Food and seeds (items)

A promise, in the shape of wheat.

Plant it, and something round will grow.

Sunberries: the reason ports still exist.

Warm, plain and entirely finished.

The Warden-clerks swear by it.

The harbours live on these.

Striped, quick, and everywhere the water is clear.

It flashes gold when it turns. Good eating.

A cold-water fish from the tarns of the crags.

Fat and muddy. The Mirelands’ bread and butter.

All teeth. It has taken more than one willow rod down with it.

It runs up the frozen streams in the dark of the year.

It lives in the oasis pools and walks between them at night.

Slow, broad and sweet, under the shade of the Greenwood.

It coils in the warm water under the Ashlands and does not mind the dark.

Its fins are glass, and it glows a little, like the crystal it swims past.

It came up out of the Unlit Reach. Nobody is sure it is a fish.

Pale and eyeless. The deep water keeps its own.

White as bone. It knows the water by touch.

It eats the glowcaps and glows for a day after.

A lantern on a stalk, and a mouth under it. Do not look at the lantern.

It swims in the pools on the isles and, some say, in the clouds between them.

Spotted like a night sky. It comes up when the stars fall.

The oldest fish in the Mirelands, and the biggest. It bites when the rain is on the water and the rod is not willow.

Aurel kept koi in the park pond. This one has outlived him by a thousand years and is not impressed by you.

It only rises when the rain does. Anglers wait for the weather.

Fish and fire. The oldest recipe there is.

The pot the frontier towns keep on all day.

Green, thick, and better than it looks.

Delvers take one down and eat it at the ore face.

Sunberries under a lattice. Oswin has three when nobody is counting.

Fish roasted on the Great Flame’s coals, the way the Flameguard ate before a siege.

A broth so light it should float. It puts strength in the arm.

A king’s feast, and the king is in it.

An amber glowcap from the Hollow Roots. Eat one and you glow for a while, which is the point.

Sunpetals keep a little of the sun: under the ground they need a lamp to remember it.

Flat, striped and stubborn. They will not sprout without light.

Grown under a lamp, it still tastes of summer. Nobody can say which summer.

They are warm to the touch already.

Red, thick and loud. It gives you opinions.

Glowcap dust, gathered from the gills. It wants soil, dark and warmth, and a Home gives all three.

Rootheart resin boiled down. Rub it in and the cut closes. It tastes awful, which is how you know it works.

Black, salty and better than it looks. It mends you for a long while.

Fish roasted over magma seeds. You will want to hit something afterwards.

Fish cured in silent salt for a long road. You come away from it wiser.

It grows on trees of bone, and glows. It tastes of iron and honey, and it mends you. Bram eats them like apples.

Bread baked on sunstone. It stays warm for days.

Greyroot boiled with glowcaps. It tastes of nothing at all, which down there is a comfort.

Four fish from four waters. The fifth water is the pot. Eat it with somebody.

Delvers eat it cold, on a ladder, a hundred rows down.

The hunters of Oldmere say a great one can smell it, and is afraid.

Nobody is sure why it works. Nobody who has eaten one has broken a leg since.

An oak in a hurry, if you give it room.

It already smells of winter.

A pinch of grey threads that glow faintly. Given stone or soil and time, they make a mushroom you could shelter under.

The Wane unmade the grass in places. It never managed to unmake the wanting to grow back.

It swims in fire the way other fish swim in water, and does not see what the fuss is about.

Long, red and hot to the touch. Carry it in something that is not you.

A carp that has been through a great deal and come out glowing.

Black glass with teeth. It rings when you tap it.

Gold and flame, and it knows exactly how beautiful it is.

Its lantern is a coal. Its mouth is a furnace. Do not let it see you.

The oldest thing in the Ashlands’ lava. It rises when the sky is dark and the fire is quiet, and it has never been caught twice.

It is not a dish so much as a dare.

Thick, slow and warm all the way through, like a good argument.

Small, sharp and a little bit wormy. The worm does not mind.