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 ANNUALLITHASBLOT GAMES BEGIN IN THE SWELTERof noon. Havnestad citizens and onlookers from across the Øresund 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.
