't, the Empire will notice that most of the men were killed by hand."

"Exactly! The only ones capable of such a feat are elves, Riders, and Kull. And since even an imbecile could figure out a Kull was not responsible for this, they'll soon know we are in the area, and in less than a day, Thorn and Murtagh will be flying overhead, searching for us." There was a wet squelch as she pulled the spear out of the body. She held it out to him until he accepted it. "I find this as repulsive as you do, so you might as well make yourself useful and help."

Eragon nodded. Then Arya scavenged a sword, and together they set out to make it appear as if a troop of ordinary warriors had killed the soldiers. It was grisly work, but it went quickly, for they both knew exactly what kinds of wounds the soldiers should have to ensure the success of the deception, and neither of them wished to linger. When they came to the man whose chest Eragon had destroyed, Arya said, "There's little we can do to disguise an injury like that. We will have to leave it as is and hope people assume a horse stepped on him." They moved on. The last soldier they dealt with was the commander of the patrol. His mustache was now limp and torn and had lost most of its former splendor.

After enlarging the pebble hole so it more closely resembled the triangular pit left by the spike of a war hammer, Eragon rested for a moment, contemplating the commander's sad mustache, then said, "He was right, you know."

"About what?"

"I need a weapon, a proper weapon. I need a sword." Wiping his palms on the edge of his tunic, he surveyed the plain around them, counting the bodies. "That's it, then, isn't it? We're done." He went and collected his scattered armor, rewrapped it in cloth, and returned it to the bottom of his pack. Then he joined Arya on the low hillock she had climbed.

"We had best avoid the roads from now on," she said. "We cannot risk another encounter with Galbatorix's men." Indicating his deformed right hand, which stained his tunic with blood, she said, "You should tend to that before we set forth." She gave him no time to respond but grasped his paralyzed fingers and said, "Waíse heill."

An involuntary groan escaped him as his fingers popped back into their sockets, and as his abraded tendons and crushed cartilage regained the fullness of their proper shapes, and as the flaps of skin hanging from his knuckles again covered the raw flesh below. When the spell ended, he opened and closed his hand to confirm that it was fully cured. "Thank you," he said. It surprised him that she had taken the initiative when he was perfectly capable of healing his own wounds.

Arya seemed embarrassed. Looking away, out over the plains, she said, "I am glad you were by my side today, Eragon."

"And you by mine."

She favored him with a quick, uncertain smile. They lingered on the hillock for another minute, neither of them eager to resume their journey. Then Arya sighed and said, "We should be off. The shadows lengthen, and someone else is bound to appear and raise a hue and cry when they discover this crows' feast."

Abandoning the hillock, they oriented themselves in a southwesterly direction, angling away from the road, and loped out across the uneven sea of grass. Behind them, the first of the carrion eaters dropped from the sky.

That night, Eragon sat staring at their meager fire, chewing on a dandelion leaf. Their dinner had consisted of an assortment of roots, seeds, and greens that Arya had gathered from the surrounding countryside. Eaten uncooked and unseasoned, they were hardly appetizing, but he had refrained from augmenting the meal with a bird or rabbit, of which there was an abundance in the immediate vicinity, for he did not wish Arya to regard him with disapproval. Moreover, after their fight with the soldiers, the thought of taking another life, even an animal's, sickened him.

It was late, and they would have to get an early start the next morning, but he made no move to retire, nor did Arya. She was situated at right angles to him, her legs pulled up, with her arms wrapped around them and her chin resting on her knees. The skirt of her dress spread outward, like the wind-battered petals of a flower.

His chin sunk low against his chest, Eragon massaged his right hand with his left, trying to dispel a deep-seated ache. I need a sword, he thought. Short of that, I could use some sort of protection for my hands so I don't cripple myself whenever I hit something. The problem is, I'm so strong now, I would have to wear gloves with several inches of padding, which is ridiculous. They would be too bulky, too hot, and what's more, I can't go around with gloves on for the rest of my life. He frowned. Pushing the bones of his hand out of their normal positions, he studied how they altered the play of light over his skin, fascinated by the malleability of his body. And what happens if I get in a fight while I'm wearing Brom's ring? It's of elvish make, so I probably don't have to worry about breaking the sapphire. But if I hit anything with the ring on my finger, I won't just dislocate a few joints, I'll splinter every bone in my hand... I might not even be able to repair the damage... He tightened his hands into fists and slowly turned them from side to side, watching the shadows deepen and fade between his knuckles. I could invent a spell that would stop any object that was moving at a dangerous speed from touching my hands. No, wait, that's no good. What if it was a boulder? What if it was a mountain? I'd kill myself trying to stop it.

Well, if gloves and magic won't work, I'd like to have a set of the dwarves' Ascûdgamln, their "fists of steel." With a smile, he remembered how the dwarf Shrrgnien had a steel spike threaded into a metal base that was embedded in each of his knuckles, excluding those on his thumbs. The spikes allowed Shrrgnien to hit whatever he wanted with little fear of pain, and they were convenient too, for he could remove them at will. The concept appealed to Eragon, but he was not about to start drilling holes in his knuckles. Besides, he thought, my bones are thinner than dwarf bones, too thin, perhaps, to attach the base and still have the joints function as they should... So Ascûdgamln are a bad idea, but maybe instead I can...

Bending low over his hands, he whispered, "Thaefathan."

The backs of his hands began to crawl and prickle as if he had fallen into a patch of stinging nettles. The sensation was so intense and so unpleasant, he longed to jump up and scratch himself as hard as he could. With an effort of will, he stayed where he was and watched as the skin on his knuckles bulged, forming a flat, whitish callus half an inch thick over each joint. They reminded him of the hornlike deposits that appear on the inside of horses' legs. When he was pleased with the size and density of the knobs, he released the flow of magic and set about exploring, by touch and sight, the mountainous new terrain that loomed over his fingers.

His hands were heavier and stiffer than before, but he could still move his fingers through their full range of motion. It may be ugly, he thought, rubbing the rough protuberances on his right hand against the palm of his left, and people may laugh and sneer if they notice, but I don't care, for it will serve its purpose and may keep me alive.

Brimming with silent excitement, he struck the top of a domed rock that rose out of the ground between his legs. The impact jarred his arm and produced a muted thud but caused him no more discomfort than it would have to punch a board covered with several layers of cloth. Emboldened, he retrieved Brom's ring from his pack and slipped on the cool gold band, checking that the adjacent callus was higher than the face of the ring. He tested his observation by again ramming his fist against the rock. The only resulting sound was that of dry, compacted skin colliding with unyielding stone.

"What are you doing?" asked Arya, peering at him through a veil of her black hair.

"Nothing." Then he held out his hands. "I thought it would be a good idea, since I'll probably have to hit someone again."

Arya studied his knuckles. "You are going to have difficulty wearing gloves."

"I can always cut them open to make room."

She nodded and returned to gazing at the fire.

The hours passed on as they conversed, from Eragon's actions with Sloan to killing the soldiers earlier to the topic of true names, and even about Galbatorix's true name which remains undiscovered, save for three different elves who discovered it on their own years ago, and then they talked about their own true names.

Silence enveloped their camp. Above, the stars gleamed cold and white. A wind sprang up from the east and raced across the plains, battering the grass and wailing with a long, thin voice, as if lamenting the loss of a loved one. As it struck, the coals burst into flame again and a twisting mane of sparks trailed off to the west. Eragon hunched his shoulders and pulled the collar of his tunic close around his neck. There was something unfriendly about the wind; it bit at him with unusual ferocity, and it seemed to isolate him and Arya from the rest of the world. They sat motionless, marooned on their tiny island of light and heat, while the massive river of air rushed past, howling its angry sorrows into the empty expanse of land.

When the gusts became more violent and began to carry the sparks farther away from the bare patch where Eragon had built the fire, Arya poured a handful of dirt over the wood. Moving forward onto his knees, Eragon joined her, scooping the dirt with both hands to speed the process. With the fire extinguished, he had difficulty seeing; the countryside had become a ghost of itself, full of writhing shadows, indistinct shapes, and silvery leaves.

Arya made as if to stand, then stopped in a half crouch, arms outstretched for balance, her expression alert. Eragon felt it as well: the air prickled and hummed, as if a bolt of lightning were about to strike. The hair on the back of his hands rose from his skin and waved freely in the wind.

"What is it?" he asked.

"We are being watched. Whatever happens, don't use magic or you may get us killed."

"Who—"

"Shh."

Casting about, he found a fist-sized rock, pried it out of the ground, and hefted it, testing its weight.

In the distance, a cluster of glowing multicolored lights appeared. They darted toward the camp, flying low over the grass. As they drew near, he saw that the lights were constantly changing in size — ranging from an orb no larger than a pearl to one several feet in diameter — and that their colors also varied, cycling through every hue in the rainbow. A crackling nimbus surrounded each orb, a halo of liquid tendrils that whipped and lashed, as if hungry to entangle something in their grasp. The lights moved so fast, he could not determine exactly how many there were, but he guessed it was about two dozen.

The lights hurtled into the camp and formed a whirling wall around him and Arya. The speed with which they spun, combined with the barrage of pulsing colors, made Eragon dizzy. He put a hand on the ground to steady himself. The humming was so loud now, his teeth vibrated against one another. He tasted metal, and his hair stood on end. Arya's did the same, despite its additional length, and when he glanced at her, he found the sight so ridiculous, he had to resist the urge to laugh.

"What do they want?" shouted Eragon, but she did not answer.

A single orb detached itself from the wall and hung before Arya at eye level. It shrank and expanded like a throbbing heart, alternating between royal blue and emerald green, with occasional flashes of red. One of its tendrils caught hold of a strand of Arya's hair. There was a sharp pop, and for an instant, the strand shone like a fragment of the sun, then it vanished. The smell of burnt hair drifted toward Eragon.

Arya did not flinch or otherwise betray alarm. Her face calm, she lifted an arm and, before Eragon could leap forward and stop her, laid her hand upon the lambent orb. The orb turned gold and white, and it swelled until it was over three feet across. Arya closed her eyes and tilted her head back, radiant joy suffusing her features. Her lips moved, but whatever she said, Eragon could not hear. When she finished, the orb flushed blood-red and then in quick succession shifted from red to green to purple to a ruddy orange to a blue so bright he had to avert his gaze and then to pure black fringed with a corona of twisting white tendrils, like the sun during an eclipse. Its appearance ceased to fluctuate then, as if only the absence of color could adequately convey its mood.

Drifting away from Arya, it approached Eragon, a hole in the fabric of the world, encircled by a crown of flames. It hovered in front of him, humming with such intensity, his eyes watered. His tongue seemed plated with copper, his skin crawled, and short filaments of electricity danced on the tips of his fingers. Somewhat frightened, he wondered whether he should touch the orb as Arya had. He looked at her for advice. She nodded and gestured for him to proceed.

He extended his right hand toward the void that was the orb. To his surprise, he encountered resistance. The orb was incorporeal, but it pushed against his hand the way a swift stream of water might. The closer he got, the harder it pushed. With an effort, he reached across the last few inches and came into contact with the center of the creature's being.

Bluish rays shot out from between Eragon's palm and the surface of the orb, a dazzling, fanlike display that overwhelmed the light from the other orbs and bleached everything a pale blue white. Eragon shouted with pain as the rays stabbed at his eyes, and he ducked his head, squinting. Then something moved inside the orb, like a sleeping dragon uncoiling, and a presence entered his mind, brushing aside his defenses as if they were dry leaves in an autumn storm. He gasped. Transcendent joy filled him; whatever the orb was, it seemed to be composed of distilled happiness. It enjoyed being alive, and everything around it pleased it to a greater or lesser degree. Eragon would have wept with sheer gladness, but he no longer had control of his body. The creature held him in place, the shimmering rays still blazing from underneath his hand while it flitted through his bones and muscles, lingering at the sites where he had been injured, and then returned to his mind. Euphoric as Eragon was, the creature's presence was so strange and so unearthly, he wanted to flee from it, but inside his consciousness, there was nowhere to hide. He had to remain in intimate contact with the fiery soul of the creature while it scoured his memories, dashing from one to the next with the speed of an elvish arrow. He wondered how it could comprehend so much information so quickly. While it searched, he tried to probe the orb's mind in return, to learn what he could about its nature and its origins, but it defied his attempts to understand it. The few impressions he gleaned were so different from those he had found in the minds of other beings, they were incomprehensible.

After a final, nearly instantaneous circuit through his body, the creature withdrew. The contact between them broke like a twisted cable under too much tension. The panoply of rays outlining Eragon's hand faded into oblivion, leaving behind lurid pink afterimages streaked across his field of vision.

Again changing colors, the orb in front of Eragon shrank to the size of an apple and rejoined its companions in the swirling vortex of light that encircled him and Arya. The humming increased to an almost unbearable pitch, and then the vortex exploded outward as the blazing orbs scattered in every direction. They regrouped a hundred feet or so from the dim camp, tumbling over each other like wrestling kittens, then raced off to the south and disappeared, as if they had never existed in the first place. The wind subsided to a gentle breeze.

Eragon fell to his knees, arm outstretched toward where the orbs had gone, feeling empty without the bliss they had given him. "What," he asked, and then had to cough and start over again, his throat was so dry. "What are they?"

"Spirits," said Arya as she sat down.

In the darkness, the outline of her shape moved as she leaned to one side. "Spirits always induce a sense of rapture when they choose to communicate with we who are made of matter, but do not allow them to deceive you. They are not as benevolent, content, or cheerful as they would have you believe. Pleasing those they interact with is their way of defending themselves. They hate to be bound in one place, and they realized long ago that if the person they are dealing with is happy, then he or she will be less likely to detain the spirits and keep them as servants."

"I don't know," said Eragon. "They make you feel so good, I can understand why someone would want to keep them nearby, instead of releasing them."

Her shoulders rose and fell. "Spirits have as much difficulty predicting our behavior as we do theirs. They share so little in common with the other races of Alagaësia, conversing with them in even the simplest terms is a challenging prospect, and any meeting is fraught with peril, for one never knows how they will react."

"None of which explains why I shouldn't order Trianna to abandon sorcery."

"Have you ever seen her summon spirits to do her bidding?"

"No."

"I thought not. Trianna has been with the Varden for nigh on six years, and in that time she has demonstrated her mastery of sorcery exactly once, and that after much coaxing on Ajihad's part and much consternation and preparation on Trianna's. She has the necessary skills — she is no charlatan — but summoning spirits is exceedingly dangerous, and one does not embark upon it lightly."

Eragon rubbed his shining palm with his left thumb. The hue of light changed as blood rushed to the surface of his skin, but his efforts did nothing to reduce the amount of light radiating from his hand. He scratched at the gedwëy ignasia with his fingernails. This had better not last more than a few hours. I can't go around shining like a lantern. It could get me killed. And it's silly too. Whoever heard of a Dragon Rider with a glowing body part?

Eragon considered what Brom had told him. "They aren't human spirits, are they? Nor elf, nor dwarf, nor those of any other creature. That is, they aren't ghosts. We don't become them after we die."

"No. And please do not ask me, as I know you are about to, what, then, they really are. It is a question for Oromis to answer, not me. The study of sorcery, if properly conducted, is long and arduous and should be approached with care. I do not want to say anything that may interfere with the lessons Oromis has planned for you, and I certainly don't want you to hurt yourself trying something I mentioned when you lack the proper instruction."

"And when am I supposed to return to Ellesméra?" he demanded. "I can't leave the Varden again, not like this, not while Thorn and Murtagh are still alive."

"You are forgetting about Ancalagon and Lady Almandine." Arya reminded him. "You don't think they can handle things while you and Saphira are away?"

"Do you think either Ancalagon or Saphira could bear to be so far away from each other?" Eragon retorted, being reminded of Saphira's mood when they went to rescue Katrina, her singular thought process that they do what they need and get back quick so she can be at her mate's side.. "Until we defeat the Empire, or the Empire defeats us, Saphira and I have to support Nasuada. If Oromis and Glaedr really want to finish our training, they should join us, and Galbatorix be blasted!"

"Please, Eragon," she said. "This war shall not end as quickly as you think. The Empire is large, and we have but pricked its hide. As long as Galbatorix does not know about Oromis and Glaedr, we have an advantage."

"Is it an advantage if they never make full use of themselves?" he grumbled. She did not answer, and after a moment, he felt childish for complaining. Oromis and Glaedr wanted more than anyone else to destroy Galbatorix, and if they chose to bide their time in Ellesméra, it was because they had excellent reasons for doing so. Eragon could even name several of them if he was so inclined, the most prominent being Oromis's inability to cast spells that required large amounts of energy.

Cold, Eragon pulled his sleeves down over his hands and crossed his arms. "What was it you said to the spirit?"

"It was curious why we had been using magic; that was what brought us to their attention. I explained, and I also explained that you were the one who freed the spirits trapped inside of Durza. That seemed to please them a great deal." Silence crept between them, and then she sidled toward the lily and touched it again. "Oh!" she said. "They were indeed grateful. Naina!"

At her command, a wash of soft light illuminated the camp. By it, he saw that the leaf and stem of the lily were solid gold, the petals were a whitish metal he failed to recognize, and the heart of the flower, as Arya revealed by tilting the blossom upward, appeared to have been carved out of rubies and diamonds. Amazed, Eragon ran a finger over the curved leaf, the tiny wire hairs on it tickling him. Bending forward, he discerned the same collection of bumps, grooves, pits, veins, and other minute details with which he had adorned the original version of the plant; the only difference was they were now made of gold.

"It's a perfect copy!" he said.

"And it is still alive."

"No!" Concentrating, he searched for the faint signs of warmth and movement that would indicate the lily was more than an inanimate object. He located them, strong as they ever were in a plant during the night. Fingering the leaf again, he said, "This is beyond everything I know of magic. By all rights, this lily ought to be dead. Instead, it is thriving. I cannot even imagine what would be involved in turning a plant into living metal. Perhaps Saphira could do it, but she would never be able to teach the spell to anyone else."

"The real question," said Arya, "is whether this flower will produce seeds that are fertile."

"It could spread?"

"I would not be surprised if it does. Numerous examples of self perpetuating magic exist throughout Alagaësia, such as the floating crystal on the island of Eoam and the dream well in Mani's Caves. This would be no more improbable than either of those phenomena."

"Unfortunately, if anyone discovers this flower or the offspring it may have, they will dig them all up. Every fortune hunter in the land would come here to pick the golden lilies."

"They will not be so easy to destroy, I think, but only time will tell for sure."

A laugh bubbled up inside of Eragon. With barely contained glee, he said, "I've heard the expression 'to gild the lily' before, but the spirits actually did it! They gilded the lily!" And he fell to laughing, letting his voice boom across the empty plain.

Arya's lips twitched. "Well, their intentions were noble. We cannot fault them for being ignorant of human sayings."

"No, but... oh, ha, ha, ha!"

Arya snapped her fingers, and the wash of light faded into oblivion. "We have talked away most of the night. It is time we rested. Dawn is fast approaching, and we must depart soon thereafter."

Eragon stretched himself out on a rock-free expanse of the ground, still chuckling as he drifted into his waking dreams.

B.W.- And that's it for this chapter. As the song goes, another one bites the dust. Also, I should warn you that the next chapter will feature the second lemon/sex scene in the story, so… look forward to that.