A Darker Shade of Magic (Shades of Magic, #1)

by V.E. Schwab

“Roses,” he said wistfully. He meant the magic. Kell never noticed the faint aromatic scent of Red London clinging to his clothes, but whenever he traveled, someone invariably told him that he smelled like freshly cut flowers.

He could smell Grey London (smoke) and White London (blood), but to him, Red London simply smelled like home.

And so Kell—inspired by the lost city known to all as Black London—had given each remaining capital a color.

Grey for the magic-less city. Red, for the healthy empire. White, for the starving world.

The story of the other Londons was entrusted to the crown and handed down heir to heir,

Kell’s blood, when paired with the token, allowed him to move between the worlds. He needn’t specify a place because wherever he was, that’s where he’d be. But to make a door within a world, both sides had to be marked by the same exact symbol.

“As Tascen,” he said. Transfer.

Prince Regent, whose name was also George (Kell found the Grey London habit of sons taking father’s names both redundant and confusing)

There was nothing human about that eye. It was pure magic. The mark of a blood magician. Of an Antari.

Everyone—at least everyone in Red London and White, and those few in Grey who knew anything at all—knew the legend of Black London. It was a bedtime story. A fairy tale. A warning. Of the city—and the world—that wasn’t, anymore.

Magic made things simple. Sometimes, thought Kell, it made things too simple.

Collectors were wealthy and bored and usually had no interest in magic itself—they wouldn’t know the difference between a healing rune and a binding spell—and Kell enjoyed their patronage immensely. Enthusiasts were more troublesome. They fancied themselves true magicians, and wanted to purchase trinkets, not for the sake of owning them or for the luxury of putting them on display, but for use. Kell did not like Enthusiasts—in

Kell could make out the end of a tattoo. A poorly drawn power rune meant to bind magic to one’s body.

Now only the Antari possessed enough power to make new doors, and even then only they could pass through them.

(it followed no bloodline)

the longer the worlds were kept apart, the fewer Antari emerged.

Kell and Holland seemed to be the last of a rapi...

Those who could move bones could move bodies. It was strong magic, even in Red London.

the language did not matter, only the intention did.

He was, after all, Antari. And Antari could speak to blood. To life. To magic itself. The first and final element, the one that lived in all and was of none.

Elemental magic may speak any tongue, but Antari magic—true magic, blood magic—spoke one, and only one.

Gen,

Parrish

Arnesian. The common tongue.

It was a voice like a shadow in the woods at night. Quiet and dark and cold. And it belonged to Holland. The Antari from afar.

It glittered like a jewel, lit from within, a ribbon of constant light unraveling through Red London. A source. A vein of power. An artery.

Some thought magic came from the mind, others the soul, or the heart, or the will. But Kell knew it came from the blood.

As an Antari, Kell was made of both, balance and chaos; the blood in his veins, like the Isle of Red London, ran a shimmering, healthy crimson, while his right eye was the color of spilled ink, a glistening black.

Kell took her hand and kissed it. “I’m fine, Your Majesty.” She gave him a weary look, and he corrected himself. “Mother.” A servant appeared bearing tea, sweet and laced with mint, and Kell took a long drink and let his family talk, his mind wandering in the comfort of their noise.

Part of the royal family

“Are you not loved?” whispered Rhy. “Are you not welcomed as family?” “But I’m not family, Rhy,” Kell had said. “I’m not truly a Maresh, for all that the king and queen have offered me that name. I feel more like a possession than a prince.”

Ah

Is Kir Ayes—the Ruby Fields—was

Kell supposed that he was a Collector, too.

The map on the left was of Great Britain, from the English Channel up through the tips of Scotland, every facet rendered in detail.

Makt, the country called itself, the capital city held by the ruthless Dane twins, but the territory beyond was in constant flux.

Arnes. The country’s name was written in elegant script down the length of the island, though in truth, the land on which London stood...

Three very different Londons, in three very different countries, and Kell was one of the only living...

Memory. He ran his thumb over the scar. Contrary to its name, the symbol wasn’t meant to help one remember. It was meant to make one forget.

K.L. The initials on his knife.

He knew nothing of the letters that had formed his name—K.L. had become Kay-Ell and Kay-Ell had become Kell.)

Lila Bard lived by a simple rule: if a thing was worth having, it was worth taking.

Caster—for all good weapons deserved a name—was a beauty of a gun,

Why anyone would ever pretend to be weak was beyond her.

“Shouldn’t a done that,” she echoed,

“Seven years ago,” the man continued, “when the last king was killed, several tried to claim his crown, but in the end, it came down to three. Astrid, Athos, and Holland.”

But they didn’t kill him. Instead, they bound him.

“It’s that clasp,” said the man in the Scorched Bone, tapping his chest. “The silver circle.”

It was a binding spell, he explained. And a dark one at that. Made by Athos himself. The king had an unnatural gift for controlling others—but the seal didn’t make Holland a mindless slave, like the guards that lined the castle halls. It didn’t make him think or feel or want. It only made him do.

“He suffered,” added Athos softly. “But not like you.” He brought his mouth closer. “No one suffers as beautifully as you.”

“Ages ago, when Black London fell, and the doors were sealed, we were divided. Over the centuries our families have tried to keep the thread … but I’m the only one left. Everyone here is dead but myself, and everyone there is dead but one. Olivar. He’s the only family I have and he’s on that side of the door and he’s dying and I just want…” She brought the letter to her chest. “We are all that’s left.”

He’d been set up, but by who? And for what?