Part 28 (1/2)

Her face was floating just above me. And another thing . . . And another thing . . .

”Shut up,” I growled in my delirium, and I shoved the frozen meat-and-bone thing called my fist through her face. It punched through the snow overhead . . .

. . . and touched nothing.

I couldn't believe it. My flesh was so numb, my mind so frozen, that it took a few moments for the significance of what I wasn't feeling to set in. The surface. The surface was just above me.

There was still no sensation in my legs, and yet somehow I managed to muster enough strength to push my way up and through the snow. It was like being born again as my head crunched through the h.o.a.ry crust, and I gasped in great lungsful of air. I struggled like mad, throwing aside caution, pus.h.i.+ng and shoving and clawing the rest of the way until I had pulled myself completely clear.

I looked up. The edge of the cliff we'd gone over looked hideously high. I couldn't believe I'd survived the fall.

Then I saw that the snow around me had a large area of red on it, and I wondered about the source of that until I touched my forehead and saw my hand come away stained with a dark red. The snow had actually benefited me as the chill had slowed the blood loss. Still, I felt dizzy, the world beginning to spin around me.

Then I saw her hand.

It was sticking out of the snow not three feet away.

She's not worth it, came Sharee's warning unbidden to me, but I ignored it and lunged for Entipy. I grabbed the hand; it felt frozen solid. For one moment I was actually worried that it might snap off the wrist. ”Entipy! I'm up here! Don't you die on me! Don't do it!” I shouted, knowing that I might already be addressing a corpse. I had set my staff on the ground next to me and shoved aside the snow as frantically as I could. The towering mountains looked down upon us, uncaring of whether we lived or died. came Sharee's warning unbidden to me, but I ignored it and lunged for Entipy. I grabbed the hand; it felt frozen solid. For one moment I was actually worried that it might snap off the wrist. ”Entipy! I'm up here! Don't you die on me! Don't do it!” I shouted, knowing that I might already be addressing a corpse. I had set my staff on the ground next to me and shoved aside the snow as frantically as I could. The towering mountains looked down upon us, uncaring of whether we lived or died.

I kept calling her name, trying to let her know that I was there, trying to get some sort of response out of her. She was giving me absolutely no help. If she wasn't dead, she was most certainly unconscious. Fortunately, the one benefit I had was that my arms were strong, almost tireless, especially with the goal so close. It took me seconds to clear away enough snow to expose her head and shoulders and then pull her clear of her snowy entombment.

Her eyes were closed, her face and clothes covered with frost, her skin slightly blue. She looked terrible, and I can only imagine how I must have looked. I shook her violently, trying to bring her to wakefulness. Nothing. I put my head to her chest, tried to hear some sign of a heartbeat. I thought I detected something faintly, but couldn't be sure. What I knew beyond question, though, was that she wasn't breathing.

”Breathe! Breathe!” I shouted at her. She didn't respond. I shook her again. Still nothing. I did the only thing I could think of: I opened her mouth, brought my lips down upon hers, and blew into her mouth. Her lips were frozen solid; it was like sucking on ice. I tried to keep my breath slow and steady, tried to simulate normal breathing. Her chest rose up and down, but not on its own. I kept going, despair clutching me and chilling me as thoroughly as the snow had. I lost track of how long I breathed into her mouth. I lost track of time . . . of myself . . . of everything . . . the world was swirling around me, and I fought desperately to hang on, to push back the blackness.

And I failed. Failed as I had at so many things in my life.

I slumped forward onto her body, unable to keep my mind functioning anymore. My head lay on her chest . . .

. . . and rose slightly . . .

. . . and settled down slightly . . . and rose again . . .

She was breathing.

Son of a b.i.t.c.h, I thought, right before I pa.s.sed out. I thought, right before I pa.s.sed out.

Chapter 22.

I awoke slowly and painfully to find myself on the floor of a surprisingly warm cave. awoke slowly and painfully to find myself on the floor of a surprisingly warm cave.

As caves went, it was quite sizable. Not only that, but it was clear that someone had gone to a good deal of effort to transform it from a simple shelter into something that was actually rather homey. Several torches were mounted on the walls, the flames flickering pleasantly and providing both light and warmth.

I was lying on what appeared to be a bed of hay. Someone had lined the floors as well. I glanced to my right and saw the princess lying a short distance away. A similar layer of hay had been laid down for her as well, and she appeared to be resting comfortably.

Then, from the corner of my eye, I saw someone, or some thing, huddling just beyond the glow of light that the torches were giving off. He (if it was a he) was crouched over in a corner, and he appeared to be watching me. I sat up slowly, feeling the creaking in my joints, and blinked against the dimness. ”Who's there?” I called.

The figure in the darkness slowly stood. Actually, he didn't stand so much as he seemed to uncoil. He took a step forward, then a second, and emerged into the pool of light.

My breath caught in my throat.

Tacit glowered at me with his one good eye.

I let out an ear-piercing scream and jolted, waking from a horrible dream. Except when I looked around I was saddened to discover that I had not, in fact, awoken, because I was not dreaming. The cave, the torches, the bed of hay, and Tacit were all still there, and my shriek of alarm was just starting to fade in its echo. Tacit said nothing, but simply t.i.tled his head slightly as he stared at me. I looked to the princess. She stirred slightly but otherwise continued to slumber.

My sword was to my right. My staff was to my left. He'd left both of my weapons within easy grabbing distance. But Tacit was not the type who was sloppy or forgetful; if he'd done that, it was because he didn't care whether I reached them or not. That showed a remarkable degree of confidence. Would that I had possessed some.

Still he did not speak. I said nothing either. I was actually somewhat curious, even as my heart hammered against my chest, who would break the silence first.

Tacit did so.

”How could you?” he asked.

Except I didn't quite understand him. It came more along the lines of, ”Howcudoo.” I frowned and said, ”What?”

He rolled his eye slightly, the other obscured by the patch, and when he spoke again he did so very meticulously, moving his tongue slowly over each syllable, repeating the question.

”How could I what?”

Tacit shook his head, as if astounded that I would even have to ask. In retrospect, I suppose it was pretty obvious. He was asking how I could possibly have betrayed him the way that I had. In fact, it was so obvious that he apparently didn't feel the need to repeat the question, probably going on the a.s.sumption that he wouldn't get a straight answer out of me.

Now that I saw him closer, I could make out the residual damage from our last encounter months ago. There was a fearsome scar where I had laid open his forehead. It had healed, but irregularly, almost zigzag. There was some disfigurement to his nose as well, and his jaw seemed a bit askew. I could see where the teeth were missing on the side. When he spoke, not only did he have to fight to make his words clear, but there was a faint whistling sound through the s.p.a.ce. His hair was wild and matted, his beard scraggly. He didn't look remotely heroic.

He looked insane.

”I had to reset my jaw on my own,” he said as casually as if we were sitting at a table in a pub knocking back drinks and he was looking back on a portion of his life that had provided him some mild inconvenience. ”You did quite a thorough job, Po.” He paused and then said again, ”How could you?”

I tried to find an answer. After all this time, I felt I owed him one. Nothing came to mind, and finally I shrugged and said, ”I had to.”

He nodded. In a bizarre way, it seemed to be an answer that made sense to him. ”We all do what we have to,” he said philosophically. ”We cannot help ourselves. Just as now: I'm going to have to kill you, Po. Nothing else for it. Hope you understand. No offense.”

”None taken,” I said hollowly. I paused and then said, ”Are . . . you going to do it now?”

”Oh, no!” he said with astonishment, as if the very idea was unthinkable. ”No, why would I do that? While Entipy is unconscious? No, Po. No . . . first we have to wait until she wakes up. Then you have to grovel. That's very important. She has to see you grovel.”

”Why does she have to do that?”

”Because she's fallen in love with you by now. Am I right? You can tell me; I won't get upset.”

”Won't get upset?” I yelped. ”You just got through telling me you're going to kill me!”

Tacit came toward me and knelt a few feet away. He focused his one eye on me, and when he spoke-again, carefully caressing each word-it was as if something had died in his throat. ”Yes. I am going to kill you. But there's no upset over that. There was at first. I would like to tell you that, as a true hero, I rose above such petty concerns as anger . . . or revenge. I would have liked to, truly. But I did not. When you ambushed me, left me lying there . . . then I wanted to kill you with a pa.s.sion hotter than a thousand suns.”

”That's . . . very hot,” I said, not knowing how else to respond.

”Then when I had to reset my jaw, when I felt that agony that lanced through my skull as if it had been cut in half, it just inflamed my fury all the more. A thousand suns? Say a hundred thousand and you'd be closer to the mark. But you know what, Po?”