(COMPLETE)
Lady Mhysra Kilpapan was blessed from birth with a distinguished family, a glorious home and a giant eagle miryhl of her own. Fully aware of her luck, she wants for nothing in life - except a chance to become a Rift Rider. The elite force...
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"AN EVENING OF dancing, fine wines and even finer women – what more could a man wish for?" Stirla chortled, as they pushed through the crowd inside the ballroom. Jewels winked and glittered beneath five enormous chandeliers and everywhere glinted with gold. A rainbow of dresses swirled across the dance floor, their male counterparts almost as bright. An impressive sight, especially for four Riders more familiar with austere barracks and cold mountainsides.
Rees gave a surly grunt and tugged at his collar. "More slack in the stitching," he growled, wandering towards the knot of Riders lingering by the punch bowl.
Despite having little desire to be present himself, Lyrai wasn't sorry to see Rees go, though the man did have a point about the tight jackets. "How soon do you think we can unbutton?"
"Just take shallow breaths," Honra advised.
"You're too skinny, that's your trouble," Stirla said, as they accepted wine from a footman and headed for the Rift Rider table. "You need more muscle on your chest." He thumped his own. "Then you breathe in deep at the fitting and get some give in your gear. You're such a runt – it's no wonder you're trussed up tighter than a Midwinter goose."
Lyrai shook his head and tasted his wine. "I'll bear that in mind." Sitting near the head of the table, he looked around for his family. He couldn't see his father, but his brother was laughing too loudly across the room, already drunk, while two of his sisters were dancing. His mother sparkled at the top table like captured sunlight.
"See anyone interesting?" Lieutenant Fleik wanted to know. One of Myran's senior lieutenants, he'd been patrolling the area around Nimbys for the last six months. Since the kaz-naghkt attack the captain and the rest of his flight had come into the city. They'd stayed for the festivities and would leave again in two days. Lyrai wished he was going with them.
"Lots of interest," Imaino, the other senior lieutenant said. "But no one I know."
"Lyrai can supply the names," Stirla volunteered, already on his third glass of wine.
Fleik laughed and shook his head. "How, when he's been running wild with us for five years? Society changes – only the daft rules stay the same."
"I know some," Lyrai replied, goaded into defending his normally despised social credentials. "That fat, bald man pawing that poor girl is Lord Leivn."
"Leivn the Letch." Imaino grimaced. "Even I know him." The lieutenant came from Mistrune – an isolated, inhospitable place half-submerged in the Stormsurge most of the year – and frequently claimed to have been born under a rock. "Try again, Lyrai."
"Aye, like the name of that little beauty." Fleik nodded towards the door.
Lyrai recognised the man first, towering above his three companions. He carried himself like a king, dressed in the sombre dark green of his house. "Earl Kilpapan," he told his audience. "The woman on his arm is his countess. Formerly a Wrentherin." Dressed in the same colours, Lady Kilpapan looked small but regal, walking confidently beside her husband, every inch his equal.
