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

was too late. Rhy’s hand had skimmed the circle, smudging the line of chalk. The fire tore free.
    It flared up across the table, sudden and hot, and Rhy nearly toppled backward in his chair trying to get out of its way.
    In a single motion, Kell had freed his knife, drawn it across his palm, and pressed his bloodied hand to the tabletop.
“As Anasae,”
he ordered—
dispel
. The enchanted fire died instantly, vanishing into air. Kell’s head spun.
    Rhy stood there, breathless. “I’m sorry,” he said guiltily. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have …”
    Rhy hated it when Kell was forced to use blood magic, because he felt personally responsible—he often was—for the sacrifice that came with it. He had caused Kell a great deal of pain once, and had never quite forgiven himself for it. Now Kell took up a cloth and wiped his wounded hand. “It’s fine,” he said, tossing aside the rag. “I’m fine. But I think we’re done for today.”
    Rhy nodded shakily. “I could use another drink,” he said. “Something strong.”
    “Agreed,” said Kell with a tired smile.
    “Hey, we haven’t been to the Aven Stras in ages,” said Rhy.
    “We can’t go there,” said Kell. What he meant was,
I can’t let
you
go there
. Despite its name, the Aven Stras—“Blessed Waters”—had become a haunt for the city’s unsavory sorts.
    “Come on,” said Rhy, already returned to his sporting self. “We’ll get Parrish and Gen to dig up some uniforms and we’ll all go as—”
    Just then a man cleared his throat, and Rhy and Kell both turned to find King Maxim standing in the doorway.
    “Sir,” they said in unison.
    “Boys,” he said. “How are your studies going?”
    Rhy gave Kell a weighted look, and Kell raised a brow, but said only, “They’ve come and gone. We just finished.”
    “Good,” said the king, producing a letter.
    Kell didn’t realize how much he badly he wanted that drink with Rhy until he saw the envelope, and he knew he wouldn’t get it. His heart sank, but he didn’t let it show.
    “I need you to carry a message,” said the king. “To our strong neighbor.”
    Kell’s chest tightened with the familiar mixture of fear and excitement that was inextricable when it came to White London.
    “Of course, sir,” he said.
    “Holland delivered a letter yesterday,” explained the king. “But couldn’t stay to collect the response. I told him I would send it back with you.”
    Kell frowned. “All is well, I hope,” he said carefully. He rarely knew the contents of the royal messages he carried, but he could usually glean the tone—the correspondences with Grey London had devolved to mere formality, the cities having little in common, while the dialogue with White was constant and involved and left a furrow in the king’s brow. Their “strong neighbor” (as the king called the other city) was a place torn by violence and power, the name at the end of the royal letters changing with disturbing frequency. It would have been too easy to discontinue correspondence and leave White London to its decay, but the Red crown couldn’t. Wouldn’t.
    They felt responsible for the dying city.
    And they were.
    After all, it had been
Red
London’s decision to seal itself off, leaving White London—which sat between Red and Black—trapped and forced to fight back the dark plague on its own, to seal itself in, and the corrupted magic out. It was a decision that haunted centuries of kings and queens, but at the time, White London was strong—stronger even than Red—and the Red crown believed (or
claimed
to believe) it was the only way they would all survive. They were right and wrong. Grey London receded into quiet obliviousness. Red not only survived but flourished. But White was forever changed. The city, once glorious, fell to chaos and conquering. Blood and ash.
    “All is as well as it can be,” said the king as he handed Kell the note and turned back toward the door. Kell moved to follow when Rhy