Page 54 of The Lost Art of Revealing Hidden Truths (The Lost Arts #3)

Chapter Twenty-Four

Almost three weeks later

P erian hadn’t previously realized how quiet his home was.

Oh, he’d been aware of the silence after his father died, when it had been only Perian.

But that was still nothing like the quiet now, after Perian had lived for months in the castle.

When Perian had spent his time with Warriors who were fighting, with Mage Warriors who were training, with a wonderful little girl who giggled at picnics.

When he’d taken his meals in a crowded dining hall or talked to salves while working with the doctor or chatted quietly with Brannal—and even when the two of them had been quietly cuddling, there had been the sound of the other man’s breaths, his heartbeat, the quiet but noticeable indications that Perian was not alone.

Perian was alone now. He might have been greeted with happiness by his staff, but there had always been that separation between them, that distance that his father had created, presumably to make sure that no accidents occurred, that Perian didn’t accidentally seduce someone or consume all their life energy without meaning to.

He supposed there was a small chance that this was how his father preferred to live his life, that he didn’t like the scrutiny of live-in staff, but Perian rather doubted it. Knowing everything that he knew now, their entire existence was pretty obviously fabricated for one very specific reason.

He still wondered exactly what his father had known and what he could have told Perian if only he’d chosen to do so.

Why did everyone in Perian’s life who knew the truth choose to withhold it from him?

Except for Cormal, ironically. But that hadn’t been to inform him or help him.

That had been a spear of truth wielded as accusation.

A lot of Perian was bitter about that, but some of him was…

if not quite grateful, at least quietly resigned.

As he’d picked apart his own life and existence, it seemed obvious the situation could not have gone on indefinitely.

Perian had no idea how long he could last here on his own.

He wasn’t even supposed to go to the nearest town, and even if he did go there, there wasn’t a house of pleasure that he could frequent.

What was he supposed to do, just stroll up and down the main street, pass by everyone’s houses, press up against the wall, and hope that he was there at the right moment to snatch up some spent desire?

That sounded like a disaster . But he couldn’t imagine forming an actual connection with someone else right now.

Just the thought of it was nausea-inducing.

Perhaps after some time had passed, though Perian didn’t see how he was going to encounter anyone while banished to his estate.

He certainly wasn’t going to go after someone who did live on his estate.

They were all his employees, and just the thought of that made him ill.

He couldn’t tell any of them the truth. If they turned on him, there was literally nowhere he could go, and if they all left, he wouldn’t be able to manage.

Oh, he could do the basic cleaning and upkeep if he had to, but he’d run out of food, eventually, and if he couldn’t even go into town to order more?

If no one would order it for him? They had the home garden, but Perian couldn’t live solely off that, not comfortably or well, certainly not once he was solely in charge of it.

It was a stupid situation, really, and he wasn’t quite sure if the Queen and Cormal had not thought about it, hadn’t cared, or if they’d planned it all too well.

Could they really have been so cold-blooded as to set him up to attack people so that they would have an excuse to finish him off?

Surely they wouldn’t risk other people like that?

Or were they so convinced that this was his nature and it was inevitable that they thought they were minimizing the damage by containing him to his estate?

(Though really, if he was as… as evil and uncontrollable as they seemed to think, then why would he obey any of their edicts?

But then, if he didn’t, he would be fair game for all the Mage Warriors and Warriors, and then the situation would once again be resolved.

For the good of the people, presumably before Perian cut a swathe through them with his wicked ways.)

He tried not to think about it too often, because it was endlessly frustrating, but it was hard not to think about it, because honestly, there wasn’t a lot to do around here, and Perian didn’t actually know what his future would bring.

He didn’t feel out of control, but he was mindful of those feelings of restlessness that had occasionally driven him to the city in the past. What happened when he ignored that feeling?

Did it go away? Did it get worse? Did he live the rest of his life feeling awkward—not at all a pleasant proposition, but much better than the notion that he could snap at some point.

He promised himself that it wouldn’t come to that, that he would stop himself before he hurt anyone, but there was part of him that wasn’t altogether certain that was possible, that didn’t know if there would come a point where he might be so out of control that he wouldn’t choose to stop himself.

He didn’t think so, but he didn’t know, because there was suddenly so little that he did know about himself.

His whole life had suddenly turned inside out, and things he’d thought he knew had ceased to be true.

He wasn’t human . His father wasn’t his father.

Once you struck those down, really, was there anything else?

Those were the most fundamental parts of him, and they’d melted away like they’d never been.

What was left of him? What was left to be certain of?

Perian feared that there wasn’t a lot, but acknowledged wryly that he was about to have a whole lot of time for self-examination.

He desperately needed things to do.

After a week of castigating himself for every single thought about Brannal, he’d decided to be kinder to himself.

Yes, it had all ended badly. Maybe Brannal had never been as invested as Perian had thought he was.

But that couldn’t erase all the good times that Perian had had.

It couldn’t erase the fact that it had been the best time of his life, when he’d been happiest, when he’d had friends and a lover and so many moments of joy, even if there had been moments of pain, too .

Brannal had chosen to be Summus, and he’d picked that over Perian, but Perian had always known that was a hugely important part of who Brannal was. He’d loved that about him. How could he resent the man for being true to himself?

All right, he could, because there was a trembling, bruised heart in his chest that said that Perian would have picked Brannal, that he’d always pick Brannal, and it hurt that he wasn’t most important in return. But he did understand it, as much as it pained him.

He’d never expected anything that had happened in the city—and now, the situation had changed again, with as much suddenness, but with a much less happy result.

He had changed again, and it might take time to get used to that, to figure it out, but he would do it.

He was stubborn enough to survive this. He was used to being alone, even if he didn’t like it very much. He could do it again.

The nights were the worst. The silence got even more silent, and all the nights that he’d spent in Brannal’s bed echoed so very loudly.

He’d never shared a bed here at home, and he could tell himself until he was blue in the face that this was normal, but his body rebelled.

His heart rebelled. Even his mind politely informed him that this was not the status that it preferred, and could they not switch to that version where he had someone to cuddle up against and keep him warm and happy?

Yes, brain, he’d like that, too, but had it not noticed that there was a distinct lack of volunteers?

He tried to occupy himself and not just pine.

He insisted on a picnic at lunch every day, taking it outside and lying out on a blanket and staring up at the sky, trying to find animals and letting himself imagine that Renny was doing the same.

His gardener, Jenor, was no longer surprised to find Perian mucking about in the gardens.

Evalon, his housekeeper, and Stallor, his cook, seemed to be resigned to the fact that he’d leave barely-eaten meals all round the house.

They’d started ambushing him with small snacks, and somehow, those were easier to eat.

It was hard now, but it would get easier. It had to.

So he started that picnic habit, not so far distanced from the sort of thing he normally did here, but with a happy connection to Renny and the time they’d spent together.

He made himself go out on rides and didn’t let himself think too much about Prince Horsey and how he would have been faster. He tried not to wonder what he would have thought of Perian’s home. He tried not to think about whether anyone was allowed to ride him now.

Still, Perian had his own horses, and they were happy to see him, and they let other people take care of them, which was a good thing, because Perian had been gone for months.

The gallops reminded Perian of this land he’d left behind.

If he went fast enough, maybe there was a brief period where his thoughts couldn’t catch up with him.

He stayed away from the water, because it was getting colder, and he didn’t quite trust his concentration when it came to handling a boat or swimming.

He did seem to lapse sometimes, realizing that he’d been lost in a daydream or haze of memories about the past. His horses could handle themselves, but boats needed direction.