It was then she saw her own hands. They, too, were dyed the same mortal shade.
“He lives,” she answered at last. “I meant for him to live.” A light breeze stirred Zip’s black curls. Unconscious, there was almost an innocence about his features, so composed, peaceful. “He should stand public trial for his crimes,” she said, disturbed to the core of her soul. “People must know that the PFLS’s long night of terror has come to an end. Then we can start putting the pieces of this town back together.”
A lamb, she thought of Zip suddenly. The sacrificial offer ing that will make us well and whole again. She took one of his still hands in hers, then pulled away.
For the second time that night she tasted fear. Zip had fallen on his sword.
There was a long cut across his palm. It relieved her to find no more serious wound.
Literally now, his blood was on her hand.
She rose, trying to wipe her fingers clean on her armor. “Take him,” she said to
Walegrin, “and say this to Kadakithis and Shupansea”-she looked at Zip’s quiet face as she spoke, almost as if her words were meant for him-“that Zip is my peace offering to them and to this city. I will feud with the Beysa no more, but it’s they who must pull the factions of Sanctuary into one unified whole.” She hesitated, swallowed, went on. “Say also that they cannot do this from behind the palace walls. It’s time for them to come out into the midst of their people and lead as leaders should.”
She looked away from Zip’s face and surveyed the courtyard. The dead were being arranged in separate groups: those that could still be recognized, those that could not. The stench of scorched flesh permeated the air. Her gladiators worked beside the garrison soldiers. Even a few Beysibs who had not gone back to bed lent their hands.