Disappointed, Chan turned the illustrated side of the manuscript page towards
Lythande. Wess leaned towards it too, picking out the details in the dim
candlelight. It was beautiful, almost as beautiful as Satan himself. It was
surprising how like Satan it was, for it had been in the library since long
before he was born. The slender and powerful winged man had red-gold hair and
flame-coloured wings. His expression seemed composed half of wisdom and half of
deep despair.
Most flying people were black or deep iridescent green or pure dark blue. But
Satan, like the painting, was the colour of fire. Wess explained that to
Lythande.
‘We suppose this word to be this person’s name,’ Chan said.
‘We cannot be sure we have the pronunciation right, but Satan’s mother liked the
sound as we say it, so she gave it to him as his name, too.’
Lythande stared at the gold and scarlet painting in silence for a long time,
then shook his head and leaned back in his chair. He blew smoke towards the
ceiling. The ring spun, and sparked, and finally dissipated into the haze.
‘Frejojani,’ Lythande said, ‘Jubal – and the other slavemongers – parade their
merchandise through the town before every auction. If your friend were in the
coffle, everyone in Sanctuary would know. Everyone in the Empire would know.’
Beneath the edges of her cape. Aerie clenched her hands into fists.
Chan slowly, carefully, blankly, rolled up the painting and stored it away.
This was, Wess feared, the end of their journey.
‘But it might be…’
Aerie looked up sharply, narrowing her deep-set eyes.