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The Liantines could have no use for the First Pilgrim, not with their worship of the ancient goddess, the Horned Hind. The Fellowship of Jair would have no easy time snaring power from the house of Thunderspear. Someone, though, had joined them. Someone had come to recognize their power.
    And that someone had sent the precious goods that Parion needed, that the glasswrights craved. Trying to mask his eagerness, he crossed to the window, but he could not keep from making the Briantan sign of gratitude. The ritual gesture recognized the power of Jair’s favor upon his people. “Let me see the Hand.”
    The Fellow took a moment, raising gloved fingers to adjust the deep hood. Parion wanted to bellow, “I won’t look at your cursed face! Just show me the goods!” but he managed to restrain himself. Instead, he muttered a prayer for patience. May Plad keep him on his true course and guide him in the ways of waiting.
    The visitor stepped up to the window and produced a silk-swathed bundle from beneath the disguising black robe. Plad be damned—Parion snatched the roll of cloth. As he unwound the soft, undyed fabric, his breath came fast. Twice, his agile fingers nearly let the precious thing slip to the floor.
    Careful! he tried to warn himself. You’ve waited for six months. Surely you can wait a few more heartbeats.
    Turn the cloth. Shift the burden. Position his fingers beneath the Hand, cradle it. One last twist of fabric. One last turn.
    And there it was.
    An iron bracelet, wrapped in softest spidersilk. Silk bands looped over the iron, hinting at the shape of a palm, of vital, bending fingers. Long, shimmering thread—no, not thread—ribbon, fashioned from the same precious silk, weaving from finger to finger, looping across the shimmering sunlight. Carefully oiled metal levers, weighted with a jeweler’s precision.
    Parion glanced at his visitor, annoyed that he must share this treasure with anyone, even with a silent guest, even with the person who it. Turning his back on the black-robed figure, Parion faced the window. He clenched his own fist—his four functional fingers, his thumb—and then he slipped the leather cuff over his hand.
    It was light. Flexible. He guided his fingers into the loops of spidersilk, adjusted the ribbons. Folding his working thumb against his palm, he lined up the metal jaws with the edge of his hand, pretending as best he could that he had no digit, that he was as maimed as his poor guildsmen.
    He wiggled his fingers, manipulating the metal jaws with the silken ribbons. The motion was smooth, but his hand rebelled against the strange balance. He felt the tremor of a cramp skirt across his palm. Squinting in concentration, he reached toward the large earthenware pot on the edge of the table, closest to the window. Baubles of glass filled the container—one thousand plus one, for each of the Gods and First Pilgrim Jair. It had taken Parion a year to assemble his offering in a manner acceptable to the Briantan priests.
    He reached toward the pot, catching his lower lip between his teeth in concentration. If he could just manipulate the ribbons. … If he could pull the jaws open. … There. …
    There. …
    He brought the metal teeth closer to a glass bauble, to a glinting bit of crimson on the top of the pile. Despite his intense concentration, he was distracted by a flash of light on the pebble, the smallest reflection of sunlight from the metal jaws. Which god had he saluted when he presented that trinket to the offering pot? Which of the Thousand had he recognized as he added the glass to his stash?
    Concentrate. Focus. Move the fingers. Right—no, left! Easy. Easy. Close the jaws by edging his fingers closer to his palm, by folding them over his own thumb, his real thumb. Slowly. … Slowly. …
    He caught his breath as he lifted the crimson glass. Using the Hand, he brought the treasure up to his face, looked through