‘Paragon Kennitsson.’ Wintrow spoke in the brief gulch of silence before the ship bellowed out, ‘Permission granted! Paragon! Paragon, my son!’ Althea went so pale she was more greenish than white. I’d heard a strange note in the ship’s voice, a difference in timbre. ‘Sweet Sa,’ Wintrow breathed into the quiet. ‘He sounded almost like Kennit.’ Brashen looked back at his wife over his shoulder. His face was stone. Then his gaze found Wintrow. ‘I don’t want him talking to the ship,’ he said in a low voice. ‘I don’t want him on this ship,’ Wintrow agreed. He strode to the door and Brashen edged
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