Triss touched the tip of his knife to the... “calamus,” per his book.

  “Whatcha makin’?” Zandivar asked, plonking down onto Triss’s desk.

  A roommate who could fit in his palm had advantages. Triss didn’t mind Zandivar sitting on his desk. Fair that a fairy with a human roommate liked to perch higher up. Off the floor.

  Not underfoot.

  He didn’t take up much of the workspace. His fine touch came in handy.

  But his silent entrances made his sudden appearances startling

  “I’m going to put a bell on you.” Triss sighed. “It’s quill.”

  “A quill? They invented pens! Much more practical.”

  Triss could see why he’d be disdainful of quills; there weren’t many feathers small enough for Zandivar to write with.

  “Well, I found this and thought I’d use it for my artifice project. If I can properly cut the tip correctly without breaking it, I’ll enchant it for durability and infinite ink. More of a showpiece—Zan, are you okay?”

  The fairy had picked up the black feather, turning it in both hands. He was transfixed, watching it sparkle with many hues.

  “That’s why I chose it.”

  “Triss,” Zandivar said dully, “did you do magic detection on this?”

  “No.” Triss frowned. Fairies were sensitive to magic. “Who’d enchant a feather? Unless it’s subtle, like a luck token. You can’t lose a luck token, though.”

  “Just a feather…” Zan agreed, “Yeah, not enchanted. I think it’s naturally magic…”

  That could screw up enchantments. Frustrating, but Triss was glad Zandivar caught it. “Are there magical birds around here?”

  “Not this color.”

  “From someone’s pet?”

  “Magical pets aren’t allowed.”

  Slightly disconcerted, Triss opened a jar on his desk shelf. “Set it down, Zan.”

  Sprinkling silver powder over the feather, Triss incanted. Zandivar enhanced the spell, tracing runes in the spilled powder.

  “Triss.” Zandivar’s voice echoed in Triss’s pounding head. He suddenly seemed to far away. “Triss! Are you okay?”

  “Ugh.” Triss pushed himself up off the floor, his head pounding. He was sore all over, and had been jabbed by broken bits of his chair. “Whyzit dark? How long.. ?” Triss rubbed his eyes.

  “You only just went down. Still daylight, you’ve got the shades drawn.”

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  “Was spell practice outside. I shut the shade because the-the colors. The light. Distracting.”

  “Good. You remember what you were doing.”

  “Had the lamp on.”

  “The bulb shattered. Careful, there’s broken glass. I’m going to disperse the smoke.” A whirling wind whipped up around him, but as it faded Triss could see and breathe a little better. “Give us light, Triss, I’ll get the curtain.”

  Triss held out a hand. Warm flames burst into life there, casting flickering light around the room. Nothing had changed.

  “Did it explode? Magic mixing gone wrong?”

  “Nothing exploded. You were overwhelmed.”

  “Overwhelmed.”

  “Yes. That’s what happens when two first-year academy students, neither of whom ever did a drop of blood magic prior to the start of this semester, cast an inspection spell on something way out of their league.” Zandivar pushed the curtains back on one side, letting in sunlight. “Apparently.” It was a physically demanding task requiring both arms, but he managed to get the sash around it. “There wasn’t much physical backlash. It broke the bulb and knocked me into the air, but I’m pretty light and I was right on top of it. What happened to you was mental. It was a mental spell.”

  “I guess you weathered it better because you’re a fairy?” A lot more magically resilient than a human, if not physically.

  “It was your spell. I helped, but you were the one who actually saw… what?”

  “Uh…” Darkness. Lights out. “I don’t-don’t remember. Just the dark.. no. Wait, I’ve got…” Triss held his head in his hands. Zandivar alighted on his shoulder. “Loneliness? M-messages? I don’t—death. I saw death.”

  Zandivar gasped.

  “I don’t… not necromancy, but something related? I-I’m lost.” Triss shook his head.

  “It’s one of the ravens,” said Zandivar, “It has to be.”

  “Ravens?”

  “Her ravens. The Dark Lady. The Grim Arbiter. Alali.”

  “Somebody died here?”

  “Or got a very important message directly from death herself.” Zandivar hesitated. “The ravens are spiritual. They resemble birds, but they’re not, not physical creatures.”

  “They don’t molt,” said Triss, “They wouldn’t lose a feather unless they were attacked.”

  “Exactly! Exactly.”

  Both of them stared at the feather on Triss’s desk, currently entirely innocuous.

  “Somebody attacked one of the Lady’s ravens, Triss. Somebody in our school captured a messenger of the gods!”

  Triss hesitated. “We don’t know—captured?”

  “If they destroyed it, there would have been an explosion. If they drove it off, more of them would come back. If either of those things had happened, that would be huge news! This is quiet. They’re being held.”

  “Why would…” Triss’s voice trailed off as his eyes fell on his jar of silver powder. He and Zandivar had elemental affinities, common in fairies and rarer in humans. Spellwork outside of their specialty, like the inspection spell, used blood magic, drawing power from magical creatures. The powder was the crushed shells of beetles attracted to magical auras.

  Blood magic’s ominous name came from the mage who discovered it, a human of no particular magical affinity. She’d destroyed a city by murdering four fire elves and using their spilled lifeblood to create a fire spell far beyond their power in life; it required consuming them completely.

  Nobody attempted to replicate blood magic for centuries. Even when people started experimenting, they still called it by that name, a reminder of the lure. So easy to veer into dark magic, stealing power from stronger and more intelligent beings.

  Some people would criticize using beetles. What could someone do with one of Alali’s ravens?

  “We have to save them, Triss!”

  “We have to tell a teacher.”

  “It’s Friday night. We won’t see them for three days! When did you find it?”

  “...Tuesday.”

  “Monday makes it a week. We have to catch them. Now! I’ll ask the janitor if they’ve seen any other feathers.” Zandivar was already gone. This time, his little door did not open silently. Or stay on its hinges.