Dujek turned to Caladan Brood. ‘Warlord, I admit to some confusion over the girl’s presence – who in Hood’s name is she? She seems in possession of preternatural knowledge. For what seems a ten-year-old child—’

‘She is far more than that,’ Kallor snapped, staring at Silverfox with hard, hate-filled eyes. ‘Look at the hag beside her,’ the High King growled. ‘She’s barely seen twenty summers, High Fist, and this child was torn from her womb not six months ago. The abomination feeds on the life force of her mother – no, not mother, the unfortunate vessel that once hosted the child – you all shivered at the cannibalism of the Tenescowri, what think you of a creature that so devours the life-soul of the one who birthed it? And there is more—’ He stopped, visibly bit back what he was about to say, and sat back. ‘She should be killed. Now. Before her power surpasses us all.’

There was silence within the tent.

Damn you, Kallor. Is this what you want to show our newfound allies? A camp divided. And . . . spirits below . . . damn you a second time, for she never knew. She never knew . . .

Trembling, the Mhybe looked down at Silverfox. The girl’s eyes were wide, even now filling with tears as she stared up at her mother. ‘Do I?’ she whispered. ‘Do I feed on you?’

The Mhybe closed her eyes, wishing she could hide the truth from Silverfox once again, and for ever more. Instead, she said, ‘Not your choice, daughter – it is simply part of what you are, and I accept this’ – and yet rage at the foul cruelty of it – ‘as must you. There is an urgency within you, Silverfox, a force ancient and undeniable – you know it as well, feel it—’

‘Ancient and undeniable?’ Kallor rasped. ‘You don’t know the half of it, woman.’ He jolted forward across the table and grasped Silverfox’s tunic, pulled her close. Their faces inches apart, the High King bared his teeth. ‘You’re in there, aren’t you? I know it. I feel it. Come out, bitch—’

‘Release her,’ Brood commanded in a low, soft voice.

The High King’s sneer broadened. He relented his grip on the girl’s tunic, slowly leaned back.

Heart pounding, the Mhybe raised a trembling hand to her face. Terror had ripped through her when Kallor had grasped her daughter, an icy flood that left her limbs without strength – vanquishing with ease her maternal instinct to defend – revealing to herself, and to everyone present, her own cowardice. She felt tears of shame well in her eyes, trickle down her lined cheeks.

‘Touch her again,’ the warlord continued, ‘and I will beat you senseless, Kallor.’

‘As you like,’ the ancient warrior replied.