It all made sense. The pieces all fit together. Brom had said: Riders were immortal, he was far too old for his age, of course he was a Rider. He knew and was teaching Eragon all the things a Rider needed to learn. Where did he learn them? Back then.

Brom had forestalled further questions by insisting they sleep. Eragon had been annoyed by further delays, but he was exhausted, so he acquiesced.

It was nigh impossible to fall asleep with the questions racing in his mind. Exhaustion from nearly twenty hours awake finally put him to sleep. The next morning, Brom wasn't in the tent or the hall.

I wonder if he's so used to keeping secrets that he can't help but deploy every tactic to avoid relinquishing them, even when he's trying to come clean, Eragon mused to Saphira.

Brom returned a few minutes later.

"The servants' commons is in good condition," he said. "Less drafty."

Eragon followed Brom's confident strides through the empty castle under a magic light, ducking through servant doors and down narrow corridors. Brom knew the place like the back of his hand.

The servants' commons was a low room just below the ground floor near the kitchens. It was subdivided by a rough wooden facade from the near side of the room, a hub where all the servant passages passed through.

The facade looked like something nailed together from scrap wood by some handyman who wanted a spot to lounge when off duty. Old broken and repaired furniture dotted the commons, discarded from the pristine edifice above and repurposed by the servants. There was a fire burning in a dinged up hearth with a chimney hole in the roof that led into darkened depths unknown.

Brom stretched his back by bracing his palms on the low ceiling and bending backwards, tossed another slice of wood on the hearth, and sat in a chair with a leg made from some old stick tied to the snapped original hardwood. The whole room smelled just a bit like charcoal and grease. Brom looked perfectly at home.

Eragon sat on a couch with flower designs embroidered on the outer fabric. Brom lit up his pipe and cleared his throat.

"I was born in Kuasta one hundred and twenty four years ago," he started. "When I was thirteen, the Riders came by with half a dozen eggs and let folks come up and touch them if they wanted. This was the adventure lottery, and I snuck out from home to see the eggs. The moment I laid my palm on an aquamarine dragon egg, the Rider who brought it, an elf woman named Arva, smiled and told me to wait with her until sundown. By dinnertime, the egg had hatched and the dragon had marked my palm and changed my life."

Brom uncurled his palm from his pipe and tilted it towards Eragon, baring the Gedwey Ignasia. "My dragon chose the name Saphira."

Brom described how Arva stayed in Kuasta with him and Saphira I for about a month and gave him plenty of time to say his goodbyes to his parents before offering him and his dragon a ride on the back of her massive green dragon Vunheot to Ellesmera.

"Not Vroengard?" Eragon asked.

Brom shrugged. "New Riders were rare. Few of the Elders were teachers, and mostly requested to take students. Mine lived in Ellesmera, which is in Du Weldenvarden. His name was Oromis, and his dragon Glaedr. At the time I started training, Oromis already had another student who'd started earlier that year. His name was Morzan."

Brom recounted how he'd looked up to the older human Rider, the only other human in Ellesmera at the time, who'd been more impressive and more capable, Morzan had come from a family that taught him how to read and write and gave him a significant headstart to his training, even before the extra year he had on Brom.

"I idolized him," Brom admitted. "He was everything I thought a Rider should be. Handsome, self-assured, powerful, charismatic, commanding."

"In the early days, Galbatorix was something of a tragedy. An incredibly promising graduate whose dragon had died on his first mission, driving him mad. Later, when he showed up to Vroengard to ask the Council for another egg, he was turned down. Before they could learn what happened to him, Galbatorix had murdered a Rider seemingly without provocation and ran away."

"Morzan wanted me to join him," Brom remembered. "Galbatorix had spoken with him. I assume Galbatorix lured Morzan with promises of power. Morzan pitched it to me as a reformation of the Order. To this day I am thankful I decided against following a murderer. When Morzan left with Galbatorix, I thought nothing of it. Morzan had graduated, he was free to do as he pleased."

"Some time later, the news broke that Galbatorix had murdered another Rider, this one whose dragon had hatched only the day before. That unnamed dragon is now Shruikan, the dragon Galbatorix rides now. What Galbatorix did to Shruikan alone is enough to warrant the relentless pursuit of his death by all decent-minded individuals," Brom said darkly. "That was when I began to see Morzan for who he truly was."

Brom sighed. "Being a Rider in the early days of the Fall was odd. All the elders seemed sure Galbatorix was just a minor problem, yet everything that was happening indicated the opposite. They would send two, then three, then five, then ten veteran Riders against Galbatorix and his growing Forsworn, only to receive reports that each party was narrowly defeated. After every attack against him, Galbatorix seemed to get stronger."

"He attacked Ilirea – Uru'baen now – while I was there. I remember the Forsworn and Galbatorix flying in without warning. Each of them was an army unto themselves. They were impossibly strong. They had access to far more power than any of us could hope to match. They could win magical duels through brute force, and they were not devoid of cunning, either. That was the first time I saw Morzan in action, in all of his ugly glory. Killing Riders, colleagues, friends, and reveling in the power and glory of it all. The expression on his face… he was more beast than man."

Brom spoke with loathing. "Morzan loved the idea of having power over others. There was nothing he loved more than forcing the wills of others to bend to his own. In that, he and Galbatorix are the same. Galbatorix craves submission. He forces all of his servants to swear unbreakable oaths to him in the Ancient Language. He demands permanent fealty. Morzan prefers domination. The way he killed my friends, my colleagues, his friends, it was not kind."

"It was seeing the unrestrained extent of his depravity that recontextualized our 'friendship' when we were training together with Oromis. He was always trying to get me to do little things for me. He loved to ask me to fetch him things, take his place in minor obligations, play second fiddle. I thought it was mentorship, but looking back knowing then what I had just learned, I felt sick."

"He gloated then, boasting of the power of his master, exalting in his own, and once more he offered for me to join them." Brom was lost in an unpleasant memory. "This was before the Banishing of Names. The Forsworn were drunk on triumph; they emerged from every fight victorious, they had momentum, and just then at Ilirea, they had proven they could stand toe-to-toe with the might of the Order at its full strength."

"My rejection stung him," Brom remembered. "I think he really thought I'd accept. He could not see what he'd become, and evidently his dragon did not tell him either. Maybe he thought he could have his own Forsworn, little Brom, back under his boot again. The order came to retreat. We would regroup on Vroengard, every member of the Order, every wild dragon, everyone was to assemble there. The tone had finally shifted. Everybody seemed to understand that this was a last stand. Galbatorix and the Forsworn were not just serious threats, they were probably too powerful to defeat."

"Saphira and I fled." Brom drank deeply from his wineskin. He downed more than half of it at once, slouching into his chair and puffing on his pipe. Eragon was a bit surprised to see that this recounting was taking a toll on Brom. The storyteller – Rider – was still haunted by the Fall.

And who wouldn't be? The fact was that Eragon knew Brom's Saphira was not with him. That meant the story could only end one way. And even just what he'd heard until now was plenty to follow a person around until their grave.

I don't know what I'd do if you died, Eragon admitted.

It won't happen, Saphira insisted. Galbatorix wants to enslave me. You are not irreplaceable to him. After all, he replaced another Rider with himself once.

That won't happen either. I won't let it.

Eragon thought about the thieves he'd killed in Kuasta with magic.

I don't think Galbatorix intends to give us a choice.

"Morzan killed my Saphira on Vroengard," was all Brom would say on that.

"I dedicated my life to revenge. I swore I would take from him everything he took from me, and when he had nothing left and felt as empty as I did, I would kill him. I founded the Varden to oppose Galbatorix and his servants, but when the commitment of running it became too much for my true passion to see Morzan dead, I handed leadership over to Weldon and went back to pursuing my fight against Galbatorix and Morzan myself."

Brom sighed and twisted his ring around his finger. "I was responsible for most of the Forsworn's deaths, in one way or another. A few died from overuse of magic, one committed suicide, two were killed by the efforts of others, the rest I killed or caused to die."

The ghost of a smile graced his lips. "Morzan became paranoid. He was the only Forsworn left, and somehow I doubt he and Galbatorix did not know who was responsible for most of their deaths. He holed up here at this castle and flew out only on Galbatorix's orders. So naturally, there was only one place to go if I wanted to kill him."

Brom offered Eragon his wineskin. Eragon accepted. It was mild and tasted like leather. "This is where my story crosses with your mother's."

Eragon could smell the alcohol on Brom's breath. "You must remember that people are complicated," he said. "Do not judge people on their worst deeds. Jeod obviously had a different perspective of Selena; he was exactly the sort of person she hunted down. Even I don't know her whole story, and no one but perhaps Morzan knew more of her."

"You knew her well?" Eragon asked.

Brom's eyes twinkled. "Very much so. I don't know how much your uncle told you about Selena. As far as she told me, she left when Morzan picked her up with a smile at Carvahall while in disguise. She had craved adventure and Morzan could be very charming if he chose. Unfortunately, your mother could not have chosen a worse person to run off with. Morzan was cruel, and Selena was obsessive."

"Like Jeod said, when Morzan discovered that Selena could use magic, she became something more than a beautiful woman deeply in love with him. Morzan got her to do things for him. At first, I'm sure they were somewhat more benign than the tall tales Jeod heard. Or maybe they weren't, and Morzan knew your mother was devoted enough to overcome her morals. I'm told the 'bad boy' archetype is very attractive."

Eragon's cheeks burned. He did not want to hear that about his mother, especially not in regards to the second most infamous man in Alagaesia.

"But he still got her to kill people!" Eragon protested.

Brom raised an eyebrow. "Isn't that what I've done with you?"

"It's different. We're fighting against the Empire."

Brom laughed. "Nobody considers themselves evil. The human mind will twist and contort in remarkable ways to delude itself into being the hero of the story. Men who beat their wives will say 'she was asking for it' to excuse bruising her for burning their meal. Morzan could be persuasive. He fooled me too." The mirth faded from his voice.

"I'm getting ahead of myself." Brom stretched. The fireplace crackled and popped. "I learned of a vulnerability in Morzan's castle's wards that let me slip in and disguise myself as a gardener. The plan was to kill him. Like I told you when Harry ran off to get himself killed by Durza, patience is the key to doing something impossible. I did not kill half a dozen Riders without a dragon or a hundredth of their power by meeting them head on. I watched and waited and investigated and probed for a weakness, a vulnerability, then I made a perfect plan with contingencies for exploiting that vulnerability, and then when I went to execute it and it all fell apart, I was damn good at thinking on my feet."

Brom gazed at Eragon. "You don't topple a castle by smashing yourself against the wall. You take it down by chipping away at the bricks for as long as it takes to make yourself an opening."

"So you were there for the long con," Eragon surmised.

"Indeed. It was there that I met your mother."

Eragon sat forward. "What was she like?"

"If you keep interrupting me, we'll never get to that part of the story," Brom groused. "All in due time. I disguised myself as a gardener–"

"Wait, why didn't Morzan recognize you if you two knew each other well?" Eragon interrupted.

Brom glared.

Eragon shrugged.

"It had been decades since we'd last seen each other. Vroengard was the last time we met face-to-face, some eighty years past. And in any case, Morzan was not the type to pay much attention to those beneath him. In that, I was fortunate. Galbatorix has a habit of extracting oaths of loyalty from his servants at random." Brom adjusted in his seat. "And I looked older. Since my Saphira died, I have not been so insulated from the wear of time as Morzan was. He still looked in his twenties, I looked as I do now. With a bit of dirt on my face, a wide brimmed hat, and peasant clothes, I was nothing like Brom the Rider he knew of old."

He described meeting Selena for the first time. "It was terrifying. Her shrewdness was already known by then, and she was the sort to pay attention to the little things. My act had to be perfect around her. I said I was from Kuasta; she expected me to use the accent constantly. I thought it might be a risk since Morzan knew that's where Brom was born, but it was also the closest city to the castle, and servants being from there was not out of the ordinary."

It was odd to hear his mother described for the first time in such a drastically different way to how Garrow had. Garrow had said she was pretty, kind, and vivacious. Brom detailed how those traits looked in a legendary assassin.

"Despite her bloody work abroad, Selena was kind to her friends, to the servants, even to me, the lowly gardener," Brom recalled. "She became pregnant with Murtagh and I suppose I became a confidant of sorts. Morzan is a hard man to be around. He's always pushing, testing, prodding to remind everyone who's in charge. Once she had Murtagh, everything took a turn for the worse."

Eragon goggled. "What!?"

Brom puffed his pipe. "You heard me."

"I have a brother," Eragon said faintly.

"Half brother, yes. His name is Murtagh," Brom said.

"My step-father is Morzan," Eragon realized. He felt lightheaded. "What happened to Murtagh?"

Brom sighed. "I assume Galbatorix took him after I killed Morzan–"

Eragon choked. "You killed Morzan!?"

He grinned. "I said I vowed to. Who else would have? Nevertheless, if you want to hear the rest of the story, you'll have to stop interrupting me."

Eragon gestured for him to carry on.

Brom grimaced. "Morzan saw Murtagh as a tool to leverage Selena's obedience. He had her and Murtagh split up immediately after birth and gave the baby to a wetnurse. After she'd recovered from the birth, Morzan used time with her son as a reward, and sent her constantly on missions. He was terrified of me, you see. I had disappeared to infiltrate his castle, so he had no idea where I was or what I was doing. He was so scared of stumbling across me out in Alagaesia that he stayed holed up in his castle, where I was already hiding unbeknownst to him. He delegated whatever he could to Selena, forcing her to complete objectives Galbatorix handed down to him in his stead."

"When she returned from these missions, she would spend every second she was allowed to with her son, then when Morzan took him from her arms, she'd speak with me."

Eragon felt Saphira's fury at the monstrousness of Morzan's behavior, the most despicable way to ensure someone's loyalty.

"Why didn't he just make her swear loyalty in the Ancient Language?" Eragon asked.

"He did," Brom said. "But, as you'll learn in a moment, that has limitations. You cannot violate the terms of an oath, but you don't have to obey them enthusiastically. In that way, binding oaths make for artificial loyalty. They are a contract, not true loyalty. The other critical thing is this; oaths bind the person who swore them."

"Everybody in this world has a True Name," Brom lectured. "Just as fire is 'brisingr,' and wind is 'vindr,' you and I have names in the Ancient Language that perfectly describe our natures, even if we are ignorant to what they are. And just as people change, so too do the true names that describe them. If you address an object in a spell as 'red block' and then paint it green, you will need to readdress it for new spells. The nature of objects is much more immutable than living, changing things, and this effect is heightened. When the core identity of who you are changes, so does your true name, and the old Selena who swore loyalty to Morzan disappeared, as far as the Ancient Language was concerned."

"Why?" Eragon pressed. "What prompted such a massive change?"

Brom hesitated. "She fell out of love with Morzan, and she became a mother.

Eragon knew immediately that he was not telling the whole truth. But based on the world-shaking secrets he'd shared with him, Eragon knew this one had to be big, and dear to Brom's heart.

He had to know what altered his mother's identity so much that the terrifying assassin devoted utterly to Morzan suddenly decided she didn't love him anymore. It had to be Murtagh, but Brom hadn't just said that. He'd hesitated.

Preoccupied with dreaming up strategies to extract that information, he was unprepared for Brom's next sentence.

"When I realized what had happened, I told her my identity,"

Eragon coughed. "What?"

Brom shrugged. "She needed a bit of nudging to finally overcome that hurdle and change her true name. I provided it, but it meant convincing her with information a gardener really shouldn't know. She already knew I wasn't who I said I was, I simply chose to be honest with her."

"What next?" Eragon sat forward.

"Next, Selena began helping me. Let me tell you Eragon, spies are dangerous, but there is nothing as dangerous as a spy traitor. Selena was privy to high level secrets from the Empire, and also able to feed incorrect information to them while being trusted implicitly, since Morzan still thought she was bound by the Ancient Language."

Brom hesitated again. "As these things happen, Selena fell pregnant again. But she noticed before Morzan did, and she did not want her youngest child raised by wetnurses under the cruelty of Morzan."

Eragon connected the dots immediately. His heart fell out of his chest.

"No," he whispered. He was disgusted. He felt unclean. Morzan was his father. Brom, the man in front of him, had killed his father.

Brom looked cagey. The fact that he was hiding something became downright obvious.

"Is that why you lived in Carvahall?" Eragon demanded hotly. "To see if I'd turn out like my father? Or as part of your vow: take away everything dear to Morzan. Maybe you'd kill me to spit upon Morzan's grave one last time."

Brom shook his head. Eragon was too furious to see it.

"I suppose Zar'roc was my birthright," he said, disgusted. "How many dragons and Riders has it killed?"

"It's Murtagh's birthright," Brom corrected. "But he is not a Rider. Let me finish."

"No!" Eragon exclaimed. "When were you going to tell me this? Did Jeod know who my father was?"

"Jeod may have guessed wrongly," Brom said irritably. "As you are doing now. There is more to the story, if you will listen."

"Fuck listening!" Eragon shouted. His voice was very loud in the cramped servant's quarters. "Every time I ask you for answers, you slip and slide around my questions, or refuse point blank. Is this why? I–"

"I'm giving you the answers," Brom snapped. "Sit down and shut up or live in ignorance and wasted outrage."

Eragon did not want to do that. It was, in fact, the last thing he wanted to do. He wanted to smash something or hit someone (mostly Brom) or scream until his lungs were empty. The world had been upended under his feet and he had someone to blame right in front of him.

You need to listen, Saphira's presence touched him. Eragon's wild, animalistic and unfocused anger suddenly swung towards her. She weathered his fury like a rock on the shore. You know something doesn't add up. What is it? Let him tell you.

Eragon swallowed his hot fury and forced himself to sit back down. He mastered his temper and seethed, gesturing rudely for Brom to continue.

"I did not know she was pregnant until it was all over." Brom spoke with low urgency, trying to get everything out as quickly as possible. "She left on one of Morzan's missions and simply didn't return. I wasn't even there when she left. By this time, I had left on my own mission, one of great importance to you and Saphira especially."

His anger forestalled by curiosity, Eragon waited for more answers.

"When I was still closely involved with the Varden, our highest priority was the last three dragon eggs. The only three that had been salvaged from the fall. I believe I gave you some idea of how important they were."

"They were the key to the next generation of Riders," Eragon remembered. "Whoever controlled them would control the future."

"Basically. Galbatorix has spent a century trying to find people his eggs would hatch for, the Varden has spent that time killing his best candidates and trying to steal the eggs. Well, Jeod was the one ultimately responsible for the Varden recovering Saphira's egg."

"Uru'baen was built by elves long, long before Galbatorix made it the seat of his power. Ilirea was the elven capital since elves arrived in Alagaesia thousands of years ago. Galbatorix killed the previous elven king, King Evandar, during that battle I mentioned earlier."

"This is the time when I met Jeod. He was about your age then. He'd found something in some obscure writing that suggested there was a passage beneath Uru'baen that led straight to the citadel. He managed to find one of the Varden's spies and tell them about it. That spy brought it back to Deynor, who knew he had to get a message to me."

"Jeod found mentions of some secret passage that led deep beneath the citadel, right to where we thought the eggs were stored. Much spycraft and research later, Jeod's hunch was proven correct; there was a passage and it did lead to where Galbatorix was keeping the three dragon eggs."

"We picked a thief to do the job, Hefring. He was told almost nothing beyond the route, what he was stealing, and where to drop off the eggs once he got out. He contacted us after the theft and told us he'd only retrieved one egg."

Brom scowled. "He also missed the drop off. The Varden and the Empire both sent everything they had to recover the egg. For a couple of months, the fate of Alagaesia was up in the air. Naturally, I went to recover it for the Varden, Galbatorix sent Morzan."

"The chase in itself is a legendary tale with all the right twists and turns, surprises and tragedies. Morzan and I met at the same time over Hefring and the egg."

Eragon felt Saphira paying close attention. He wondered how odd it would feel to be referred to in an egg. It wasn't like she could do anything but sit and observe.

"There was a terrible and desperate fight," Brom remembered. "The fantasy of revenge always tastes sweeter. In my case, the fantasy was intoxicating, the reality was still a cherished memory. I killed his dragon, and then I killed him and took Zar'roc from his corpse. I had the egg, and Morazn and his dragon were dead. I ran the egg to the Varden, where I heard from my contact that Selena had returned to Morzan's castle sick and dying after giving birth."

Brom glanced at Eragon. He was quiet for a moment. "I got there too late. I had no idea she was pregnant at all; I left to plan the egg theft before even she knew in all likelihood. She wanted to spare you a childhood like Murtagh's, I'm sure. She was already dead and buried when I got here. Her grave is up in the gardens, if you'd like to visit."

Cold mountain air rushed past Eragon, reddening his cheeks. The tear tracks on his face burned freezing cold.

The headstone was much less elaborate than the one next to it, the one Eragon averted his eyes from. Nevertheless, it was carved with a bit of scrollwork on the corners and a short inscription.

Here lies Lady Selena

Devoted until the end

May she rest in peace

Whoever made this must not have known what she did at the end, Eragon thought.

Saphira offered him wordless comfort. In the frigid night mountain air, it offered some warmth. Eragon gazed at the patch of grass in front of the headstone. Just below was all that remained of his mother's physical presence in this world. It had to be just bones by now, a puppet without animation.

Eragon straightened up a bit. Bones were not the only thing Selena left behind. Murtagh was out there somewhere. And as long as Brom lived, memories of her remained. Her history lingered still.

The larger tombstone drew irresistibly on his gaze. Eragon kept glancing at the long inscription, then forcing himself to look away.

His father. Unmourned, save perhaps by Galbatorix as a lost servant, Eragon suspected. His parents had to be long dead if he was over a century old.

He didn't care to read the inscription in its entirety. It was full of aggrandizement and pretense, suggesting Morzan was noble for being the King's enforcer, the first lapdog, the first traitor to the Rider Order. Just the implication of what was beneath his feet was enough to hold his attention.

This was one of the most important people in Alagaesia. In the last century, probably number two. Number three stood a respectful distance away by the low gate to the graveyard, bare hands huddled around his pipe, plumes of white fog exhaling from his mouth.

In the moonlight, his old Gedwey Ignasia glimmered against the stalk of the pipe.

Eragon knew number one was far off in Uru'baen. Number four, he realized with quiet solemness, was probably himself.

He wondered where Selena was now. Was there anything at all? Carvahall had a group of differing opinions, but the consensus was that people went somewhere. Eragon wasn't sure if what he knew now made that more or less likely.

Minds seemed so disconnected from bodies. Eragon felt it whenever he reached out for Saphira. Who he was did not need to stop at the boundary of his skull. If he could be so untethered, did it not make sense that the dead persisted free of mortal tethers?

What is your brain then if not the host of your mind? Saphira asked.

Eragon did not know. Maybe that was it then. Brains were the host of the mind and after death, they rotted away like burning a book, consuming the contents within.

The oddity of life and death struck Eragon. Before death, Selena had been an animated person, a deadly assassin, a loving mother, Garrow's sister, a woman who made Brom her confidant. The moment she died, Selena was just a bag of bones.

What made him alive? Why couldn't Selena just start breathing again after she'd died? Some unquantifiable property existed in him and not her, something that meant he breathed and his heart beated and his brain thought. Something meant he was more than meat and bones.

He was alive.

Eragon glanced back at Morzan's tombstone. Should he spit on it? Turn his back? Eragon decided then that in all the ways that mattered, Garrow was his father. Morzan did nothing more for Eragon than get his mother pregnant. Selena had infinitely more claim than Morzan. Selena had loved him enough to see he was born far away from his father.

He decided then that it didn't matter. Nobody knew but Brom, Saphira, himself, and his now dead mother.

Very wise, Saphira remarked. I do not even know my parents.

You should ask Brom, Eragon suggested. If anybody knows, it's him.

He felt Saphira's lack of commitment.

Eragon turned to glance back at Brom. He exhaled, his breath fogging in the air. He was done here. He turned away from Morzan's grave and stalked out past the gate, not minding much that his shoulder hit Brom's on the way past.

He'd wanted answers, hadn't he? Well, now he had them and he still wasn't sure who to blame.

Brom never showed up at the tent to sleep. Eragon spent the time alone thinking.

All this time, Brom had given Eragon lessons on the history of Alagaesia and the Fall. All this time, Eragon thought he'd been around the Empire interviewing old people, talking to the veterans of the Varden, putting together the whole puzzle.

He never imagined Brom had been the one to write that history with his own sword.

And now Eragon was poised to inherit that mantle. He was the son of two of the greatest actors in the story, training under the third to one day defeat the last.

Had it all been inevitable? Stashing Eragon in Carvahall might have been a futile final action by his mother to try to keep him safe and away from dragons and magic.

I still chose you, Saphira reminded him. You are no Morzan. I would not have hatched for him. Perhaps Garrow is the true hero of this story; it is his values you grew up learning, and the person he raised is the person I hatched for.

The next day Brom wasn't around. The castle was plenty big enough to get lost in. Eragon spent the day exploring and talking with Saphira.

It was a bit less impressive when he'd wandered the halls of Harry's castle, where all sorts of grandiose and impractical magic was woven into the bricks and windows and passages.

After a while climbing the towers and looking out on the mountains, Eragon headed down to the servants quarters and explored the labyrinth of tunnels.

He came across the servants' dorms on the first level below the ground floor. It had shuttered windows set into the wall that opened to a dug out which let in a bit of daylight. Bunks lined both sides of the corridor-like room. All the beds were made, neatly tucked in blankets and pillows. All except the top bunk of the sixth one down on the left. At the foot of that bed were Brom's bags, the blanket rumpled and unmade.

It was hard to imagine a Dragon Rider had slept there last night, the man who'd killed Morzan. It was as if Brom's story had spawned a second person in Eragon's mind, a separate person who did all those unbelievable things so that Eragon could avoid grappling with how utterly and totally the identity of the Brom he knew had shifted, and how incomplete his view of him had been.

It was probably as hard to imagine Brom had slept there for him as it was for Morzan when Brom had been sleeping in that very bed undercover.

While it was warmer during the day, Eragon wandered the grounds and sat with Saphira. Brom did not reappear even after the sun went down. Eragon made his own meal and ate alone.

The next day, the old Rider finally reappeared when Eragon revisited Selena's grave.

"Why did you come watch over me in Carvahall?" Eragon asked without looking.

Brom wrapped his scarf tighter around his neck and squinted against a blustery gale. He patted Eragon's back. "I cared about you."

Eragon snorted. "Why? I was the son of your enemy."

"At times," Brom said cryptically. "You were Selena's son."

"That meant more than being Morzan's?" Eragon wondered. "Unless you thought my mother was unfaithful."

Brom smiled wickedly. "Hmm. Interesting theory."

Eragon grew angry with Brom's word games. He turned to stare him in the eye. "Straighten your tongue, Brom. Tell me what you're dancing around, or tell me you lied and you intend to keep your secrets. Do not string me along."

Brom glanced down at Morzan's headstone. "Morzan is not your father, Eragon," he said solemnly.

"Then who is!?" Eragon cried. "Some handsome man that caught Selena's eye like Morzan had?"

"Eragon." Brom grabbed Eragon's shoulders and looked him in the eyes. "I am your father."

The world fell out from underneath him.

"You're lying."

"Fodir onr ekka eddyr," Brom repeated. "I am your father. You are my son."

Eragon did not know who was the worse father to have: Morzan, who never knew or cared about his existence, or Brom, who knew, cared, and chose to hide like a coward as a stranger stepped up to raise his own child.

All he knew was that Eragon could not stand to see Brom's face for one more instant.

He turned and walked headfirst into the wind, stalking towards the courtyard. He hiked his backpack higher on his shoulder.

We're leaving, He told Saphira.

He sensed disagreement, but Saphira acquiesced.

"Eragon. Eragon!" Brom called after him, squinting and bending into the gusts. His scarf whipped behind him. Eragon walked faster and faster, breaking into a jog, then sprinting acros the wide stone courtyard and jumping up onto Saphira's saddle.

"Go!" he shouted. "Get us out of here!"

"Eragon!" Brom shouted after him. "Please. Be safe!"

Eragon finally glanced back to see Brom standing below, looking up at Eragon with a hand on his staff.

"Promise me!" Brom called. "Be safe."

I owe him nothing, Eragon thought.

You owe him everything you know about being a Rider, Saphira interceded, if gently.

Overwrought, Eragon chewed out a response. "Fine."

"Farewell," Brom called.

Saphira took off.

Where to, little one?

Eragon had no idea, except that it was cold out. Operating on instinct, he answered South.

Saphira banked so the wind was nearly at her back as she flapped, building speed and adjusting her course to stay over the mountains. Down below and outside the castle wall, Eragon spotted a horse and its rider approaching. He dismissed his concern from Brom. He wanted to put the man out of his mind altogether.

Get us out of here.

Brom watched his son fly off. There was a melancholic air in the courtyard. Memories and history blew around in a maelstrom that defied any imposition of order. It was the crossroads of Brom's life, and Eragon had just taken an unpredictable path.

A minute later, Brom caught movement out of the corner of his eye. A silhouette had briefly popped up over the wall, then ducked below the crenellations. Eragon's mysterious pursuer.

Brom let his mind expand outwards. No one but him and his horse. Brom touched the man's mind and found it well guarded, alert to his intrusion, and suddenly fearful of him. Brom gleaned nothing else through his defenses.

He switched tactics. The man's horse was cold and bored. Brom pushed further, seeking memories. Interpreting the sensory memories of a non-human animal gave him a headache. He followed the horse's journey through the Spine, noting the fondness and trust the horse had for his rider.

The human called him Tornac.

Brom followed the horses's associations with that name back to the source.

A vivid, fearful memory. Brom recognized Ilirea in fits and bursts, very different yet with landmarks Brom knew even a century later. Sprinting away with his rider on his back, Brom saw a man fight off eight guards at once with a sword before succumbing.

"Tornac!" the rider's voice called in anguish.

Brom sought the face of the rider. He fed the idea of the horse's kind master to him and let Tornac return memories of a man with a familiar visage.

Brom muttered a word to magnify his voice. "Murtagh!" he called, his voice booming across the empty courtyard. "Eka weohnata néiat haina ono. I will not harm you, I swear it."

He felt Murtagh pause. Brom pushed a little more.

"Your horse remembers you leaving Uru'baen on bad terms. If you hate the King, you're in good company."

He felt the faintest sense of irritation through Murtagh's impressive mental defenses. A moment later, a rope dropped from the top of the wall to the courtyard. Murtagh slid down and walked over, his hand on the pommel of his sword.

When he caught sight of Brom's face, he was suddenly terrified.

"Brom," he said guardedly.

Brom sighed a gust of fog into the night and beckoned Murtagh, headed towards the entrance. "Come inside, it's bloody cold out."

AN: History lessons. Recap can be dull. I hope this was interesting. It's a lot of canon summary. I tried to keep it quick and relevant.

I was bored to tears writing the recap, I hope it was more interesting to read than it was to write.

There's not loads of plot here but I wanted to get this out so we're now back on track after that missed upload the week before last. If everything goes well, the next chapter should be out this coming Friday. I have been working on it while writing Eragon's POV chapters.