Chapter 48
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
LEYWANI
The journey by boat took three long days and nights.
The river carried them westwards, its dark waters rippling beneath a sky that shifted from grey to gold and back again.
In the early mornings, mist hovered over the surface, curling like ghostly fingers around their small vessel until the sun burned it away.
At night, the water mirrored the stars, stretching in every direction, turning the river into a passage between worlds.
Leywani had never been on a boat before, but Lecne taught her what she needed—how to steady the vessel when the currents turned rough, how to handle an oar, how to adjust the small sail to catch the wind just right.
Her hands blistered at first, the repetitive motion of rowing unfamiliar, but she gritted her teeth and pressed on.
She wasn’t about to let Lecne do all the work.
Not that he complained. The Rasennan soldier was steady, patient, taking on the brunt of the labour without question.
When she grew tired, he told her to rest, and despite her initial resistance, exhaustion eventually won out.
Yet in the darkness of her dreams, the twisted forms of the Makhai rose again, writhing through nightmares that left her gasping and drenched in sweat.
He kept watch most nights, letting her sleep beneath the rough woollen cloak Velthur had given her, but she never felt truly at ease.
They passed a few settlements and fishermen along the way—watchful eyes tracking them from the banks, cautious nods exchanged from afar—but no one stopped them. No one called out. Left alone, the current carried them forward in a quiet, steady motion.
Leywani sat near the bow, watching the rippling water, but after a while, her gaze drifted to Lecne.
He rowed with an easy rhythm, his movements efficient and practised.
The light brown of his hair caught the sun, tousled by the breeze that skimmed off the water.
He had round features with a square jawline.
His long-sleeved tunic clung to his frame, the sleeves rolled up to reveal muscular forearms and scarred hands.
He was different from the other soldiers she’d encountered. Less rigid, less severe. Yet there was something about him she couldn’t quite place.
When he caught her looking, he held her gaze a moment before turning back to the river ahead. “Have you ever been to the Western Lands?” he asked, breaking the silence.
Leywani glanced up from where she sat, hands curled around the edges of the boat to steady herself against the gentle rocking of the current. She shook her head. “No. I’ve never been this far west.”
It was an understatement. In truth, she’d never even seen the Deep River until the Rasennan legion came for them, dragging them from their homes and back to Dodona—an event that seemed like a lifetime ago now.
“Your mother was a Westerner?” she dared to ask, remembering Velthur’s words.
“A slave,” Lecne replied, his voice steady, though something flickered across his face.
“She worked for a noble family in Kisra. Her master assaulted her, then cast her out when he found out she was with child. My grandfather, a senator, took us in and gave us refuge in his summer villa in Pumpai. I grew up Rasennan, but my heart has always been Western.” He paused, gaze distant, as if lost in memory.
“My grandfather made sure I understood exactly what kind of corrupt monster the Emperor was. When I came of age, he asked for my help to bring him down. He sacrificed a great deal to Laran so I could obtain a Gift.”
He raised the hem of his tunic, revealing the crimson Mark of a sword and shield on one side of his muscled stomach.
The Mark, vivid against his sun-kissed skin, gleamed like a brand.
“I joined the legions on his command and spent two years with Dalmatius in the Sixth before moving into the Tarquinian Guard. That’s where I met Velthur.
We’ve been working together ever since.”
Leywani wanted to ask more, but Lecne’s usual ease hardened. “We’re here.”
The river ahead widened, joining the Rodanos—the border of the Western Lands. Here, the silvery-blue waters surged with power, a constant roar echoing like distant thunder.
Lecne adjusted the ropes, guiding the boat into the swift current. He didn’t speak, but Leywani sensed his wariness in the tension of his hands on the oar and in the quick, sharp movements of his eyes, as if the current itself might swallow them whole.
She gripped the side of the boat, peering at the churning flow. “What is it?”
Lecne pressed his lips tight. “The Rodanos is guarded by a river god. He can choose to let us cross… or drown us where we sit. The two rivers keep the border safe from Rasennan soldiers, but as long as we carry no ill intent, he should allow us passage.”
A chill passed over her skin despite the sun. The water, dark and shifting beneath them, no longer seemed like a river but a living thing—watching, judging.
She held her breath as they drifted forward. The oar cut the surface, sending ripples outwards in silvered rings, but the current didn’t fight them. No swell rose from the depths.
The god had let them pass.
Lecne exhaled, muttering a quiet word of thanks. Leywani’s fingers unclenched, her grip on the boat loosening as a shiver of relief ran through her.
The far bank appeared, lined with tall reeds, willows, and old, gnarled trees with roots sunk in the water, their branches swaying over the surface.
Once ashore, they pulled the boat into the reeds, concealing it as best they could.
The Western Lands stretched ahead, a vast sprawl of grasslands dotted with bushes.
“We’ll continue on foot,” Lecne said, slinging a bag over his shoulder and retrieving a map. “The Falcons Tribe’s hillfort is only a three-day walk from here. We’ll need to keep hidden and move fast.”
Leywani nodded and fell into step beside him. They’d barely begun their trek when the underbrush stirred ahead of them.
Then—shouts.
Figures emerged from the trees, swift and silent as shadows. Warriors with long, braided hair and scraggly beards, armed with swords and bows, appeared. They moved with the ease of hunters, surrounding them in an instant.
Lecne lifted his hands, stance open, voice steady as he spoke to them in the Western tongue. All Leywani understood was the name Volcos.
Laughter cut him off.
A couple of Westerners shoved him back, and he barely caught his footing before a fist slammed into his gut. He doubled over with a gasp.
“Lecne!” Before Leywani could move, someone seized her arm.
Another blow, this time to Lecne’s ribs. He hit the dirt with a grunt, blood at the corner of his mouth. Still, he tried speaking to them again, his tone appeasing.
A sharp kick silenced him.
The beating continued, each brutal strike echoing in Leywani’s ears.
Her throat tightened, tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth.
A hollow numbness crept through her limbs—the same frozen helplessness she’d known under her husband’s fists, when defiance only sharpened his cruelty.
If the Westerners wouldn’t listen to Lecne, what chance did she have of stopping them?
Lecne coughed, blood flecking his lips. His eyes found hers, sharp despite the pain. He forced out a single word, raw and urgent: “Run.”
The command jolted her like a spark.
Run.
Her body moved before her mind caught up, twisting out of her captor’s grip and sprinting towards the trees. Shouts erupted behind her, lost beneath the roar of her heartbeat. The earth blurred beneath her feet, twigs snapping and leaves tearing underfoot.
Branches whipped at her arms, roots threatened to trip her, but she didn’t stop.
Not until she slammed into something solid, the force knocking the breath from her lungs. A wall of muscle and cold metal. The jarring collision sent her stumbling back, pain bursting through her skull.
An arm shot forward, catching her before she could fall.
Leywani gasped, pressing a shaking hand to her forehead where she’d struck the armoured chest. Panic clawed up her throat, but she forced the words out in Rhaetic between ragged breaths, her voice cracking.
“Please.” Her fingers curled into the icy links of the chainmail vest, the metal biting against her skin. She didn’t know who she was begging and didn’t care. Desperation poured out of her. “Please. We need Volcos.”
She met the warrior’s gaze and repeated the names she prayed he would understand. “Achaean rebels. Alena.”
A flicker of recognition flashed in his striking hazel eyes. The stern mask of his bearded face cracked, confusion softening the hard lines. “Alena?” he echoed, then spoke to her in a language she couldn’t grasp.
Hope unfurled in her chest. He knew Alena. She was certain of it.
Drawing a steadying breath, she let her hands fall from his chainmail and looked him over. Taller than most, broad-shouldered, his frame carried the weight of strength and battle. The hilt of a sword rose over one shoulder, a silent reminder of what he was capable of.
She tried to make sense of his words, but when he repeated the same phrase three times, she finally shook her head, signalling she didn’t understand.
The man frowned, then glanced over her head and whistled. The men who’d captured Lecne emerged from the undergrowth, dragging his bloodied form with them.
They exchanged more words, and it became clear to Leywani that the man holding her was in charge. The others all deferred to him.
Without warning, one of the men yanked Lecne’s hair, forcing his head up and muttering something to him.
“He’s asking how you know Alena,” Lecne panted, blood tainting his teeth.
“She’s my friend,” Leywani replied, her gaze flicking to the leader. “I grew up with her and Katell.”
Recognition sparked in the man’s eyes. With a sharp command, the others released Lecne, and he collapsed onto his hands and knees.
A heated discussion broke out among the Westerners as Leywani knelt beside Lecne, assessing his injuries before helping him to his feet.
Lecne pushed himself upright with a wince, his chest heaving with each breath. “Not exactly the welcome I had in mind,” he rasped, spitting blood onto the ground.
Tension crackled in the air. The leader spoke to his men in low tones, a few glances flicking towards Leywani—measuring, deciding.
Leywani’s pulse hammered in her ears. Lecne’s breath had turned shallow, and blood soaked through his shirt. He needed a healer—fast.
After an endless moment, the leader’s attention returned to them. His hazel eyes studied her with piercing intensity, as if trying to unravel something hidden within her. She held his gaze, but the force of it sent a shiver down her spine, a strange pull that made her breath catch.
When the leader’s deep voice broke the silence, Lecne rasped, “He wants to know your name.”
Heat rose in her cheeks despite herself. “Leywani.”
“Leywani,” the leader repeated, a subtle smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
He spoke again, steady and commanding, and Lecne translated: “He welcomes us to the Western Lands and says his name is Alcaros, son of Vallio.”