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it at the morning sunshine. The Briantan street outside his window turned to crimson, washed in blood red as if a sudden sunset had descended upon the city. Parion turned to his visitor and barely caught a laugh against the back of his throat. “It works!”
    â€œOf course it works,” the hooded figure whispered. “You asked the Fellowship, and we delivered. It could do nothing less than work.”
    â€œThere are more? I asked for two score, left and right.”
    â€œThere will be more. The others will be delivered in a fortnight.”
    â€œWe cannot wait!” Not now. Not when Parion had seen how well the Hand could be manipulated.
    â€œYou must.” The visitor stepped back from the window, retreating into the room’s deep shadows. “The Fellowship demands it.”
    â€œI have a guild to manage!”
    â€œYour guild has waited eight years. It can wait another fortnight.”
    Parion wanted to howl against the injustice. Didn’t the Fellowship know ? Didn’t they understand ? The glasswrights needed these Hands, they deserved them. Nevertheless, there was nothing he could say. Nothing he could do. The Fellowship held all the cards. He took a deep breath and forced himself to say, “A fortnight, then.”
    â€œWe will expect full payment, before we deliver the goods.”
    â€œOf course.”
    â€œFull payment, in gold. And in service.”
    A shiver ran down Parion’s spine, as if the Hand’s iron jaws had stroked his jugular. “What service can you need of me?”
    â€œNothing you will mind giving.” The hooded figure took a single step forward. “Only that you summon one here, to Brianta.”
    â€œSummon one? Who?”
    â€œThe one you call the Traitor.”
    Parion’s reaction was automatic; his unbound hand moved in the ritual gesture of cleansing. “You cannot ask that of me.”
    â€œThe Fellowship does not ask. It demands.”
    â€œI will not communicate with her. You demand too much.”
    â€œWe offer much. Forty Hands, Glasswright.”
    â€œShe is the very reason that we need the Hands! She is the one who destroyed us.”
    â€œAll the more reason for you to send for her, then. Get her to Brianta. Her fate awaits her here. Get the Traitor to our land, and the Hands will be yours.”
    Parion opened his mouth to protest. Anything but that. Anything but reaching out to that one, welcoming her in, bringing her back to the good glasswrights that she had betrayed. Before he could speak, though, the hooded figure turned and crossed to the door.
    From the threshold, a heavy whisper carried across the room: “Send the message today, Glasswright. In a fortnight, spidersilk can burn. Iron can be reforged.”
    The Fellow glided out the door, even as Parion started to protest. The master glasswright stretched his right hand toward the door, toward escape, toward a fleeing dream. The monstrous metal jaws gaped as Parion drew back, as he lowered the device to his side.
    He sighed. Contact the Traitor. Invite her to Brianta. Could he force himself to write the letter?
    Parion turned back to his window. Reaching across his body with his left hand, he unfastened the spidersilk ribbons that nestled the Hand against his flesh. When the contraption lay on the table, the metal jaws pointed up, accusing him with their smooth surfaces. How could he let his pride interfere? How could he imagine not inviting the Traitor to Brianta, if that was the payment the Fellowship demanded? He owed all of his glasswrights, all of the children who had grown into competent journeymen, actual masters, despite their injuries in service to the guild. He must swallow his pride, his wrath. He must send the letter.
    Parion reached into his offering basket and palmed a bauble of glass, cool blue this time. He rolled it across his flesh and felt the trinket absorb the heat from his skin. Over his fingers, under his fingers,