The Ossen Sea, they said, had grown wise in her old age. There had been a time when sailing on those waters killed more men than wars ever could. Looking now at her still surface—where the stars of the night sky lay to rest—you would not believe she, too, had a troubled past.

  Hamis leaned against the railing, chin pressed to the cold metal, half asleep as their boat drifted across the glassy water. His mother, Eden, stood on the deck, pouring fuel over a body wrapped in white cloth. The cloth caught fire without ignition, releasing white flames that consumed the body whole.

  The crew, twelve at the start of their voyage from the Henrikian port, was now down to two. For the rest of the journey to the Grem Islands, Hamis and Eden would sail alone.

  No, there was nothing wrong with the food, nor was their water contaminated. No one had complained of exhaustion or illness the night before their deaths. They simply slept—and never woke again.

  Hamis believed it had to be Sun Sickness. Many people died whenever Sovi struck the earth. The closer you were to the blast, the higher the chance of death. But whenever he offered this theory, his mother would simply say, “That’s not it.”

  Neither of them were sailors by trade, and so they knew little about navigation. They didn’t know when to release the ropes or how to adjust the sails, but they had one thing to compensate for their lack of skill—marking. Eden’s power alone was enough to guide the vessel roughly in the direction of the Grem Islands.

  He would soon understand the true extent of her gift when a storm caught them by surprise one cold evening.

  After weeks of quiet travel, the Ossen Sea wanted to prove how vicious she still could be. Storm clouds closed in from the north, blotting out the sun and poisoning the blue ocean black. For the first time since the last crewman died, Hamis began to doubt they would reach land alive.

  “Get some sleep, Hamis,” Eden said. “It’s late.”

  “Like this?” he asked, eyes fixed on the churning clouds.

  “All I see is a quiet night ahead.”

  Hamis lay in bed, twiddling his fingers. He waited for hours for the rain to start. Once his patience ran out, he went in search of his mother. She wasn’t in her cabin. When he climbed to the deck, he found Eden standing in the middle of it, her arms folded behind her back.

  Surrounding their boat was a ravaging storm. The ocean tossed up walls of water that towered over them, crashing against an invisible barrier and sliding back into the sea. Raindrops battered the dome above, streaming down like water on a windshield. The wind was calm—a gentle breeze—when it should have been tearing them apart.

  There was no possible way she could keep this up for long. It was one thing to have an entire boat under your control, but to hold the ocean and the weather in a chokehold was madness. A wave rose, mustering the strength of the raging northern winds. It climbed so high it swallowed the moon. Hamis gripped the railing, screaming his mother’s name. There was no way they could face it head-on.

  And then it happened.

  She did not move a muscle. She did not cast a sign. The wave split clean in two, and their boat sailed through—calm, collected—like the marker at its centre.

  The Ossen Sea conceded. She had battled and lost and would spare herself further embarrassment. All was calm once more.

  It would take about another week to reach the Grem Islands. Hamis was deathly bored after the deaths of the crewmen. When Eden had taken him, he hadn’t had the chance to bring his phone, leaving him with only guesses about what was happening at home. There was so much he didn’t know.

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  He stood at the highest point on deck, gazing back at the horizon. Days earlier, when they had still been close to Henrikia, there had been an opening in the sky—the hole the sun had torn through the heavens when Schemel cast Sovisansel. He had been on deck then, talking with the others, until they began dying one after the other.

  Hamis stayed there until the sky turned orange, knowing it was better to be alone than to bother Eden. She didn’t like talking about Sovisansel, or Schemel, or the Sorels. When he asked about her life on the Grem during the last decade, she would fall silent. She didn’t like talking about Jacqolin. She didn’t like talking about her past in Henrikia. She didn’t like talking about Isse, either.

  The only time she spoke to him was at breakfast—their only meal of the day—when they shared biscuits and a carton of milk.

  “Do not look at me like that,” she would say. “I do this for your own good. Henrikian culture is poison. On the Grem, you will grow to become a proper man—someone I can respect.”

  She was as plain as her words.

  On a clear, sunny morning, they finally caught sight of land. Eden confirmed their arrival soon after and set course for the port. The exhaustion of the journey seeped from his bones. He had to admit he was eager to get off the boat. He was glad to see solid ground again.

  This would be Hamis’s first time visiting a foreign country. It didn’t matter if it was some backwater village of sheep herders and wool-wearing simpletons—he would make the best of his new home.

  Clusters of white sails filled the port. Boats like theirs were fastened by thick ropes. Hamis stretched his limbs, inhaling the pollen-rich air. He leapt off the boat, ignoring Eden’s warning to wait. Bounding across the others, he landed on the waterfront. Straw sheds leaned over smaller fishing boats. Nets sprawled across the boards. Baskets of bait, knives, and rubber gloves lay scattered about.

  So why was it so quiet?

  There were supposed to be fishermen and dockworkers around, stocking up the larger cargo vessels. Maybe it was too early for the Grem. He went on ahead, stepping into wet grass. The path climbed up a steep hill—so steep he slipped a few times before giving up and simply floating upwards.

  At the top, the broken bricks and stones of old castles hung suspended in the air. Fields of green swayed in one direction, carrying white pollen away. Through the green waters that separated the many islands, lean canoes made from white wood drifted by.

  Was it possible for a people to live without being surrounded by grey blocks of same-looking buildings?

  One thing the wind carried, invisible to the eye, were the voices of natives not too far from where he stood. Yet there was no one around the huts and houses scattered across the island.

  Following the voices, he arrived at the edge of the hill and peered into the valley below. This could have been the entire Grem gathered here. There were Henrikian soldiers present too—kept apart from the populace but watching.

  The people of the Grem wore grey tunics. Brown-skinned, with a few darker than Hamis. Men, women, and children—all busy tending to the bodies wrapped in white cloth. They placed them in circles, resting on beds of sticks and stones. Each circle held about five bodies, and as far as he could see, the valley was filled with them. Soon, they were pouring fuel and setting the bodies alight.

  A Hexite priest moved from one burning circle to the next, blessing the flames on their ascension to Heaven. It didn’t take a genius to connect the deaths on the boat with the deaths of the islanders.

  Eden stopped beside him, at the height of the hill where the grim state of the Grem lay bare. She grunted faintly, forced a swallow, and sighed.

  Hamis crouched, watching the dancing white flames. “Did Jac do this?” he asked. “Did you help Jac do this?”

  “Don’t be silly,” said Eden. “We established Henrikian rule on the Grem, not slaughter them.”

  “So what is it?” He was tired of her cryptic attitude. It was obvious she knew more than she let on. “What’s happening to the Grem?”

  “Nothing is happening to the Grem,” she said. “It is markers who are dying.”

  “Why?”

  “Did you see the sun, when it reversed from sunset to midday?”

  “Schemel did that,” he said. “When she cast Sovi.”

  “Moving the sun comes at a heavy price, Hamis—and markers are the ones who pay it.”

  “You told me it wasn’t Schemel—”

  “I told you it wasn’t Sun Sickness,” she said. “But yes, Henrikia is responsible for this. This is why I can’t allow you to become a Gaverian, Hamis. This is how little people like us mean to them. They don’t deserve our service—and we don’t need their respect.”

  “You said the price was heavy. How many of us are going to die?”

  “Three hundred more in the coming days,” she said quietly. “A thousand markers in all.”