Drowning was common in Havnestad—the sea took as much as she gave—but this, this could not be.
Immediately, the water clawed at the damp length of him, the undertow a thousand hands ripping his body toward the swirling sands below.
His father’s constant refrain crept into his head. Do not be a hero, Iker; you are already a prince.
He’d said it anytime Nik had done anything particularly reckless. A compliment swaddled in a reminder: You are not just a prince, you are an heir. The lone heir.
And here was his father’s voice, nagging as fiercely as the waves.
He crested the surface and shook it all off—the words, the water—and filled his lungs. All around him, men thrashed in the waves. Not a single one held Anna.
The boy dove down again, forcing his eyes open against the salty sting.
Blue. Blue everywhere.
He blinked, letting his vision adjust.
Shadows on the ocean floor became crops of seaweed, moving in dark time. Algae, debris, and the tiniest of sea horses floated across the blue, a mosaic rather than one solidly flowing body.
His eyes swung left, right. His entire body spun around.
She’s here. She’s here. She must be here.
He surfaced again, not far from the sandbar now. No men yelling. No one sagging under the weight of a blonde in a petticoat.
Back down again, deeper, deeper, the undertow greedily guiding him on.
Eyes open, he scanned the bottom. Lungs burning for breath, he dove.
And there.
One hundred yards away. Down in a crevice. A flash of white. A foot, bare against a huge tangle of seaweed and coral.
Eyes pinned on her location, he shot to the surface—he’d need air to get her. Eight great, heaving breaths.
I can do this. I can get to her.
Down he dove again, eyes open as he plunged, pinned to the sliver of white. So far away. So far down.
The boy’s lungs burned. His ears popped. Darkness crept into the corners of his vision.
And still the slip of white was there. But not getting closer. It never seemed to get any larger, any more attainable. It just flashed on the seafloor, so much a star he could not touch.
His mind began to slow, as did his legs and arms, which no longer struggled against the undertow.
You do not need to be a hero, Iker; you are already a prince.
You are not just a prince, you are an heir.
The lone heir.
Breath beating against his lungs, he made his choice.
The prince pushed himself deeper.
His life didn’t matter more than hers. He was the one with the chance to save her, and that chance shouldn’t hinge on the blood in his veins.
Legs burning, he kicked, no breath left in his lungs to propel him. But he was so close. He could make out actual toes now. Head pounding without air, blood spiked with pressure, he kicked again, his arms pulling against the water.
But then came a pressure on his foot. Yanking him back—up. Pulling him until, for a heartbeat, the weight was gone. As soon as it disappeared, it was replaced with elbows hooking under his shoulders. A chest at his back. And force, so much force, propelling him to the surface.
In that moment, his lungs finally sputtered for breath and he involuntarily inhaled, water still surrounding him. A deep mouthful of the sea hovered above his windpipe for a split second before he spit it back into the water.
Out of breath, out of time, water closing in, he broke the surface. The air was so fresh it burned; as his lungs heaved, his tongue swelled from the salt he’d inhaled.
Coughing, breathing—finally breathing—he opened his eyes again, water streaming into his eyes.
He couldn’t see well, but he knew the face before him.
“No! Iker—” he began, coughing. Coughing so hard. More salt water streamed out of his mouth. Dribbled down his chin. He wiped at his mouth with a sleeve so wet, it just smeared the water around with more water.
“I’ve got you, Cousin. I’ve got you. Don’t worry. You’re safe.”
“I—” He coughed again and took a breath, long and deep. “I have to get her.”
With air in his lungs, he tried to shrug off his cousin.
“She’s gone, Nik. She’s gone. And you were going to be too.”
“No! She’s down there. I saw her. You had to have seen her too. She’s right there, right down—”
“Don’t be a hero, Nik.” Boat-strong biceps pinned the prince in a hug—his arms stuck at his sides, his only recourse to kick, but that just propelled them closer to the beach. Farther from her.
“Iker, please. She needs us. Anna needs us. We can rescue her. We can—”
“We can’t.” His cousin’s newly deepened voice cracked as he said it, and there was a hitch in his kick. “We can’t.”
“We can! We can get her!” He was yelling, even though his voice was rough and sloppy.
His cousin only squeezed harder. His lips came to the prince’s ear, his voice smaller than seemed possible. “If you die rescuing her, it won’t give solace to your parents or your people. It will only give Havnestad another body.”
“But she’s not a body. She’s not. She’s there. Right there.” But even as he said the words, he knew it had been too long now. Ten minutes, though it felt like a hundred.
And then he started to cry. Salty tears running down his cheeks and into the harbor. He didn’t wipe them. He let them run. Let them join Anna at sea.
17
THE ANNUAL LITHASBLOT GAMES BEGIN IN THE SWELTER of noon. Havnestad citizens and onlookers from across the ?resund Strait spill onto the main beach, ready for games of skill and sport to take place from the mountains above to the seas below.
It’s the first time in days the boys aren’t properly gussied up in public. To be sure, they’re both clean-shaven—the easier to show off their game faces—but they are also wearing simple cotton work pants and shirts rolled at the sleeves. This change of dress is tradition too.
Today is about demonstrating skill. I wasn’t lying when I told Iker our games were useful—they were indeed born out of utility. Rock climbing and trail running in the mountains. Log running in the stream that feeds into the harbor. Swimming in the mouth of the sea. Vital to life, every one of them. Useful—right down to the rock carry along the beach, which mimics laboring to bring cargo ashore.
And each citizen in Havnestad has an equal shot to compete. Be you ninety-five or still flush with baby fat, if you can walk, you are allowed to have a go—with the royal family cheering you on, or possibly acting as your competition.
After plates of sams?, rye bread, and peaches, Nik is instructed by his father to oversee the mountain events first. Those sports have the fewest competitors, and King Asger would much rather view the action on the beach.
And King Asger gets what King Asger wants—even from his son.
True to his nature, Nik bows—no crown atop his head—before grabbing another peach and a flask of water and tugging Annemette toward Lille Bjerg Pass.
I side-eye Iker when he doesn’t make a move to follow.
His strong hand gently cuffs my wrist and pulls me close. In a breath, I’m an inch away from his lips. The depths of his eyes are striking in the high sun, clear and merry after a good night’s rest in a real bed and not a ship’s dank quarters. “Let’s just stay here alone.”
I shift my eyes to the beach. “Alone—with five thousand of our closest friends, including your aunt and uncle.”
Iker laughs and gently fingers the curls that have blown forward over my shoulder. “So many people that not a one of them is watching . . .”
No, they’re watching. I can feel it. He’s just used to it.
I pull away, shifting the arm he’s snagged so I’m grabbing his wrist as he clutches mine. I tug him toward Lille Bjerg Pass. “There are many side trails along the pass, thick with brush.”
He raises a brow and finally takes a step forward. “It would be a shame if we were to get lost.”
“Such a shame. Nik would be so disappointed.”
“Only if he’s lost in the same brush we are.”