For your Home: walls, furniture and trophies (items)

Rough, dark, and warm. A wall to come home to.

Clean boards. Your mother would approve.

Cool in summer, cold in winter, there for good.

Sand and stone and patience, whitewashed.

Look out at the world without the world walking in.

Somebody painted this. Not well. It is perfect.

Red for the Flame. Hang it where the door can see it.

Woven straw, berry-dyed. Wipe your boots.

It keeps the true time of the world, give or take.

Whatever it was, it is now decor.

The Delvers’ Lodge’s banner: a lamp on a field of grey, and under it twenty short lines, one for each band. They give one to those who have earned the right to hang it at home. Nobody else has one.

A wandwright’s bench: a vice for shafts, a lens for knots, and a burn mark where the last wand tried it on.

Somebody slept on it a hundred years ago and never came back for it. It still smells of smoke.

Its oil burnt out a century ago. It still hangs straight.

A crystal that remembers noon, caged in iron. The farmers under the ground swear by it.

The horn of something that swam in the Ember Sea. It is still warm.

A crown of roots, grown through the skull it sat on.

A bell-shaped thing from the Choir Caverns. Turn it over and it hums.

An eye that never saw light, and does not care for it now.

A grey face with nothing behind it. Hang it high.

The Wardens wrote the Edict of Ash in ninety copies. Bram says at least one of them is down here somewhere, being read by something.

An empty suit of armour by the door is a comfort. Delvers argue about whether it is a comfort to you or to it.

Two pegs and a board. Every blade looks better hung up than it ever did in a fight.

An ember of the Home Stone, given a room of its own. Sit by it a while: the Deep is cold, and you are not stone.

Glowcaps do not like the sun. They like you well enough, as long as you keep the lid of the world shut.

The fish do not know they are underground. Nobody tell them.

For what came to your Home in the dark and did not leave.

A glowcap in an iron cage. It never goes out, and it never asks for oil.

Straw-woven, berry-dyed: the Flame and its five roads, the way grandmothers weave it.

Somebody’s map of the world above, with the towns in the wrong places. You love it anyway.

It held once. Now it holds the wall up, or the wall holds it.

Not from a deer. Nobody knows what from. Hang them high.

A window in solid rock looks out on more rock. It is the idea of a window that matters.

The ember on deep violet: the sign the first delvers painted where a Home Stone had been set down.

Three glowcaps on a string. A festival, a small one, every night.

Embersteel over a heart of voidglass, so it never cools and never quite stops ringing. Hild calls it a fair anvil, which from her is love.

Bram cuts these from a thin sheet of brass for the week’s three deepest delvers. “Hang it where people can see it. That is the only reason to have one.”

Pull it and a pipe somewhere far below begins to play.

A scale as big as a door. While you hold it, everything goes quiet.

The stone the Keeper held up to everyone who passed. It asks you nothing now.

The shears of the thing that tends the Bone Gardens. They are still sharp, and they still smell of marrow.

The seal of a drowned king, pearl in tide-iron. Whatever it sealed is under the sea.

A seat of tidestone and pearl, cold as the deep. Sitting on it you feel watched, which in Hallowmere was the point.

The stone the old toad breathed through. Blow on it and it glows.

A pale eye from a root that should never have seen anything.

Strike it and every glass in the room sings the same note.

A wick that has put out ten thousand lamps. It is cold to the touch.

A line of graphite hanging in the air. It will not be rubbed out.

Blow it and you hear a shift change that ended a thousand years ago.

A cap as wide as a table, still breathing out the faintest dust.

A face with no expression. Look into it and you hear your own question.

As long as your arm, and as black as the water it came from.

The seal of a court with no king. It still stamps “approved”.

A thorn of fire that never burns down.

A fang that ate a road through the rock.

It throws a rainbow on every wall of the room.

A heart of ice that beats, slowly, once a minute.

It opens every shelf. None of the books are left.

It lit every step of the Burning Stair, and it is lit still.

A crown of red thorns that tightens on whoever wears it. Nobody wears it.

A coil of blue steel as long as your arm, still wound tight. Hold it to your ear and it ticks.

A fork of clear crystal. Strike it and it sings one note, and the note does not stop until you hold it still.

The sun-smiths’ forge. Set it down and it lights itself.

The heart of the morning star of the first world. It is still rising, slowly, in your hands.

A lamp of sunglass and greyheart, its wick a loose line that has found something to be part of. What is in its light stays as it is: the fade cannot reach it, and nor can the dark.

A root of the Wane, still reaching for the rest of itself.

The Hushmother’s veil. Hold it up and the room goes quiet.