The Daughter of the Sea and the Sky

Prologue

The Minister of Commerce trudged up to the steel hut at the peak of the land bridge, a path he’d climbed a hundred times or more. But never before had it felt so steep.

The land bridge was a patch of red clay kept stripped of vegetation by the two governments, though few plants would have grown there anyway. A black metal barrier topped by jagged spikes surrounded the compound, with the sole access through two gates, one to the east and the other to the west. They called them asylum gates because any refugee who passed through them, even by a hair’s breadth, had the right to request asylum from the other side.

At the crest of the hill stood the meeting center, a white and green structure, once shiny and new, now faded almost to gray. Small wonder. It had been built fifty-two years ago as part of the Treaty of Separation. Perhaps the time had come to dismantle it and build a new one, or at least bake on a new layer of paint.

It straddled a negotiated boundary and provided the only contact between the minister’s people and the soulless, races that had kept apart—except in time of war—since the Great Sundering. At least that was the story preached by the senkyosei from their pulpits. According to them, Lord Kanakunai, creator of the Spirit, in response to the folly of reason, had sundered the world into two identical landmasses: The Blessed Lands for believers, and The Republic for the soulless. These He separated by a great ocean, leaving only this slender spit of earth at the top, like a windpipe connecting the nodes of the lungs.

But as the senkyosei loved to say, only one side possessed a heart.

The Minister of Commerce’s first encounter with the soulless had been as a young bureaucrat coming to evaluate refugees requesting transmigration to The Blessed Lands. Back then, he needed two days to travel to the land bridge and would arrive tired and dusty, a supplicant. Today, he’d come with an entourage, and the trip had taken less than three hours thanks to technology he’d negotiated from the other side—a motorized wagon on a newly paved road. Importing such inventions had been one of his greatest accomplishments and had resulted in a better life for his people, but it had also brought great wealth for many on the other side. Now he was a peer in their eyes, no longer a supplicant.

When he reached the hut, he stood patiently, arms outstretched, as troopers from The Republic patted him down, searching for weapons and, far more dangerous, any form of the written word. His own guardsmen would be doing the same to the soulless on the far side. Once he was cleared, he stepped inside.

Underlings from each race were still fussing over the position of the conference table. He watched the debate as the table was nudged first one way and then another to ensure precise placement over the boundary. The representatives of the soulless measured with their instruments, more needless wonders conceived through the worship of reason. His people took a different approach, eyeballing the line intersecting the floor and then praying they be granted their fair share.

When each side was satisfied, he took his seat and waited. This meeting had been set up at his request and so, by protocol, he’d been the first to enter. After a painful minute, a door on the opposite wall opened and two stout men marched into the room, taking up positions on either side of a padded leather chair. Though unarmed, they appeared more than able to defend themselves without weapons.

As he waited, his mouth went dry and his palms began to sweat. He took a sip of water from a glass on the table, and pulled out a handkerchief from his suit pocket to wipe his hands. He’d met many times with high-ranking officials from The Republic, those responsible for education, culture, or trade, but never before had he met a man who commanded an army.

Moments later the Secretary of the Department of Separation strode into the room, a bear of a man with the carriage of one accustomed to power.

The minister sat up straight and forced himself to look the man in the eye, to try to read his thoughts and more, to see the soul those of his ilk denied.

For this man controlled not only an army, but the fate of all the minister held dear.

Chapter 1 – A Boat Where None Should Be

Helena Brewster sat atop the rocks, five feet above the receding tide, and pretended to read. At least until Jason came jogging along the beach below. She planned to wait until he was a few steps away, then turn the page she wasn’t reading and let her eyes drift up to meet his. Perhaps his eyes would find hers, and for the first time since he’d reappeared, he’d stop and stay. But today, he seemed agonizingly late. To fill up the time and tamp down her anticipation, she practiced the motion, turning a page and looking up.

No Jason.

She understood the first day’s awkwardness, brought on by their unexpected encounter—they hadn’t seen each other in over four years, hadn’t been in touch for more than two. But the second day wasn’t much better. He’d been out of breath and tongue-tied; she’d still been numb from the funeral. It was the third day before they managed a brief conversation, an exchange of pleasantries unworthy of what had once existed between them.

Today she hoped for more.

She abandoned all pretense of reading and stared out to sea. There, through the fog brooding over the ocean, a boat appeared. What in the name of reason would a boat be doing here? Must be her imagination playing games with the fog while she waited for Jason to arrive.

She slowed her breathing as she’d been taught, to control the passions and clear the mind. Then she listened again for the beat of his shoes on the sand. Nothing but the slosh of waves breaking on the shore. She checked the high-water mark beneath her feet, calculating how much the tide would have to recede before exposing enough beach for a runner. Still a few minutes to go.

They’d gone to the same academy, she and Jason, levels one through eight, though it took a while before they became close. She sat near the window, he by the inside wall. She paid attention to the mentor, while Jason stared outside, seemingly building castles in the air. Each year, he managed to get assigned a row closer, and by the time they’d achieved fifth level, he sat next to her and passed notes, asking if he could walk her home after school. When she told him she was concerned they’d get caught, he changed the notes, ending each with the phrase: Take a chance, Helena.

In the spring of that year, she did.

From then on, he walked her home every afternoon along this very beach, but never beyond this point, too intimidated by the big houses on the cliffs.

That came to an end when their class advanced to secondary school. He’d gone to the communal one in the village, and she to the private one where children of the Polytech faculty studied. Yes, they tried to see each other every day, but she’d become obsessed with grades, trying to please her father, and he’d taken a job at a snack shop after school to save money for university. She’d gone to see him as often as possible, ordering a lemon-flavored drink and visiting during his break. It wasn’t much, but they were unconcerned; there’d be time when they were older.

After she moved away—she’d never questioned attending her father’s school—they stayed in touch for a while. Jason would drop a note, and she’d respond. Then, somehow, two years of silence ensued.

Now, after all this time, he’d reappeared, jogging by as she grieved along the cliffs, exactly a half hour past high tide. Like a fleeting glimmer in this darkest of summers. Like a miracle.

She shook her head. If her father were alive, he’d chastise her for such a thought. She could hear his voice, that of a true scientist—there were no miracles.

The ripple at the edge of the fog again drew her gaze. For an instant, it took shape, but quickly vanished, a reverse mirage, something solid where only water should be. She squinted, trying to penetrate the haze, and turned away to find something more substantial.

She traced the coastline instead. The land rose southward in a gentle curve toward the tip of Albion Point, and ended at the Knob, which stood like a clenched fist challenging those who sailed the Forbidden Sea. The northern firs that capped the rocky coast were broken here and there by a handful of dwellings. From this distance, they looked like great seabirds nesting.

The fog had shifted with the tide, enough for her to pick out her parents’ home, the white one in the center, overlooking them all from the highest cliff. It was where she slept for the time being, where she stayed alone and apart. Only the second floor of the house and the garret above it showed. With the rest blended into fog, the house looked like a phantom rising from nothing. It had felt that way since her father died.

Each of the four days since driving her mother to the farm, she’d come to this spot, always a half hour before high tide. To her left, the long stretch of beach ended at the cliffs. To her right lay an inlet carved into the rocks, where waves crashed with a roar that echoed off the walls. Her father used to call it the thunder hole. Sitting on this bench-shaped rock above it, she could dangle her bare feet in the spray, neither in the water nor out.

Her father had given her a silver anklet for her twelfth birthday, an age when she worried she might be too old to curl up in his lap. He’d claimed that if she sat on the rocks above the thunder hole at high tide, the spray would wet the chain and make the links sparkle. Two days before he died, he reminded her of the anklet and told her when the ocean brought the stars, she should think of him.

Jason, she assumed, came for more rational purposes—the breadth of the beach below, the firmness of sand compacted by the waves—to this spot, their spot, the last easy place to clamber up to the road before the cliffs. Old friends turned strangers, now reunited by the rhythm of the tides.

She glanced back out to sea and caught the beacon of the Light of Reason. The ancient tower stood on a craggy rock in the middle of the bay, ten stories high and always first to peek through the fog. She balanced the book on one knee and scanned lower, down along the horizon.

The mirage burst out and became solid—a boat where none should be.

The sail luffing in the breeze was a clumsy triangle with no arc, holding little air. The front was awkwardly shaped, more tub than prow, and it sailed where boats were banned—a ripe target for the shore patrol. If it had been launched by zealots overcome with missionary zeal, it was too small and ill-fitted, not salvation vessel, but death trap.

And it was drifting toward the rocky coast.

She turned to a new sound—Jason finally arriving on his tidal schedule. Soon he’d slow to a halt, measure his pulse with two fingers on the carotid artery, and gulp half a bottle of fortified water. After checking his time, he’d scramble up the rocks to her perch, flash that boyish grin she remembered so well, and ask how she was doing. She’d smile as she struggled to find words to make up for the years apart. When she failed to say much, he’d mumble some nicety, turn, and jog away down the steps and along the road to the village.

Or that’s how it would have gone, if it weren’t for the boat.

It drew closer now, gaining speed. The sea breeze had risen with the turn of the tide, and the resulting chop held the boat in its grasp, driving it toward the rocks below the cliff. Even if it were seaworthy, it was doomed.

Jason pulled himself onto the rocks and approached her.

She closed the book and set it down, forgetting to reset the bookmark, and pointed toward the boat. A kingfisher glided along the coastline and dove where she pointed, disappearing into the water.

Jason smiled.

She shook her head and tried to find her voice.

A boat, she finally said.

Now, Jason saw it as well. The sun glinted off something on its bow as it dipped into a trough. When it rose again, someone clutched the mast—a girl with golden hair.

Jason vaulted back to the beach and beckoned for Helena to follow. She moved to the edge, squatted, and jumped. He caught her by the waist and swung her to the sand.

In those few seconds, the boat crashed against the rocks. The crack of wood splintering rose above the sound of the waves.

The two of them raced into the surf as the girl with the golden hair thrashed about in the water, struggling to avoid jagged debris from the shattered boat. They waded in a few steps, braced against the undertow, and pressed forward again. Three more waves and they reached her.

Jason grabbed the girl just as she began to sink. Despite the buffeting sea, he carried her back to the shore without straining and lay her fragile form on a swath of grass beyond the rocks—a slip of a child no more than nine or ten years old.

Plain cotton pants clung to the girl’s legs, and an elaborately embroidered tunic covered her slender frame—the typical garb of the zealots, but other than her clothing, she looked nothing like a zealot. Her skin was light and perfect, unblemished but for a trickle of blood on her arm. Her golden hair hung down to the middle of her back, and her round eyes held the color of the ocean.

Were Helena a believer, she’d have considered this the face of an angel.

Jason offered his bottle, but the girl shied away. Helena cradled the child’s head and tilted her chin while he trickled a few drops into her mouth.

The girl licked her cracked lips and opened for more. After she’d drunk her fill, she turned to Helena. Her eyes grabbed and held. The dream, she said. It’s true. I can see it in your eyes.

Helena felt a sudden urge to distract the girl, to disrupt that penetrating gaze. Who are you?

The girl ignored the question, instead resting her hand on Jason’s forearm.

His muscles twitched as if he were unsure whether to linger or jerk away.

Your arm is hot, she said.

That’s because I’ve been running.

The girl’s ocean-blue eyes opened wider. From what?

He withdrew his arm and flexed his fingers. Are you from the Blessed Lands?

The girl nodded.

Why would you make such a dangerous voyage alone in such a small boat?

I was in no danger, she said.

He waved a hand at the flotsam, still surging in the tide. But your boat’s destroyed, and it took us to save you.

Yes, I suppose. She looked back out to sea as if expecting to find her boat still afloat. Then I thank Lord Kanakunai for sparing me and delivering me to kind people who would help.

But who are you? Helena said more insistently.

The girl motioned for more to drink, this time grasping the bottle with both hands and emptying it. When she finished, she sat up and lifted her chin like royalty. I am Kailani, the daughter of the sea and the sky.

Then slowly her lids closed and her body went limp.

Helena looked to Jason. "Dear reason, is she...?

He probed the hollow along the girl’s neck with two fingers and found a pulse. Just exhausted. She’s passed out.

From the road behind them, a door slammed and footsteps approached. A uniformed official walked toward the sea, some sort of locator in hand. Halfway there, he stopped to recheck the coordinates. The title inscribed above his shirt pocket read: Examiner, Department of Separation.

What’s happened here? he called out before he reached them.

This girl sailed in, Helena said, hardly believing her words. On a small boat that crashed on the rocks.

Impossible.

Jason walked him to the edge and showed the wreckage scattered on the beach like matchsticks, already being reclaimed by the sea. There’s what’s left of the boat.

Well, that would explain the size of the blip on the readout. When they’re that small, it’s usually driftwood or a school of mackerel. Is she alone?

Jason nodded.

Odd, the examiner said. Still, she has to be taken in. That’s the law.

Helena knelt by the girl’s side. Can’t you see she needs medical attention?

Well... that may be, but she’s still here illegally.

She’s just a little girl.

So I see. I’ll call for help, but make sure she doesn’t go anywhere. The examiner turned and headed back to his patrol car.

When he was out of earshot, Kailani began to stir, mumbling, slurring her words. Penance... must do penance for the loss of the wind.

Helena brushed away a strand of hair that had fallen across the child’s face. It wasn’t the wind, Kailani, it was the chop. No one could’ve sailed through that, not in such a small boat.

But the girl was dozing again.

Helena glanced at the examiner, who held an earpiece to his ear and fiddled with his communicator.

She leaned in close to the girl and stroked her bare arm. Kailani, if they ask you questions, don’t say anything about penance or dreams. Do you understand?

The girl faded in and out, and Helena shook her as gently as she could. Kailani, can you hear me?

The lids fluttered.

If they ask why you’ve come, say just one word—asylum. Can you remember that? Asylum.

Kailani’s lips moved to form the word, but she drifted off to sleep as the sound of sirens approached.

Jason returned from the road where he’d delivered Kailani to the health services van. He plodded toward her, rubbing his hands together, studying them as if trying to understand how they could’ve let the girl go.

Helena felt the same.

When he was two steps away, he stopped and faced her with the same smile she remembered when he was a boy.

The examiner took my statement. He said to wait for him. He wants to speak with you as well. He glanced at the ground and shifted from side to side, his running shoes sloshing with each step. His clothes were still dripping with a salty combination of sea water and sweat.

I have a towel, she said, if you want to dry off.

Thanks. I’ll be all right. He scanned the horizon before fixing on her. He said they’ll need to interview us up in the city. You know the department—security above all.

What will they do with her?

The department? Who knows? Figure out why she came, then send her back, I suppose. Unless she keeps talking like that....

Helena turned from him and stared out to sea. All she could think of was loss—of her father, of the girl she hardly knew. She’s just a child.

If only the boat could arrive again. If only she and Jason could rescue the girl again, but this time whisk her away somewhere safe, shelter her, protect her. That’s what was due the daughter of the sea and the sky.

Jason focused on the road. I should go. I have just enough time to finish my run and get back to work.

Where do you work?

He cast a glance over his shoulder. At the Polytech.

At the Polytechnic Institute, like her father. Thoughts of her father distracted her, and the spell was broken. The girl with eyes the color of the ocean was gone, and Jason took off at a jog toward the village, never looking back.

She turned to watch as a maverick wave, oblivious to the ebb tide, crashed into the thunder hole and slogged back to sea with a groan.

When she glanced back up, she was alone.

Chapter 2 – The Department of Separation

Monday morning, Chief Examiner Carlson tried to temper his usual interrogation. He’d never dealt with a refugee this young before. A nine-year-old girl was unlikely to be a threat.

Are you feeling better today?

She glared back at him. Three days ago I was outside on the water. I haven’t seen daylight since.

I know, and I’m sorry, but we have to keep you secure until we determine your status. A trace of disdain in her tone had forced him to apologize even before the interview had begun. I trust you’ve been... comfortable?

The question needed no answer; she seemed anything but comfortable.

The overstuffed chair, designed to be welcoming to the newly arrived, was far too big for her. She slouched in it, unable to find a position where she wasn’t constantly slipping down. Her feet kicked about, reaching for the floor. The uniform the department of separation had provided was too big as well—they simply never received refugees this young. The orange sleeves covered her hands, all but the fingertips, and some well-intentioned attendant had kept the rolled-up trousers from falling by tying a pink ribbon around the child’s waist.

Carlson glanced past the child to the poster of the Lady of Reason, holding her torch on high and offering hope to the oppressed. He’d often used it as inspiration in challenging situations, though he’d never seen one quite like this before.

It might be easier if we call each other by name, don’t you think? My name is Henry Carlson, but everyone calls me Carlson. What’s your name?

She fiddled with the ribbon, inspecting its bow.

When she finally looked up, he blinked twice, certain he’d seen the ocean in her eyes.

I am Kailani.

Very good. Kailani. He wrote the name down phonetically and followed it with scribbles that looked like waves. And do you have a last name?

No. Just Kailani. She tugged at the bow, but it was double-knotted and refused to release.

Okay, Kailani, then can you at least tell me who your parents are?

Why do you have no windows in this room? Her tone was oddly adult and commanding.

Her very presence, the golden hair and the deep-seeing eyes, made his office feel drab. Sure, the dark wood was worn and faded, but he took pride in his workplace and always kept it orderly. Files were lined up neatly in rows, and on either side of the poster, perfectly spaced, hung portraits of his father and grandfather, their tops level and their frames dust-free. Centered under each was a slightly tarnished plaque engraved with the words: Chief Examiner, Department of Separation. He was third generation, defending the Republic from zealots and offering support to refugees.

He had nothing to be ashamed of. Many of our offices have windows. Mine does not.

Why not?

Because that’s the way it is. He wasn’t about to explain seniority to a nine-year-old. But we were talking about you, Kailani. Do your parents know you’ve come here?

She pressed down on the chair’s arms and lifted her head. The arc of her neck was perfect. I am the daughter of the sea and the sky.

Carlson made an effort to not roll his eyes. Why on a Monday morning?

He reveled in order—folders aligned with the edge of the desk, paper clips paraded in a row. For more than thirty-two years, he’d arrived to work at eight and left at four-thirty. The retirement clock that glowed in the corner was ticking down the time he had left: seven months, six days, three hours, and a diminishing number of minutes and seconds. When it reached zero, he would, like his father and grandfather before him, retire with the Republic at peace, the shores secure, and a solid pension in place.

He forced himself to refocus.

Beyond her odd speech, the girl from the far side of the ocean was nothing like other zealots he’d met. Her skin, though tanned, was naturally fair, not the olive of her countrymen. No dark pupils scowling through almond shaped eyes, and no unruly black curls; instead, long yellow hair hung straight to the small of her back, and she had a face that might adorn banners carried into battle by acolytes.

Could she be a diversion? Could others looking to make trouble have disembarked earlier? Might they be disembarking now? The zealots were not above using a child. In his grandfather’s day, soon after the Treaty of Separation, boats would arrive with dozens on board. Some were asylum seekers, others missionaries. Occasionally, armed insurgents had hidden among them.

His father had warned him to be careful to distinguish between them. The mythmakers are a race of fuzzy thinkers, he said. None of them have a right to the benefits of the Republic unless they’re willing to fully assimilate. When in doubt, ship them out.

Tell me, Kailani, he said, did you come here alone?

Did you see anyone else in the boat?

No. He rearranged the paper clips on his desk from a horizontal row to a vertical column. But it’s hard to believe someone as... young as you could’ve crossed the ocean by yourself.

I am alone.

How does she manage to end every sentence as if the interview is over? He persisted. Did someone send you?

Why would they do that?

I don’t know. That’s why I asked. It would be useful, Kailani, if you’d cooperate. You’ve violated our borders and broken our law. You’re in a fair bit of trouble, and I’m trying to help.

She nodded, not disagreeing but not paying much attention, either, and went back to picking at the bow.

He checked his fingers. The tremor that had troubled him since Miriam left had returned. He did his best to control it. Could you please look at me when I’m speaking to you? I’m curious why you’d undertake such a dangerous voyage alone.

I’m the daughter of the sea and the sky. I was in no danger.

Blind faith. He’d have to come up with a more effective approach, or—

Is it true you punish people for believing? she said.

He lost his train of thought. We don’t—

And that you deny Lord Kanakunai and his gift of the Spirit?

Almost the exact words of Olakai, their so-called prophet, before he launched the fourth holy war. Why do you deny Kanakunai? he’d thundered. Twenty years of bloodshed followed, ending only when the Treaty of Separation was signed.

Carlson eyed her more suspiciously. I see you’ve been brainwashed by your people. Here in the Republic, we don’t reject any idea out of hand, but we won’t accept your god merely because you say so. What you call belief is based on myth, yet your people pursue it with a blindfolded certainty.

She slid back in her chair, set her feet onto it, and hugged her knees. I don’t understand, she said, with something less than blindfolded certainty.

He pressed the advantage. Don’t they teach history in the Blessed Lands? This is its lesson—mythmaking muddies the mind and unleashes the passions that lead to violence. The preaching of your faith has led to four wars and unspeakable assaults on our citizens. Thousands of innocents have died. Because of that faith, we’re bound to be vigilant about our security, even at the cost of our freedoms. That’s why we have a law against preaching. Were you an adult, you’d have just broken that law. But we’re a rational people and you are a child, so I’ll strike your words from the record. Now once again, Kailani, tell me why you’ve come to our shores.

Why does it matter to you?

Please don’t play games with me. He let his bifocals slip down his nose and glared at her through them. I may be your only friend.

She tilted her head to one side and stared back as if he were the curiosity. I was sent by a dream.

That’s interesting. Can you tell me about the dream?

I saw the soulless in my dream, people with sad eyes. I came to help.

The soulless. Carlson had heard the term many times before. But this child was different from the other zealots he’d processed, who spat out the term with contempt or sugared it with sentimental pity. He’d need time to observe her. The system offered only three options: grant asylum, send her back, or arrest her as a threat to their way of life. What if none were applicable in this case?

She squirmed about in her seat and glanced up at the corners of the ceiling.

He thought she’d forgotten he was there when she fixed him with her gaze.

"Why are you so sad?"

Sad. How dare she pry into his personal life? His problems were his own. She was a child from a backward culture whose values he’d rejected his entire career.

He smacked his palm on the desktop, making her jump. Enough! This is my interview, not yours. I ask the questions. Why have you come to our shores?

Her little shoulders quivered and a trace of fear flashed in her eyes—she was, after all, a child.

A moment later, she whispered a single word. Asylum.

Helena called the department the morning after Kailani’s arrival, desperate for news, but the official she spoke with was hardly forthcoming.

"This is not a patient in a hospital. This is a zealot who entered the Republic illegally. You’ll have to wait until she’s been processed. The chief examiner will answer your questions when you come in for your debriefing on Tuesday."

So for four long days, Helena waited. Now that Tuesday had arrived, she sat in the reception area outside the chief examiner’s office and waited some more. She tried to study her book, hoping to keep her promise to her father, but the words swam on the page. She’d skimmed and re-skimmed the same paragraph for the last ten minutes and absorbed nothing.

She gave up and decided to study the reception area instead, beginning with the ceiling, which needed some paint, with bits of plaster bubbling in places and threatening to fall. The walls were faded tile, possibly once green, but now too dreary to be considered a color.

And what is that smell? She sniffed twice and thought she detected a faint odor of disinfectant. It reminded her of the waiting room where she’d spent so many hours with her father.

She’d taken leave from the university so she could accompany him to treatment; her mother had been too distraught to go. On their visits to the hospital, they always had to wait. She distracted herself by analyzing the faces in the waiting room, hoping to learn from others how to cope. She watched the faces as they changed, old faces getting older, and young faces thinking about the old faces getting older and becoming more vulnerable. With nothing else to do, she began to worry about time, about how much her father had left, about what remained for her and how best to use it.

Eventually, they were ushered into the infusion room, a long hall, with blue recliners along either side. Floral curtains hung from tracks on the ceiling, providing some modicum of privacy. Behind each curtain, patients sat with needles in their arms, reading, napping, or listening to music—anything to make the time pass while the chemicals seeped into their veins.

They waited again for Sorin the nurse—her father had taken to calling her Sorin the Savior—to come and connect the tube.

Sorin unwrapped two hot packs and shook them until they were warm enough to place on her father’s forearm. Do you care which arm?

He shrugged.

How about where I stick you? Wrist or forearm?

Anywhere’s fine, as long as the stuff makes it into my veins.

When he’d first