Gray had a kind face and a mild manner, but Perry often scented wrath from him. Gray didn’t have a Sense—he was Unmarked, like most people—but he despised that. As a young man, he’d wanted to be a sentry or a guard, but those posts went to Auds and Seers, whose Senses gave them a clear advantage. His choices limited, Gray had been left to farming.

Perry had heard all this from Gray and Rowan before, but he needed the resources they wanted—manpower, horses, oxen—for more important tasks. Perry had ordered defense trenches constructed around the compound and a second well plumbed by the cookhouse. He was having the walls fortified and their cache of weapons bolstered. And he’d ordered every Tider—from six to sixty years old—to learn at least the basic use of both a bow and a knife.

At nineteen, Perry was young for a Blood Lord. He knew he’d be seen as inexperienced. An easy mark. He was sure the Tides would be raided in the spring by roving bands and tribes who’d lost their homes to the Aether.

As Gray’s and Rowan’s pleas continued, Perry arched his back, feeling his poor night of sleep. Had he become Blood Lord for this? To trudge through sopping fields so he could listen to bickering? Nearby, Brooke gave Gray’s boys, seven and nine years old, their archery lesson. Far more entertaining than listening to squabbling.

He had never wanted this part of being Blood Lord. He’d never thought about how to feed nearly four hundred people when the winter stores were gone, before the spring yield arrived. He’d never imagined warranting the marriage of a couple older than he was. Or having the eyes of a mother with a feverish child on him, searching for the answer. When Molly’s cures failed, they turned to him. They always turned to him when things went wrong.

Bear’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts. “What do you say, Perry?”

“You both need help. I know that. But you’re going to have to wait.”

“I’m a farmer, Perry. I need to do what I know,” said Rowan. He waved a hand toward Brooke. “I got no business shooting a bow when I have this to deal with.”

“Learn it anyway,” Perry said. “It could save your life, and more.”

“Vale never had us do that, and we were fine.”

Perry shook his head. He couldn’t believe his ears. “Things are different now, Rowan.”

Gray stepped forward. “We’ll starve next winter if we don’t seed soon.”

The tone in his voice—sure and demanding—streaked Perry. “We may not be here next winter.”

Rowan balked, his eyebrows drawing together. “Where will we be?” he said, his voice rising in pitch. He and Gray exchanged a look.

“You’re not really serious about moving us to the Still Blue?” said Gray.