Blood Heir

34

When Ramson saw her fall, he was standing beneath a lamppost on the riverside promenade by the Kateryanna Bridge, waiting for Tetsyev’s signal that he had been cleared to enter the Palace.

Princess Anastacya is going to stop Morganya, the alchemist had said. And we must get to her before Morganya’s forces do.

Only the Countess and her forces had found Ana first.

He hadn’t believed his eyes when he’d seen her on the bridge—but, he’d realized, it was utterly Ana to attempt something so brazen and ridiculously foolish with stubborn pride. He’d watched the altercation unfold on the bridge with a growing sense of dread, his mind already racing five, ten steps forward and mapping out all the different scenarios in which this could play out.

He’d just never expected for her to jump.

And Ramson did the only thing he could think of. He dove after her.

He had the sense to take a deep breath before he hit the river like a bag of rocks. The water dragged him under, buffeting him this way and that and pulling him down to its depths. He couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, couldn’t breathe, his world tossing in every direction possible. And, inevitably, the river’s wrath pulled him back to the stormy night that had changed the course of his life forever.

He was eight years old again, and he was drowning in the black waters of that storm that had almost claimed his and Jonah’s lives. But the real nightmare was that image of Jonah’s crow-black eyes, gaping and unseeing, seared into Ramson’s memories.

Terror choked Ramson. The darkness was absolute. He had no direction.

No, he thought, and the phantoms of his mind dispersed. By whatever means he’d met Jonah—coincidence, fate, or the Deities—it wasn’t Jonah’s death that his friend would have wanted him to remember.

It was what Jonah had taught him when he was alive.

Swim. The voice came to him, so real that Ramson opened his eyes. But instead of a pale-faced, dark-haired boy, there was a girl in front of him: a brave, selfless, and stubborn girl who had worked her way into his heart, by Jonah’s side.

He would not lose her.

Not again.

Swim, came the voice, but this time, it was his own.

Ramson kicked out. The currents were dragging her away, down to where it grew darker. She thrashed, her gown puffing out around her, pulling her down.

A sharp pain cut across his forearm and he flinched, lashing out to grab whatever it was that had bit him.

An arrow.

Another whizzed past him, and another. Archers. Those bastards were really intent on killing them.

The best way, Ramson knew, to escape archers was to swim deeper. The arrows decelerated within a yard of hitting the surface of water; he and Ana stood a better chance of surviving if they remained underwater and let the river carry them far enough.

He swam toward Ana. Her arms flailed erratically, but her movements grew weaker. One more kick, and he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her deeper.

They needed to stay submerged until the archers thought them dead—but there was another problem: they needed to breathe.

Ana opened her mouth. Bubbles drifted up; he felt her spasms against his chest. The lessons drilled into him from Bregon’s Blue Fort ran through his mind. Her lungs were expanding, drawn by the irresistible desire for oxygen. Water was rushing in. Soon she would lose consciousness. And after that, her heart would stop.

His own lungs burned with the need for air, and his legs grew weaker with every kick. As a recruit for the Navy, he was trained to handle water and resist the yearning to draw in breath. He’d trained in the iciest waters in the middle of winter, building up his tolerance.

But even a Navy recruit could not defy the odds of nature.

Arrows be damned—they would drown first if they stayed like this.

Ramson kicked out. Up, up. But which way was up? His head spun, and the currents slapped harder, grew frothier.

Was that light? He needed to breathe. He needed to find out which way was up. Bubbles—he needed bubbles. They would lead him up. But letting out even the tiniest breath might drown him faster.

Ramson struggled against the darkness clouding his vision and opened his mouth.

And burst through the surface. Cold air rushed into his lungs, and he sucked in deep, blissful mouthfuls. Then, panting, he turned to Ana.

Her head bobbed in the water. Her mouth was open, but her eyes were closed; he couldn’t tell if she was breathing.

Crushing down his terror, Ramson tucked her chin over his shoulder and made for shore.

The swim to the bank was arduous in itself; the river stretched over a hundred yards wide, and the shore seemed to draw farther away with each kick. Ramson swam with the current, focusing on keeping his and Ana’s head above the water.

At long last, he reached the frozen bank and hauled himself and Ana up through the mud and snow. Far off, no larger than the palm of his hand, the lights of the Kateryanna Bridge shimmered hazily. His muscles begged for rest; it would have been so easy to lie down for a few minutes.

But Ramson turned to Ana. His hands shook from more than just the cold as he touched a finger to her lips.

Not breathing. He’d expected it, but hope did foolish things to a man’s head.

Ramson knelt by her side and placed his hands on her chest, one over the other. And then, counting the beats silently, he began to pump. One, two, three, four…

He wanted, more than anything, to beat the ground with his fists and scream, but Ramson forced himself to count a steady rhythm to his compressions.

Five, six, seven…

There was a painful lump twisting in his chest, hot and cold at the same time, threatening to crack him open. Ana was limp beneath his hands, her eyes closed and her lips sealed.

Eight, nine, ten.

Ramson lowered his face to hers, prying open her mouth. One, two breaths. Logic steeled him through the white fog of panic in his mind, and he watched her chest for movement.

Ten compressions. Two breaths. Ten compressions. Two breaths. It had become a prayer of sorts, a chant that numbed him to the core. He was doubled over on his knees, his hands clasped before him. And this time, Ramson begged. He begged his three gods, the ones he had fervently hated and refused to believe in for years. He begged the Cyrilian Deities, the ones he’d dishonored by desecrating their empire. He begged anything and anyone that would listen.

Ten compressions. Two breaths. Please. I’ll do anything.

She coughed, then sputtered, and when she opened her eyes, the world itself seemed to move again. Even as she rolled over and threw up on the snow, he reached for her, and when her hacking coughs were reduced to gasps, he gathered her in his arms and pressed her tightly to him. As she clasped him in her embrace, Ramson realized that it was he who had needed saving all along.

His cheeks were warm with tears as he buried his face in the crook of her shoulder. Finally, Ramson thought as he let her hold him, he understood a bit of what his father had meant when he’d said that love was a weakness.