“Brom could have told my uncle,” Eragon protested. “Garrow wouldn’t have betrayed Brom to the Empire.”

“Think, Eragon. If you had been living with Brom, and if word of Brom’s survival had reached the ears of Galbatorix’s spies, you both would have had to flee Carvahall for fear of your lives. By keeping the truth hidden from you, Brom hoped to protect you from those dangers.”

“He didn’t succeed. We had to flee Carvahall anyway.”

“Yes,” said Oromis. “Brom’s mistake, as it were, although I judge it has yielded more good than ill, was that he could not bear to separate himself entirely from you. If he had had the strength to refrain from returning to Carvahall, you never would have found Saphira’s egg, the Ra’zac would not have killed your uncle, and many things that were not, would have been; and many things that are, would not be. He could not cut you out of his heart, though.”

Eragon clenched his jaw as a tremor coursed through him. “And after he learned Saphira had hatched for me?”

Oromis hesitated, and his calm expression became somewhat troubled. “I am not sure, Eragon. It may have been that Brom was still trying to protect you from his enemies, and he did not tell you for the same reason he did not bring you to the Varden straight-away: because it would have been more than you were ready for. Perhaps he was planning to tell you just before you went to the Varden. If I had to guess, though, I would guess that Brom held his tongue not because he was ashamed of you but because he had become accustomed to living with his secrets and was loath to part with them. And because—and this is no more than speculation—because he was uncertain how you might react to his revelation. By your own account, you were not that well acquainted with Brom before you left Carvahall with him. It is quite possible he was afraid that you might hate him if he told you he was your father.”

“Hate him?” exclaimed Eragon. “I wouldn’t have hated him. Although . . . I might not have believed him.”

“And would you have trusted him after such a revelation?”

Eragon bit the inside of his cheek. No, I wouldn’t have.

Continuing, Oromis said, “Brom did the best he could in what were incredibly trying circumstances. Before all else, it was his responsibility to keep the two of you alive and to teach and advise you, Eragon, so that you would not use your power for selfish means, as Galbatorix has done. In that, Brom acquitted himself with distinction. He may not have been the father you wished him to be, but he gave you as great an inheritance as any son has ever had.”

“It was no more than he would have done for whoever became the new Rider.”

“That does not diminish its value,” Oromis pointed out. “But you are mistaken; Brom did more for you than he would have for anyone else. You need only think of how he sacrificed himself to save your life to know the truth of that.”

With the nail of his right index finger, Eragon picked at the edge of the table, following a faint ridge formed by one of the rings in the wood. “And it really was an accident that Arya sent Saphira to me?”

“It was,” Oromis confirmed. “But it was not entirely a coincidence. Instead of transporting the egg to the father, Arya made it appear before the son.”

“How could that be if she had no knowledge of me?”

Oromis’s thin shoulders rose and fell. “Despite thousands of years of study, we still cannot predict or explain all of the effects of magic.”

Eragon continued to finger the small ridge in the edge of the table. I have a father, he thought. I watched him die, and I had no idea who he was to me. . . . “My parents,” he said, “were they ever married?”

“I know why you ask, Eragon, and I do not know if my answer will satisfy you. Marriage is not an elvish custom, and the subtleties of it often escape me. No one joined Brom’s and Selena’s hands in marriage, but I know that they considered themselves to be husband and wife. If you are wise, you will not worry that others of your race may call you a bastard but rather be content to know that you are your parents’ child and that they both gave their lives that you might live.”

It surprised Eragon how calm he felt. His entire life he had speculated about the identity of his father. When Murtagh had claimed it was Morzan, the revelation had shocked Eragon as deeply as had the death of Garrow. Glaedr’s counterclaim that Eragon’s father was Brom had also shocked him, but the shock did not seem to have lasted, perhaps because, this time, the news was not as upsetting. Calm as he was, Eragon thought that it might be many years before he was certain of his feelings toward either of his parents. My father was a Rider and my mother was Morzan’s consort and Black Hand.

“Could I tell Nasuada?” he asked.

Oromis spread his hands. “Tell whomever you wish; the secret is now yours to do with as you please. I doubt you would be in any more danger if the whole world knew you were Brom’s heir.”

“Murtagh,” Eragon said. “He believes we are full brothers. He told me so in the ancient language.”

“And I am sure Galbatorix does as well. It was the Twins who figured out that Murtagh’s mother and your mother were one and the same person, and this they conveyed to the king. But they could not have informed him of Brom’s involvement, for there was no one among the Varden who was privy to that information.”

Eragon glanced up as a pair of swallows swooped by overhead, and he allowed himself a wry half smile.