Rings and amulets (items)

The Flameguard sealed orders with these. Its bearer strikes like they have something to protect.

A Skywarden’s band. You walk as if the ground were optional.

Weavers wore these to find the weak line in anything.

Worn smooth by someone who dug for sixty years and never found where the Wane comes from.

Farmers pass this down. Crops seem to try harder near it.

A Warden-clerk’s seal. Oswin would like it back.

An ember that never goes out. Wounds close faster near it.

A lens ground from crystal, said to show where the map is still wet. It is very old, and it looks back.

The Mireland leeches are the only Grown that say thank you.

Loot comes to you from twice as far. So do other things.

Tied from a single bolt. It buzzes when a Grown is near.

A scrap of Ysolde’s first map. On it, Nyrath is very small.

It beats. Slowly, and never when you are looking.

Keys to doors that burned down long ago. They still open something.

A mason’s ring. Your hands seem to reach a little farther than your arms.

A coal of the White Flame. It gives no warmth, and it keeps you going anyway.

It was Ysolde’s, or it was near her, which for a ring is the same thing. It has been warm for a thousand years.

Look through it and the dark is only a little dark.

Bram’s lamp. It has been down further than anyone, and it came back every time, which is more than Bram can say.

Cinder glass set in embersteel. It keeps your blows warm.

A hum shard tuned to the moment a blow lands true.

Hush silk round an embersteel frame. It gives light without a sound, and the dark seems not to mind it.

Grey graphite pressed into a plate. Blows slide off it like a line off the edge of a page.

A ring of slag pearls. The First Kingdom’s miners wore them for luck at the seam.

An echo stone that hurries you along, as if you were already where your echo is.

Faded gilt on embersteel. You learn faster wearing it, as courtiers do.

A gnawer tooth on a chain. It still wants to bite stone, and so do you.

A lens of canyon glass. Through it, the weak spot in anything shows in colour.

Lost ink dried on a lens. Through it, every lesson is written twice.

An ever-ember in a cage of embersteel. It lights your way and warms your blows.

An organ reed on a cord. It hums you whole.

Seal dust in embersteel, as the Threshold’s wardens wear it. Hard to hurt, harder to kill.

Pearls on a tide-iron ring. The bell-keepers of Hallowmere wore them. Under water your breath lasts three times as long, and you swim faster.

A knot of greyheart and loose lines, tied so that the lines hold. The fade finds less of you to take.

Brass, rubbed smooth by a nine-year-old’s thumb. It came off a Keep guard’s coat. He does not know.

The best of the twelve, pinned to your collar by a girl who means to be a Skywarden. It is a bit like flying.

Iron, from the beacon line. Tower nine. It was left on the sand where a corporal sat down for the last time.

A dragon’s scale, warm as a hand. It was Coldhaven’s, and before that it was Seravine’s.

Grey, and warm. It grew on a grave in the Burrows.

Its flame does not move when you do. It does not go out. Mind it does not get ideas.

Brass, the size of a thimble. Turnip will not wear it: she says it makes her sound like a sheep. Ring it if you are lost, and somebody will come looking. Probably not Turnip.

The seal the first Wardens cut for whoever closed the Ledger, and never used. It is warm, and it is heavier than it looks, the way a promise is.

Lantern-bearers of the Unlit Reach wore it where no other light reached.

Glass from the rifts' deepest floors, still folded the way the rift was.

The guard of a throne the Wane sat on. It kept the throne; it did not keep the king.

Grown bone, the hardest there is, taken from the great ones of the bands below.

Forged in the White Flame's cold fire, the one the Pale Queen kept.

Beaten out on the skin of the buried sun. It is still warm, and always will be.

Black glass from the bottom of everything. It gives back no light, and keeps a little of yours.

Lantern-bearers of the Unlit Reach wore it where no other light reached.

Glass from the rifts' deepest floors, still folded the way the rift was.

The guard of a throne the Wane sat on. It kept the throne; it did not keep the king.

Grown bone, the hardest there is, taken from the great ones of the bands below.

Forged in the White Flame's cold fire, the one the Pale Queen kept.

Beaten out on the skin of the buried sun. It is still warm, and always will be.

Black glass from the bottom of everything. It gives back no light, and keeps a little of yours.