Armour rustled as Whiskeyjack turned to Caladan Brood. The commander’s face was dark, his expression harsh. ‘Had you not done so, Warlord, I would have voiced my own threat.’ He fixed iron eyes on the High King. ‘Harm a child? I would not beat you senseless, Kallor, I would rip your heart out.’

The High King grinned. ‘Indeed. I shake with fear.’

‘That will do,’ Whiskeyjack murmured. His gauntleted left hand lashed out in a backhanded slap, striking Kallor’s face. Blood sprayed across the table as the High King’s head snapped back. The force of the blow staggered him. The handle of his bastard sword was suddenly in his hands, the sword hissing – then halting, half drawn.

Kallor could not move his arms further, for Caladan Brood now gripped both wrists. The High King strained, blood vessels swelling on his neck and temple, achieving nothing. Brood must have tightened his huge hands then, for he gasped, the sword’s handle dropping from his grasp, the weapon thunking back into the scabbard. Brood stepped closer, but the Mhybe heard his soft words none the less. ‘Accept what you have earned, Kallor. I have had quite enough of your contempt at this gathering. Any further test of my temper and it shall be my hammer striking your face. Understood?’

After a long moment, the High King grunted.

Brood released him.

Silence filled the tent, no-one moving, all eyes on Kallor’s bleeding face.

Dujek withdrew a cloth from his belt – crusted with dried shaving soap – and tossed it at the High King. ‘Keep it,’ he growled.

The Mhybe moved up behind a pale, wide-eyed Silverfox, and laid her hands on her daughter’s shoulders. ‘No more,’ she whispered. ‘Please.’

Whiskeyjack faced Brood once again, ignoring Kallor as if the man had ceased to exist. ‘Explain please, Warlord,’ he said in a calm voice. ‘What in Hood’s name is this child?’

Shrugging her mother’s hands from her shoulders, Silverfox stood, poised as if about to flee. Then she shook her head, wiped her eyes and drew a shuddering breath. ‘No,’ she said, ‘let none answer but me.’ She looked up at her mother – the briefest meeting of gazes – then surveyed the others once more. ‘In all things,’ she whispered, ‘let none answer but me.’

The Mhybe reached out a hand, but could not touch. ‘You must accept it, daughter,’ she said, hearing the brittle-ness of her own conviction, and knowing – with a renewed surge of shame – that the others heard it as well. You must forgive ... forgive yourself. Oh, spirits below, I dare not speak such words – I have lost that right, I have surely lost it now ...