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Part One: The Fury and the Mire

“Night resonance recedes, night-walkers’ song

After great cathedral gong;

A starlit or a moonlit dome disdains

All that man is,

All mere complexities,

The fury and the mire of human veins.”

~

Byzantium, William Butler Yeats

Chapter one

The Librarian

Fern Sullivan was sittingin a private cabin on the train from Santico to New Copenhagen, a book in her hands, when the cabin lights went out in their golden fixtures.

The book was old, its red leather binding faded by time, its pages thin with use. A musty odour rose from it, and the text was illustrated with sinister, grotesque engravings.

There was only one copy of this book in the world, and Fern had just gone to great lengths to retrieve it. She placed the book back into its cloth wrapping, set it aside and stood. The cabin door slid open in a whisper, the sound swallowed by the rumbling of the train’s engines, and two men entered the cabin.

One wore a suit of dust-grey tweed, and the other was in black. In the shadow of the darkened cabin, their movements were slow and cautious, their faces solemn. Fern turned to the man in the grey suit and raised her hands in a pacifying gesture.

“Hector,” she said calmly. “Don’t do this. Turn back.”

Hector Boussard’s eyes, the murky brown of ambergris, narrowed. He was a stout, proud man, and he did not like being addressed by his first name, but Fern had encountered him so many times in her line of duty that she now considered him something closer to a colleague than a stranger.

“Give me the book, Miss Sullivan, and this doesn’t have to be unpleasant.”

“The book belongs to the library of Vestersted, and that is where it shall return.”

“My employer paid good money for it,” Boussard said.

“Your master ought to know better than to waste his money on stolen goods.”

Boussard had not moved, but his companion, who had cropped hair and dark, darting eyes, stepped in her direction. He was new; he did not know her well enough. Fern disliked open confrontation, and more still she disliked having to defend herself—but she would do what she must to secure the book and bring it back to her library.

“Turn back,” she said to the men. “I won’t ask you again.”

The man in the black clothing turned to Boussard, who gave a curt nod. “Vas-y.”

The black-clad man sprang forward first; he was young and quick. Fern sidestepped him and planted the point of her dagger into the pit of his arm. She thrust, and a strangled yell gurgled from him. He fell back hard.

The injury was not fatal, but the poison on her blade would ensure the man would stay down. Boussard was undeterred.

He darted past his fallen companion and grabbed Fern’s throat, opening his mouth in an incantation. She hated being touched, but her disgust was swept aside by the urgency of her situation; she could not let him finish his incantation.

Boussard, like her, was born with modest reserves of power—but the spells he knew, he knew well, and the lawfulness of his magic use was not a scruple that particularly concerned him. Swallowing back a wave of fear, Fern smashed the pommel of her dagger square into his Adam’s apple before the words could finish forming on his tongue.

He stumbled back, coughing. His fingers were still on her throat, but his grip had slackened. It was all she needed. Slamming aside his arms, she threw her fist into his face, the pommel of her dagger crunching into Boussard’s jaw. He lurched back with a grunt, then forward in a heavy step, arm lashing out. The back of his hand caught the side of Fern’s face with a dull smack; instead of reeling back, she fell into him, driving her arm up, thrusting her blade into Boussard’s side.

“Bitch!” he hissed, face livid with pain.