The Aware (The Isles of Glory Book 1) Read Online Free

was just that the walls of The Drunken Plaice were built of driftwood planks so warped and poorly fitted together that whatever went on next-door could be clearly heard through numerous cracks and chinks. I tried to ignore the sounds, but there was no way I was ever going to be able to get back to sleep while someone did a good imitation of a death rattle in my ear. I sighed, strapped on my sword and padded out in my bare feet.
    As it was still afternoon I didn’t take a light—a mistake because the narrow passageway was as dark as it was airless. Away from the outside smells I scented dunmagic again, and my insides tightened. Distracted by the stink, I foolishly took a step into the darkness right into the path of someone passing my door; I had an impression that the room next-door was also his destination.
    For some long moments we both stood still, so close that our bodies were actually touching. I couldn’t see him well but I knew exactly who it was: the tall Southerman dressed in black. The serious one. What I couldn’t understand was the effect he had on me. Ordinarily, in a situation like that, I would have stepped back and apologised—hand on sword hilt just in case—but we stood there, nearly nose to nose, and a whole gamut of emotions tumbled about in my mind and my body. The trouble was, I couldn’t decide what they were trying to tell me.
    The predominant feeling was again one of recognition, possibly his, and equally possibly mine. Was my Awareness acknowledging the presence of a dunmaster or a sylvtalent, or recognising a kindred Awareness? Or was my memory telling me I should know this man? It might even have been my physical needs recognising a man who could have satisfied them…
    When I did step back I was breathless. With fear, certainly, but also with a tension I couldn’t identify. Part of me wanted to turn and run.
    Before either of us spoke, the groaning from the other side of the door resumed with sharper pathos.
    ‘There’s no need for you to involve yourself,’ the man said urbanely.
    There was a moment of charged silence while neither of us moved. ‘Arrogant sod,’ I thought without rancour. His colouring had told me he was a Southerman; his accent, as smooth and as rich as thick honey, pinpointed the island group: the Stragglers. I glanced at his left earlobe and, now that my eyes had adjusted to the dim light, I could make out the tattooed sea snake inlaid with turquoise bands that confirmed he was a citizen of those islands.
    ‘Someone has been taken ill. I shall attend to it,’ he said, with a firmness that suggested he was used to being obeyed.
    Unfortunately, there was quite enough authority there to prod my cursed contrariness to the fore. A moment earlier I had been a reluctant investigator looking for an excuse not to get involved; now I was being offered a chance to return to my room with a clear conscience and I refused to take it. As I’ve said, perversity always was a fault of mine. ‘Perhaps I can help,’ I replied politely. ‘I have some medicines in my kit.’ Before he could protest, I had opened the door to the neighbouring room.
    The man on the bed was the young innocent with the lovely lashes, and he wasn’t alone. The Cirkasian woman was with him. The man beside me hadn’t expected that; I could feel his surprise. I was surprised myself, but it was the smell in the room that was more arresting: the perfume of sylvmagic, as pure and as sweet as spring flowers, overlaying an unpleasant putrefaction.
    The Cirkasian was sitting on the bed, the young man’s leg on her lap. She had pushed back his trouser and we could see from where we stood the cause of his pain: a sore, green and suppurating, on his ankle. Seen through my Awareness, it was indistinct, its edges blurred with dunmagic red. I knew now who had been the victim of the dunmagic spell downstairs.
    Untended it would grow, spreading tentacles of rottenness through his flesh like gangrene and he’d be