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Gods. If he had witnessed that last indignity, he might have been broken. He might not have managed the journey to Brianta. He might not have set up the new guild, gathering in his apprentices and journeymen and masters. Plotting his revenge.
    Of course, many of the Morenian glasswrights never made it to Jair’s distant homeland. Madness claimed some, hopelessness others. Sheer distance proved a barrier, and Parion had been loath to advertise his presence, lest misguided royalists continue to measure out revenge for the death of Prince Tuvashanoran, for the murder that had not been the guild’s fault.
    Nevertheless, Parion had gathered nearly four score glasswrights in his hall. Eighty guildsmen, all dedicated to Clain and craft. Some were Morenians, who had built a new life in this distant land. Others were Briantans, drawn to the fine art of the guildhall. Yet others came from distant lands, drawn by the magic of the First Pilgrim’s birthplace. Many pilgrims came to Jair’s homeland, but not all left.
    A knock sounded at the door, rousing Parion from his bitter memories. “Come!” he called, automatically covering Morada’s emblem with a sheet of parchment. He scarcely realized that he was shielding the precious thing, protecting one of the few tangible reminders of his Morenian life.
    The door swung open silently, as if the gods themselves controlled the hinges. As Parion watched, a black-hooded figure entered the chamber. One gloved hand—a woman’s? A man’s?—reached out to the prayer bell that hung beside the door. The fingers brushed against the bronze surface, eliciting a soft jingle. “In the name of the First Pilgrim,” the newcomer whispered, the sound almost lost as the figure glided over the threshold.
    â€œWelcome, in the name of Jair,” Parion said automatically. Which one of the Fellowship was this? Would Parion recognize the face inside the hood? His heart beat faster as the visitor closed the door.
    It had taken Parion years to build tenuous ties with the Fellowship. Only in the past six months had he determined a reliable system for sending messages, for requesting a visit from the shadowy faction. In Brianta, even more than in Morenia, the Fellowship of Jair held power. The organization had its roots here in the Pilgrim’s homeland; it sent out its tendrils of power to the rest of the world.
    Priests made offerings to the Fellowship, saluting the clandestine organization through scarce-veiled sermons. The Briantan king was rumored to pay tribute on a monthly basis, offering up gold and jewels for the right to keep his throne. The Fellowship determined the raising of masters in at least three guilds, and the captain of the City Guard was widely rumored to be a member.
    Parion swallowed audibly, his throat suddenly dry. “Would you share a glass of wine with a humble glasswright master?”
    â€œNay,” the visitor replied, carefully pitching the single word to a tone that defied Parion’s perception of gender. Male or female, this secret Fellow was determined to remain anonymous. “I haven’t much time.”
    â€œYou’ve brought the Hand, though?” Parion could not keep the eagerness from his voice. He had worked his first business transaction with the Fellowship almost six months before, and he had spent nearly all of his limited patience waiting for fruition.
    â€œAye.”
    When the figure did not move forward promptly enough, Parion fought the urge to rush across the floor. Instead, he said hoarsely, “Let me see it, then!”
    â€œAll in good time. All in good time, Glasswright.”
    Parion’s curiosity gnawed at him like acid. He had promised much to the Fellowship for this new device. A message had been slipped beneath his door the day before, an unsigned slip of parchment that stated only, “Liantine riches have arrived.”
    Who did the Fellowship deal with in that distant land?