Free A Darker Shade of Magic by V.E. Schwab

who, for all the privileges his royal status might grant him, could never set foot in another London?
    “Uneventful,” said Kell, returning his glass to the chest. As soon as his fingers left its surface, the cyclone fell apart, the water sloshing and settling to a stop. Before Rhy could ask any more questions, Kell pointed at the glass in the prince’s hand and told him to try again.
    Rhy tried again—and failed again—to move the earth within the glass. He made a frustrated noise and knocked the sphere away across the table. “I’m rubbish at this, and we both know it.”
    Kell caught the glass ball as it reached the table’s edge and tumbled over. “Practice—” he started.
    “Practice won’t do a damned thing.”
    “Your problem, Rhy,” chided Kell, “is that you don’t want to learn magic to learn magic. You only want to learn it because you think it will help you lure people into your bed.”
    Rhy’s lips twitched. “I don’t see how that’s a
problem
,” he said, “And it would. I’ve seen the way the girls—and boys—fawn over your pretty black eye, Kell.” He shoved to his feet. “Forget the lesson. I’m in no mood for learning. Let’s go out.”
    “Why?” asked Kell. “So you can use
my
magic to lure people into
your
bed?”
    “A fine idea,” said Rhy. “But no. We must go out, you see, because we’re on a mission.”
    “Oh?” asked Kell.
    “Yes. Because unless you plan to wed me yourself—and don’t get me wrong, I think we’d make a dashing pair—I must try and find a mate.”
    “And you think you’ll find one traipsing around the city?”
    “Goodness, no,” said Rhy with a crooked grin. “But who knows what fun I’ll find while failing.”
    Kell rolled his eyes and put the orbs away. “Moving on,” he said.
    “Let’s be done with this,” whined Rhy.
    “We shall be done,” said Kell. “As soon as you can contain a flame.”
    Of all the elements, fire was the only one Rhy had shown a … well,
talent
was too strong a word, but perhaps an
ability
for. Kell cleared the wooden table and set a sloped metal dish before the prince, along with a piece of white chalk, a vial of oil, and an odd little device like a pair of crossed pieces of blackened wood joined by a hinge in the middle. Rhy sighed and drew a binding circle on the table around the dish using the chalk. He then emptied the vial onto the plate, the oil pooling in the center, no bigger than a ten-lin coin. Finally, he lifted the device, which fit easily in his palm. It was a fire starter. When Rhy closed his hand around it and squeezed, the two stems scraped together, and a spark fell from the hinge to the pool of oil, and caught.
    A small blue flame danced across the surface of the coinsize pool, and Rhy cracked his knuckles, rolled his neck, and pushed up his sleeves.
    “Before the light goes out,” urged Kell.
    Rhy shot him a look, but brought his hands to either side of the chalk-binding circle, palms in, and began to speak to the fire not in English, but in Arnesian. It was a more fluid, coaxing tongue that leant itself to magic. The words poured out in a whisper, a smooth, unbroken line of sound that seemed to take shape in the room around them.
    And to their mutual amazement, it worked. The flame in the dish turned white and grew, enveloping what was left of the oil and continuing to burn without it. It spread, coating the surface of the plate and flaring up into the air before Rhy’s face.
    “Look!” said Rhy, pointing at the light. “Look, I did it!”
    And he had. But even though he’d stopped speaking to the flame, it kept growing.
    “Don’t lose focus,” said Kell as the white fire spread, licking the edges of the chalk circle.
    “What?” challenged Rhy as the fire twisted and pressed against the binding ring. “No word of praise?” He looked away from the fire and toward Kell, his fingers brushing along the table as he turned. “Not even a—”
    “Rhy,”
warned Kell, but it