My father had taught me to fly, one of the only activities we ever did together. I had worn thick gloves so my currentgift wouldn’t interfere with the ship’s mechanisms. I had been too small for the chair, so he had gotten a cushion for me to sit on. He was not a patient teacher—he screamed at me more than once—but when I got it right, he always said, “Good,” with a firm nod, like he was hammering the compliment in place. He died when I was eleven seasons old, on a sojourn. Only Ryzek and Vas had been with him at the time—they were attacked by a band of pirates and had to fight their way out.
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