Out of the Grave: A Dark Fantasy (The Shedim Rebellion Book 2) by Burke Fitzpatrick Read Free Book Online Page A

him, what had the demon done to Empress Ishma? He looked eastward, toward the black shadow of Mount Teles, the tallest mountain in the world. Somewhere behind that peak lay the city of Shinar and the Roshan army. He wondered whether they had discovered her treason, and he imagined the interrogators setting hooks into her flesh. He blamed himself. At the time, he had chosen to help her daughter escape, but he should have found a way to help them both.
    Unable to sleep, he dwelled on memories from an older time, before the beasts had infested Rosh, before he had lost everything, when he had been Ishma’s guardian.
    Tyrus remembered the courtyard of the Narboran palace. The cobblestones were crowded with hundreds of servants, horses, and lancers, all waiting to escort Queen Ishma to Rosh. Emperor Azmon had sent Tyrus as a gift; the Lord Marshal of Rosh became Ishma’s guardian, and he surveyed the caravan, trying to estimate how long it would take to travel to Rosh.
    The moment Ishma stepped into the palace doorway, the courtyard hushed. The morning sun glinted off the palace stone and cast a radiant circle around the young queen’s figure. She wore a green robe with a scandalous neckline. Her black hair cascaded around her bare shoulders. Golden thread embellished the green silks, and it glinted in the light. She had the confidence of a young woman in her prime, aware of every entrance she made.
    She cast a knowing look at Tyrus. The young princess had been a famous beauty at twelve, but by twenty she had inherited a crown and developed a body that inspired songs. Her youthful skin glowed, and she had a bounce in her step. Every piece of silk and scrap of gold was hung about her curves to accentuate them. Her fame had spread to the four corners of Sornum after she negotiated a truce with Azmon. Their marriage ensured peace between Rosh and Narbor, and bards wrote more songs about the Face That Won a War. Tyrus turned to his mesmerized men and barked orders.
    The emperor had sent them to guard his betrothed, not fawn over her.
    A group of lancers cantered through the city streets. The long chain of servants and carts lurched into motion. It would be minutes before Ishma’s carriage, in the center, moved. She walked to him and placed a hand on his forearm, and he was thankful that his armor kept her fingers off his flesh.
    “Shall the Lord Marshal accompany me in my carriage?”
    The carriage resembled a white rose petal gilded with leaves. Four Narboran ladies sat there and bit back smiles. He could not imagine wearing so much armor in such a small space and realized Ishma mocked him.
    “I have men to attend to.”
    “Come now, you can delegate. I have questions about my future husband.”
    “I really must—”
    “I will be an empress soon. Best not anger me over small requests. I need to know about the Roshan Empire, the noble houses, their lands, Azmon’s rivals and allies.”
    Tyrus did not like the sound of that at all. He had no idea what Azmon planned for his young wife and wasn’t sure what information to share. From Ishma’s glinting eyes, he could tell she understood.
    “I will ride beside the carriage when I can.”
    Ishma enjoyed her victory.
    Tyrus gritted his teeth. Damn that smile. Green eyes and black hair—he had never seen a combination so bewitching, and he was tempted to ride in the carriage, but he’d be the laughingstock of the Imperial Guard for years.
    “Come now, are you sure you prefer the charger? We have plenty of soldiers, and you are my new guardian, not the Lord Marshal of Rosh.”
    “Unfortunately, I am both, your majesty.”
    “A man of mixed loyalties. Guardians are supposed to take oaths with care.”
    “I am a gift, your majesty.”
    “A careless gift; I will speak with my betrothed about this.”
    Guardians were peerless protectors who swore to sacrifice themselves to keep their wards safe. Only the best champions were groomed for the role. His elders had wasted hours